by johnford on July 31, 2004
It seems to me that I’ve been the witness to more than the average share of death in the last couple of years. Not like I’ve been on the front lines or working in a cancer ward, but it’s been closer than it has been for a while. It could be that it has to do with the fact that I’m at that age when most of the adults I’ve been around all my life are reaching the point of no return.
Today I drove my mom and uncle to West Palm Beach to visit their brother (obviously my other uncle) who has been battling lung cancer for the last three years. His disease has progressed to the point where he is in the final stages, hospitalized and the doctors have only given him “a few hours” to live.
Now here is this guy who was perhaps the most alive person I have ever met in my entire life. And through the haze of drugs and disease the person who he is and was still refuses to die. Still fighting with the doctors and us and against the tide of time and eternity. Even with his eyes unable to resist folding into his brow and the coming misfortune and inevitability of his final curtain, he’s fighting for his life. Not for his time in this place, but for his life. That inner thing that makes him the lovable son of a bitch that he is.
I would have to believe that if your were around this death often, like these folks that work in the hospital and see this passage every day, it might be easy to walk beyond the wonder of the final moments of someone’s life on this earth. Some folks just wouldn’t be cut out for this factory of death.
I’m walking to the twilight
along this starry fold
I’m staring in the river
for my family of souls
and soon I’ll stand among them
their loving hands to hold
the boatman on this river
will finally steer me home
And today the children are flying in from across the country, in flights that cris-cross land masses and defy sanity with zig zag lines of abortive journeys that sputter and leap from time zone to time zone with paper boarding cards and little strips of squiggly lines among the peanut packets and rolling carts and aluminum tubes
To the square sterile walls of the cancer ward. For plans and stories and old times to share and caskets and plots, both adjectives and nouns. And the food. There is always the food. Why do the dead need all this food anyway? How hungry can they be? Hungry for this world. Hungry for the meat of life. Hungry for the grease that folds and hangs on the bone and laughs at another martini. Another disease from the plowman of time and the applause of destiny and inevitability.
But even though the dead surround my world, I can only think about the living. The living I can see and they surround me like an ocean of reality, thick with the swirling bacteria of love and desire and beauty and decay. And through all of the decay, there is a light in this world today that shines into my heart and minds eye and the world lights up around your feet. And I’m not ready for the dance, but I’ll gladly step for you today. Step across the grass pregnant with dew that washes my feet with the tenderness and the love of a new found morning.
by johnford on July 30, 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.