Sometimes I still smell the combination of coffee, loose tobacco, and diesel. Those trivial genuine moments between gigs still haunt my dreams and nightmares.
I know I�m not the only one who�s been down that road or made a U-turn. They aren't the only memories in the pile. Still I�ll never forget the sweltering heat near Joshua Tree, the snow in Denver, the late nights and lost mornings.
I�d wake up on Aisha's pile of scarves in the back seat and we�d joke about the harem. Our recklessness was pure art. We loved for the sake of it. There was bliss in chaos. We escaped ourselves in each other and became human, and when that became unbearable, we escaped the escape. Will our future potential grandchildren disown us? And why do I sound like Kerouac all of a sudden??
But it�s like chicken pox. You only make the mistake of getting chicken pox once, and after that your body repairs itself and your immune system stops answering chicken pox�s phone calls.
Life is an abstract haiku via singing telegram in an octagon shaped box that no one knows how to wrap. I don�t know how to tell a story, but I fumble to communicate. I sing pictorially and people call it art. You�ll get it or you won�t, but I�ll feel better having expressed my innards.
My family has a lot of innards to express these days. I try my best to say all the right things to keep everyone brave and healthy. My mom needs an intervention beyond our abilities, but the rest of the family is demonstrating impressive sanity amidst the tumult. HB is being pretty amazing, the weather is good, and I think the rest will shape up given time.
1:25 p.m. - 2008-05-13