dieing to the world

I miss the road signs. I cannot navigate through even a simple town. I would never notice if you gained even ten pounds. I am letting my visual senses die so that the sound will get loud on me.

Anyone who knows me knows this, but they disagree. They wish me to be normal and they become angry. They have picked their mates based on the trivial physical. I beleive that guilt must be a factor, because sometimes they even play the biological card. Don't get me wrong, I too would be attracted to the world if that were an option.

This is confusing to you, I realize. And I would not be suprised if you don't finish reading it, becuase I know that you are a coward. How dare I? How dare I not approach you on your terms and on your level? Sometimes  I do, dummy. But many times I am trying to provoke you. Maybe you will live out your spiritual human destiny and transend the animal world.

But you misunderstand me. I don't wish for us to share the same existence. I wish to communicate with you as part of the process. I'd just as soon be the invisible man, shopping at Walmart unseen. You are wrong to assume that I want to help you or harm you or change your ways, but it would be nice to share only words with you. Words are shapeless enough for me to understand.

And if you follow me so far you already feel that quikening of your spirit and that elated sense in your mortal body. Then, your voice is loud in my ears. You are my eternal friend. It's not only your words. I can make this promise to the ever changing body that is this self, which begins right here between these breasts.

It's my birthday and I feel precious enough to live another year. I'm looking forward to dieing a little more. Don't get me wrong, I want to make time for diet and exercise but if my mind begins to hunger--and i can't promise that it won't--my body will have to starve. I cannot work fast enough to chase the myseteries of my own mind--far down the rabbit hole I go. When will it stop? Nobody knows.

When I look at my life all I see is my music. It's the reason I never feel pain. I know that I can never lose the efforts I have already made. I will continue to stack up these treasures on earth. Just like on the current record, the songs will always be new to me, as I prepare my heart and mind for the afterlife. So sorry that I ignore life on earth. You might think it unreasonable, selfish or just plain stupid but it's who the heLl cares what you think. Do you even care?

Though I feel fatigued, I feel wealthy. It doesn't bring me recognition but it brings me life the only way I know how to live. I am compelled by something much greater than the music itself. I am compelled by the mystery of my own breathing. If I can't see anything else around me, I can see what the music says I am supposed to be. What does it mean that I am alive now?

defining myself

Sometimes I think that what you surround yourself with reflects who you are. I can do a half turn in my one room apartment and see eight instruments. There’s even more in the closet, a fiddle and a mandolin to name a few. I wonder if anyone else is struck by my identity when they first enter my living space. Do they say to themselves, ‘yes it’s definitely a musician who lives here?’

            I am often too busy to define myself, so I wonder how others define me. I can’t even decide what I want to be. Do I simply want to be a musician or do I want to be a songwriter? The many roles I play sadly do not define what I do independently. They are just pieces of the puzzle. To some I am a producer. To many I am only a guy trying to play social catch up with melodies.

             I know in my heart that I am a naturalist, trying to translate pure emotion into universal sound. But when someone asks you what type of music you play you cannot respond in such colorful words. I have found that they will ignore your responses. They will quickly lose patience. It’s no surprise that I am annoyed by casual inquires into what I do. Music is who I am.

            I’ll never be the guy you know who plays guitar. I’ll never be the friend who once wrote a song for your sister, and, ‘you know what? It was pretty damn good.’ I want to be the guy who you failed to know—the character in your past who you must deny. Say, ‘yeah, I knew him but he was not that good way back when.’

            Therefore, I will not force my music upon you. Rather you are too close to be impressed or too far to care, makes no difference. I might be smarter than you. I might know better. At least I have an idea that what I am doing is great. It’s great because I am great. And everyday this greatness and I become more connected. Soon you will not be speaking to a man. You will be speaking to the songs you have ignored.

           

questionnaire lady

I met a lady today who was recruiting “psychiatric technicians” for Vista Health. Her demeanor was self-important. Her jokes were in bad taste.

I was looking at an ‘Are You Depressed?’ questionnaire. She said, “of course if those symptoms fit you then you should probably be a patient instead of working for us.”

I smiled to myself as I imagined either passing or failing. I’d be in powerful need of guidance or I’d be a more questionnaire-lady shade of normal. The almighty little test would make my decision. I also smiled because I knew she hadn’t glimpsed even the tiniest flicker of mental instability in me; the weak-minded are not at all perceptive.

I also imagined her gaze upon some perpetually altered and reprimanded young boy. She’d tell no jokes. She wouldn’t even smile when he took his cup full of pills. At the end of the day she’d know she’s done some good. She’ll rub her feet and sigh like any abnormal person, saying ‘honey pour me some tea.’

With all the anxiety in my brain, I met her gaze and easily respected her cause. I told her that I was interested in the behavioral side of the medical field. In reality, I am only interested in dropping hope into those little boy ears. I am only interested in the possibility of instigating a protective reaction—the kind of provocation that might cause him to reclaim his mind.

Some of us dream wildly at night. Our routines never devour our natural ambitions. When we come home from work we take time to rediscover the animal inside. It wants to kill and be killed, no matter how you try to rationalize. Feed your spirit because it is hungry. It won’t always be kind and it is rarely comfortable, but if you try it will lay down beside you.

There are others out there like me; people who need to be told that their feelings are ok. Sometimes one voice can be audible among the many comfortable characters. Those who never hurt, never hear and never heal are everywhere, but their sounds are carried away on the wind forever. But your mind desires eternal life, my friend. It wasn’t designed for this realm.

agree to disagree

Am I pushy? It hurts me that I have hurt you with so few words. That’s all I’ll say and then I’ll quit talking.

 If you say it’s alright, I have one more thing to add: I’m sorry that I am not preapproved. Yes, the world is a dangerous place. Protect yourself from my introspection. In fact, I have no right.

 Don’t apologize and I won’t either. We can agree to disagree. You believe there is a different truth for everyone. I believe we reform our truths together.  You won’t share with me, because we’re at work or we’re at school, but I will make guesses about the way you perceive life.  It doesn’t make you special, darling. It doesn’t make you a target. You are merely another viewpoint; does this take your pain away?

 I’m sure that you have also felt lonely. If you want to know the truth, my loneliness feels like I am being swallowed by the world. The rebel in me wants to break every rule and tradition, in hopes of taking a full breath.

 Ah! That’s right. I found a little corner to breathe into; I found a place where my thoughts are not structured. I can’t hurt anyone in here, nor can I be judged. I know myself, but with you I took a chance. I’m sorry for us both that I wasn’t worth the risk.

 You were sold on who I was, but I wondered about you, I wasn’t ready to asses your worthiness. You can do any dance. I just want to be a person before performing. My failed performance only illustrates your point. This is not working. I just feel empty. I just feel like we can disagree and I’m sorry. I want to understand why your world is subdivided. I just want to go home now where I can be whole. I’ll just go home where I am my whole self under the pressure.

Mystery to Me

Truth is, I am always suprised by my music. I don't mean that I go on patting myself on the back because I am always getting better, either. I mean, neither good nor bad, I am suprised.

I am suprised to find out that there is another layer to a lyrics meaning, ecspecially when I don't remember consciously designing the original meaning.

I am suprised to hear myself trying to communicate in a way I would never, drunk or otherwise, communicate. Even the sound of my voice seems foreign to me (as if it is coming from a dream.) No, I know what the recording of my voice sounds like. What I am refering to is the gentle, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes joyful quality of character that my voice communicates.

You can think that I am full of myself if you want. But when I give you a cd I am only the messenger. I really don't want to hear how you will or won't listen to it. After you finish listening, I don't want to hear your report. What you don't realize is that you are not talking to the creator of this music. That person is alive only during the recording session.

Yes, I am a fan of my own music. I am a fan of that self that I can only be, sometimes. I am interested in his approach to life. Don't tell me if you like him or not, as if he is me. Truthfully you don't know him. I don't even know him, though I know him best of all.

This shy guy standing before you has no interest in any thing other than transfering Michael Scott's cd to your hands with minimal effort and insecurity. His job is to preform various administrative duties and protect the music of Michael Scott.