It's a Karma Thing...

What is the headline? 

Long-Time, Professional Sleaze-bag Indicted in Manhattan. 

Ha. Let me just hazard a guess, this is very likely a very richly-deserved indictment. Word is maybe a 30 count indictment. Yikes. That's nothing to sneeze at. I can't think of a better example of "No man is above the law." I think of one of my father's favorite sayings: "They will get what they deserve." You know, it's a Karma thing.  It couldn't happen to a more deserving, super-accomplished creep.

Of course, this is America: Innocent until proven guilty. We shall see. The case needs to be tried in court. Let the evidence be heard. Let the facts, yes, facts, hold sway. If crimes have been committed, and can be proven in court, let there be a reckoning.

My bet: This is the 1st of a handful of indictments coming down. Think of  a bouquet, a cornucopia of indictments. What happens next?! Who knows. Let it Come Down!

Note: There will be a lot of sound & fury, huffing & puffing, outrage & whining. We should all take a deep breath and remind ourselves: This Particular Man brought this all down upon himself. There is no one else to blame, except him. The rest is just bad faith and bluster.

I am Hamlet...

If you are into theater, like I am, it's not a stretch to see yourself as a character in a play, and your life as a long-form theatrical production. It has been said that the great era of tragedy and comedy is long gone. We may still love to delve into, and swim in, the world according to William Shakespeare, but we actually live in the era of Samual Beckett. It's all just bleak, deadpan, comedy. We are infinitely little people; grim & determined clowns, rooting around like little pigs in the gutter of a vast uncaring Universe. We are just killing time until the curtain call.

I'm not sure about that.  We all still face the abyss, the void, the grave, the long goodbye. We live with shit, blood, phlegm, vomit, sweat, and tears. It is up to us to create a coherent & much grander narrative. We can conjure up our own purpose, meaning, magic, love, hate, fear, joy.  We can spin our own intricate webs of shimmering drama. Yes, there is tragedy, yes, there is comedy, these themes hover over and above us; they taunt us, with nearly every step, and every breath. We can aspire to the great & weighty things; unimaginable success and failure at every turn.

We can still see our selves as Hamlet, Lear, Mark Anthony, Romeo, Macbeth.  Sure. Why not? We can live with the tempo of the line: iambic pentameter. We can be poetic in every thing we do, we can see the world as a meaningful drama, overstuffed with panache & poetry. Yes, no doubt. We can. And you know, if I am going to don the Hamlet-mask, my answer to the key, burning, existential question is yes, "To Be!"

Herbs & Potions...

Herbs and magic potions. My friend is a big believer in natural substances and alternate healing approaches, and well, sometimes I can be persuaded to try just about anything. I do think we are elaborate, personal, chemistry labs, the food we eat, the beverages we drink, the medicines & balms we indulge in, how much, how often, and when we partake; it's all just a life-long, always morphing experiment. We are what we ingest.

Lately, we have both turned to "Anxious Moment." We don't take it to be anxious, we take it to calm the fuck down. Does it work? Hard to tell. I think so. Lately, it seems the anxiety factor has increased in our lives. I mean, listen to the news, it's an unrelenting river of pain and distress. Plus the planet seems to be spinning faster and faster. We are hanging on for dear life. 

So, yeah, Anxious Moment. I suppose, at worst case, it can't really hurt to turn to a healing mist. And what of  the placebo effect? It's a real, unreal thing, right? If we believe it is working, is it working?

Less Guns, More Books...

Some ideas are so obvious, common-sense, logical, it's fucking maddening & heart-breaking, and brain-numbing, that an advanced, democratic nation can't act. There is a madness and an idiocy running thru our body politic that seems to paralyze legislators. And in their cowardly inaction, every damn day innocent people are being slaughtered in our schools, churches, grocery stores, you know pretty much anywhere, anytime in the land of the Free and Brave.

"Ban Assault Weapons, Not Books."

Easy to understand. Would make a fabulous bumper-sticker. It should be the rallying cry of a national movement.

A Life of Light and Poetry...

We have a band, write songs, play shows, we recorded 11 songs earlier in the year, are in the midst of mixing those songs now, running a little fund-raising campaign to help finish and bring an album to the world, working up cover art, developing an ad campaign, doing all the things you have to do if you want to be a band and try to get your music to other folks. DIY! 

It's a mission, a way of life, a reason to believe. Recently two incredibly supportive folks, in two totally different circumstances, expressed their support for our band & music in word and deed, and both declared: "We believe in you guys." That's fucking cool, amazing, inspiring. Surprising too. Makes us think we are on the right path, doing the good work. It doesn't take more than a glimmer of light to show us the way forward.

I also received a text message shortly before I took the stage to play with my band last Friday night. It was message from a long-time soul-friend, a fellow seeker and creative traveler,  an artist in all ways, a distinguished gentleman of charisma and light. I hadn't heard from him in quite awhile. He lives in another state far away. His message: "Continue on your path of Universal Righteousness..."

My response: "Your text message appeared to me at the most-perfect time. It hit me like an arrow of transcendent light. It exploded in my solar plexus and lit every cell of my body with the fire of a million suns."

Yes. Well. We get to choose what we believe in, and how we live our lives. Maybe it's best to live a life filled with light and poetry. Damn the torpedos. 

Sunday Morning...

Empty. Clear. Eyes open. Head held high.

R&R = Saved & Sundered...

Back with the living. How did I make it back?

I attribute it to the amazing restorative powers of a human body. How do those restorative powers work? Beats me. Maybe: rest up, sleep, eat healthy, fresh, organic food, take vitamins, guzzle Alka Seltzer Cold Remedy (night & day), spend lots of time alone, breathing, thinking, laying low & listening to music. You know just let time swim by. Your body has a few defenses & internal remedies at it's beck and call. Yesterday, I luxuriated in excellent r&r, I did a bit of concentrated, close-listening to The Who "Who's Next," (1971) and Nick Cave & Warren Ellis' "Carnage." (2021). Dare I say it? Saved by the healing powers of r&r. Brought low by r&r too. How did I get sick? Playing music in small rooms with large crowds.  Happened 2 of the last 3 shows I've performed at. It is true, "People make you sick." We are a germ-sharing species. Last night, I psyched myself up, strapped on my guitar, decided to leave my sickness behind, and performed in a jam-packed, over-heated, little dive bar in the big city. Damn the torpedos and germs. Two full sets of music with two different bands. 24 songs in total. It was pretty damn exhilarating. Given my recent history, I was tempting fate, and taunting those pesky little sick-making germs. Hoping my "natural immunity" kicked in and took on all contenders. Way too early tell, but this morning I feel fine, crystal-clear, satisfied. r&r, you are a beautiful and cruel master, both.

Made It...

Made it. That's all I have this morning. Here. Now. Ready to face another day.

More About the Holy Ghost...

I was still pretty much hung up on the Holy Ghost (see previous post), yesterday.  Still in a fog, still not quite right, still battling a nasty germ that kind of set my world upside down. For the life of me I can't remember what those old Nuns in Catholic school told us about the Holy Ghost. It's all so long ago, so fuzzy, I remember some things vividly: the playground, the bloody noses and vomit, the tears, the whacks on the fingers of rulers, the school desks, the blackboards, the chalk, the crucifix hanging above the blackboard, and those dark-habited, Darth-Vader-like Nuns with their golden rings on the fingers. Married to Jesus, don't you know? I think the Holy Ghost was kind of skipped over. Those Nuns were trying hard to make Jesus and Hell and Judgement Day super-real, the Holy Ghost was way too weird and nebulous to tackle. Of course, that's where my mind gravitated to; The Weirdness. Yesterday afternoon I wrapped myself up like a mummy and practiced breathing. Trying my best to make my breath come freer and easier. I also listened to music. I turned to Sigur Ros ( ) (2002). If the Holy Ghost produced an album this would be it. Majestic, mysterious, there are voices but they speak an unknown, invented, tongue. I suppose if you pressed me I'd have to say this is the greatest album ever recorded. It's mystical, magical, exuberant, thrilling, resonant, transcendent, a bit confounding. What is it? I still don't understand it, can't encompass it, I can only experience it. I have listened to it too many times to count. Numbers don't matter. Nothing else matters. Yes, it's that good. The Holy Ghost speaks.

Remedy & Recovery...

What to believe in? Lately my new religion Alka Seltzer Cold Remedy tablets. Shite. You have to believe in something. I have been battling an especially nasty cold. My friend turned me onto the Alka Seltzer tablets (night & day) and they are definitely helping. They knock me out so I can sleep. They keep me in a bit of a day-time fog; it is sort of a numbing, genial, fog slowly stretching forward to a better day.

Last night, in a deep, medicated sleep, I dreamed about "The Trinity." I was asked to make a pick like on that old TV show "Let's Make a Deal." Pick a door! The Father? NOPE. The Son. NAH. The Holy Ghost? Bingo!

So weird, a twisted & strange thought bubble from my distant Catholic grade school past. I suppose it is true, I have always gravitated to the third entity in the trio: The Holy Ghost, The Holy Spook, The Holy Spirit. Mainly because the Holy Ghost is so nebulous, unknowable, undefinable, mysterious, and, you know, it can mean anything you want it to mean; that's the kind of entity I can get behind, even if it's just a vanishing image in a disappearing fog. There are no commandments, no laws, no rules, no morality, just light, the spirit of light, goodness and transcendence. At least, that's how I interpret it.  For some reason, I have always imagined the Holy Ghost as a bird, a silent, little white bird. We used to live with one, a singular little parakeet, pure-white. She was a quiet, mysterious presence. When she died (it was heart-breaking), we buried her in the garden behind our building. Anyway, yes, I believe in spirit, in energy, in mystery, in some kind of exalted transcendence. I mean, I have experienced these things in my own life, and in my own body. So just like those tablets, I am the living evidence of their existence and their positive effects. Alka Seltzer and the Holy Ghost. Believing in the power of believing, and possibility of health and recovery. Amen.

A Walking/Talking Contradiction...

If you are "woke," as, of course, you should be, just like me, you are- "aware of and actively attentive to important societal facts and issues especially issues of racial and social justice," AND, if you are still a quite exuberant, optimistic-type, you are basically an annoying walking, talking contradiction. You can reel off the woes of the world, you can dish the bad shit with the worst of the shit-stirrers, you can go toe to toe in any argument with any bleak-looker about the long sordid human tale of flaw and tragedy, you can recount all the pain, misery, murder and skullduggery of being a human being, but then, just as easily and quickly you can turn on a dime, and conjure up a sunny vision, marvel at the grand beauty and lightness of life. You are the type of person who, when they come down with a particularly nasty cold (tested, not covid), that attacks all your main faculties, and reduces you to a wheezing, congested hulk, barely able to breathe or sleep, you tell a friend: "One good thing about getting sick, you can lay down, wrap yourself up in a cocoon, and just chill out." Looking at the upside of being sick. Now that's annoying! Hah!

Pizza Party!

There is this handy phrase people bandy about: "No one is above the Law." Is it true? Maybe. You know, it's probably more of an aspirational thing than the reality, but we do want to live in a society, a country, where the law is applied equally to all. I mean, sometimes how the law is applied seems arbitrary, and circumstantial, and contingent upon being flush with $ to hire good lawyers. There is the Law and there is Justice, and well, sometimes it all looks like a game. Justice often isn't really Justice we all just muddle through, people trying their best to do what's right. We like to think that no one is above the law, but it's an open question. Word on the street is that a loud, obnoxious, fat man, who just can't stop fucking blabbering may have to face the music in a courtroom in Manhattan this week. I cannot think of another person so deserving of a healthy serving of justice. One can only hope. If it is indeed true there's only one super-appropriate response: PIZZA PARTY!!!

Change...

Change is the thing. Best not to cling. Ride the wave and see what turns up.

People. Yikes.

My friend yesterday afternoon: "What makes us sick? People."

Made me recall Jean Paul Sartre: "Hell is other people."

Seems the people are getting edgy. A SWAT team shut down a block in our neighborhood yesterday. Big, burly Cops in full SWAT gear running down the block, long guns at the ready. Word came that there was some kind of incident unfolding, and an "emotionally disturbed" person was on the loose.

Emotionally Disturbed. A handy phrase indeed. Covers a lot of territory. Seems that in our over the top, 24/7 Dystopia we are all at least a tiny bit emotionally disturbed.

Also there is a dog-owner-war brewing in our back yard. A big open space behind our building has become a war-zone for dog owners and their furry beasts. This open space is used by owners and dogs all over the neighborhood. It's sort a "no-man's-land," an empty lot, no fence, folks just assume it's available to use as they see fit. Word came that there were harsh words and threats between two owners, they didn't like the way dog-shite was being handled or not handled. Someone poured gasoline on a back-door of an adjacent building, (did they fail to light it?), someone else smeared dog-shite on a doorknob. Crazy shite, angry retribution, emotionally disturbed folks getting emotional. 

Seems lately people are wrapped a bit too tightly. Folks claiming their territory, telling other folks to fuck off. It's all sort of amazing, amusing & silly. Pointless too. I mean, I have no dog in this hunt. Pretty ZEN about it all... but...

People. Yikes.

Is the Silly Season Over?

Musings on St. Patrick's Day. 

Did St. Patrick drive the snakes out of Ireland? Nope. No snakes were ever on that Emerald Isle to begin with. Just a bit of Irish balderdash. It is time for a bit truth-telling, or truth-casting, truth-conjuring, this a.m.

2023. 

Maybe it will be the year of truth? Cold hard truth. Scams revealed. Gaudy castles crumbling to dust. Liars stripped bare. The high and mighty cut down. Media, Business and Political stars exposed as Con artists. Banks falling. Money vaporizing. The elaborate fantasies of so many exposed as silly, ridiculous, foolish & pernicious nonsense. Maybe people will briefly take their heads out of their asses? "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows." - B. Dylan

I do think when the money starts disappearing everyone suddenly gets a bit more serious. We live in a Capitalistic Paradise. The streets are paved with $. When we get down to the money level, folks realize there is a reality, that maybe gravity really does exist, and yes, it really is all about the Benjamins, but funny, even the Benjamins themselves are fungible, fuzzy, a bit sketchy. And when folks realize that the platforms of disinformation & lies, that all that noisy, flashy, sexy nonsense is bad for biz, well, maybe, just maybe, it's time for a cold, hard, reckoning? Although, don't hold your breath.

"Don't look at the man behind the curtain." Right. Much of our world is so much flash & dash. Shiny, crappy, paper-thin. "Everything is cheaper than it looks." - Neil Young.  CGI. You know, pretty damn fake, looking pretty damn real, but not really real.

Once you get past flesh & bone, dirt & air, grit & spit, everything gets a bit sketchy and wobbly.

Ha. This is all probably my own sunny little fantasy playing out this morning. It would be gratifying to see the scammers and flim-flammers facing the music. To see reality reassert it's primacy, virtual reality be damned. Still, finally, Just praying the pieces don't fall on the rest of us.

How Do People Change?

How do people change? I don't really know.  

I do think change is good. If we are paying attention, we live our lives, we have experiences, and we adjust our thoughts, our mind-sets, and our actions based on our collisions with reality. One day, we wake up to a new reality, a new mind-set, a new version of ourselves. We are "works in progress," our job is to adapt, evolve, work on being a better human being.

Yesterday was clean-up time at our humble abode. There was a time this would be an onerous task, something I'd resist and push against. Instead, yesterday, I enthusiastically embraced the idea: the sweeping, the mopping, the polishing, the buffing. The friendly aroma of Meyer's Peppermint soap wafted thru the air, and it was invigorating. Seems like a simple exercise, cleaning up your mess. I now look at it as a very important ritual. And reflects a bigger reality. A new me.

Keeping your shit together. Honoring your personal space. Keeping things orderly and clean. Taking the time to pay attention to the little details. Being careful. The outer space around you is a reflection of your inner space. We can't rearrange the world, but we do have the power to re-arrange our own living bubbles of life. Today a clean and empty sink is a sign of clarity & care. 

So, yes, cleanup time suddenly seems like an essential, important event. Immensely rewarding too. Who knew?!

Fuzzy, Shaky, Temporary...

You know, it's kind of funny how a Human Brain works. I'm feeling a bit fuzzy, shaky and temporary this morning, and then I check out the headlines and tune into the news on NPR and, well, the whole rollicking Human Comedy/Tragedy appears to be a bit fuzzy, shaky and temporary too. Odd how that works. Seems we live in a Human-built world we conjure up from our own depths. Funny and probably wrong-headed, but that's how it looks and feels to this wobbly pilgrim. We see the world as we are, not as it is... or something like that...

A Warring Mind...

A "satisfied* mind?" Nope. That's a chimera. A unicorn. Not exactly the Holy Grail. Not even sure it's something to pursue. A warring mind? Yes. That's more on-target. On-brand. Rings a bell. Not sure it's a good thing, but it presents itself as a true thing. Always competing ideas. Sound & Fury. Hurly-Burly. Clashing and crashing: thoughts, desires, over-wrought emotions. A head like a swirling & whirling "ball of confusion." What it's all about? Kooky obsessions, silly concerns, over-stuffed worries, contentious doubts. Yikes. 

* Puts me in mind of that great Replacements song, you know, being satisfied might be a cursed fate: 

"Look me in the eye

Then, tell me that I'm satisfied

Was you satisfied?

Look me in the eye

Then, tell me that I'm satisfied

Hey, are you satisfied?

And it goes so slowly on

Everything I've ever wanted

Tell me what's wrong

Look me in the eye

And tell me that I'm satisfied

Were you satisfied?

Look me in the eye

Then, tell me that I'm satisfied

And now are you satisfied?

Everything goes

Well, anything goes all of the time

Everything you dream of

Is right in front of you

And everything is a lie

Look me in the eye

And tell me that I'm satisfied

Look me in the eye

Unsatisfied

I'm so, I'm so unsatisfied

I'm so dissatisfied

I'm so, I'm so unsatisfied

I'm so unsatisfied

Well, I'm-a

I'm so, I'm so unsatisfied

I'm so dissatis, dissattis

I'm so..."

"Maybe that's It?"

You plunge into the maelstrom. You give your all. You feel like you are totally swallowed up by a higher power. You tangle with the sound and fury and you succumb to the void. Think: Jonah and the whale. It's that consuming. You find yourself buried in the dark. Later, the clouds part, you emerge back into the light feeling brittle, tired, wrung out, totally empty, depleted, deflated. Broken. You wonder: How to conjure up that energy once again? Will I ever rise again? There are hours of doubt, "Maybe that's it?" A dead-end. There is no conjuring. You can't demand an energy re-fill. Instead, you wrap yourself up like a mummy, you listen to music,  you fortify yourself with a good meal, you sink into a long, dead-man's deep-sleep. In the morning you fill yourself with coffee and yes, there is a slim shaft of light striking you smack dab in the middle of your solar plexus. "Energy is Eternal Delight."  Yes. Of course. Damn the torpedos.

An Hour Disappears...

An hour disappeared on us here in the Heartland. "Spring ahead." Right. Time really is relative. And we mess with it often. Weird. Time itself is fungible and a bit of an illusion. Funny, that...

Human Brain, Not So Brainy...

Kevin Drum thinks that eventually, maybe sooner than we think, AI will be much smarter than Human Beings. Who knows? I am just a glorified monkey myself, so I'm in the "could be right, could be wrong," camp. 10,000 years of Human History is pretty much a mixed bag: lots of madness, murder, mayhem, stupidity & general ugliness with a few patches of light, intelligence & transcendence. The last paragraph of Kevin's post resonated with me:

"Moral of the story: our brains really aren't that great. They're a couple of notches better than a chimpanzee's brain, and this allows us to produce some remarkable stuff. But this brain also requires massive training to read simple text, do simple arithmetic, overcome its desire to kill anything coded as a threat, and just generally get through life with even modest levels of rationality. Can we produce something better than this? I sure as hell hope so."- Kevin Drum

Simple Formula

A cold, gray, strangely quiet morning in the Heartland. Where does the sunniness, the optimism, the bubbling energy, the glad-handing gumption that seems be welling up come from? I hate to be a simpleton, but it must be true; a simple formula, a magical elixir: COFFEE!

Roving Gypsy Existence...

I live a semi, quasi, intermittent, sometimes, roving gypsy existence. I do have a home. But often I am not there. I am often drifting around like a cloud, landing and taking up residence in other domiciles. One day near the lake, the next near the park. It's all in a 3 or 4 mile radius, in a nice little town on the shores of a big body of water. I am the care-taker, usually moving in to tend to little furry creatures, sometimes canine, sometimes feline. This morning I am living with the feline variety. It's super-quiet here. Yesterday, I was flying around town in a totally relaxed state. I do believe that chocolate mousse encounter (see previous post), totally agreed with me. I mean, it seemed to totally "take the edge off." Can a human being live on mousse alone? Probably not. I mean, you could try a chocolate mousse only diet, but it's probably the road to hell, or death by deliciousness.  Am I certainly, wildly and probably falsely, attributing my good night's sleep and relaxed state to what I ate? Yes. I am easily swayed. I do think it's true, "we are what we eat." But a one-day mousse thing seems like a false lead. Still, it's true, for one day at least it seems that a healthy serving of chocolate mousse "changed my life."  A weird, roving gypsy kind of surmise & conclusion.

A Bit of a Hoot...

I am no pampered Prince, no frolicking Potentate, I am basically a working stiff, just a guy, trying to make a buck, keeping my head above water, but yesterday afternoon, I did feel  a bit like a decadent Aristocrat. I was luxuriating in the false flag of being the Caretaker of a large, stately manor on the lakefront, a Man-Friday to an adorable little 4 legged creature, listening to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds "Push Away the Sky," (2013) on an incredible home stereo system, eating a healthy serving of homemade Chocolate Mousse. I wasn't off the ranch, I had been encouraged to try it by the person who made it. I had one spoonful, thinking "just a taste," but then I ate every last spoonful. Amazing. Magnificent. An uncommon, rare treat. Scrumptious. It almost seemed sinful. Too good. Ha. My old Catholic upbringing kicked in. Too much pleasure must be wrong. I stifled that sneaky feeling of guilt, but I also marveled at the incongruity of my life. I thought of that Oscar Wilde quote: "I can resist anything, except temptation." Yes, I tend to think of myself as disciplined, but when I go bad, I truly go bad. The Bad Boy of Chocolate Mousse. It could be worse, there are many other temptations and poisons that can bring you down. Risky behavior. So, no, I didn't put on a hair-shirt, I tossed that guilt aside, I ate the mousse, swooned to the music, and swanned about like a heady Aristocrat. It was all bit of a hoot on a Tuesday afternoon. 

Be the Ant...

You sometimes make things happen. Or do things just happen? Do we really make anything happen, or do things happen, and we conjure up the illusion that it was all our doing? Who knows? For sure, anything you do is on some micro-level of existence. The things in your life that only you can do. If you don't do them, no one else will either, and then, well, they won't get done. But your reach into the world is almost imperceptible. You know, you do the things you must do, but it's like watching a little ant on the sidewalk carrying a potato chip back to the colony. It means a lot to that little ant, and maybe to all his buddies too, but in the bigger picture, it is not all that consequential. Unless, of course, everything is connected and that little ant and his fruitful journey are wired into the destiny and fate of the Universe. You know this particular ant, this particular potato chip, this exact time & place. A one and only event in the life of the Universe. Was it written? Unwritten? Inquiring minds want to know.  Is it true that all of history, everything that has ever happened had to happen to get this ant to this particular place & time? Fate & Destiny in the driver's seat? And if that ant didn't meet that potato chip would the Universe tilt? Go out of whack? Collapse in a heap? Is that ant navigating God's Channel, riding the Universe bare-back, Indian-style?  Is that how it works? Who knows? I mean, put your head down, and decide to be the ant. To the max. You cling to that chip like your life depends on it, and you go, forward. Damn the torpedos.

Yes. Again. Everything Counts.

It is astonishing. And true. Small acts, tiny adjustments, little steps can have enormous effects. It is a reality that reveals itself over and over again. In everything you do. As below, so above and vice versa. As an acoustic guitar player, I am always amazed and constantly reminded that every little thing counts. There are so many little decisions that have major impacts on the sound and feel. Of course, the big decision which guitar?  But beyond that... what strings to use? Thick or thin? Bright or dark? Which pick? Is it wooden, bone, plastic, fabric? Is it thick or thin? Big, small, sharp, dull? How high or low the bridge? How hard to strike the strings? Which fingers on which frets, with how much pressure expended? When do you drop the pick and strum and pluck with your fingers? How long, or closely trimmed do you keep your fingernails? How to tune? Standard tuning? Or alternate tuning? Do you gravitate to a particular alternate tuning, or do you make up your own? How long do you keep the same strings on the guitar? Do you like the sound of a worn string? Or do you prefer the new, brighter, ringing tones? Do you use a pre-amp? How do you set that thing up? Treble, Mid, Bass? Do you engage the phase switch? What cable do you use to connect to the pre-amp? Do you use a feedback buster? What speaker or amp do you use for volume? How do you set that up? Do you play loudly or softly? Where do you place the speaker in the room? Do you leave it on the floor or prop it up? What do you use to prop it up? Do you use that old wooden orange crate? Or is another surface better? Do you play standing up or sitting down? What kind of guitar strap do you use? How high or low does that hang on your shoulder? Everything is important, even and maybe especially the unimportant things. Funny.

Collaboration...

Yesterday was all about music, listening to it, thinking about it, playing it. I am sort of loner, I easily get lost inside my own head, run down my own private rabbits down their own private rabbit-holes. I am easily distracted and I can get obsessed with things that seemingly no one else is obsessed with. My world is distinctly mine. I am cool with that, but I find that the most rewarding things I have done in my life come out of collaboration with others. I was sort of slow to that reality. I spent so much time in my own room, with my own thoughts, listening to my own music, playing my guitar for the four walls.

Having another musician to play with, and to play off of, having another voice in the room opens the door to a whole new world. Fill a room with 7 other musicians all working together on song that you made up in your head is thrilling, amazing, super-fun and totally rewarding. It's a bit of a challenge too. How to corral all that energy? How to keep other folks engaged and inspired to spend the time chasing the butterfly?

Seems to me the trick is to allow everyone to bring their own creativity to the room. To cultivate a group energy, where everyone has a place in the sonic spectrum, folks who respect & listen to each other and make contributions to a greater thing. It's anti-ego thing, where you actually drop your ego and submit yourself to the collaborative. Everyone has something to offer, everyone has the total power to be themselves, but the group energy works best when everyone gives their gifts freely.

My partner and I lead a killer-band of fabulously talented musicians. It still amazes both of us that these incredibly creative and beautiful folks take the time to learn our songs, gladly run down those rabbit-holes with us. Of course, we all know that our time in the rehearsal room is preparation for playing in front of an audience. We have been lucky to slowly build an audience for our very singular, quirky vision. It has been slow-going, and a crooked road, and I suppose it could all vanish in an instant.

That's life. A full-bore collaboration. An uncommonly beautiful thing. Not to be taken for granted. You want to let it shine like a burning star in the fabric of the Universe. Damn the torpedos.

A Finely-Tuned Instrument of Perception...

Yes. Well. I am not defying age. No one can. I don't count the years anymore. The Artist Formerly Known as Prince didn't count them either. Not sure it really worked out for him, not sure it's really working out for me either, but I refuse to be defined by a number. I refuse to be defined by anyone but myself. How would I define myself? Defiantly skeptical, boldly hopeful, decidedly optimistic, open-headed, open-eyed in the face of the swirly, gaping void of mystery. I am a believer in the art of believing, but believing in open-ended things like the sea of possibilities, goodness, and a better day.

Sleeping has been difficult lately. When I was younger, I could sleep any time any place at a drop of a hat. This morning, rising before the sun, I rise into profound darkness. It's a bit weird. This morning, I was out with my furry, four-legged friend before the sun made it's appearance. A cold & clear morning. There was a hushed glow coming from the East. Pinks and blues hovering on the horizon, seemed everything alive was anticipating the entrance of the glowing ball of fire.

That ball goes from a fiery red to a brilliant gold in a matter of a few minutes. I am now back in the kitchen sipping a bold coffee brew, listening to Radiohead's "A Moon-Shaped Pool," (2016) on the stereo. It may be their finest album. There is a relaxed brilliance, a mysterious feel, it is warm, not edgy.

I am hearing everything this morning in total glorious, stereophonic detail. Is it possible that with age my hearing is getting better? Probably not, but that's how it seems. Recently, one morning, thinking that I slept awkwardly, my ear pressed hard to the pillow, my hearing seemed to be compromised, fading away, everything sounded like it was coming from a cheap transistor radio. A bit of a scare there. I thought of that amazing, beautiful, daunting movie "Sound of Metal," (2019), you know, you really don't know what you have until you lose it. We take so much for granted. Once I got out in the cold, fresh air, my hearing came back in it's full glory. Now I hear every little thing in absolute detail. More sensitive than ever. Strange. Of course, my hearing is vital to me. Listening to music, playing music, using my ears to arrange songs, mix songs, playing with a band.

In some ways I feel more sensitized to everything, all my senses on fire, alive and awake. Is that an age thing, or an anti-age thing? I am hearing every detail, seeing everything clearly too. I mean, I do use reading glasses, without them close things are a bit blurry, but my long vision is clear and detailed. Emotionally and intellectually I am sensitized too. It's a wicked double-edged sword all around. A finely tuned instrument of perception, taking everything in, easily upset, easily thrown off. Day to day it's a struggle to maintain a healthy balance in all things. All you can do is show up and do the things you choose to do. And do them with all your heart and soul.

A New Ride...

Yes. Picked up my new bike a Felt SR 81 two days ago. I mean, a bike new for me, it's actually a well-cared for, slightly/lightly used bike.  I hated to see my old bike crumble and fail, but, you know, rust never sleeps. I didn't do any research on the my new purchase when I ordered it. I relied on the advice of the local Bike Tech, but I was happy to find that Felt is a company based in California, and when I was told the bike arrived in the shop I walked over and was happy to see it for real. It is light, fast, seems to be quite well-built. Plus, it is an appealing shade of blue. It's not their top-line bike, it's on the lower spectrum of models, but you know, I am not the racing type, more of a rolling, rambling, meandering, getting from place to place in a timely manner kind of rider. The bike was shipped in from Appleton, Wisconsin, it is truly a nice well-maintained bike. Funny, for a brief time in my life, my family lived in Appleton. I absolutely hated it there. A small town. Click-ish, small-minded. I didn't fit in, the other kids thought I was a gangster from big old bad Chicago. Funny that. Anyway, a new ride, a new era. I am gliding thru the streets in style. Buying stuff, it is seductive. The shit we own helps define us. Funny that too. Money is just another energy, spend it wisely Pilgrim. And keep your eyes peeled on those hard, mean streets.

Speed Reading & Slow Reading...

 Speed Reading. I forget how or when I learned to do it. I think it was in High School. I don't use it often. Most of the time, if I am reading, I am reading to savor the text, for instance, I am re-reading Bob Dylan's "Chronicles," and this time I am really luxuriating in the words. I love Dylan's use of language, he is a poet and visionary. Sometimes, he loses me, he has an uncommon intelligence, and he makes connections that I don't make, but that's why I am totally entranced and fascinated and inspired by everything he does. The book is billed as "Volume One," but one wonders if more volumes are really in the works? With Dylan you never know.

Anyway, I am slowly, re-reading that book. 

But about a week ago, I was sitting in someone else's living room, waiting, waiting, waiting for the time to tick down, basically killing time, waiting to make my exit. A book called "The Little Book of Hygge: The Danish Way to Live Well," was sitting on the coffee table. I picked it up and sped thru it. 

Reading comprehension? What did I get out of the 15 min read of the text? The people of Denmark are the happiest on the planet. Why? They wear wool socks and comfy, wool sweaters. They listen to music, vinyl and phonographs recommended. They drink hot chocolate & good coffee. They love to chat with folks around the kitchen table. They spend lots of time in the analog world, hanging with friends and family. They, by and large, engage with Social Media sparingly. Slow reading would be the way to go.

And, the big reveal...

It is all about the light. Lighting. How folks light their homes. How they use light in their lives. Think: candle-light, fireplaces, small lamps. Yes. Want to make a room totally exude hygge? Light a candle! If you think about it, it totally makes sense, Human Beings have spent most of their time on the planet huddling in front of real flames. All that artificial light is a recent phenomena. Definitely lacks hygge.

I think Evelyn Wood would be quite happy. 15 mins and I pretty much got the gist of the book.

So what was were we doing yesterday afternoon? Replacing the lights in our band rehearsal room. My partner and I took down those ugly fluorescent lamps and installed LED lighting panels. Still bright, but a bit warmer, a more natural glow. We have an event coming up, and we will bring in some Christmas lights,  some colored bulbs, and yes, a few candles. It's all about the light.  Hygge! I mean, we always kind of knew it, but listen to the Danes. They got it down. And, yes, thank you Evelyn Wood! 15 min read to glory!

Time & Place Tripping...

We were on the road yesterday. A journey thru the past. We had a rental, a sleek & sporty black car, and we drove West. The farther we traveled from the lake, the more everything seemed to get just slightly harder-edged. Which can't really be true, can it? And time, is it possible by driving West, we are going back in time? You know, just slightly morphing into some earlier, weirdly-real, time warp? Doesn't seem possible, but that is how it felt. Things got progressively real, really-real, as we traveled West. Realer than real. I suppose some of this is just an odd-ball nostalgia trip. We both, my partner and I, grew up in the Western Suburbs, far from the always transforming lake. And we were re-visiting places and times, and people from our formative years, years that don't really seem alive in us today, but are, buried deep in our beings, and alive in these old streets. In a sense, it's like we were revisiting our former selves in some of our former haunts; places now slightly different, but holding some original essence that still resides inside of us. Head-spaces we have seemingly left behind, but really, that are still with us, embedded deep down in our beings; in our bones, our DNA. The trip was almost like an excavation, digging down into our own lost, earlier selves. So strange, so surreal. A bit sad-making too. We could see time. Time passing and time standing still. Later, when we arrived back home, tucked in close to the lake, it felt like we arrived back in the eternal now. Out West, we were in some oddly-preserved, and oddly-disfigured past, back in our own comfy digs, we were alive again in the moment, now. Of course, it's all sort of an illusion, or a genial state of delusion. Home is where our bubble of illusion/delusion is strong and comfortable. Time be damned.