“Don’t roust your faith bird-high an you won’t do no crawlin with the worms.”
– The Grapes of Wrath
The new podcast, Notes On The Spectrum, begins here: Zulu Time discussion
It’s like this.
Some parts of my life feel perfect. Some feel unsettled and raw. Parts of my job over the last few days have felt like I’m taking a victory lap before exit. Waving to everyone as I launch into what’s next. Been a long time coming. I’ll be bully if I’ll let my excitment ruin my moment. This is fine. This is living. I am doing the basics, not quite getting by, and yet showing my son what responsible adulting looks like. No, it’s not how I would like it. And, the flex, is learning to feel alright without victory.
Faith, in my world, is a mom and a sister who loved and nourished me as an artist. All kinds of art. Drawing. Singing. Writing. Performing magic. I’ve been walking around with a blue ball of yarn, a tangled mess. Holding the rough cobalt blue beehive of my life and times. This is the moment I’m in, now. Untangling old wounds, old stories, old relationships, old loves. Seeking a next right path. Often, in my experience, it’s best not to set out on the journey until you know where you want to go.
I don’t know. I think the mountains of New Mexico in the snow. I think the cold and wintery coast of Texas, for isolation and the magic of a full moon over the gulf.
No need for a geographic move. Sit still. Be quiet. Write if you are inspired. Rest when you’re tired. Pleasure and season to taste. Mostly rest. Being rested is my superpower. Losing a bit of the weight has helped too. I’m more resilient and quicker around the tennis court. I wonder about women. Finding one who also loves tennis. Oh, the skirts. Now, modest in comparision to the naked truth of yoga tights. Even their pubic preferences can be seen. I’m glad it hasn’t inspired a lot of men, so far. I’m glad.
Perhaps that’s the better word. “Glad.” Glad hands, glad heart, glad mind. I’ve got work to do. A tough climb ahead, always. I am gathering energy and architectures of my mind to fill with rumors and stories. Songs and testaments. Professions of lies and deceit. I am not a reliable narrator. How could I be? The fun is out along the edges of the cliff at top speed. Speed limits are only set by our minds and our willingness to explode.
The arc and tumble of my past have brought me here to this WORD.
I finish one. I start another. Like a cigarette lit from the dying embers of the last one. There is no spark no flame just continuous burn. Keep going. Light it up. The weight of the ideas press me. Wake me at 4 in the morning rather than 6. Listening for whispers of dead loved ones. The peace of the incense smoke and fog inside the command module of my living room. I am the pilot. There is no navigator or trip sitter.
My son is leaping about, causing the neighbor’s text.
Y’all. Hm. Yes. We are. I am. He is seeking a new direction as well. Embedded as he is now with the horrors of war and urban violence. He’s a pacifist with a gloc on his cock. Deadly force is a concept. I have invited him to take the License to Carry class, get his permit, something to show the police officer when he get’s pulled over in a car full of ammo and guns.
“You don’t even need it in Texas.”
“That’s not the point.”
What is the point of all of it? Why do I keep striving so hard? What inner light or obsession was gifted to me? My tortured mom artist? Once she lost the mansion on the lake she wrestled with some inner shame, deamon, that said painting and art were bad, hard, fruitless. Never unimportant. My mom always valued the idea of art, creating art. She perferred it when it was her grand kids and not her kids. Understandable. I have wrecked many things due to sex, and drugs, and rock n roll. But it wasn’t because of the rock n roll, mom, it was the other stuff, the internal stuff I’m trying to get out.
Lou Reed’s Viscious was the first son I learned to play and sing. He wasn’t much of a guitarist, but a songwriter and poet. Like me. I play to sing. The playing has always been a means to an end, not the goal. I’ll leave the pyrotechnics to my lead guitarist.
What turns of my soul are rotating above the fires today? It’s a bright morning. The first cold of the season, a bit late, November 9. I am neither numb nor in pain. I am anticipating a departure. I am doing some sort of victory lap at the grocery store, second run. This time I transformed my own mind. Rubbing against the harsh reality of low-wage, clock-in, clock-out for your 30-minute lunch. Don’t be late.
This run has been different. I wrote a book. Found the foothold in my mind to make it all survivable and curiously fun. I would visit the mothership store for years. Sit in the front section of the store and watch the yoga beauties parade in and out for smoothies, lattes, and kale.
Leaning into their vibe, milking my own soul out on the page, the poet of #desire. A hashtag I owned for a few years as I spun incantations to call in the “organic girl.” I’m still watching her go past. I’m looking at all the features and benefits. I’m choosing to keep my antenna in for the moment. Silent running. The hopeful job opportunities are lining up. Something has got to give.
And for now, this, this peaceful moment. Morning. My son has left the house for his coffee shop spot. His tribe. His 24-hour hideout. Leaving behind an envelope of plant magic for me.
“You’ve been working hard,” it says on the envelope.
Last night, while we shared the same space and semiconsciousness, he said, “You should do music tomorrow.”
Perhaps, when I finish this writing…
