Because I am a human person inhabiting the earth in the year 2017, I am inundated with stimuli on the reg. Same as you, same as all of us. Visual, digital, emotional, physical, imaginary, invisible, ever-present, engulfing, overwhelming bits of constant life-changing, useless, important, pointless "information". As a result, the very chemistry of our brains as a collective and as individuals is changing daily. I won't bore you with the "when I was younger | simpler time bullshit" that I want to but to be extremely clear, I believe our psyches are too taxed, overwhelmed to a near-critical breaking point.
Evolution hasn't kept pace with technology...hasn't kept pace with whatever this 'modern' world is. I believe we as a society will pay a possibly | unavoidable cataclysmic price for nothing more than our biological inability to 'keep up with' and our ironic celebration of the fallible nature of human existence, our perceived collective resistance to being acutely aware. Being 'aware' is everything to me, you know? Being in the 'is' IS everything, right? Being 'aware' however is not only the accumulation of nor simply having access to 'information'. 'Information' in of itself doesn't make one intelligent - the critical evaluation of information does though and that takes time. Time, unfortunately is the sworn mortal enemy of modernity. That sucks. If ever there was a need to take a breath and think deeply, it is now.
When I was at State, I had a professor from North Dakota. Big dude - crazy intellectual. He was the first to warn me of this at the time at least, still developing phenomenon. He of course spun it into a teaching moment about how understanding the inherent dynamics of one's environment and recognizing it's ever changing character would | could | should make one a more sensitive and expressive designer. For reasons much more ridiculous and as it turns out more detrimental to my internal spirit than I care to admit, I dismissed it. I dismissed this spectacularly insightful statement not because of the content of the said but regrettably because of the conduit through which it was delivered. There's a lesson there I'm sure, but even had I heard it then, it wouldn't have changed the manner in which I woke yesterday. Had the seed he endeavored to plant in fact found the purchase it sought, my every waking thought since yesterday's morning might have been other.
It is not in a facetious manner in which I earlier touched upon the modern stimuli specifc. It's a very real thing, for me at least. I'm a person who physically pines for the opportunity to internalize a visceral understanding of every single stimuli no matter how mundane or epic. Sometimes however it's too much.
Yesterday, I awoke enlightened. Enlightenment quickly turned to astonishment when I realized I had involuntarily said aloud "The diamond boy passes a bar." I don't pretend to understand the nature of the impetus of nor the need to ascribe meaning to a person's dreams but this one was different somehow. I'm not shy about the specificity, content, situation or any other aspect of the dreams I have - I've shared freely prior to on this blog. This was a dif animal; an epiphany unequaled. I started my day with a renewed sense of confidence, an unexplained swagger...like I had been given a gift!
As days tend to do, the day trudged on and I forced myself to digest more and more the veracity of this statement that in my morning haze meant so very much but in the stark light of day meant absolutely nothing. I've resolved myself to this fact - that was my brain fucking up, attempting to reset itself. The constant barrage of nothing and everything, right? The deadlines and headlines and box scores and documentaries and red lights and song lyrics and traffic jams and winks and nods and fights and kicks and claws and bites and wet paint and dry dust and likes and hits and blurbs and facts and promises and lies and news and innuendos and dreams and nothing at all and all the unspoken bits of terror and hope and anticipation between the spaces of the letters between the words of the lines.
All of that stimuli successfully soaks and seeps deep into my gray matter and sifts down through the layers of my subconscious, through every fiber and filter and coalesces finally into this nonsensical single platitude, "The diamond boy passes a bar." I'd like to believe that those six meaningless words mean something magical but it's late on a Friday night and I can't imagine what it might be. Maybe someday I will.
Meantime, I will enjoy visualizing a moment in the future when I will discover why I've discovered now the punchline without ever having heard the joke...the underlying circumstances that precipitated my finding of the key years before finding the lock...the underpinnings upon which the foundation of having found the solution without the problem being revealed. I've got the moral to but I've yet to write the story.
The diamond boy passes a bar.
I'm sure of very little, but I'm sure of this....I need to take a breath...and think deeply. Same as you, same as all of us.
21 January 2017
Today started like every other one...oversleeping running late chaos, absent maniacal silent debate with Doug Turnbull about just how late I might be 'if I were to leave right now' (even though I'm still in bed), resolving internally (triumphantly) and exclaiming aloud to no one in particular that I won't be late and that even if I am, it will not define my day! (even though I know it will because I am who I am) ... downloading Velvet Underground songs for the evening home ride as Joe Scarborough tells the empty living room what I need to know about whatever nonsense happened in D.C. last night before The Mother Hips ease me into semi-conscious lucidity adrift in a caffeine fueled cloud of predawn cigarette smoke on the front stoop foggy morning.
The most logical next step I could possibly take (and I thought about this for a lot longer than a few beats) was to lock my distracted brain into a distracting new song. I think I like to believe that noodling around on the ukelele and on that cigar box guitar I impulsively bought a summer or two back at a rando ATL festival has made me a better guitar player and by extension (it should go without saying) a better human person. I'll never be very good at my chosen 'what if' and I'm cool with that. Whatever adolescent (way too far into adulthood) dreams I had (have) of rock stardom are a distant (if [still!] oft revisited) memory. I do however in fact, find myself 'learning' songs with chords with which I'm not familiar...no realistic expectation of successful execution, but always with the same prideful arrogance with which I pursue all meaningful (pointless) endeavors. I'm okay with that...I'm actually proud of that as it turns out.
For years I thought there was some magical chord progression I would have to hit before I could allow myself to consider myself or expect anyone else to see me as a 'good' guitarist....it's finally dawned on me that I'll never hit those changes. That's just not me...I wasn't born to be a guitar player in the classic sense - in any conventional sense if I'm honest. Truth is, I don't love it enough to dedicate the time it would take to be considered a 'good' guitar player. It's a time killer and I DO love killing time so I'm cool with whatever that says about me. The benchmark, for the record, for me at least is "Tunnel of Love" by Dire Straits. Mark Knopfler is an unequaled freak in my estimation and it's borderline obscene to think that I could ever match the natural talent of a certified virtuoso but everybody has to have a dream, right?
It had occurred to me midstream of the aforementioned stoop ride that today, in spite of popular evidence to the contrary as well as the infallible prognostication of one Kirk Mellish that this might actually be a 'flannel shirt Friday'. Not one to overtly contradict my own unvalidated belief in premonition, I dutifully selected and ironed my most garish red flannel shirt (yes, I iron. yes, I iron flannel because I iron everything that I wear M-F as a representative of my firm. yes, I chose red as a diversion...because I maybe didn't want my work peeps to (even though they'd have to be blind AND mentally unstable to not) know that I was a 'crip' at heart). Blue - through and through.
I maintain a solid belief that a man who's worth his salt cannot wear a flannel shirt and not also wear boots and jeans. Further I believe it an unconscionable condescension to all things real for a man to don said attire and then settle into a Mercedes for his work ride. As I had previously chosen to go all '1995'' on a Friday, I had no other option than to park my ass in my old ass perfect truck before facing the standard ATL traffic gauntlet.
Pops Staples steered me out of my neighborhood and onto the freeway. Jason Isbell and Taj Mahal guided me through my unscripted diversion through Sweet Auburn and the Old 4th until I passed that perfect MLK iron hand perpetually reaching toward the future on the corner of Boulevard and Freedom Parkway. Damian Marley, Badfinger, The Shins and Graham Parker serenaded me through downtown and into the burbs. I have a perfect unexplainable peace when I'm driving...my mind goes to the places it's supposed to, my heart to its very home.
As I crossed 285 my "check engine" light came on. I ignored it (freaked out inside) and went into the office, still buoyed by my self-inflicted confidence. An early lunch for 'short steve' to pull the codes so he could tell me it was an EVAP code meaning I was 'Kool and the Gang' aside from the fact that I wouldn't pass my emissions test come Spring. "It's a second car", said I to myself as I realized I was about to run out of not only fuel, but also acceptable time for lunch. As I pumped gas into and thought about the Three Dollar Cafe meatball sandwich I was about to destroy and the best way to frame the wording of the proposal I had to write before the bell, I googled what the hell an EVAP code was - the gasoline running across my boots from under my old ass perfect truck answered my question so I decided to have a more time-sensitive Arby's instead.
It's been a shitty week through no fault of its own and for reasons that have no relevant bearing on this conversation. That said, Beer Friday at the layout table was a sublime impeccable.
After the requisite time had passed, I checked the lot under my truck - no gas stains. Traffic was down by then so off to home I went. At the red-light...some dude and his old lady pulled out in front of me just before this barbecue joint at the corner of some street and another one. I stood on my horn as is my right, expecting them to speed out of the intersection and wave a sheepish apology same as every other. They didn't. The first thing I saw was his girl flipping me off from the passenger seat and I was like hell naw. I felt it happening inside of me, but I couldn't stop it. I rolled down the window and very fervently explained to him why he was a dick - he pulled out in front of me! He challenged, 'you wanna go?' And I already had my door opened because fuck him, right? My patience was gone...had been most of the day and I was deep in a dangerous adrenaline moment. I heard his girl say, "kill his bitch ass" as I bounced to his shitty van door. He was trying to open it as I slammed it shut on him and proceeded to not so politely explain traffic rules such as right of way. We are IN the intersection mind you and the demure Roswell populace are beginning to take timid notice that something isn't quite right in their perfect pathetic utopia. Realizing I was about to end him, I banged my fist on his hood and pogoed quickly back to my truck. I didn't realize until mental replay that Al Green was still blaring from my open window as I did.
Still shaken and honestly a little embarrassed about how primal I had allowed myself to get, I threw it down in drive and got the hell out of there. As I did, I heard the not so distant yell of my newfound mortal enemy screaming "FUCK TRUMP"!!
Really? It was only then that I internalized that it was Inauguration Day. The most gangster thing I could think to shout in retaliation was, "I didn't vote for him either!!
I could write for centuries about my belief in this thing or that. I've never been so rigid in my belief however of any one thing to not be open to an honest explanation of the other side's opinion and belief. I want that dialogue. I crave that dialouge. Honestly, I want ANY intelligent dialogue.
As I said earlier today in the most ineffective manner possible to a semi-curious traffic crowd who seemingly weren't capable of or in all fairness prepared for hearing it in the manner in which it was delivered, I didn't vote for Trump. In spite of the immutable fact that there is no evidence that he is even an actual human being, I maintain the same blind trust in him as I have in all of the other American presidents in my lifetime. That I didn't vote for him, doesn't make him less my president - it makes me more 'me'. My unshakeable belief in history and the inescapable common good of Americans forces me to believe that 'this' will work out even though I have no idea how.
I'm not so naive or arrogant to think that I have any better solution or proposed course of action than saying exactly this: Congratulations Mr. President. I'll support you when I can, disparage you when I don't agree, mock you every chance I get but I will never devalue the office of the Presidency. In spite of what I believe to be true, I will approach and engage your presidency with the same guarded optimism with which I've approached and engaged all presidents but with the quick American judgement trigger that is my birthright to weild.
So yeah. The song I played on my shitty ukelele this morning was Israel Kamakawiwoʻole's version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow". In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. In my world, on this our country's Inauguration Day...it means everything.
24 May 2015
Saturday, as has become my Memorial Day weekend tradition, I spent the afternoon in Piedmont Park at the Atlanta Jazz Festival. If you haven't been, you need to go. Atlanta is overloaded with free fun and this is one of our best events. It's always a bit transformational for me, but this year it was especially so. I can't effectively articulate what it fills me with, but my heart and soul are filled when I leave there every single time. If I need to describe to you the complete sense of peace a body feels while sitting in cool grass on a warm summer day as the sounds of horns and strings dance and float along the breeze, I'm afraid you'll never understand. That's fine if you don't. I do though and I'm sure that I'm a better man because of it.
Yesterday, from a shady blanket oasis I spied a group of kids rolling down a hill. Interject the sounds of children's laughter into this already idyllic tranquil scene and what you have is a moment of magic that will forever be etched on my brain. That statement will come as a shock to anyone who knows me and if I'm honest it shocks me a little too. For much of my life the playful squeals and joyous screams and unbridled laughter of a group of children has been a source of great anxiety for me, a disturbing inconvenience to be tolerated. What a dick, right? The upside is that this is changing for me almost daily. Maybe it's because I was such a serious introverted child that I can't make that connection in my memory. I don't think I was a sad kid necessarily, but I don't recall ever being overly expressive about much of anything, and certainly not about something as mundane and pointless as rolling down a hill. This is a true story that I had literally blocked out until yesterday. I assumed I had done the same thing as a kid and I'm sure I've agreed with others as they recount the simple joy of said hill rolling even though I didn't have a specific memory of it. Digging deeper into my mental archives however, I realized that I hadn't. I remember watching other kids roll down hills and thinking how stupid they looked. (What a weirdo, right? And again, what a dick.) Confronted with this startling realization, that I had in fact never rolled down a hill as a child, I felt overwhelmingly sad for six-year-old me. So yesterday when my friend asked if I wanted to roll down a hill, I jumped up and shouted an enthusiastic 'Yes!'
There's a funny thing about being a grown ass man...sometimes you don't realize just how tightly wound you are. As tired and overplayed a cliche as it is, it remains true that being an adult is an inconvenient pain in the ass a lot of the time. We all feel similar pressures, the same but different demands on our time...the world moves faster everyday and it's a full time job just to keep up. That's true for all of us. Knowing this fact all too well and simultaneously being faced with the option to literally unfurl my very self along that grassy slope was an opportunity that I couldn't let pass me by. How often in life, do we do that? How often do we let good judgement or responsibility or duty or any of a thousand other noble qualities prevent us from not only seeing, but seizing the very thing that will bring us joy? I've personally been guilty of letting the 'moment' (whatever that has ever meant) slip away at times I know and I'm sure you have as well. At some level, it truly is unavoidable. Try as I might and even though I like to convince myself that I live exactly in the 'is', I don't always. I was alive and living in the 'is' yesterday in every possible way and it's the best decision I've made in a very long time.
Having no personal experience to draw from, I spent a few minutes studying the mechanics of the actual thing as demonstrated by the gaggle of laughing rolling children on my right. It seemed easy enough so I walked to the top of the hill with as much giddy anticipation building inside of me as I can recall in recent memory. I lied down on my back, took a deep breath, rolled up the hill slightly and then threw my weight into the spin. What a sensation that first rotation was as the sky spun into the green earth and then back to the sky...twisting the blues and greens faster as I descended, swirling into a perfect blissful mix of dark and light. Feeling the cool of the grass and the warmth of the sun at the same time, alternating as I tumbled farther down until I came to rest at the base of the hill. Dizzy. Smiling. Triumphant...yes, triumphant. I know it's ridiculous and I'm cool with that but when I looked up all I could do was shoot two clenched fists into the air as if I'd just won the lottery!
I recaptured the ability to just let shit go, if only for a few brief idiotic seconds. In that moment, nothing else mattered. I didn't really care who saw this particular grown ass man making a fool of himself. I wasn't worried about the deadlines or the commitments or any of that other cloudy bullshit. I was free. As free and as unaffected as I have been in far too long. It was a good time. I collected my wits and went back to the top of the hill!
I hope that it's a beautiful day wherever you are in the world. I don't claim to be wise by any stretch but I do stumble upon good advice from time to time and here it is; if you find yourself beside a hill today, do not miss your chance to roll down it. That can mean whatever that may mean for you. Don't be afraid to just let it all go. BE ridiculous! Unfurl your inner 'you' and don't give a second thought to who might see. Don't you owe yourself that much?
14 December 2014
In spite of my unequaled predilection toward public displays of expressive thought, I've managed successfully to suppress said urges in silent pursuit of a differing ideal. That you have no idea what I just said or what I'm about to ramble about means as little to me now as it did when I was a more public rambler then. With little or no fanfare, I shelved this blog for much of the year so as to concentrate on the at least internally oft celebrated next obvious. It was a well intentioned but poorly conceived plot and of course the book inevitably has stalled...you didn't really think I could pull off the next great American novel between March and Christmas did ya? Even my hubris has limits. Writing for a specific purpose has proven to be my insurmountable Everest and if I'm honest I've been itching (begging!) for any inspiration to write about something (anything!) other than the dipshit predictable characters that have been furtively dancing around the margins, refusing to be written all year! Suffice to say that I've somehow broken through that creative divisive surface and I'm writing again...for a different reason. That's a good thing...if I were a shark, it could be said that I'm about to breach.
I've experienced an unexpected windfall of success and positivity on a professional level in the last week or so. It's not the finish line in any regard, but certainly a line I had to cross. Personal reflection at such a time for a dude like me is unavoidable and that's happening right now. If you've read anything I've written ever, you know I believe in 'paths', right? Everybody's got their own, nobody can walk it but them...blah, blah, blah. I won't belabor nor debate the duplicity of the Nick Cave phenomena implicitly stated, but the events of this past week place me squarely, dare I say force me almost back into a contemplative, reflective space. That's where I'm most comfortable...and creative for that matter; I like it here. The simple fact is for me at least, attaining a thing, reaching a goal isn't the point of the path. Recognition is important and I'm as honored as ever to represent the firm in a now increasing capacity and I've been truly humbled by the adulation heaped upon me this week. All good things, but I need to put that success behind me, refocus and continue on this path: success quickly becomes a roadblock if you allow it.
Long story short? We should hear a song.
It's a story song. This particular song is the retelling of a legend and like all good legends is based in, at least from my not-so-exhaustive research, some fact. There is a public record of a man, a young river driver named Sandy Gray and there is in fact a place in Ontario called Sandy Gray Falls and it is indeed located along the Musquash River. The actual history behind the legend and subsequent song are blurry at best so I accept this song as the "official" record of the events of that Sunday morning in 1899.
Listening to harrowing tales like this about the men who endeavored to tame and shape this wild continent, to exert human will over the parlous forces of nature in order to carve out a life render within me a deep sense of awe and astonishment...inadequacy even. Men, who against all odds walked a singular path with hopes only of providing a brighter future for their family. I'm not talking about men like Rockefeller and Ford. They shaped this country for sure, but they were egomaniacs - especially Ford. If you don't believe that, pick up a copy of Fordlandia. Henry Ford believed he could recreate his vision of a utopian middle America in the rain forests of Brazil as a means to harvest cheap rubber. His experiment ended in abject failure as you might imagine, but that is a lesson for another day.
I'm talking about men whose names are lost to history now...the men who cleared the land for farming and laid the tracks of the first railroads and set poles and strung wire to bring electricity to the masses...young men just like Sandy Gray...who fought and died in battle, who with no deference toward their own wellbeing, just simply got the job done. This story is about a young, brave (if reckless) man who tragically lost his life but I see it as more than that. The take away here is that all of these men were just doing their job. They weren't heroes by definition. They were just men. I fear 'just being a man' is a lost concept on this modern America. Of course pragmatically speaking, Sandy certainly should have dove for the banks of the river with the rest of his soft-hearted compadres, but if he had, a little known folk singer wouldn't have written a well crafted song about his short life 100+ years later and an even lesser known blogger would be twiddling his thumbs this Sunday morning. I applaud, hell I absolutely celebrate his audacity. We should all have a little more Sandy Gray in us.
At any rate, I love this song...literally let it play ten times minimum in a row every single time it crosses the rotation. Further and just as an additional unexpected aside, if it's the last thing I ever do, I'm going to take this girl I know for a hike up along the banks of, near the mouth of the Musquash River to Sandy Gray Falls someday and I'm going to sing her this song. That event won't make my life epic, but it will be an important point along the path.
"I'll be damned, we'll break this jam...or it's breakfast in hell."