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THU 03.19.09-- TRICK TEETH I dreamed tonight that I was in a trick shop having a plaster mold made of my teeth. Now fully awake, I still can imagine a bit of the moulding material wedged between my bottom teeth on the back left side. For some reason, this makes me think of my new muse. (Must there always be one?) That just seems to be the way things go. Of course, as I mature, so does my sense of realism. For this time I've chosen outright a woman I know I cannot have. She's married, has children, and I know her- and will only know her- casually through the ether. One might suggest that I'm taking a negative route by choosing a deep spiritual relationship that cannot be consummated in the physical. But no- this abstraction allows me to fully idealize her: a perfect geometrical shape flawless only in the mind... an eternal goddess unfettered by gravity... entropy. This journal entry is dedicated to her. ...To stop and wonder what you're doing anything for... that is the tar of the undertow. My nose begins to run, and in a flash of schizophrenic terror I believe the liquid to be blood. The truth is there are hyper-evolved beings all around reaching out to lure us from the dark sea of ignorance. Reaching out to dance with us through new dimensions of sound, color, and light. But hear this: the human race must be thought of as a singular organism. Each person is a cell in the larger 'body' of humanity. We dance with each other verbally in metaphor and physically in body language- always leaning toward the light source... and always in accord with the universe. No twitch is accidental. No itch or scratch is generated without cosmic consent, and the resulting physical motion will send invisible waves of energy across a room where somebody will adjust their hat in response, a girl kitty-corner will laugh, a waiter will set down loudly a plastic tray, two spoons get dropped into two large plastic tumblers of water, and a chef rings the bell in the kitchen. I think about writing more, but I also think about having to work tomorrow. I also think about sleep. Ultra-consciousness is a drug and I'm a hardcore addict. But as the ego is allowed to dissolve, intelligence matures to wisdom and the wine of life is savoured and not abused. Ultra-consciousness matures to consciousness. Balance is achieved. And remember- if you get
lost in the woods: there are angels everywhere. MON 03.30.09-- SELF-PORTRAIT
It may be out of sheer lonliness, but my attraction to this waitress, 'A', is growing. I'm happy she's working tonight. Just so I can look at her. She's young- I bet she's 23 or 24. Ha. Last night I was all about 'JH'. I wonder when I'll see her next. I stop writing for a second so I can eavesdrop on a neighboring couple at a table on my right who are ordering some late night fare. I look up casually- trying to catch an eyeful of 'A' but I just miss her. I'm always missing someone. I start to feel like I'm in a movie like the one they're shooting down the street. That these conversations happening around me can't possibly be real. But I am wiser than that. I know well that I am just another player on the stage. Long, dark hair, half-way down her back. 'A' wears a red patterned dress, crimped just above her breasts. She's got long gray socks on and if I thought I could stare for one second longer without her noticing I would tell you what kind of shoes she's got on. "Losers always whine about their best. Winners go home and fuck the prom queen..." a patron seated on my right mimics Sean Connery from an Alcatraz movie. I used to be a winner. I also used to be a despicable swine. Worth the trade? These conversations become even more surreal. Of course, I'm totally normal, right? You know, if I didn't have to work tomorrow I'd probably be in a bar somewhere drinking whiskey and people-watching. Maybe scribbling a bit here and there. Mostly longing for some kind of human contact. Gray boots. Same color as the socks. Maybe it's that I'm not in love with one woman. That would make more general sense. I'm in love with woman. Each different beauty takes turns representing her gender in front of my eyes... my hands... my mouth... and oh my arms.
I wonder what Jenya is up to. Since he died, I mean. He was seeing my Aunt Adrienne for several years when I was a kid, always dressed nicely, always carrying his Russian accent. I wonder if he ever knew how cool I thought he was, or that a picture of him and me would still be on my fridge 25 years on.
Jenya was always bringing back records from a store called Peaches. He gave me a Thin Lizzy record for my birthday, but I remember him more for bands like Roxy Music. Jenya once worked at a shoe store. My younger brother and I would always go on mini-adventures with him whenever we'd visit my aunt's apartment on the Gold Coast. Once, the three of us were all in the sauna on the 14th floor and Jenya poured beer instead of water on the hot coals. I found this simultaneously inventive and hilarious. I remember another time he introduced us to a shady comrade of his who had porno magazines and a handgun. Jenya was like a diplomat from a crazy otherworld- a kind and generous man who paused and artistically answered "one line between two others" when I asked him what 'sex' was. When I was in my late teens, after Jenya had died suddenly of a heart attack, I had a dream that he and I were standing in the basement of my dad's house in Deerfield. Flush in the wall were three different elevators. Jenya told me that I could take these elevators anywhere in the world and do anything that I wanted. Years later, my mother told me that in a bold (to say the least) passive-aggressive move, Jenya stabbed himself with a steak knife during an argument with my aunt, and as I get older I feel that the circumstances around his heart-attack were more than likely drug-related. But I'm almost afraid to say that these passages only make more sense of the whole story- rounding out a portrait previously three-quarters full. And in an old brown case in my living room, I keep Jenya's gleaming accordion, perhaps one of the few items he brought with him when he came to the new world.
I think it was Bill Maher that said "Fame is the worst drug." So many people, especially myself at one point, have aspired to be famous. I don't know why. I guess it offers the illusion of being loved, or being important. This would be fine if our selves were defined by outsiders. Unfortunately (or fortunately), this is not the case. Self-love, and self-esteem are granted by only that: the self. When you let other people decide who you are for you, you're entering dangerous waters. More things that come along with fame? People that want a piece of you. Hang on for as long as they can. Offering you booze, drugs, a place to sleep-- anything just to prolong the feeling of being around. And there may be some genuine adoration going on the part of the fan, but whom exactly are they adoring? Unless they know the person personally (and well) everything they're adoring is about their work, news-clippings, and rumour. They're in fact adoring an image of the person. A cartoon character almost. Having said all this, I think that to have one's work widely appreciated is a great thing. The artist's role in society is a large and esteemed one. And as long as one keeps things in perspective, and is able to set personal boundaries, fans can be a great thing. I love to interact with people who get something out of what I do. And in some ways it's that interaction- knowing that I'm hitting the mark as an artist- that keeps me creating.
MON 08.24.09 THE DEATH OF GIRL X Sure it may have been the fuel for a fair number of journal entries and countless songs, but I'm afraid I have to pull the plug on my constant 'crush of the day' issue here. As cold as it may sound, I believe that I am at a point in my life where I have to accept that I am completely alone. These illusions I have about women who really don't give me the time of day- especially women who don't give me the time of day- are getting me nowhere. And on the weekends I go out, letting trendy cocktails suspend my disbelief long enough to think that I'm going to find a true counterpart somewhere in clubland. It's a waste of time, money, and my sanity in general. I'm not swearing off the possibility of a relationship by any means. It's just that I'm no longer making the idea of 'girl x' the center of my life. I think I have to go through a period of self-development to prepare me to have a sound relationship when the universe decides the time is right, rather than cobbling together a union riddled with uncertainty and wrought with abandonment anxieties. I think the only way to this peace is letting go of desire altogether. This is not to say that I do not believe in love, as love is one of the world's most vital elements. But just like anything else natural, it can't be forced. So to all of my eternal loves I say goodbye forever and exchange all the pedestals on which I placed you with firm knowing earth, in hopes that I can see you all for who you really are and appreciate those people instead. And me? Well.
I just hope I'm not throwing out the baby with the bathwater... As long as I can remember, I've had trouble falling asleep. For years upon years whenever my head hit the pillow all I heard in my head were my songs. Any number of the hundred or so songs I've recorded were just on loop, making it nearly impossible for me to fall into the arms of dormancy. And for a very long time this was frustrating to me because I could only be reminded of how I didn't have a band together to play these songs for an audience. Although they were already recorded, it still seemed to me that it was 'music without wheels'. Then since the fourth of June, when I started practicing with a group, the frustration began to dissolve a little bit. The songs were still as strong as ever in my head, but at least now there was some motion to them. I began to think about playing them live. Last night the band and I had a dry run of our set at a little club with a nice stage and great sound. Although there were only a few people there, the performance was electric. The feeling of being onstage again- finally under my own name and playing exclusively my original material- was exhilarating. I had found my center. Afterward, we packed up and went home. I coasted into bed peacefully. And for the first time since I can remember, when my head hit the pillow, I heard nothing but silence. I slipped into dream... ...Susannah and I were making love in a clear shallow pond with koi... orange koi swimming all around us...
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