My Name Was Matthew Blake Atkinson

It is currently 11:36pm. The time I used to arrive at my old bar, because any earlier and those bartenders would hurt me. But, tonight…my night is done, man. I’m old. naps are the new black. But, it’s going to be hard to get to sleep. Still buzzing from tonight’s show. That was it. that’s what I chase in my job and in my live show attendance. That great band playing the small room. I had a facebook memory this week of seeing the Lumineers playing liberty hall in Lawrence. It’s maybe 1000 capacity, but they had originally booked the 300 max bottleneck. And tried to do an acapella song at the end and were nervous about it, because the room was so huge. Now they play arenas. Anyway, fruit bats. I stumbled into liking them just a few weeks ago. and they were kind enough to stop through kc, even though the crowd was sparse. They’re selling out in other cities, but record bar had to pull in tables and chairs to make it seem full tonight. I’m full. And it only has a tiny bit to

I cried last night. God damn that felt good. I realized today that it’s been ages since I last shed a legit tear and that can’t possibly be a good thing. Post-divorce, when therapy was life changing/saving, virtually anything could get me to emote. A well-timed car commercial might have done the trick. And that was in stark contrast to my life pre-divorce. Emotions weren’t an option for me growing up. It wasn’t so much the “stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about” routine, but more the tears are something for you to shed on your own, in your room, with the door closed. And that started, in all likelihood, with my mom’s dad dying when my mom was 7. Her mom closed her door and grieved by herself. My mom got to talk to her 7 year old self in the mirror saying, “daddy can’t be dead.” Would you look at that? My tear glands are working again. I wouldn’t wish that shit on anyone. The death was bad enough, but the trauma that followed was worse. How could my mom possi