July 2004

I’ve just been exceptionally bored and lonely the last few days. And tonight I can’t even get to sleep. I guess a lot of it has to do with the fact that my daughter has been out of town for the last week and when she’s not around it can get pretty quiet around here. And being alone can sometimes bring out repressed feelings. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been pretty much of a loner. But even a loner gets bored and lonely.

Now one good thing about being bored and lonely (and about strong emotions in general) is that they really do help the creative process. There’s nothing like a swift kick in the id to get the juices flowing. So in the last 24 hours I’ve written three new songs. I’m not really happy with them and if I don’t loose interest I may work on them some more. But as I’ve said many times before, the process is more important than the product.

I was revisiting William Blake today a bit. Got to thinking about it from a recent posting on Kris Kristofferson. Now Blake believed that all this creativity stuff was a gift from God and if someone is called to create and turned their back on that calling they would be cursed for squandering the gift. Now, it’s a whole lot more involved than that, but in a nut shell that about sums it up. To quote the Kristofferson article:

“He said that if you buried your talent, sorrow and desperation would pursue you throughout life, and after death, shame and confuse you until eternity.”

Well I’m sure I’m in trouble enough for not handing out money to the homeless, but this is pretty scary stuff. I do know that when I’m not creating I’m pretty miserable. So why is it when I’m misserable I’m usually creative? Sometimes the more misserable I am the more creative I am. But I must admit that if I do jump in head first it does push back the desperation of solitude or whatever is bothering me down for a while. The beast does go to sleep. But like a junkie, the hungry little bastard will gnaw at the numbness until the pangs return.

I once read an article in some music magazine written by Rosanne Cash, the daughter of Johnny Cash, and amazing songwriter, player and singer in her own right. The whole article was about how many, many songwriters have a tendency to shut themselves off from the world. Because of what they do is so introspective and internal songwriters, more so than many other artists, become hermits. The article was a swift kick in the ass to get out in the real world. And let’s face it. If you do get out and experience new things it will give you more to write about. I know I find this to be true. I sometimes have to force myself to get out of the house during the week and get coffee at Starbucks and write there. Or walk up the beach and have a couple of beers or something. I still have the social skills of a slug, but getting out and being with real people helps the creative process and helps open the mind. It’s doubly tough when your “day job” also revolves around writing and working at home. It’s easy to get comfortable just hanging out at the house. Breaking that habit is really important.

And on top of all this boredom and loneliness I’ve been listening to the new Sam Phillips record. It’s my favorite record so far this year. But it is listening in to the last year or so of her life while her marriage aparently fell apart and God knows what else. Then my mp3 jukebox just happened to land on the Frank Smith song (if you’re not familiar with Frank, he’s a songwriter that I knew from a million years ago and was and is one of my favorites) called Such A Romantic Night, that’s got to one of the saddest fucking songs ever recorded. At about this point I was ready to become a monk.

I’m sure I’ll snap out of this soon. If it lasts another day I may have to graduate from Blake to John Donne And that won’t be pretty.

mp3 link–>> Love is Thicker than Water

the lights came up, the stars bowed out
the day they laid his body down
out here on the end of town
and no one could recall

a word or a single note
from all those lines he wrote
no well dressed man would stand and quote
today day after the fall

but somewhere in a magazine
a fairy-tale or in between
there was a time when he would dream
more often than he’d want to

this waters deep, cold and wide
and I can’t feel the other side
my tears will fall to turn the tide
this love is thicker than water

on the dresser lay the note
for no one to find at home
the darkened room was all alone
the scene of one more crime

but you can’t turn the clock around
this whole damn world is upside down
and not one man can buy the crown
for a cost of dreams or dimes

outside the streets are filling up
and someone bangs an empty cup
let me up I’ve had enough
of all this dirt and dollars

somethings drifting back to me
from all the ripples I can see
your lips part and set me free
this love is thicker than water

this waters deep, cold and wide
and I can’t feel the other side
my tears will fall to turn the tide
this love is thicker than water

well I’d like to sing the finest song
that ever has been sung
break your heart with wounded words
straight from god above

I’d like to paint a masterpiece
make a grown man kneel and cry
but I can’t me do none of these
cause I don’t know nuthin bout love

don’t know nuthin bout love sweet darlin
don’t know nuthin bout love
spent my time bein’ broken hearted
don’t know nuthin bout love

I told me a million stories
told a million lies
but I believe I’ve just seen glory
lookin into your eyes

thought I knew just to do
bout the heart and the soul
but didn’t have one single clue
cause I don’t know nuthin bout love

don’t know nuthin bout love sweet darlin
don’t know nuthin bout love
spent my life bean broken hearted
don’t know nuthin bout love

don’t know nuthin bout love sweet darlin
don’t know nuthin bout love
don’t think my heart’s ever been started
I don’t know nuthin bout love

That my darling daughter is coming home. For the harmony of Buddy and Julie Miller. For Sam Phillips pain. That my hands still work. I had enough coffee to make a cup. The smell of my old Kalamazoo…. and you.

And the man asked me if I had Bluetooth. In another lifetime these might be fighting words. My teeth aren’t looking all that great come to think of it.

I could be at Chumley’s tonight and stagger out onto Bedford and Barrow, past the captain’s daughters burning a light in the window of the townhouse that no one can afford. Past the ghosts of the paved over cobblestone from a lifetime of fish markets and whores. Up to an overpriced studio above gaymart to sleep through generations of cockroaches living in the plumbing of the history of the world “before the drywall.” And the filth of history comes and greets me and whispers in my ear “come and follow me.” I am filth. I am the past and the future. Escape with me to the iron of the midnight world and I won’t tell you the secrets of my world, the real world of my ken.

But then the truth of this life comes crashing down. Some shit from the real world has to start talking to me about media and his bullshit background… as the current woman of my dreams heads for the hills in a late model Chrysler of Chevy or something, out of my life and into the void of hell, my fucking hell. My hell that I have made for myself. Because it’s so comfortable.

Still they burred my heart I a shallow grave the day they tore old Beale Street down.

Then this guy tells me that he’s a guitar player. He can’t be all without soul. Between the rattling of the strings and the heart that sings.

The true love of my life lies waiting somewhere between here and the pit of the red line.

And this girl, this beautiful Italian Jewish princess walks in, circles the bar, and sits down by herself in the nether-regions of polished wood. But it can’t be by herself. I wave, like a wave from the titanic as the last lifeboat leaves the rigging and the whine of the ropes hangs above the salty mist that no one will remember. I smile. Ask her to sit next to me with a drag of the chair and a knowing nod. I’d just like to talk to her. She’s young and vibrant. I’m beyond my pay grade. She motions to the chair next to her asking me to come sit next to her. I laugh and tell her that I’m to damn comfortable and lazy to move. Moments later a bleached blonde tee-shirt guy from the suburbs joins her world. She’s mesmerized. I’m amused. But the curls hang down like the mist hanging from the windows in my youth. And he amazing thing is as much as she’s wrapped up into him, he’s paying more attention, in his mind, to me writing this shit. I have no idea if it’s about the keyboard or this aging skin. I think it’s about this aging skin. Sad. I’d love to know what makes her tick. Seeing her naked wouldn’t be all that bad. It would be pretty cool actually. But his testosterone induced tee-shirt angst is overcoming the passage to her heart. I just can’t stand it. But I always do stand it.

I wish Robin would find that number on the card that I gave her and call me. She put in in her back pocket, or in the trash. But she did hold her hand over the inverse curve of the business end of her lovely blue jeans. Looking for her wallet, or her heart, or someone else’s number or the rectangular outline of my dreams of her object of desire.

Salsa is playing with her hair and leaning forward to let Mr. tee shirt know that she is the willing receptacle of her passion, at this moment. Holding hands outstretched to the vision of her desire. She washed her hair today. She cocked her head. He cocked something… but it wasn’t in her direction.

The guy next to me talks sports like it’s the new religion. I knod like I understand. I understand none of it but I do know that the smell of the ocean waves waits for me like a newborn virgin. Old from the beginning of days, yet ever new from the spray of newborn life.

Still underneath her purple shirt and the curling locks of her mane the strap of her bra cuts across her arms and shoulder as she tosses her hair and rubs her eyes and throws her best smile. Desperate for something she can only dream about; whispers across her neck from a stranger. With the flick of a wrist that the cocking of a glass that only surrenders to the dreams of another life. Have you noticed that “cocking” is a word I’m using a lot. Sad.

But the sun has set long ago. And any hint or gold in her hair is only a memory of a life that has passed. Touching and thrusting towards each other. Laughing because it’s the only thing comfortable, chafing like a new pair of underwear. Yet he still takes time with the razor. As the vanity rises it’s not as important as the love for his flesh and the blood that keeps his in tune. The weights that keep him happy with his self control, and it can’t make him alive to his own death.

Touching the chair. Pointing the finger like a penis with a fingerprint. She’s waiting and wanting. He has no freaking idea. I’m running out of ideas.

The curls lay across her brow. The eyes of lie and life light up from the flames of desire and boredom. Pour another beer and take it to your lips. You’ll never love me. I’m only using you doe, it’s gotta’ be doe. What the fuck.

The smell of the sea awaits me on my walk home, but it always has. I think I may love you. Please find me on the salt air fish breeze sandy beer can ashtray tourist trap. Only Django Deinhardt waits for me, listless on a hard drive from Best Buy. Bye Bye.

The band came together
ribbins fell to the ground
our ghosts wern’t forgotten
but we all just laid down

It was right down this river
she cried “don’t you forget me”
then Lincoln told the band
to play dixie

through blue smoke and thunder
in the cane and the vine
the cotton bales drifted
and the chains came untied

there’s times when our freedom
is much more than history
just then Lincoln told the band
to play Dixie

Away, away, away down south in Dixie

my kin all moved north
for a new way to work
but the shackles they gave us
cost more than they’re worth

I curse this new country
the old ways still fit me
but today Lincoln told the band
to play Dixie
today Lincoln told the band
to play Dixie

Away, away, away down south in Dixie

It was Sunday so I took mom to the movies. As far as the movie goes, if 2 hours of shaky camera shots floats your boat, this flick is right up your alley. I really tried to enjoy it, but between the idiots with the cell phones on, the crying babies and all the shots with the crippled steady-cam, it just gave me a headache.

Honest to God. There was this couple in front of us, middle aged with a new baby. Now before the movie starts they run the trailers to tell people to turn their cell phones off. Somehow this fine couple must have missed it. Although I’m almost certain they were sitting right there in front of us when it was running. So 20 minutes into the film their damn cell phone starts ringing to the tune of Winnie the Pooh. Of course this brilliant woman can’t find the phone so this goes on for at least 30 seconds…. When she finally finds it she answers the call. She’s talking on the phone while Matt Damon is putting a bullet through some poor background’s thick skull. Then about 20 minutes later the kid starts crying. Then she changes the shitty diaper on the seat next to her. After about another 10 minutes of the kid crying she finally leaves. I really had to bite my tongue. But I thought that it was more important that I act like more of a considerate human than they did.

Are people that would drag an baby a movie and cause all that ruckus and cacophony in the theatre stupid or just plain ol’ inconsiderate? It’s not that tough guys. I’m sure you can file your taxes, so you should be able to figure this out. Hire a baby sitter or get one of the neighbors or relatives to watch the little tyke so you can go to the movies and actually enjoy yourselves and not annoy the other paying customers that actually are more interested in the movie than how cute little Ashley is. Movie experiences such as this are the main reason I usually go during the week. Skip out of the house for a couple of hours between working and go to the movies. Only idiots go to the movies on Sunday. And I guess I just fit in fine.

Once the adventure was in getting there and the journey was the adventure. If you look at the prospect of heading to a new destination, today the journey is something to be avoided. Time not spent well. Toiling from airport terminal to terminal is as fatal as it sounds. Endless busy, noisy rooms and metal tubes of manufactured pusedo-comfort. What ever happened to the kids singing “Bingo” in the back seat of the station wagon as the miles rolled happily along?

I can mostly relate to the process being more important than the product via songwriting. And although it’s not the thing I think I do best, it is the thing I do that somehow matters the most. And although I have had a bit of a dry spell for the last couple of months, it still is a central point of my minds eye.

Writing a great song, the best song, the elusive song is such a good mark to shoot for. And once that song is birthed and lives as its own and even evolves into changed songs it certainly is a wonderful thing hold in your hand or on your ear. But I’m coming to believe that the truth of the mater is that the process of writing that song is actually the most important aspect of the song. The doing is the thing. If you follow the process you will find the heart of the song in the doing. Picking up the pen and guitar begins the journey of the song. And without taking that first step, nothing else will ever come. Be it shit or Shineola.

I’m not even sure I completely understand why I believe this concept is true, I just know in my heart that it is. I need to really chew on this for a while and come to terms with how I know this to be true. Yet I do believe in my heart of hearts that the process of creating is the point and the song is the flower that is opened. The process is the song. The writing becomes that song. The hand and string and finger and bone and wood and whistle is the song. The doing is the thing and the thing is in the doing.

I need more coffee… or maybe less.

Do you believe in fate, or predestination or whatever it’s called. Do you believe that people or events are drawn together by forces they can’t or don’t understand. That sometimes things and people happen, or are allowed to happen, that just defies logic. That sometimes all that is required is a leap of faith to fulfill that thing, that moment in time. That fate.

I know for myself the most important events in my life were always completely beyond my control. They spun like a wheel around time and places, and became the best and most of all things. Every once in a while we/I become connected to someone else despite our worst or best intentions. It’s almost like we have no control. A tight connection to the heart can only become unchained by the heart itself. Be still my beating heart. Listen for the silence. The meeting between the beats, the silence of connection.

I had a dream a few weeks ago. I dreamed of a girl/woman whom I thought I knew. With a name I have known, a heart I have yet to know, and a face I have never and always known. The dream was about the name. And this beautiful woman told me her name. Someone was speaking to my heart and I was listening to my voice but I could only hear my heart. Only the beats, not the spaces. The dream came and went. Until the next day. And someone said “I am that name.” I was lost and blinded by my own dreams in the waking hours. But now in this twilight I’m full of cheap booze and dreams. I should sleep. And maybe I’ll dream that name again to the waking hours in the dawn of my day. In the sunrise of my soul.

So I wonder in to get a haircut today at the local Supercuts. I pick Supercuts mostly because I’m cheap and for the most part, vanity isn’t one of my big sins… yet. And even though I’m starting to really show quite a bit of grey in my hair, to be completely honest, I really don’t give a shit.

Fortunately the place isn’t too busy. But the two hair stylists working are busy and there are a half a dozen people waiting in the reception area. I stand at the desk for a couple of minutes before giving up and just joining the other plebeians waiting to get whacked. After about a minute of waiting, the phone rings…. One of the stylists runs to the phone and answers… “Supercuts.” What is it that makes answering the phone more important than actually waiting on an honest to God customer occupying space in the store? I’m here, I’m ready to spend money, I’m a fish that’s already been hooked and landed. For all this girl knows that phone call could be a telemarketer or stalker or her last boyfriend looking for a quick loan or a quick roll in the hay. But she puts everything down to answer the phone. Leaves the customer in the chair and me unattended in the waiting area. Yet somehow the phone call is more important. Needless to say, this is behavior I just don’t get it.

I’m always at a loss as to how I should respond when they ask, “How do you want it?” My hair cut that is. How the hell should I know. Shouldn’t’ they know? They are the experts. If I knew how to do this I’d attempt it myself. I usually just tell them “trim it up” or “take off an inch,” whatever that means. Let’s face it. If I really had any real idea of what kind of haircut I should have, would I really be going to Supercuts? I’d go somewhere where hairstyling is looked at as being more of an art form. Instead of a Supercut assembly line.

I think it was in the movie “Magnolia” where one character says, “it’s been years since anyone has touched me.” Are there people who go to the barber-hairstylist just to get someone to touch them? Because if you’re lucky enough to have someone cut your hair that has the “right” touch, it can be a very sensual experience. I wonder if anyone has ever opened a topless barbershop. This to me seems pretty obvious. There have been topless donut shops and topless car washes, but topless barbers! Throw in a shampoo for an extra five bucks and who could ask for more. “Would you like some gel with that?” Yes ma’am!

I think I’m next up. But I gotta’ tell you, if the phone rings and she leaves me alone in the chair with that stupid black smock on to answer that ringing monster, I may just have to stab her in the chest with a pair of thinning shears.

When I was younger, not that I’m completely over the hill, I used to wonder if the days of my dick were numbered. Not like a parable, not like the hairs of your head, but the days of its usefulness. Now it’s obvious that if most of the male population of the western hemisphere didn’t worry about this dilemma, they should have. The stocks of drug companies have soared in the last five years from drugs that make middle-aged dicks work. And let’s face it… a dick that doesn’t work is no dick at all

But before I get a-head of myself, back to my dick….

Because after all is said and done, that’s all that really matters. It is all about me after all. Isn’t it?

Not to be too graphic here, but I used to wonder as a youth if my loaded pistol was only loaded with a finite number of shots. If I spent too much time wanking off, when I got married, or “whatever,” would all of those wasted shots come back to haunt me when I was able to take aim at something warmer than a hot water bottle. But as it would work out, and as with most things in life, the truth is stranger than fiction.

Now that I’m past the middle of my 40’s, my main concern isn’t my Johnson… it’s my hands. The little Johnny works pretty well. No problem there. But my hands are a different story. I have a condition that has undoubtedly haunted generations of my family through the ages called Dupuytren’s contracture. Without going into a long song and dance, if I live long enough my hands will become mostly unusable. So instead of worrying about the loss of my dick, I worry about the loss of my hands. Boy ain’t that a ball buster.

Let’s face it. I don’t have some sweet young honey to drag my balls across to make my tally-whacker all that important. And even if I did, it’s not like I make a living at it. On the other hand, and I do mean that literally, playing the guitar, songwriting and writing has become much, much more important to me as the years have gathered dust.

I know that with every keystroke of the keyboard and every time I play guitar to write a song or practice something, the use of my hands slowly fades away. So it’s not the fondling of my dick that causes the whither, it’s the quickening of my hands that forces the dither. One day, no matter how brilliant or insipid my thoughts may be, I won’t be able to write them down. No matter how commercially viable or aesthetically timeless or uniquely vapid my songwriting is, the fingers won’t glide across the fretboard like they used to. It’s just another one of the sweet ironies of life, that’s not all that sweet after all.