The last few months have watched a man work more days than he’s ever in his life, six, sometimes seven-day weeks where it all blurred together into one sore, methodic venture. Consequently, a muscle was torn in his elbow so “medial epicondylitis” is now a household word where curses mixed with groans are used to describe each day.
Naturally, it’s the right elbow that’s injured so he’s left not being able to properly “service his vehicle”, if you will. A warm, buttered bagel or a sanded knothole in a fence theoretically could suffice but reality has a habit of standing in the way while his wing is on the mend.
The blues as a musical art form is something like an arduous sweat, a lowdown, dirty wail that brings the gruff and then extracts the toxins from every one of my poor bones.
I love that even in the midst of a tough time, there’s good and beauty in the slightest of places. Like when you’re driving and rocking out and the song ends right when you arrive at your destination, or when you’re flipping channels and you randomly land a few seconds before a game winning goal. My favorite: when the traffic that is horribly backed up is on the other side of the road.