"...the world would be perfect if it wasn't for nudists..."
Everything that chases me hasn't caught me. Everything I chase I haven't caught. Life's a twisted paradox, full of irony and unforeseen changes; a strange blend of emptiness and perfect fullness that leaves us with the choice of picking which we want to embrace more openly. Not that we're honest about it. We were all meant for the stage; some massive collection of thespian plastics faking our way through the role we're cast in life. It's an improv comedy show where the actors suck and you rarely get what you went there expecting. I guess that's the best kind of show in a way. I'm tired of watching people feel desperate and pretend otherwise. What good is life if we aren't meant for something? Perhaps it's born of relentless parental prodding but I can't help feel like I was meant for something more than the complacent life most seem satisfied with as their own. I don't want to talk about heroes across the dinner table when I could be the hero families are talking about. Who were those heroes when they were my age? No one. Little, "No-One-Gives-a-Crap-About-Dwight-David-Eisenhower" grew into something timeless, didn't he? Hopeless? Nonsense. Fight for something. It's not always comfortable but when was the last time someone built an empire from an easy chair. Empires are born of calloused hands and dreams are reached through warfare. It was made brilliantly clear in conversation the other night that the only difference between wanting something great and being great is doing it. Anyone can do anything; they just have to do it. More often than not, we get in the way of our own aspirations and blame everyone else for not handing us our destiny with milk, cookies and a bedtime story...
I finished recording last week. Although I was unable to lay down everything I planned to track, I'm considerably happy with what got done. Initially I intended this to be a chronicle of the last 18 months as a sort of final kiss goodbye through a lyrical journal entry of death and reconstruction. As I didn't have time to track the whole thing, the concept sort of got condensed and wrapped up as a horribly broken, three track finale explaining it all. It hit me. I cried. It's built up so I took down my walls and, dear Lord, it hit me. I'm extremely aware that it was a vocal catastrophe but I pray to God the emotion carried into it. From a live recording of "The First Time" to a painful memoir recounting my life followed by the cries of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" and concluding with a two minute declaration of strength, peace and restored confidence through the lines //I'm not broken any more my love/I guess I'm stronger than you thought I was/I'm not torn, I'm not crushed/I'm something beautiful...// I've never felt release the way I did. I'm almost scared to listen to it. I guess we'll see. My sister was amazing. She flew in from a summer in Holland and tracked vocals for two songs she'd never heard in her life flawlessly...in one take each. I've never seen anyone hear a song for the first time, hum a few bars to herself, roll the track and belt it into a microphone with such confidence and precision. She's a beast to say the least and my ears had a vocal feast. "You'll Find Love"...I'm excited to hear her on it...and we anxiously await...AH!
Florida was beautiful. I saw the faces I'd been missing and caught up with the dearest of friends. They amaze me. I shouldn't have gone; I realized how much I still miss about being there.
//One day soon, my old dear friends/we'll meet again, we'll meet again...//
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