.006 An update for an outdated blog.
This drive marks the beginning of a long journey. One that will span hundreds of miles, nearly 24 hours and from it's inception to curtain call will have trained my feet upon the soil of the entirety of one of the worlds seven continents. Soil, a term of loose substitution for the sprawling concrete and tar runways of an endless series of highway and back roads. Yes, highways, a reoccurring theme in my life as well as my art. In many ways the road is the truest touchstone for my existence thus far. At any stage it has been singularly inspiring in it's representation of pause amidst constant motion. Inasmuch it is not a shock the first true song I feel I ever listened to was about being on the road. It was also about love and family and a desperation to climb higher, see farther and connect more deeply with one of the few things none of us will ever truly own. The air.
The thin air pressing down and shooting out into ether. When I was about 7 I developed a debilitating fear of flying. Where it came from I have no idea, but it shocked me as well as those who knew me best. For years, primarily in high school, before airports were houses of fear, I would drive my car there, park and file through the security line, just so I could watch the planes come in. Several years later when the fear arose it was like being robbed. Eventually, it grew, until one day it was all consuming. I had a connection in a city I have since forgotten and the perceived brutality of the previous flight buried me in my skull. I surveyed the people boarding, paralyzed and knowing that my time would soon come and that when it did I would not be getting on. The plane pulled away from the gate and as I watched it leave I knew what change was. I learned that the sweetest tastes, quickly and without justice can grow bitter. I was later coached back on a flight by a series of telephone calls to friends. Ironically, one of them was the subject of that very first roadway song.
Several months later after falling ill, the road charged with returning myself and a small group of loved ones back to Rhode Island, was nearly swallowed up in the roadways through Connecticut. It was a perfect and unpredicted electrical storm. The kind that always made the most epic summer memories growing up in Hope Valley. I recall vividly as the drama settled and the wheels finally slowed down, that with so much uncertainty ahead of me, one thing would be true forever. I would never again be afraid to fly. Perhaps that is an ironic or at least ignorant statement considering the words and events that inspired it. Still, part of me wants to believe that some things are unwavering, especially as it relates to the demise of fear. Like all good things, as well as bad things, though I suppose there is only fluctuation. Sometimes grand and identifiable, other times ebbing without perception to even the most informed observer. That which is bitter may one day be sweet and that which is sweet may too one day forever change. It is the willingness to acknowledge that change and how it is handled, I suppose, that defines the authenticity of any one life.