winter 2009

i was literally buried alive one summer under a half ton of topsoil that my dad, who had a hauling business as a hobby, was dumping in our backyard for the betterment of our lawn. i was playing behind the truck, thinking i would be buried up to my neck in dirt as the bed tilted ever higher. it seemed like an impressive image in my mind.

instead, the entire load shifted in one swoop knocking me off my feet and covering me. i remember screaming to no avail and was told that a neighbor saw what had happened and hopped our fence and pulled me out by the one ankle that was sticking out of the mound of dirt. my dad's first reaction was to wonder just what his son was thinking. and then that reaction gave way to relief that i was rescued in time. it was dark and suffocating and it felt like that might have been it for me. all at the age of seven.

at age thirteen, our mother died suddenly of a heart attack a week before christmas. it was also my parent's twenty-fifth anniversary. that also felt like that might have been it for me. the subsequent years were blurry and marred by frequent drug and alcohol use and a struggle to understand why the world was as it was. music was the only place where life made sense. where love and beauty seemed timeless and safe.

when you learn at such a young age the meaning of the word "finite", it becomes impossible at times to make sense of this life. but the world that each of us knows, the one that pours through our senses and into our brains is unique to each of us - our own private universe. our default setting is to think of ourselves as the center of this existence, which hardly seems unfair, but it's a myopic view at the very least, and perhaps why the tenet of most major religious beliefs is to curb that view.

death seems like a beautiful release from the burden of living. i've had several relatives remark that they're surprised that 'god hasn't called for me yet'. i never suggest that they could book their own ticket, but for me, that purchase button is never too far away and i always view it with a mixture of relief and cowardice. and still, late at night i lie awake and wonder just how quiet and peaceful it will be.

our friends and family seem to be the one thing that might give this life a sense of purpose and meaning, although to someone who's seen a loved one die, that sense can get lost quite easily. so i try and remember what my dad told me during one of those long, sad winters. he said the one dream our mom had was for us to have a happy, meaningful life. and so i keep trying.

for her.

together alone

all i've written about here is music. and what it does. to me. a few friends have asked to look even deeper into a musician's mind and, like that horrible line from 'garden state' about enjoying the infinite abyss, it sounds tedious. i will say this, though:

i usually never share the enthusiasm that the people who hear me play sometimes relate to me after a show.

if you were to interpret my playing simply by some of the comments i receive after shows, you would think "but why does jimmy page look so mexican?".

granted, i appreciate anyone taking the time to talk to me. especially about music. and there are the occasional sober comments that are grounded in reality and fun to field. but there are a lot of extraneous factors at work at any given performance - alcohol, drugs, loud music, histrionic guitar maneuvers, loud yelling of commands such as 'clap your hands' or 'say yeah'. they all combine in stunning fashion sometimes and people get swept away for a little while and they want to say thanks. and for that i am very grateful.

but for every show there are many mistakes. lots of minor errors. sometimes loud CLEAR wrongdoings. a vocal harmony that was flat, a chord missing its seventh, a lazy entrance to a chorus. all in real time, all happening at the same time as a lot of other things, and so, all forgiven. if your intentions are good, it seems people will notice. you intend to not make a mistake. but you're human and you do.

there is no relief from this notion. i practice and write and rehearse and record as much as i can and do my best every time i'm working. and every once in a while, you actually do play almost flawlessly (moments you usually can't remember because you 'weren't really there'), but in virtually every instance, some errors are committed. and i remember every cringing moment of those misplaced notes.

so i can't really remember the good moments because they're usually transcendent, and thus, hidden from our conscious selves (and are most likely the moments that everyone is trying to relate to me). and the bad moments are like the ugliest taste in your mouth for days. they linger in your mind like hair in a drain. you don't want to touch the stinky thing.

in another world, perhaps one isn't so harshly judged. but there are no excuses in this world. this music world, for lack of a better term today, shows no mercy. you have to do your best because you love music that much. it seems like a senseless burden to place on yourself (it's music, not cardiology) but that's what each day brings. there are others who place themselves under a similar burden with regard to their work and the shape their lives take. you know some of them. you most likely are one if you're still reading this.

and therein lies that one small comfort that this world allows. you're not alone.

career suicide

music floats like a leaf on a pond.

lazily spinning in an eddy of sound,

it belongs to that moment alone.

there are no good moments it seems

to unveil a new song.

they stare back at me and scowl.

they don't want to be released.

they don't want to leave the pond

or their tiny ripples that blend into the air.

but here they come... for whom?

i cannot say. i loved making them

and i'm thankful for each inward journey

but they can't please everyone

they're not built like that.

there are errors and landmarks

that some will cringe at.

with only hope to assure me

that maybe someone might say

yes

....a mineshaft at night

"Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing so little to be reached as with criticism. Only love can grasp and hold and be just toward them."

-- Ranier Maria Rilke

I found so much solace in "Letters to a Young Poet" when i read it as a young adult. i was majoring in english at UTSA and truly that; a young poet. not a very good one, but those were the circumstances. i hadn't yet really finished writing a song i liked. it was (and can still be) a bleak, existential time, despite the fact that life all around me was busy and seemingly good. his words even now are soothing in a way that scripture and fables never were for me.

i am still, and will always be, wary of my own work.

but when something springs forth unabated in the early morning or late, late night and you somehow snare it, then it feels as if those things might be worth showing to others. everything else remains secreted, waiting for an approval that may never come: thrown down a mineshaft at night.

jitters

i'm usually not nervous about performing. probably because, in my mind, that's not what i'm doing. i'm just playing guitar and singing. i have clothes on. hopefully nice ones. but, as an old friend's t-shirt once read, 'wart you see is wart you get' (it had a frog on it).

there are the thoughts that zoom in like starfighters that you will commit a mistake, forget a line, blow a chord, but once you're resolved to the task at hand, you just forge ahead. and usually, within a moment or so, you're back where you're supposed to be; inside the song, feeling the music come through you, not really from you.

the antenna is used as a common metaphor for how music is created. as is the fishing pole. but the only real acknowledgement that music is occurring that i know of, is when the person performing or the people listening, for even just a fraction of time, disappear. and in that mysterious black hole, we are lost in the sound that came through all of us. and then someone coughs, or a chair squeaks and we're hauled back in by the gravity of life.

but just for a moment, we escape.

and that's really nothing to be nervous about.

egyptian pounds

before embarking on a long trip, i can never sleep.

and during the trip, i am not blessed with the ability to nap in public.

fatigue sets in quickly, which makes the arrival that much more surreal.

in my mind, everything is as it was, but before me, everything will be changed

i can't wait to see what that feels like.

i can't wait.

i can't sleep.

but you can....

lightness

there are moments when i'm enthralled with this life.

last night in the middle of performing 'superior', one of erik's new songs, this feeling of lightness came over me, to the point that i thought i might actually float off the stage.

i had to reach over and physically touch him afterwards to make sure he understood this.  and his smile said that he did indeed.

i think that's all you're supposed to look for in this life; these moments where your consciousness is shifted without the use of drugs, or overt physical duress, and you transcend the finiteness of your existence by simply becoming one with the moment.  time ceases to exist.  the phrase 'be here now' actually makes sense.

and then you spill coffee all over your pants on the way to the bathroom later.

and it's back to square one.

but to just get a glimpse.  it's wonderful

a piece of the puzzle

there are a few things that i find interesting.  but they may only be like that for me.

i had a dream that pot was legal.  it made sense.  the harm had been removed from the process and people shopped for it like liquor and the sin tax attached to the sales went towards education and infrastructure and welfare.

but it was only a dream.

for now, it's nice to believe that we have a modicum of privacy in our lives.

for now.

i'll try and write more about even more obtuse things soon.

thanks