the realization of my forgotten dreams from 9 years ago.
i am slowly transforming into the person i always wanted to become. every day i am a little more balanced, more disciplined. aware. aware of the world around me. aware of the world inside me. and aware of the differences between the two. i know that the way i see things is not the way they are. and i understand that i can learn something by trying to take things objectively, abandoning my own interpretation of what that girl's reasons are for making out with that other girl, or why that guy is so desperate to be a girl. (tonight was a strange night)
but back to the point, this change, is a very pleasant one. it's feels very similar to finally getting off of i-696 after the 13 hours of driving east, and cruising north on mound road at 45 mph as all the lights turn green just before you get to them.
mound road welcomes you home. each red light, forbidding you to pass, seems to recognize you at last, turning green as if to say "oh, welcome back sir! we've missed you!"
and that is what i feel as i drift closer and closer to this familiar shore. a place i've seen in my mind so many times. i've always longed to have a mind that is balanced enough to be faithful to my job, my friends, and my art.
the difficult thing with life was always the struggle to give enough time to my art, without being completely owned by it.
it would be so much easier to be an artist if that was all that one was required to do. to live in a colorful world, unto itself completely original and unique. but it is so very difficult to live both in that world of wonder and discovery and the real one. the one that we all share.
more precisely, the one that i share for 40 hours a week with hundreds of phone calls from men like Dr Sanjay Rajma, or the quilt-convention attendant Mrs. Margorie Clemens. or the JP Morgan investment guru Mr. Chuck Rollins.
but this is what i do to pay the bills. to keep the electricity electric. to keep the roof and 4 walls that protect my things from the weather and from the bad people. to keep my new family safe.
instead of playing halo all night until the sun comes up, i come home from work just shy of midnight, and crawl almost immediately into bed with my wife, to hold her until her breathing changes and its obvious that she's arrived safely to sleep. then i proceed to make the lunch i put off for 8 hours. i hate eating at work. a half hour is not long enough to smoke 2 cigarettes, pee, microwave a burrito, eat it, and still feel like you had time to just NOT WORK.
after my 1am lunch, i call my friend ben, and he tells me that he doesn't mind staying up for 2 more hours to make music with me, which is fan-fucking-tastic because ben works at 8am every day.
ben and i basically re-create, in our own way, what jim walmsley and i used to do at my parents' dining room table with guitars, journals, and tea. and it is amazing. we write. and we explain our intentions. and we explore the lives of the characters that star in our songs. their fictional existence inspired by real events. the only thing that seems to stagger our progress is an occasional lull in creativity caused by "ok, what is a word that rhymes with terse that means persuade?" or something like that.
furthermore, the notes that we assign to our stories couldn't sound more welcoming to thea's slight twang singing along on top or beside them. which was always my intention.
materializing before me is the life i have longed for, and it feels more like home than the life i leave behind.
my wife says i'm becoming more attractive. well the feeling is mutual. the more i remember to continue to create, yet remain balanced enough to go to work every day without wavering, the more i appreciate her, my flower.
soon enough the skeletons of songs that i have in my closets will have organs and breath.
once that happens, we will give them muscle: the fullness of bass and additional guitar. and we'll teach them to walk: the rhythm of drums. and we'll give them voices.
but back to the point, this change, is a very pleasant one. it's feels very similar to finally getting off of i-696 after the 13 hours of driving east, and cruising north on mound road at 45 mph as all the lights turn green just before you get to them.
mound road welcomes you home. each red light, forbidding you to pass, seems to recognize you at last, turning green as if to say "oh, welcome back sir! we've missed you!"
and that is what i feel as i drift closer and closer to this familiar shore. a place i've seen in my mind so many times. i've always longed to have a mind that is balanced enough to be faithful to my job, my friends, and my art.
the difficult thing with life was always the struggle to give enough time to my art, without being completely owned by it.
it would be so much easier to be an artist if that was all that one was required to do. to live in a colorful world, unto itself completely original and unique. but it is so very difficult to live both in that world of wonder and discovery and the real one. the one that we all share.
more precisely, the one that i share for 40 hours a week with hundreds of phone calls from men like Dr Sanjay Rajma, or the quilt-convention attendant Mrs. Margorie Clemens. or the JP Morgan investment guru Mr. Chuck Rollins.
but this is what i do to pay the bills. to keep the electricity electric. to keep the roof and 4 walls that protect my things from the weather and from the bad people. to keep my new family safe.
instead of playing halo all night until the sun comes up, i come home from work just shy of midnight, and crawl almost immediately into bed with my wife, to hold her until her breathing changes and its obvious that she's arrived safely to sleep. then i proceed to make the lunch i put off for 8 hours. i hate eating at work. a half hour is not long enough to smoke 2 cigarettes, pee, microwave a burrito, eat it, and still feel like you had time to just NOT WORK.
after my 1am lunch, i call my friend ben, and he tells me that he doesn't mind staying up for 2 more hours to make music with me, which is fan-fucking-tastic because ben works at 8am every day.
ben and i basically re-create, in our own way, what jim walmsley and i used to do at my parents' dining room table with guitars, journals, and tea. and it is amazing. we write. and we explain our intentions. and we explore the lives of the characters that star in our songs. their fictional existence inspired by real events. the only thing that seems to stagger our progress is an occasional lull in creativity caused by "ok, what is a word that rhymes with terse that means persuade?" or something like that.
furthermore, the notes that we assign to our stories couldn't sound more welcoming to thea's slight twang singing along on top or beside them. which was always my intention.
materializing before me is the life i have longed for, and it feels more like home than the life i leave behind.
my wife says i'm becoming more attractive. well the feeling is mutual. the more i remember to continue to create, yet remain balanced enough to go to work every day without wavering, the more i appreciate her, my flower.
soon enough the skeletons of songs that i have in my closets will have organs and breath.
once that happens, we will give them muscle: the fullness of bass and additional guitar. and we'll teach them to walk: the rhythm of drums. and we'll give them voices.