Bar Scott

How to be Idle

Two weeks ago, my friend Cathy gave me a book called How to be Idle: a Loafer’s Manifesto. I can’t remember what prompted her to lend it to me, but I must have been fretting about my tendency to be over-busy, even to the point of being short with friends, short with my time at the piano, short with Brent, short with pretty much everything I care about. Without saying a word, she got up from her couch, walked over to the bookshelf, pulled out the book and handed it to me. I laughed when I saw the title, then told her I’d bring

Happy Day!

Last Friday I decided to avoid the phone and stay off my computer for the whole weekend. I’d spent too many hours at my desk last week and needed a break. It was the right thing to do.

Today, after two days away, there’s been a windfall. My college roommate called. My friends Annie and Maureen called. My friend Ann who I’ve known longer than anyone else in my life wrote a long email. I hadn’t heard from her in years. And then a high school friend, Sarah, wrote too. Needless to say, I haven’t

Finding the Balance

Yesterday was the 12th anniversary of Forrest’s death. I always take the day off. It’s not a particularly sad day, just one that I like to separate from the rest. I don’t do email or anything else on the internet, I don’t plan anything, I just get up in the morning and do whatever it is I want to do.

Brent made breakfast for me, which was nice except that it was 6:30 in the morning when he delivered it. The gesture was so sweet, and so like him, that I rallied, ate, then went back to sleep while he walked the dogs.


I’ve spent most of the morning updating banking information for Sound Exchange, which is a company that distributes royalties to musicians like me. Turns out all the work I did this morning was already done, by me, within the last year. Meanwhile, there’s a guy in my bathroom tearing up the tile he installed eight months ago. The grout failed, so he’s doing it over again. I can hear him grumbling and swearing as though it was someone else’s fault even though it’s just one of those things. He had insurance. He’s getting paid, but he’s

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