supposed to write a blog tonight. can’t say i’m terribly inspired to do so. for some reason, i’ve decided it needs to be about something, and there begins the problem. pre-conceived notions, or lack thereof. my task most of the time is stream of consciousness, an unedited, unrehearsed, therapeutic style of expression. therapeutic in that i exorcise myself of garbage. like the computer lessons of old, something to do with “garbage out”. speaking of which, i left a pastured chicken on the counter too long last night with the purpose of bringing it to room temperature, which it maintained for more hours than is healthy. afraid to cook and eat the damn thing, Mahsh wraps it in a black plastic trash bag and delivers it to our outside trash can, where it will have until Tuesday to transform into a putrid rotting flesh carcass. i can’t wait to smell it! speaking of black trash bags, this has nothing to do with them. black electrical tape, actually. there was a stray cat who had wound up at my house when i lived in Lancaster, TX, in third or fourth grade. it was injured with a broken front leg, bent and dragging on the ground. the dragging produced a constantly festering wound which we (my family) began to doctor, usually by applying ointment, gauze, and some medical tape to hold it together. the bandage would become worn and useless after a few days of dragging. a neighbor decided to help by administering the same dressing, only instead of using medical tape, he used electrician’s tape. the electrician’s tape cut off oxygen, or air, or whatever had allowed this condition to exist in a fairly stable state, and the wound became infected, dead, rotten, maggot-filled, disgusting. amputation followed (by a vet) and Kitty became our three-legged cat. speaking of pets, i grew up in the country, where strays, when unwanted, were driven far away. when pets became sick, or injured beyond recovery, they were shot. some actually got to die of old age, or slow disease. but any elongated suffering was dealt with by shooting the beast, putting it out of its misery. i’m amazed at the shift in attitudes toward pets, and vets, and operations, and drugs, etc. i empathize with wanting to take care of your pet. i understand the relationship and responsibility one assumes by being a pet “owner”. but, come on?! i read an article about a man who went to jail for shooting his dog after it had been hit by a car. i think that might drive me mad. have we achieved such mastery of ourselves that we now feel obligated to protect, nurture, and medicate our animals? feeding an industry similar to our own medical industry: bloated, backwards, and many times, ineffective. maybe we do for our pets what we can’t do for ourselves. perhaps human ambition has evolved (?) to the point where we would like to be lap dogs or house cats. regularly fed, stroked, and sheltered.
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Tags: air, cats, chicken, country, electrical tape, garbage, pets, wounds, writing
it’s late. i’m up far past the point i planned to be, and i plan to be up far earlier than i will want to be. i’m in St. Louis, MO, staying with my kids and their mom, my ex; still legally married, though each currently involved in separate relationships. it’s complicated. it’s even more complicated than this, or, more simple. what’s the difference? we all exist in a moment between life and death. beyond this, what is/who is/where is the problem? easier to say, or write, than to live. strange. st. louis has been a strange city for me. it’s where my children were born. it is where they live and grow and where they are amassing the experiences and memories that will be known as their childhood. i had my first experience of “owning” a house in st. louis. being a neighbor. working in my yard. all the pride associated with it. i’ve played shows in st. louis, but that feels like some other me, perhaps one who does not belong here. i think this is changing as i meet more people: musicians, artists, etc., who have more in common with me.
i’m not so interested in this direction. i’ve bored myself. tired, but promised i’d write something…
sometimes it feels like the wheels are ready to turn, and all they is one push, an act of intent, of faith; a physical effort of energy to start the movement. the momentum. it’s hard staying motivated. inspired. organized. to work with people, to not work with people. then again, it’s easy. simple. life could and can be so much worse. perhaps the freedom is overwhelming to the point of being trapped by the possibilities. the responsibility. for isn’t one who has the freedom to do what one wants responsible to uphold that freedom? to prove oneself worthy of such a gift? what is it about human nature, my nature, that permits us to feel mired in the best of circumstances? i don’t get it. so i try to work through it. remind myself, or stimulate myself into activity. arouse from hibernation, dormancy. awaken and revive. the spark that makes one move into action. steady, rhythmic work. maybe it’s the distractions that bind us in our freedom. the phones, computers, cars, plans. how can one enjoy freedom with so much pulling at the consciousness?
i’m blabbering for the sake of blabbering. the ideal of blogging: blabbering to the ether. the lonely sitting at home, eyes tired from strain, the light emitting like too loud talking: at us, not with us. nor guiding us. blinding us. still, i’m addicted to the information. i wish it were my own. always accessible, ready for action. like the clothes hanging in my closet, instead of a store full of garments i can’t afford or have room to store. perhaps having too much knowledge or seeking it is unbecoming or detrimental to one’s being, like the desire for money and the pursuit.
i hope you’re happy, omnipresent being who wanted me to write tonight, keeping me awake with nonsense, eliciting a cough that creeps from the hollow of my lungs, rattling my ribs and esophagus. may this offering please the gods and bring rain to my fields; for the winter is long, and i have many mouths to feed.
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Tags: children, rhythm, st. louis, writing
blah. blah. blog.
blah blah blah. SXSW. blah. many gigs. blah. been a great year so far. blah. writing new songs. blah. contrary to what it may seem, i write everyday. posting complete gibberish hasn’t seemed like a good idea. so, it stays private, either in the pages of the many moleskines i have filled, or on the computer, in a cloud, spread amongst the many dimensions. my current writing tool is 750words.com. it keeps me on the ball, out of trouble. now if i could find a songwriting/blogging/practicing/keeping-my-shit-together tool. i go through swings of ambition. sometimes i really give a shit, other times i don’t. the trick is not to make any decisions, rash decisions, when not giving a shit, until you can verify that you’re not just stuck in some swing of ambition. there are many things i consider dropping, like social networks, or touring. i can come up with good reasons, and work myself up to execution, never delivering on the promise. each day seems a battle of ambitions. i have no stamina for the long view. it comes and goes. each day seems a fight for my attention. my desire and drive. motivation. some people have it. it is a practiced development. my life has not prepared me for such predictability. my life has always been about reaction, the swift dodge, or catching one right in the face. blah.
i’m going to ride my bike to all of my SXSW gigs, gear in tow. i will take pictures of the setup, and let you know how it all works out. thanks for paying attention…
Dd
PS–that’s over 1000 words written today.
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Tags: austin, bike, blah, dan, dyer, south, SXSW
no-man’s land
i’m in a no-man’s land of sleep and awake. trying to get a handle on a rhythm, a system, where i don’t fall asleep for four hours in the middle of the afternoon, waking up when it’s dark, wondering what time it is, and, “where am I?”. i like to get up early, pre-dawn if possible. like you do when you’re camping in the woods, or on the coast, or in the mountains, dew covering the tent fabric, inside and out, and the grass with a silvery film, kicked green as your feet shuffle through the tangled blades, looking for a place to pee. the natural rhythm of light and dark, the body’s internal clock, instinct, making our eyes open, making our senses alert. the full day ahead, ready to be exercised. the first meal, my favorite: breakfast. coffee.
more often than not i’m up late, though not as late as it used to be. there used to be a time when i had to make an effort to be in bed by 4 a.m. that seemed to be the standard bedtime for musicians, as we were usually playing the closing gig, then load out and a late night meal. in that situation 10 a.m. is an early start, and most of the time it’s noon before one gets out of bed. on the road it’s easy to fall into bad habits, staying up late watching tv to wind down from a show, sleeping until it’s time to go, or the maid wakes you up, even though there is a “do not disturb” card hanging from the doorknob.
it makes the day harder when one doesn’t follow a regimen, too much time is wasted, and too many things go undone. the tasks i have before me everyday are simple: meditate, practice, make music, write, exercise, meditate. i keep calendars for each task and mark an “X” when i have completed one for that day. the hardest task is making music, though sometimes it’s not hard at all. it becomes difficult when i put too much emphasis on the quality of the work. that’s a creativity killer. repetition is more important than quality, in songwriting anyway.
i have a dentist’s appointment at 8:30 a.m. i wish i were asleep, but i’ve been here before, too many times. i’ll wake up, get some momentum, get things done, and pass out in the afternoon, repeating the cycle until it ends.
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i’ve left my journal at home, the book i use to write random, stream-of-conscious nonsense, sometimes called my “daily pages”. it’s late and i’ve gone in and out of sleep while watching Turk Pipkin’s “Nobelity” on netflix. i’ll have to give it another, more attentive try. i recognize Turk’s name from local press, i think, or maybe facebook. also, there’s the guitarist Willie Pipkin; i don’t know if they’re related. i like to know there are interesting people living in the city i live in. that was true when i lived in NYC, but it didn’t seem as accessible; the interesting people existed in the sky, in tall buildings, vertical fortresses with heavy doors and marble floors. Bob Schneider is providing the music for this film; two complete songs, one in the beginning and one at the end. Bob is a common subject among Austin musicians—his ubiquity and success—there seems to be an either love him or hate him stance, though i think mostly it’s envy. everyone thinks they want to “make it”. there’s some idea in their head that constitutes what this means. i see most people languish in idle admiration and free alcohol, the image of being a rock star. i see others struggling to be business savvy, tech savvy, and marketing gurus. i’ve always thought Bob did a few things right: one, he has a real gift as a visual artist, and therefore has a good handle on his image and promotion. there was a time that you couldn’t go to a restaurant or coffee shop and not see a poster or sticker with one of Bob’s bands or Bob himself on it. He designed it all, and more than likely, put all of those pieces in place himself. Two, Bob has been steadily working for twenty years. he’s been as consistent as anyone, always playing a show somewhere, always releasing a record. in the process of doing this he has honed his skills as a performer, songwriter, and musician. we all work at this, some more than others, but there is no substituting the grind of performing and the deadline of a release. Three, Bob has been consistent as a songwriter and as an artist. what is it, we all wonder, that gets you to the next level, where you are being recognized and appreciated, where you are mingling with the “interesting people”? isn’t that part of the dream? the idea of some stature that gives you access to incredible minds, becoming active in the fate of the world, at least in the discussion. i know this exists, in hidden circles, behind closed doors. is there a secret word one must utter before being granted access? i’m smiling to myself as i think about the idiocy of what i write, my eyes tired with sleep and red wine. i’m writing because i need to write, and i guess i’m writing to you, whoever you may be.
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Wisdom Tooth
I’m sitting in my house/room, dim light coming in through two windows — one faces out towards the street, framing a cedar tree bent into an arch and the white-washed outer wall of my garage, all contained within a small courtyard surrounded by a weathered wooden fence; the other window looks into a bamboo “forest” growing out of a steeply inclined patch of earth, where the base of the bamboo sits eye-level from where I write. I’m listening to Drone Zone, a radio station I get through iTunes which plays ambient noise, usually to counteract my neighbors music, which can be just about anything awful. I’m on my second cup of coffee. It’s been raining all day, leaving me trapped inside my 300 square foot box. I don’t feel like doing anything. If I weren’t slightly ill I might go for a ride on my bike — I might still.
When I was about twenty-one years old I was working at Rockin’ R on the Guadalupe River as a sometimes river guide (when the water was high), tube corral-er, and shuttle driver. Rockin’ R had several locations and I worked every one of them. It was a slow part of the year, just before the beginning of the season, and I was working at the Comal River location. As my day there would end, I would drive whatever vehicle I happened to have to the main location at the Gruene Road crossing. On one of these days I happened to have a bus, one of the short buses sometimes referred to derogatorily. Continue reading ‘Wisdom Tooth’
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ok, ok. I haven’t been too prolific on the ‘ol blog. Well, I don’t see that a’changin’. Blogs suck—time, energy, emotion, daylight. The new rule is inclusiveness, connectivity, transparency; but I’m not a corporation (well, actually I am), I’m a musician, barely. I’m not interested in following trends. I am interested in interacting, engaging; providing entertainment, commentary, observations (like, at this moment, my neighbor has her radio cranked on booty music, shaking my walls, unconcerned about my “mind-space”; I think I shall execute her), a voice. (The music fades so she can yell on her phone). So little time…
I have no agenda here. I’ll use this as a free rant/write space (I guess that’s an agenda). If you like, let me know. Start a conversation. Ask a question. Call me an asshole. Or, be silent (volume raises in accord).
As this progresses so will my typing and carpal tunnel; I hate both. Pencils and paper. Materials with weight, craftsmanship. Tools. Metal, wood, earth. Water. Night. Stars. Dawn. Bicycles. Knives. More on the old school side. I hate pussies; but I love pussy. Competition. Standing up for oneself. Fear. Fascination. Inquisitiveness. My children. Meat. Greens. Wool. Cast iron. Being polite. Taking charge. Silence.
I take it back–I’ll start being more attuned to this space. Let me know who’s out there.
Dd
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bismillah. Flying Star. Bernalillo, NM. there is a pattern developing. yes. our refuge. amongst the screaming cooks and expectant servers. the din of noise from the many conversations, like a garden of gossip. it’s a busy day, much more so than any weekday we’ve been here. is it a holiday? typical unawareness of one who does not follow the calendar rituals. i’m surprised that i know it’s Friday. Obama was awarded a Nobel Peace Prize, which, in line with many others, i feel seems a bit premature and could have negative consequences. i did enjoy his acceptance speech, and felt a warmth of inspiration well up in my chest. i can say that my generation has truly lacked any inspirational leaders. [MV edit: what about Bill Clinton?] perhaps this is why we delved so deeply into tech culture, video games, blogging, internet, and all of its wormholes, seeking inspiration.
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bismillah. Flying Star. Bernalillo, NM. grown inconsistent with writing, meditating. though have found a rhythm in exercise. it goes like this, the wax and wane of daily rituals. we’ve been in this area for exactly one week. i can’t say i’m inspired by my surroundings, though there have been some surprises. the camp we are staying at lacks a physical beauty, but the grounds are well-kept, the bathrooms clean, the neighbors are friendly and interesting. it’s been nice meeting new people, all on their own physical journeys, living in tents or campers, with some new destination down the road. a few artists, a couple who work for FEMA, the rest wanderers, all congregated on this oasis of humanity.
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bismillah. awoke at sunrise. 6:30am. rays beginning to form over the mountaintops to the east. the moon, still high and bright, hung in the west. it is such a rare event for me to be awake this early. the concept of the moon setting is very foreign. i had spent some time, about a year ago, at a lake house, alone. at night i would take a kayak and paddle out to a secluded cove, where the water was significantly warmer, shallow. i would watch the wildlife emerge. begin their evening activities. deer, herons, fish, snakes. the clouds of flying insects. the bats carving acrobatic loops.
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