Practice...

My writing practice...

I do think it is therapeutic: as in "having a beneficial effect on the body or mind." I mean beneficial for my mind and body. What about those reading what I write? Is it beneficial for my dear readers? I am not sure, I am not promising anything.

Life is not a dress rehearsal for something else. Life is the main attraction. At the same time I do think spending lots of time practicing is a worthy way to burn your days.

What else do I practice? 

Meditation, chilling out, playing guitar, singing, listening to, and playing music, navigating the ways of the world, eating well, interacting with other Human Beings, practicing "good thinking:" paying attention to Science, Rationality, Logic, Clarity, Clear-headedness. And practicing Intuition and Transcendence too. You know on the one hand I just do these things. But really,  everything I do needs a bit of practicing.

Talking, Walking, Breathing. Also essential: Listening, Seeing, Observing, Cultivating Silence. You can refine what you do, and how you do it. You can be aware, alive, awake, and then, let go and just totally Be Here Now. That takes practice too. Supremely worth it too.

Shit Happens... Life Is Short...

Shit Happens. Life is Short. Chaos Surrounds Us. Water Under the Bridge. People; You Can't Live with Them, You Can't Live Without Them. Don't Worry, Be Happy. We All Have to Roll With the Punches, and the Punches Always Come.

If We are Dedicated to the Idea that Life is to Be Lived, We Must Carry On with the Living. Holding a Grudge is a Burden for the One Doing the Holding. You Can Let that Shit Go. No One and Nothing is Perfect. "You Can't Always Get What You Want, But You Find Sometimes, You Get What You Need."

What Am I Trying To Say Here?

Every Second Counts. 

Yesterday Listening to the Who "Live at Leeds." (1970), probably, I mean, most undoubtably, the greatest live album ever recorded, the lyric that stuck with me, and still sticks to me this morning too, is from "A Quick One While He's Away," Pete Townsend's first "mini-opera." Something you don't often hear, a song about a "transgression," and whole-hearted "Forgiveness." We can leave that toxic shite: guilt, blame, worry, doubt, behind. We all will suffer, no doubt, but we don't need to make a thing out of it. We all must take responsibility for our actions. That is good karmic practice. But no sense malingering. Forgiveness. For yourself, and others. A necessary letting go. A cleansing. A clearing. A complete re-set. Yes. Uncommon in r&r, or any where else in the human realm. But seems like a sensible, essential idea and act...

"You are forgiven, you are forgiven

You are forgiven (You are forgiven)

You are forgiven (You are forgiven)

You are forgiven (You are forgiven)

You are forgiven (You are forgiven)

You are forgiven (You are forgiven)

Forgiven, forgiven, forgiven, forgiven

Forgiven, forgiven, forgiven, forgiven

Forgiven, forgiven, forgiven

Forgiven, forgiven

[Outro]

You are forgiven

You are forgiven (You are forgiven)

You are forgiven"

Be Busy...

Ah... yes... let me just say that this  particular, loose-motley-collection of atoms with consciousness (see previous post), finds the idea of being a loose-motley-collection of atoms with consciousness a very invigorating & auspicious idea. So liberating. So open-ended. The idea propels me into the mode of "anything is possible." And every day is anything can happen day.

It also leads to the thought that a head of wonder is a good and natural thing. Even though we think we know a lot, much of the Universe is mysterious. Even our explanations are sort of head-scratching, wonderful, confounding, and well, don't really explain a hell of a lot.

Maybe that too is a good thing? 

No need to explain, we are here to be, to be conscious, to revel in  our ability to reside in consciousness. We are here to observe, to pay attention. To BE HERE NOW.  Why? Who knows?! Be busy you loose-motley-collection of atoms with consciousness..

ATOMS WITH CONSCIOUSNESS!

I give the floor to Brain Pickings this morning. I really, really like this description of our Human conundrum. Sounds smart and on-target. "Atoms with Consciousness." And... "restless miniatures of a vast universe we are only just beginning to fathom." Exactly!

“This life of yours which you are living is not merely a piece of the entire existence, but is in a certain sense the whole,” quantum pioneer Erwin Schrödinger wrote as he bridged his young science with ancient Eastern philosophy to reckon with the ongoing mystery of what we are.

A century later — a century in the course of which we unraveled the double helix, detected the Higgs boson, decoded the human genome, heard a gravitational wave and saw a black hole for the first time, and discovered thousands of other possible worlds beyond our Solar System — the mystery has only deepened for us “atoms with consciousness,” capable of music and of murder. Each day, we eat food that becomes us, its molecules metabolized into our own as we move through the world with the illusion of a self. Each day, we live with the puzzlement of what makes us and our childhood self the “same” person, even though most of our cells and our dreams have been replaced. Each day, we find ourselves restless miniatures of a vast universe we are only just beginning to fathom.

Discoveries and Re-Discoveries...

Some things I discovered and re-discovered staying at a wealthy family's home this weekend...

An iron skillet. It really is a natural wonder. I would say it is an essential item in the kitchen. Really. Want to make a fabulous omelet? Iron skillet.

Mr. Coffee. Nothing fancy. A simple coffeemaker. One button: off/on. It does the job.

A floor fan. Battling Heat Dome? A/C and a floor fan. Recommended. 

Apple TV. I am not a product endorser, but all the best homes have Apple TV. It is pretty cool way to connect and stream. Easy to use. Every app known to humanity. Think we gotta dig in our pockets and spring for this handy device for our humble abode.

"The Bear," is one of the great shows streaming on Hulu now. Love, love, love this show. Fabulous acting, directing, writing. Funny. I mean hilarious, and emotionally-powerful & touching too. And so, so Chicago-smart. If you live in Chicago, you know, this show really nails the vibe and the quirky history of the city. It's bit of a love-letter to Chicago. Also, and this is essential, a tremendous soundtrack throughout. Wilco is featured often. I mean totally fantastic.

Modest Mouse & The Grateful Dead. Two great American bands. Unique. Unlike anything else. Any Modest Mouse album will do the trick. And The Dead? A natural wonder. I don't care what anyone says. And Live Dead truly is the best Dead.

What else? Can't wait to get home. I mean, it's been fun, but there is something about inhabiting your own space, surrounded by all your own stuff, back in touch with your own pretty creatures and significant other.

Gotta blow this fancy pop stand...

Gypsy-Like Existence...

Yesterday, the weather cooler, milder, more live-able...

I have been living a gypsy-like existence. Most of the month of August I have been sleeping in other folk's beds, taking care of other folk's furry critters, being the caretaker of other folk's magnificent homes of distinguished distinction. I am surrounded by other people's luxuries. So yes, a wandering gypsy, carrying my own bag of vibes, living in the lap of luxury in various parts of town.

It is a supremely weird life. Not bad. Keeps me busy, and in dollars, but it is also sort of strange. I do my best to make my stay-overs truly mine. I  bring my coffee, my music, my books, my groceries, my little kit-bag of essentials. 

These homes all have fabulous home stereo systems. I fill these mansion-like homes with thundering sounds from my CD collection, albums from Led Zeppelin, Steely Dan, Modest Mouse, Grateful Dead, Bob Dylan. I love to dig deep into the discography of these artists. It is a great way to claim the space as my own.

The invigorating aroma of freshly brewed coffee (Organic Sumatra Coffee Beans), hovers over the kitchen and beyond every morning. During the days, a busy, back and forth routine. The little furry creatures have to tune into my ways & waves. I tune into their ways & waves too.

It's a life. Kind of Weird. But mine. Certainly not a bad way to get by. Not getting rich. Living in the homes of the rich. Getting by...

Heat Dome Vs. Human!

Heat Dome Came. Heat Dome Conquered. Heat Dome left.

Yes. Heat Dome was here for two days. Two very hot, sticky, oppressive days. My advice? Don't tangle with Heat Dome. Even a brief encounter with Heat Dome can knock you on your ass. 

On the first day of our Midwestern-style Heat Dome I was a bit over-confident and cavalier. Too much Heat Dome makes the baby go blind. No. Didn't go blind but the Unseen Hand came down upon me, and squeezed.

Day two, dancing around 100 degrees, with the air quality "poor," and humidity off the charts, I was much more circumspect. Picked my spots. Kept to the shade. Made short work of being out in the elements, drank lots of water, and other, non-alcoholic, & refreshing liquids.

Let's just say Heat Dome is supremely Un-Cool. 

Late afternoon I chilled out on a big, comfy couch with audiophile headphones, a Walkman CD player, and the Grateful Dead: "Pacific Northwest '73–'74: Believe It If You Need It." A thrilling three-CD set. I know so very Hippie of me. But yes, I believe, and I need. Music is my main healing miracle cure. Fabulous live music, the Dead at a particularly exciting peak, fronting the amazing, over the top, logistically-ridiculous, "Wall of Sound" p.a. system. Jerry Garcia's guitar is an extraordinary, natural wonder, the band ensemble playing is totally magical, fun and inspiring. Alchemical!

Today the forecast: temps in the 70's.  Ha. Very Copacetic.

Air Conditioning: Praise the Lord!

Must I write about the weather? Again?

Yes. Yesterday (and supposedly today too), we were confronted with excessive heat. Yikes. 

What does excessive heat feel like to a simple & humble human being? 

Well. The air feels like an old, very heavy overcoat, hot, musty & gnarly, that sits on your shoulders and chest and dares you to breathe. And the sun. What about the sun? Well. If you are standing on the corner, waiting for a traffic light to change, and you are not in the shade, instead you are in the path of direct rays shooting off the sun, you feel like you are being roasted like a Christmas sausage. On a hot skillet. From the outside in, and from the inside out.

Double-yikes. 

I was outside in the extreme elements for a bit. In small doses. But even that was an ordeal. I drank massive quantities of water. Hydrating to keep alive! The sweat poured out of me. Late afternoon I was bone-tired. I took a hot shower. Funny, it is a good, counterintuitive remedy. And then cooled down in an air-conditioned room.

Air Conditioning: Praise the Lord. What would we do without Air Conditioning? Probably cook and die. Word is that today might actually be worse than yesterday. Mother Nature is wreaking her revenge on the nasty little beings that treated her so thoughtlessly and foolishly. We, the caretakers fucked up. We did a terrible job taking care. Facing the consequences now.

Revolution, you can feel it in the air.

R&R = Glimmers of the Divine...

I play guitar and co-write songs with two different collaborators in two quite different bands. Both bands emerged, evolved and morphed from a theatrical production that we wrote and performed in, in the mid-2000's. Kind of extraordinary. It is just something I am lucky to do, and I'm incredibly happy to do; rehearsing and being onstage within these friendly confines. Even when a gig goes bad, which, thankfully, happens less & less often, being in these bands is a vehicle to elevate, to open the door to peak experiences. The fuck-ups and bumpy gigs are always instructive, and part of a never-ending, always happening, learning process. You learn how many ways you can fuck up. Turns out there are a million. Maybe more. Every fuckup is an opportunity to re-think, to adjust & readjust, to refine your shit. You experiment with guitars, guitar pedals, amps, cables, picks. You end up with a set-up, a stage approach that can withstand the elements. There is a on-going process of refinement propelled by the desire to avoid fuckups. There have been various line-ups in both bands over the years. The constant in both bands: me and my two very distinct, and distinguished, always-inspiring, songwriting partners. Both bands really do have their shit together. These little collectives are some of the best, most giving and creative musicians and human beings I know. We are gathered together to focus on a mission to god. Two quite unique and often gnarly creative crucibles. Maybe this two-headed, creative beast is the finest and best way I truly, madly & deeply get to spend my time. I love being in a band, I love writing songs, I love performing, I love collaborating with other musicians. I get to creatively express myself, but really, the secret key, the hidden knowledge is the reality of an invisible connection with the other players. The best of the creative work? The unspoken, almost mystical, musical communication between the players. Yes, as Pete Townshend once pointed out, it's all about the vibes; hearing, seeing, living the vibes. When you do the good work with a solid group of musicians, all connected, listening to each other, playing together, with confidence, and a concentrated focus and ease, it can be truly transcendent. If you are in a band of committed, creative souls, you are creating a bigger energy and a bigger vibe that rises above the simple human domain. I mean, it's completely human state, that somehow elevates to a divine-like state. This happens even if you are just playing a simple two-chord r&r song. A god-head emerges out of the mud. Out of that simplicity can emerge a mysterious, enveloping wonder. One of my collaborators always tells me "music is my religion." I get it. The commandments? Play with heart and soul. Give your all. Listen. Listen. Listen. Know your shit. Let go of your ego, and sink into the band of connections. Honor the vibe. Ride that vibe upward for all it's worth. No telling where it will take you. It's an outward, and maybe more significantly, an inward journey. By doing, you are working on your self, your own spirit and being. Where are we going? Wrong question. Where are we doing? We are doing everywhere. R&R. It will save your soul if you are willing to give it up. You give it up willingly. I think of that Santana instrumental: "Soul Sacrifice." Yes. Indeed. And I mean, damn the torpedoes.

Details. Lost & Found...

No bed of roses. That's how I described my life to an acquaintance yesterday. You know from the outside, or from a distance, everything seems peachy keen, all smiles and sunshine, but that doesn't account for all the schlepping, the bumping & scraping along, the conjuring up of dreams and the lofty, dazzling, imaginary adventures, with, of course, the inevitable crashing & burning of those same, fleeting, dreams and adventures. That's life. A series of scenes, ordeals, circumstances, fuckups, and surprising interludes. All mixed-up confusion. I mean, I'm not complaining, I'd rather be here now dealing with the deal that I have to deal with. What happens, and how we deal with what happens is the thing. Doing, being, not judging the living & the life we lead; instead, trying to live to the max. I think you can transform even the most pedestrian, mundane, day to day existence just by paying attention to the details. The details are infinite. Can you care and take care of an infinite number of details? Probably not. It is too overwhelming, but then, maybe you can let go, let the reality of living  and everything in it overwhelm you. Bring a little wonder to the party. You can get lost in the stuff of life and living. And maybe getting lost is the open window to getting found? Who knows?

A New Place, Same Face...

A new day. A new place. A new dog. A new coffee machine. A new routine. But the same head. The same face. Same rollicking-madcap-mind full of hope, dream, tumult & hurly-burly.  Things look a bit bleak first thing. Cloudy here. Supposed to be really hot. After a few cups of coffee I see glimmers of light, a few strands of hope spring up. The adrenaline kicks in. Okay. Probably gonna make it. Gather the forces. Face the responsibilities of another busy day of back & forth. That's the thing. Do the thing. Don't judge it. Do it. Carry on.

Going, Doing, Being...

Where are you going?

I am not going anywhere. Just doing. 

I think the better question: Where are you doing?

I am doing everywhere.

The doing is the going. The doing is the being. The doing & being, they are everything.

This morning I wake up to a Sunday sunrise and my first thought: Life means we get to be here. That's it. Precious, good, fleeting, everything.

The doing & being. Yes. Enough. More than enough. Everything.

Who You Meet...

Who you meet…

I wrote about seeing Son Volt on Thursday night (see previous post). There was an opening act. We didn't know there was an an opener when we arrived for the show & when he walked out on stage, no introduction, with a long beard, wearing a cowboy hat, carrying a Martin acoustic guitar. Our first thought, maybe Jay Farrar, Son Volt's front-man, had a radical make-over & transformation.

As soon as he started singing we knew, nope, it wasn't Jay. 

It was Anders Parker. He was amazing. One lone singer & guitar player. He was singing songs from his latest album "The Black Flight." (2023). A loose collection of story songs about his great-uncle Leslie Hunter Parker, a fighter-pilot killed in a dog-fight in Belgium in World War I. The so-called Great War. 

He captivated, enthralled. He really did hold the audience in a spell with his words, his guitar playing, his entrancing voice. Not an easy thing to do. A lone performer like that is totally exposed. Nowhere to hide. Every picked note, every syllable launched into the air naked. 

After his incredibly satisfying set I told my companion I had to meet the man. 

I needed to know how he was getting that fabulous, rich, powerful acoustic guitar sound. That is one of my own personal obsessions. Always looking for a mythic, perfect, soul-full, resonant tone. You know they say the sound that a player gets is "in the fingers," it also helps to have well-made, long-traveled guitars. The wood ages, the sound gets better over time. When it comes to acoustic guitars, older, more worn and beat, the better. Maybe it's the same with players too?!

I wandered over to the sound-booth and asked the sound tech how she got such a good acoustic guitar sound in the room. She told me it was just a direct-connect from the DI box to the soundboard. Ha. Pretty cool. And rare. Usually a direct-connect like that leads to thin, tinny, jangling sound. At least that has been my sorry experience.

I saw that Anders had appeared behind the merchandise table. I told my companion we had to go meet the man. And, if we went to talk to him, we just had to buy some merchandise. We did, and we did.

We introduced ourselves and talked music & guitars. I asked Anders what kind of pickup he had on his guitar, he told me it was a K&K pickup. Happy to say that is what I use too. Plus he uses an old LR. Baggs pre-amp. Hmmm. Might have to check that out although I use a K&K pre-amp, pretty happy with it.

I asked about his picking technique. On his picking hand he uses a thumb-pick, and he has his other finger-nails professionally manicured; he displayed his fingers, the nails were naturally-polished, and sharpened. Every finger on his picking hand is basically a pick. That is the bluegrass way. I wonder if I should try it? I use a hybrid-technique favored by the great Richard Thompson, pick held between thumb and forefinger, the other fingers free to pick. I don't use my fingernails, instead, I use the soft pads of my fingers.

I wondered to myself, do I need a total re-think, and a new technique? Not sure, but that's an interesting question, subject to further review.

Anyway, it was nice, friendly, easy conversation at the merch table. Anders is quite the soft-spoken, gentle, intelligent soul. We bought a CD version of "The Black Flight," and a cool gold and faded-red Anders Parker T-shirt. Two new fans. You know, in the music biz it's all about the merch, we were happy to shell out some cash directly to the man. 

I am listening to Anders Parker singing and playing this morning on the box. Fanstastic album. One of my new favorites, both artist and album. 

Who you meet… yes…indeed… who you meet can change your life… open your heart and head, lead you to new directions and connections...

R&R Can Save Your Soul...

We went to a r&r show last night. Just walked over. Kind of cool. We live a few blocks from an incredibly fabulous music room. Oh yeah, our band has played there 3 times. Every time has been an exquisitely, beautiful thing. Perfect room, great sound, classy professional crew. It's really, always a peak experience. They take the seats and tables out when it's an act that sells to capacity, standing room, which is just short of 300 human beings. Last night was a sell-out show.

I was not in the best mood going in. A bit tired. The Unseen Hand seemed to be clamping down on my head. Still, I did not want to miss this show, I said to my friend as we went in the door, "Maybe we will be inspired?"

We were. Son Volt, one of the great American bands performed an overpowering, awe-inspiring set. They opened with a handful of Doug Sahm (The Sir Douglas Quintet) songs. A bit of a tribute to the great lost "Tex-Mex" rock & roller. And the first song of their encore was "American Girl," from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Nice bookend. Two amazing, prolific singers, song-writers, r&r gypsies. The music lives on, even if the men who made the music are not.

What happened in between?

Son Volt played their first album "Trace,"  (1995). Every track, in order. Gob-smackingly fantastic. It was a bit of a shock, unexpected, we had no idea they were going to perform that complete record live. Of course, it's a classic. A masterpiece record. Every song indelible. Every note sears into your DNA. It was agreeably loud in the little room. The music wafted over us, no, drilled into us, the sound-waves rattled our heads, our bones, the cans of CDB soda in our hands.

Yes indeed. It was inspiring. We left the place riding on a cloud of good feeling. We were both exuberantly transfigured. R&R. It really can sooth the savage beast inside. No smoke machine, no laser-lights, no frantic jumping around on stage. Just an incredibly great  band giving their all, playing r&r songs like they are the most important way to live and to be. The good, & essential news that will change your life. A knockout show.

Not Gonna Be Fun for that Bozo...

 Impressive!

"In total, Mr. Trump faces 91 felony counts, charged with an array of crimes: trying to subvert democracy, risking national security secrets and falsifying business records in connection with a hush money payment to a porn actress."

Ok. Well. No-one is perfect. And as they like to remind us, "presumed innocent until proven guilty," Although the evidence is strong, the facts are with the prosecutors, and hell, we watched and heard every pre & post election day how this Dude was trashing our country, it's constitution, and it's laws; an overflowing cornucopia of criminal acts. Once you get past the defendant's blubbering outrage and constant whining, his defense seems to be SO WHAT?!

And, you know, we've all done bad shit in our lives. We are all Human after all. But… I mean… this is quite the accumulation of BAD KARMA! Impressive. Indeed.

Shite. Having to face the music in a court, or multiple courts of law is not gonna be fun for that bozo. But of course, couldn't happen to a more deserving person. 

YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE THIS GUY. But Justice must be served. No man is above the Law. At least that is a worthy Ideal to try to live up to in a Healthy Democracy. Here's to Health!

Small Adjustments, Major Impacts...

Back to the recording studio yesterday. We trekked over in a little blue car. Music on the radio. Windows rolled down. Blue sky day. Everything was fine and cool, good vibes all around. Still mixing songs. So close to the finish line. A few little details on songs to be adjusted. Mainly volumes on certain lines in songs, accents on guitars, a mystery extraneous noise, my partner has amazingly sensitive ears. She hears things no-one else can hear. With a little investigation, turns out she is almost always correct. "Something is going on." That is a fantastic good thing if you are trying make an album. Turns out the extraneous noise she heard was a brief flash of "string noise" from my acoustic guitar in one instrumental passage on one song. Not a critical flaw, we lowered the volume ever so slightly so it isn't distracting to the casual listener. That is assuming there will be any casual listeners. So far, it is just us two, and the mixing engineers that we have worked with that have heard these tracks, tracks we recorded many months ago now.  We have lived with these songs, these mixes, played them on many different devices: home stereos, computers, smart phones, in the open air, on high-quality audiophile headphones. We have 10 solid, completed tracks, not sure all of them will make the album, it's a close call. An 8 song album? 9? 10?  There is some back and forth about which tracks are essential to our vision and art. It seems so damn important to us. Trying to make an artistic statement. Every little decision seems important and decisive. What is included reflects on everything else, the same idea holds with what is excluded too. Heading back later this afternoon to finish up. Hopefully it will be our last day of mixing. One last song to review. Then it will be onto mastering. It's a process. Lots of work and attention to every last little detail. It is a little bit of concentrated madness. For sure. We really did "catch lightning in a bottle" when we recorded these songs with our band in January of 2023. Trying to present the music in the best way possible. Small adjustments have major impact. Just by raising a vocal slightly, the whole track suddenly comes alive. It is a strange, and wonderful sonic alchemy. And a lesson. I mean, maybe some of this seems obvious, but it is only obvious once you go through the process. And sometimes it really is all about the process.

Sleaze King is a Magnet...

You would not want to be that man. You know, the guy who is attracting indictments like a magnet attracts lead particles. He is whining about it, and his flock of idiots are really, really mad. All the cultists are stomping, hopping mad. The thought floating around in the brains of idiocy: How dare they hold our false idol to account for his actions?

I say, he is only getting what he deserves. And it's a very good thing, indeed. America is still a land of laws, and being sleaze-king or not, those who transgress must face the music. Sleaze-king will be spending lots of time in courtrooms, with teams of lawyers trying to defend the indefensible, dueling with buttoned-up prosecutors, armed with facts, hailing from every locality & direction. 

Ha. Ha. Ha. Not fun. That's for sure. 

For those squawking that it's all political, well, it is easy to point out that many of the crimes charged are political crimes, crimes against the constitution, democracy, and free and fair elections, and most, if not all of the witnesses lining up against the sleaze-king are folks who worked for him, and are also from his own  brain-dead, zombified, political party.  

It is a sweet stew of shite that man is floating in. Ha!

Update: Kevin Drum sums it all up, and the details from Georgia are quite hilarious:

We have details. The grand jury indicted 19 people on 41 separate counts, including RICO conspiracy charges for some of them. Among the indicted are:

• Donald Trump, disgraced former US president
• Rudy Giuliani, demented former "America's Mayor"
• John Eastman, crackpot lawyer
• Mark Meadows, panicky former White House chief of staff
• Sidney Powell, another crackpot lawyer
• Kenneth Chesebro, unscrupulopus lawyer who conceived the whole fake electors scheme

Plus there are 13 others accused of various counts of mopery and dopery.

Dancing with a Poodle...

Maybe it's the tiny, spontenous moments, unexpected, slightly ridiculous, that really resonate. After a busy morning for both of us, my friend came over, and we enjoyed a sweet Sunday afternoon of frolic and delight. We ordered in some Asian food from one our favorite restaurants, and had an assortment of cold drinks of the non-alcoholic variety. We chilled out.

I put Daft Punk's "Random Access Memories," (2013), on the box, it's a manifesto, an opus, an epic of good feeling, love lost & found; exuberant, joyful, the sound of the future and the past. Those French Robots sing with an aura of sadness hanging over their steely heads. But it's a beautiful, soulful sadness. There are some great guest performers too. It's an amazingly, fantastic stew of sound. I'd say a masterpiece album, no doubt.

Not surprisingly, a dance party broke out in the kitchen. My friend danced with a Standard Poodle, both of them regal, graceful, mysterious and beautiful. I jumped around the kitchen with a bright and shiny little Cavapoo. It was a burst of joyous energy. We laughed, we pranced, we sang along with the Robots and with the incomparable Paul Williams. So good. A well-balanced life. At least in those briefly beautiful moments.

"If love is the answer

You're home, hold on

If love is the answer

You're home, hold on

If love is the answer

You're home, hold on

If love is the answer

You're home, hold on

If love is the answer

You're home, hold on

If love is the answer

You're home, hold on

If love is the answer

You're home, hold on"

- Daft Punk

Back & Forth, Forth & Back...

My life. Maybe not exactly what I envisioned, but maybe that is/was the problem, never had a clear vision. I deal with the deal of the day. Yesterday was a back and forth, forth and back, day. Always another place to be and to go to. It was a beautiful August-Summer-Day, so there were advantages to be out and about.

Spent lots of time with a cantankerous bulldog. He is sweet in his own slobbering, lumbering way. If he knows you and you are in his good graces all is golden. There are only a few people on the planet who are in that category. I happen to be one of them. The rest of the world, people & critters, well, he doesn't really look upon them kindly. He is a big ball of muscle and bone, strong as bull, always at the ready to tear a face or a limb to smithereens. Walking with him is a serpentine-journey, always-be-evading any and all comers along the boulevard.

So, yeah, a day of back forth meant that first thing this morning I sort of groaned, "Yikes." Weary & bleary. I met the morning with eyes and ears of blear.

Luckily, the coffee brew is Sumatra-amazing. Every sip brings life back to my achy limbs. The weariness & bleariness sort of lifts as the coffee goes down. Amazing. Energy is Eternal Delight, indeed.

And on the box, at max volume, the Grateful Dead Live album "Skull & Roses" (1971), also known as "Skull Fuck."  Ha.  The Dead really laying it down, coming into their own, blasting at volume in the big old mansion at 7 a.m. in the morning. A fine, good thing. Jerry Garcia said on this one they sound like a "shoot-em-up bar-band." Yep. And it is glorious. They are loose and tight. Showing a bit of musical discipline along with their patented jam band sensibility.  

How would I describe the sound of the Dead on this album? Optimistic, a whiplash-golden-lightening. Mercury-cool. A beautifully uncommon emanation lighting up the atmosphere with vivid and bold color. Amen.

Glorious sunshine today, not too hot. Think it's gonna be a good day. Still a bit of back and forth in my future, but, at this moment, it all seems do-able. Life.

Alone Again, Naturally...

I write here, usually every morning. Writing is an agreeable habit, and a muscle I like to flex. It's kind of a private act which I make public every day. Kind of weird.

I have been living at a huge, luxurious mansion these last few days. Usually I am here alone. It is one of my favorite places on the planet.

For a few days this week this little sanctuary was over-run by a clutch of other guests. A full-blown family with little kids, screaming babies and a contingent of doting adults. A rollicking cavalcade of humanity. Pool parties every morning. 

Sheesh. It all reminds me just how private I really am. I am so used to inhabiting a large space all by myself. Being alone with my own thoughts and obsessions is just so natural and agreeable to me. Being here is usually a retreat, a secret garden, a true monastic-style retreat. 

All that went up in the smoke, disappeared before my eyes; the hubbub and hurly-burly of a multi-dimensional family, fruitful and prosperous, ruled the day and the space.

I easily "lost my space" to glad-handing and the over-flowing chatter. I surprised myself. I am so easily tipped over into a feeling of being under siege, over-run, out-numbered, and marginalized. I realize how I am so different from many of my fellow humans.

Peace & quiet. A fully engaged aloneness. That is my natural state. Luckily, the visitors did their thing for a few days, and are now gone. Vacated. Whew. Everything is now seems even more empty than usual. It feels so right and good. Alone again! Yes, that's the way to do it.

Lucky & Happy...

Things to do. A reason to get up. A reason to get out. Responsibilities. Being responsible, doing responsible things.

I think of Sisyphus.  His fate was to push a boulder up a hill and watch it roll back down. His never-ending responsibility, to do that task over and over.  

Albert Camus wrote that we should imagine Sisyphus "happy." He was lucky, a happy camper. He had a mission. A reason to get up. Did he ever wonder why that boulder-pushing was his fate? Did he ever wonder why he spent his days doing a seemingly pointless thing? Over and over?

Who knows? It was all just a myth anyway. 

So I have lots of tasks, responsibilities, places to be, things to do today, and over the next few days. I suppose I can choose to be a happy camper. I am tasked with things even less consequential than Sisyphus. No boulders. No hills. Basically I will be picking up pebbles, moving them from one place, and putting them in another place, and then a bit the later moving them back to where they were to begin with.

Ha. A mission. A thing to do. I guess best not to think of it all as a burden, or a thankless job. I sometimes do get thanked. So, no, I will be like Sisyphus: lucky, happy. Ha!

Barks, Smoke, Mirrors...

"Barking up the wrong tree."

Those days when I look upon my own adventures and endeavors with a bit of a jaundiced eye, I wonder, is the sentence above the overall theme of my life?

Chasing the shiny, furry thing, and having it vanish into the ether. I have expended much energy, put on my thinking cap and generated an overflowing cornucopia of crazy-ass fever dreams, odd-ball scenarios, super-imaginative ideas only to be rewarded with empty rabbit holes, empty, denuded trees, false roads, smoke and mirrors, and tantalizingly, under-promising, dead-ends.

Can a man live on barks, smoke and mirrors alone? Probably not. We need to nourish ourselves with real stuff. We need to walk on practical feet. Hold onto to real things. Make a mark in the sand.

The fleeting nature of existence. Sometimes hard to get your head around. But there it is.

Usual & Unusual...

Yesterday, in the lap of luxury, we had a pool party. A one-person pool party happened while I strummed a borrowed guitar. I am playing the caretaker once again at an incredible lakefront home. Fabulous, secret-garden backyard with a built-in pool. My companion came over with her bathing suit and took a dip, while I sat at a pool-side table and stumbled across a new riff. 

Make a routine & break a routine. 

That's the way to do it. There was the familiar and the strange, the usual and unusual. The pool party was a great success. Total fun. The water was warm and welcoming. My companion was thrilled.

I sat, guitar in hand, my fingers stumbled across a random fret and suddenly a note beckoned. I strummed the note and thought, that could be the beginning of a song. That's how it usually happens. An unusual move or gesture leads to some kind of breakthrough. It helps to have a guitar in hand, to be relaxed, clear and open, not thinking about music, just strumming.

Funny how being in different place often leads to a new riff or chord progression. Funny how often borrowed guitars lead to new ideas. Funny how doing something uncommon can be uncommonly great. We chalked it up as a good day. Sometimes it's the tiniest of things that lead to the greatest satisfaction. 

There is a lesson there, no doubt.

Vaulting Ambitions, Etc.

"I've got nothing Ma, to live up to…"

That was the first line that popped into my head this morning. Bob Dylan from "It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding," an indelible, searingly great track from his fabulous, head-exploding album "Bringing It All Back Home." (1965).

Yes, a great line, but, you know, probably not true. Not for Bob or for any of us either. Of course we don't have to live up to perfect pictures and ideas from others, from society, from family, from teachers, from those we hang out with. But, no doubt, we all have hopes & dreams, crazy-ass ideas, vaulting ambitions bubbling around in our heads & hearts, and we do want to live up to those personal visions.

Of course these personal visions don't just self-generate, there are no self-made humans, everything we see and think helps make us who we are. Our personal visions are founded upon everything we read, observe, take in, take to heart. We pick and choose. Who inspires us? Who are our influences? That is the mulch that feeds the secret gardens inside.

Bob was trying to deal with his own expectations and all those teeming masses expecting him to be some kind of folk god, or r&r messiah. He was staking out his own territory.  Another great resonant line from that song: "If my thought-dreams could be seen, they'd probably put my head in a guillotine." Hilariously great. I always thought that was wildly accurate for me too.

What are these lines saying to me this morning? Do your own thing. Don't worry about what other people think or say, do what you love to do with heart, head and soul all aligned. There is nothing to live up to except the full realization of being a fully-alive and engaged Human Being in all its contradiction and glory.  Follow your own singular path, your own singular vision. Damn the torpedoes.

"He not busy being born is busy dying…" Exactly. Right.

Momentum?

Hurtling towards what?!

It does seem there is some momentum, an invisible force, propelling events and people forward. Maybe it is just an illusory state of mind? Who knows?

You wonder are we heading over a cliff? Or into the healing waters of Love? Or something in between? Maybe there is no momentum? Maybe this is an erroneous perception, and illusion, just idle speculation?

Let's call this Idle Speculation Monday...

Tuned-Up, Turned-On, Dialed-In...

Always be tuning. 

I was reminded of that last night. We did a performance at a little black box theater. Just two of us. We performed a "theater piece," we titled "Woes and Wonders." Funny, in our last rehearsal on Friday, in our own little rehearsal room, everything clicked, sounded wonderful. At the actual performance, not so much. Everything was bit shabbier, a bit more hollow-sounding; instead of a nice, clean wooden, sweetly resonant floor, we performed on a hard, sort of dirty concrete floor that swallowed everything. That was buzz kill right there. And there was a noisy air conditioner gobbling up the frequencies in the air. White Noise ruled the night. There was some kind of residue in the air, dust, maybe from the slowly disintegrating ceiling above, that settled over everything and everyone. The black box was originally an old ballroom. A sort of bombed out relic. It is amazing, or no, maybe not really amazing at all, how the simple elements of a room can dictate the vibe of the moment. The elements, the logistics, the practicalities of set and setting are critical. Truth be told that room was bad news all around. Every performance and performer seemed to be flattened by the room. "Flat," describes the tone and mood of the night.

We gave it our best. As someone said to me afterwards: "There were moments of inspiration." Yes. That is how if felt to us too. What did it add up to? Who knows?! It started with me sitting on the floor in a lotus position, guitar in hand, tuning, up and down and all around. Why wasn't my guitar tuned correctly to the first song? Lack of foresight. Lack of preparation. Lack of focus. It was small hiccup, but an important reminder: always be tuning, always be in-tune. Not a new lesson. One I've learned over and over, but failed to apply. I mean, I did the tuning in the moment, and tried to make it part of the performance. But it was a shaky start. 

We did find a groove, despite the elements. I tried a little experiment, a little three-minute, unscripted, in the moment monologue, just speaking off the top of my head. Sort of that Allen Ginsberg idea, first thought, best thought. It wasn't brilliant, it was kind of weird, but kind of cool too, maybe something I will try again sometime. Still the best moments for us were songs that we sang together, two voices, a  lone guitar, in a duel with a dusty, musty, bomb-shelter of a space. Tuned up, turned on, dialed-in, finally. Another show under our belts.

Not Sad at All! :)

A notorious bully, a toxically-loud fat man, and wanna be authoritarian leader whines that it is a "Sad Day in America," because he must stand up in a courtroom and face the consequences of his crimes against Democracy. Ok. Yes. Sad for him, no doubt

But for the rest of us? Ha. Ha. Ha. NOPE. Not sad in the least...

Consequences. For Your Actions.

Consequences. 

For your actions. 

That seems to be a law of life. The things you do have consequences. Some intended, some not. Don't know how that all works itself out. You do things, and you wake up the Fates, and they decide if you are gonna fly or crash. It is amazing when you skate, relatively unscathed, or when the bricks come crashing down upon your head. Sometimes you have an interesting story to tell, sometimes you get hurt, you lose a limb, or even a life. That's just the way the cookie crumbles.

Seems the cookie is crumbling for a famous bully, fat-man, would-be authoritarian.

So, yeah. Don't forget. If you try to "hold onto power," if you try to prevent the "peaceful transfer of power," if you conspire with others to thwart the democratic process, if you try to nullify or refuse to acknowledge millions of votes against you, well, consequences, baby! You must finally face the music.

And that music might not be pleasant.

That bully may cry and yell and pound the table, but there is one person responsible for it all. A famously orange person with a really bad comb-over is now facing the consequences of his unbroken chain of bad actions. 

That is ok. It is the way of life, or at least sometimes it is. I mean, shite, let it come down. That truly is life. Crime and punishment. Yep.

The Facts...

Watch the boot-lickers, the lackeys, the creeps, the authoritarian-lovers bow down and float totally ridiculous defenses for the indefensible.

Their arguments are easily squatted away like pesky flies. 

Pay attention. Observe. Folks are revealing themselves in their true moral cowardice. It is truly Gob-Smacking Shite. 

What's the best response to all the hubbub and hurly-burly, all the mindless chatter coming from the slavering defenders of the would-be Coup-Plotter? One simple sentence...

THE FACTS OF THE CASE ARE NOT IN DISPUTE!

Be sure to educate yourself. Check out Teri Kanefield's dissection of the Indictment, the Big One. 

"The indictment acknowledges that Trump had a free speech right to say what he wanted. Also, lying isn’t a crime. He is not being indicted for his speech. He is being indicted for conduct."

All the rest is noise, the sound & fury, signifying nothing...

The Only Thing That Matters is What Happens in Court...

Many words will be spilled. Many stupid arguments and opinions will be floated. The "political pundits," on TV and the internet will say lots of silly and toxically corrosive shite. And of course, the defendant will continue with his non-stop, vomit-inducing, blathering & 24/7 idiocy, but none of that matters. 

The only thing that matters is what happens in court. The Universe of this kerfuffle can be summed up with these pretty damn serious charges:

This man is going to be tried, NOT because he is a popular Republican running for office, NOT because he said, and continues to say, lots of prodigiously stupid things, NOT because he is toxic liar, NOT because he is a disgusting Human Being, NOT because the "Liberals" hate him.

He is going to be tried because he tried mightily to over-turn the results of a free and fair election and conspired with others to achieve that result. He lied over and over with the intention to incite others to over-throw an election. He tried to prevent the peaceful transfer of power. He tried to nullify the votes of millions of Americans. He tried to trash the Constitution and totally wreck our Democracy.

We all watched him try to do it. We watched the Capitol being over-run & attacked by his MAGA forces. Yes, America. You can believe your eyes. Yes, this man is a plague and a nuisance. He must be tried. He must face the music. Sure, he is presumed innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Let the court, the law, the lawyers, the judge and jury do their thing.

Let it come down.

The Holy Trinity of Bad Influence...

"The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills ..." - Charles Bukowski

Yes. Bukowski was a bad influence on me. I was turned onto his writing by a Student Teacher in my first year of college. A Creative Writing course. I was mad with writing, totally inspired, my prime influence being Kurt Vonnegut, and some very cool things were coming out my head and typewriter. It was a briefly-innocent, golden time, where just typing on a piece paper seemed like everything. I mean, writing is still in my blood, this blog too reflects that voracious need to always be typing.

Of course, Bukowski was a hard man, a hard drinker, a bred-in-the-bone alcoholic and a depressive. Somehow that seemed attractive. He was a black hole, a negative vortex with a strangely-dark pull. Bad news for sure. Kind of like Keith Richards being a bad influence, and Hunter S. Thompson too. The Holy Trinity of Bad Influence.

The wrong lesson, at the wrong time. The real key to the Bukowski narrative was not the drinking, the whoring, the gambling on horses, the dark, depressive, alcoholic haze, it was the writing. Words on a page. That was the triumph of the man's life. He was a writer and a poet. He wrote. Despite all the shite, all the bad scenes, and bad blood. He wrote.

The ugliness, the trauma and drama was just hubbub & scenery. The real action was the click and clack of the typewriter. Bukowski's world was a hard world of shite. Once in awhile a sentence of total, gorgeous beauty would be revealed. You lived to discover those little, unexpected gems. They were the whole damn thing.

August 1 today.  Summer is already bleeding out. 

Time. It flies. Yes. "The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills ..."

"Woke up this morning and it seemed to me,

That every night turns out to be

A little more like Bukowski.

And yeah, I know he's a pretty good read.

But God who'd want to be?

God who'd want to be such an asshole?

God who'd want to be?

God who'd want to be such an asshole?"

Modest Mouse from "Good News for People Who Like Bad News."