What Does It Feel Like, To Cry?

Bits of this movie keep coming back to me, chopped up and garbled. The director asked what does it feel like? (To play? To write? I don't remember.) Baby Silvertooth just looked at him, like "what kind of a question is that?" and responded "I don't know. What does it feel like to cry?"

What does it feel like to play? I don't even know any more. My erstwhile boss, Everett True once asked me something similar during the weirdest interview I've ever done - "What do you think about when you're playing?" I don't know. I don't think. When it's on, when it's really *ON*, in the groove, in the pocket, you don't think at all. It's like meditation. It often happens when I write/record/Reason (Reason is the new 4-tracking) - that I will look up and several hours have passed with no memory whatsoever.

Lately, onstage, it hasn't been like that. It's been, frankly, that odd combination of boring and stressful that I associate with horrible temp jobs. This is not natural. In the past I've had bad gigs or two, but now it feels like the boring stressful gigs are the norm, and the good, transcendent ones are the rare thing.

What's missing? I don't know. For a while, I was worried that it might be chemical, that it's my life-saving, soul-sapping medication. It's destroyed my sex drive - I can look at pretty boys and think "mmm, sexy" but it never takes off into actual desire. It's ruined my ability to drink, as I never get that "take off", that rush, that buzz any more. (Though maybe this is a good thing.) Has it destroyed my ability to enjoy making music? I don't think so. Because see above - I still get that "take-off" into ecstacy through the writing process.

What changed? (Whaaaaatttt changed? Except my love...)