All’s End That Well Is

How er ya doin?

Yer a mess, no?

Yes I am. 

It seems, as time pitches its shadow, things change. These complicated strands that we weave as each day, each day, each year, become blankets and rugs that cover and smother and obfuscate.  Each word, each motion, every telephone call, another strand, another realization that it’s not like that at all.  That there is a wizard behind the curtain (gasp!).  That there is a curtain (heavens!).  That we hung the curtain ourselves, strand by strand (oh god!).

What the fuck do I mean by this obtuse, red table wine induced rant?  Sitting here, watching “Good Will Hunting” at midnight, dreading another day of work and responsibility, another day of trying to get up by 7 am and being lucky to make 8:30.  Typing my feelings instead of talking them.  Typing instead of writing.  Using cryptic, meaningless phrasing and banal alliterations, instead of climbing on the bar top, or desk top, or swinging from a rope in the barn and yelling random exultation’s . 

Tomorrow, I will arise at 7:30, or 8:00 or 9:00.  I’ve laid out my clothes before bed, so as not to waste any time getting ready – 10 minutes to shower and dress, 5 minutes to put in contacts and grab a quick bite, out the door, and to work in 10.  Since I’ve been doing the same job for 20 years, but, there’s likely to be no surprises.  Bad or good, it’s the unexpected that some of us live for.  

Do I care that you might read this – no.  do I care that you won’t – no.  So I sit here, now in bed, still drinking red wine, casting aspersions upon myself, throwing metaphors at glass houses.   Living by the sword (mightier than the laptop) and dying by degrees and the relentless humidity of Iowa Summer. 

Stalled at life’s intricate crossroads.  A tangled skein of missed opportunities and 2nd guessed decisions.  The shocking realization that 1) at 44, you’re too old for a lot of things (professional sports, astronaut, rock star), but still young enough to make some changes that will impact the way you look back on your life when you get old enough for the reflective, peaceful, rocking chair years. 

So what’s it going to be?  you’re a mess in your head, but nobody else knows.  You’re an empty vessel making loud noises, a tabula rasa that is only blank because you’ve forgotten more than you know and you realize that most of it is meaningless anyway.

What’s it going to be.  That is the question.

Lately I seem to be searching.  Tired of the band, tired of recording, work sucks.  Creatively dormant, but still better off than Morrison’s (Jim, not Toni) ghost.  More Tao than Mao as they say.  In my previous post, I prosthelized that I was the music man.  Music defines me, always has. In my younger years, I worshipped at the arena rock alter.  Then I found the connection in small venues, where I could smell, feel and taste the performer.  But always, writing and performing was what I aspired to most.  Somehow, life and a semi-manic personality have always been at odds with that, but still, I’ve managed to have a pretty prolific amateur music career.  3 CD’s of original music and a lot of fun playing bars, street dances, festivals and events.  Still, it is the nature of the creative process to never become settled, to keep stretching out for the big payout.  

I decided not to book any more gigs.  Why? Not because I don’t enjoy the music, the adoration and approval.  I liked Thursday night practices, they just got a little blurry, out of focus and predictable.  I want something different.  I want uncertainty, and the laughter and screaming that comes with completely abandoning everything.  When I’m playing and drool on the top horn of my guitar, playing a blissful lead.  Lost.  That’s it.  I want to be lost so I can find what I don’t have.

Last month I went to Bonnaroo and rediscovered people who care about music for what it is at the moment, not what it looks like in the mirror.  Sure there were poseurs and pretenders, but wow, what a vibe of positive people.  Shiny happy people and lots of dust and sunshine.  It seemed life-changing at the time, and a fading fast, but I carry it with me.  

A couple weeks after Bonnaroo, I was in Chicago for “Taste of Chicago”.  Not quite the same.   Too many hungry mouths and invisible barriers. Police.  No police inside Bonnaroo.  Just friendly people, dancing, maybe tripping, maybe not.  Crazy music for hours.  

At 44 maybe I’m too old to create new things.  Fuck that.   If I can hurdle a few fences, my best years are ahead of me.  In fact, I won’t hurdle the fences, I’ll run right through the barbed wire, let the rusty wire tear scratches in my skinny white legs.  Scars define who I am. Scars and tattoos and memories.  

Salamagundi has a few more gigs, then I’ll starve, and wait to feast again.  Music bubbles out of me like a rain gorged creek – or a sewer system runoff.