I have been and still am many things.
Perhaps herein lies my dilemma one of many spirals; leading to an endless diversion of the grass is always greener. What lies beyond that field there or that river over yonder? Be right back, I’m just gonna peek over the top of that fence around the corner. Meanwhile in another part of town, life goes on and year’s rifle by some set goals hit milestones and move on.
To this very day I keep peeking over fences, walking into scenes and searching in the shadows for something I’m sure I’ll recognize.
Husband, father, lover, friend, writer of songs, words and snatches of wind, marketer, businessman, ice cubes to Eskimos wasn’t it?
Loser and keeper of faiths gone by, who am I he asks. Who am I?
There lies that eternal question right…?
Don’t we all want to know?
What’s my purpose and what is my place?
I’ve kept notes the last 26 or so years, lost more then I’ve kept, but for lack of a road map or something like it, I thought I would sketch out my past years by going back and going though my writings, ramblings songs and poems. Even some cassettes I’ve made that hold words and laughter of many a highway friend and nightrider along the way. The journey has logged many a mile and still we ride onward.
“It’s a road of reflection that tells me my name and what is my name?
Some songs took 3 minutes others 20 years, sewn together with a word found in a timeless forgotten place that peeks out and fits like a glove.
I’ve had periods of prolific abundance, words poring out of me and periods of complete desert dryness, cackling dry throated worthless garbage unfit to be shared with my muse, in fact I’m sure I caught her laughing. From the green pastures of inspiration, to the old ghost town of dry gulch county.
All the pieces are here. e.e.cummings began as an excuse for me to not use proper punctuation but, the meaning found its way to me and the attitude prevailed, I got “it” and I kept and used “it”. Ferlingetti, Jazz, Jacky Jack, Hemmingway, Zimmerman, Steinbach, Kerouac, Asimov, Van Ronk, Ali, Steel Bottleneck, Cottages, late night TV, Gilligans Island, John Wayne Young Tony Curtis, California, Texas, Jersey, boots, boats, planes, rivers and wheat fields, streams and railroad steam, comics and hero’s, the obvious and not so obvious, after dark and guitar strings, boardwalks, fine wine, Jon Daniel’s and wild things that all are a part of this parade. I’m taking a walk back though and grabbing parts to secure a new foundation. It’s the halfway mark, mile marker 50.
That’s what this effort, this story is to be. A stroll back through where I been, but in no order, I may write a new part and place it in. I’ll place dates where I find them and copy verbatim the words, to see if they catch the time and place I first caught them as they danced by. It’s a performance art book of words along a time line seeking a place to call home.
Good luck, please follow the bouncing ball.
A man must be loved.
By one - or another.
What equals the sums that haven’t been yet?
The ones no one sees?
What are these things no one wants to count?
haywire jubilation sinks downward, stops stalwart riding the twister.
Shouts are in the wind as echoes are erased permanently on film to show our children how we did not listen.
How we silently preach what we sometimes practice in the beds and living rooms of America.
Until the explosions you show reach Americas living rooms.
Until we fall safely to a net balanced carefully on a rubber wall.
Frowned like a clown and up again.
Today may explode, when the time is right, just let it go..
What rain is there to come?
Day long, all day long. Rain? What rain?
No not around, no more, no more.
“Countless times and time s again” and what is the specialty of the house tonight Madame?
“No maem, I’ll finish it here, can I have the bean soup please? Thank you”.
And we’re off and running, and what were the circumstances surrounding the models death anyway?, Did she like to read late at night?
Why’s there a hungry child anywhere That still can’t fond a meal?
Something’s wrong here, hey don’t ya know ?
Its al right there for us to find..
Whatever it is, its callin my name.
July 7, 2000 from the street s of Washington D.C.
Roads still traveled ,sketchy visions of the nations capitol – clean and brilliant, trees thick, the road closed, steps almost drunken and stumbled – over through the sea – Iwo Jima and Lincoln resting majestically in the eternal seat, a flame flickers.
The city breathes and shadows are everywhere – 2 million feet marched – a dream becomes real, yet still. Just an echo.
Out of the tunnels of commerce into the fields of green marshes. Of what value do they place upon me?
Of what consequence should it matter?
Must find a steady bead and draw upon it and yield at no time.
A moment to thank a selfish muse.
Consider myself insanely lucky, certainly have deep lows like everyone, regrets more than a few. Music has saved my life, figuratively, actually, completely. That statement is not made lightly. If not for a gypsy song and the neon lights, nowhere is where my boots would stand.
I meet & know people of all walks of life, the only happy ones I know in their heart of hearts are those that follow their passion and don’t get lost in the web of others approvals and dissent.
There’s road maps of empty treasure at every turn. There are boundless riches in the out of tune songs , broken words, after hours shot glasses and back room secrets & jokes. An empty room, stairs and a table of friends sharing laughter and adventure. That is where the true treasure lies. In the songs and tales old souls gathered at a table and exposed under floodlights between each shadow. That’s where I live these days.
Then you make a deal, you know the cost, take a shot, put down the glass .. keep to the trail and watch the sun rise more times than watch it set. all I can do is continue on.. and pick up that God damn guitar. Yep, I’m lucky.