Tuesday, August 27, 2013

the strangeness in my mind

The dreamscape blurred, and a strange unearthly music rose in the recesses of her mind. It seemed to come all at once from within her and yet from the glowing field she found herself in. Soft trees framed the edges of the long grass she stood in, and everything moved. Everything shimmered.

She shook her head to clear her vision, but the movement was slow, sluggish and fluid. She lifted her hand to cup her forehead in confusion and was amazed to watch a light trail left behind it. Every move she made left a fading light trail.

She paused, and took a breath, trying not to move. Where was she?

Another breath, and the music rose with it. She tingled. It felt good. She closed her eyes and again took a breath in, but this time letting the confusion slip from her, allowing the music to caress her, feeling it slip up her spine and spread through her limbs. She held the breath at its height for a moment, waiting, feeling it burn in her heart, before slowly releasing it through semi parted lips.

I must be dreaming...

She opened her eyes again and this time almost laughed, joy bubbling up through her at the vision of everything so magical. She began to move, and this time revelled in the liquid movement. There was a pulse in the music sounding around and through her, a beat that thudded in her body with a rhythmic sincerity that moved her instincts, rather than her thought.

She realized that was it, that there was no need for thought here. There was only a connection with sensation that surpassed reason.

She was happy.

And she let the music take her.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

I am an artist.

I love being an artist. Honestly, I do. 

As an artist you have ups and downs. You battle with being "emo", or too sensitive. You hurt easily and you feel the deepest joys with a fervor that surpasses reason. You battle with the feeling of being an utter weirdo and wonder if you're legitimately crazy. But you delve into the passion of creation like no other. You tap into that ether that every human longs to connect to. And you express it.


You share that piece of yourself that so many people secretly, or even openly, wish to, too. There's a magic in being an artist. A torrential connection to oneself and others that is constantly in flux and yet more solid than the strongest will. You allow yourself to feel. And better yet, to find the power to record that feeling. In my mind, there is nothing as special as that.

Of being weird.

And constantly craving to give more. There is unique beauty in being an artist. And drawing on that vulnerability. Finding a level of creativity that can touch another persons soul, and connect with it. A natural high that legitimizes existence.

Am I being too intense?


I'm an artist.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

touch skin..
and the feeling sinks
.. deeper..
lips part..
you know how..
when breath can't be contained,
yet is held
and light
between those soft millimeters of restrained,
yearning.. anticipation..
..So touch..
and let nerves
muscles creak.. quietly leaning..
greedily needing..
quietly pleading
.. infinitesimal movements
imperceptible conclusions..
and that touch..
the heart lurches
I need...

Sunday, April 21, 2013

A Blessed Unrest - a quote for artists

"There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. ... No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others."

- Martha Graham

Friday, April 5, 2013

Never devalue an artist

There is a legend that Picasso was in a park when a woman approached him and asked him to draw a portrait of her. Picasso agreed and quickly sketched her. After handing the sketch to her, she was pleased with the likeness  and asked how much she owed him.

Picasso replied, "5,000."

The woman sputtered, "But, it took you only five minutes!"

"No, madam," replied Picasso. "It took me all my life."

**Although I do not know the validity of the origin of this story, the message behind it remains pure and true. An artists work takes devotion and years of practice and development. Respect what they do. It is not one nights work you watch at a show. It is not one week, month, or year of writing you read. Or only one click of a shutter you see in a photograph. It is their whole life dedicated to bettering themselves and their craft to produce something so beautiful that it seems effortless, but in fact, took countless days of tears, fears, rejections, bouts of laughter, joy and success to find.

It takes us all our lives.

Sunday, March 31, 2013

Rebirth and Change - my blue baby and I

There's been a lot of posts and pictures going around the net about Easter and how, at its roots, it's about rebirth and change. Now I'm not exactly religious, and it's not often that a religious holiday actually reflects scenarios in my life, but today I'm finding the symbolism here at my fingertips.

For those of you who need a refresher, I have a C4 spinal cord injury. Luckily I came through with relatively little nerve damage. To save you the long sob story, I will only mention what is relevant for this post. My left hand is half numb and slow to move and react. For a singer songwriter whose main instrument had always been a guitar, this was a death sentence.

However, over the years, I have fought through - with the help of some amazing friends - to continue on my journey of music. I have been teaching myself piano, (who needs a complicated bass line?), and have some wonderful bandmates and friends who have been playing accompaniment for me.

But... I have always ached for and missed my guitar. There was something grounded, rooted, and strengthening about playing and singing along with it. It gave me an overwhelming sense of... home. No matter where I was or what was happening in life, I'd pick up my blue baby, (that is my guitar), and suddenly be transported to a nirvanic place of contentment.

I realize this might sound like a dose of melodramatic stinky cheese, but it's the truth.

It was a lost love I simply could not get over.

Over the course of the last week I have steeled my emotional nerves, and tried picking up the guitar again. I say it that way because I have found it shockingly painful to pick up a passion that I used to find so easy, so effortless, so comfortable and beautiful, to find only discordant screeches, clicks and buzzes come out to attack my heart and ears.

I would try, cry, and fail.

But this time... it was different.

This is not to say I didn't still make a lot of mistakes. That my fingers have somehow miraculously returned to their pre-injury state like some sort of god-given miracle. What changed, was me.

Instead of attempting the songs I used to play, I tried something new. I tried something simpler, but equally as beautiful - and it worked. Then, amazingly, as the music swelled in my ears and I returned 'home' to sing with my guitar, a miracle did happen: it became easier. Without thinking, without trying, my fingers began to find their way on their own. The pathways from my brain, down through to my numb fingers, found that the road block in my neck seemed to have disappeared. Or, perhaps, by just letting my body do what it knows how to do, it found a new route. Not perfectly, of course. Not yet, and truthfully, it will never be. But I felt a heart thumping jolt of hope that perhaps in time more pathways could be found. Perhaps more improvement was on the horizon, and more songs could be found - as long as I didn't try to cling to my old guitar playing self.

But most importantly - I could play.

It was crazy - I did feel like the old me, but revised. New. A simple thought coursed its way through my mind: Of course you can't play the same as you did before. You're different now, so play differently. Choose songs differently.

It's funny how these things seem so obvious once you say them. How incredibly "d'uh!" you feel once it clicks in. But I think we all know that sometime its hard to listen through the fog of pain. Sometimes we can't listen even when someone tells it to our face. But however and whenever an epiphany hits, it feels glorious.

So I suppose this weekend does symbolize a rebirth and change for me. A rebirth of how I play guitar, and a change in my acceptance of my abilities. And funnily enough, this rebirth and change brought me back home.

It's neat when that happens. Incredible, really. And I just find the coincidence of this discovery on this particular weekend, regardless of my religious affiliation, somehow romantic and beautiful.

Now, if you'll excuse me.. I need to get back to re-growing my calluses ;p

Thursday, February 28, 2013

and this harmony

Drinking in melody with greed..
And harmony caresses me with every living memory.
I feel ripe with cliche.. and I don't give a fuck.

It's that hunger
-       you know it?
I think it's the only way I can describe it.
I know you've felt it.
ubiquitously loud.

I lose sanity. The need to touch and release.
I live in truth where lies pull strength.
Here I fight wild eyed and intent, writhing against this binding.
I am too feral. Every muscle aches. Fears. Pulls. Needs..
Nerves ache. Magnetic force screams. For.
something rougher. More calloused.
The grip is intense and the bass is loud. The unbending pressure, and we feel ourselves drip and flip and lose ourselves 
And you tell me this isn’t real?

I live in this lie like some caged cat. Prowling at the edges of insanity.
I know you see my eyes and they frighten you.
I frighten you.

I frighten myself.

I blink.
I breathe.
I drink in melody with greed.
And this harmony..

calls me.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

The intentions of a wordsmith.

A sudden call to anger. The heart tightens and fingers curl imperceptibly. Minute muscles of the face tense in reaction. Disgust. Realization hits like ice, past carefully placed blinders and drenching the warm bandages time was trying to hide pain with. Cold and sharp, it shone - it bled; How... long. How long a lie can actually last. When said from sickly sweet lips and practiced eyes. How long a lie can last, in the name of love. Disgrace. The heart drops... such disgrace. Traces of spittle left on beauty. The dry and cracked vestiges of a continued assault belying truth to those who would see it. There, where intention alone supplies a slippery handhold for one clinging to sanity. Flimsy; The intentions of a wordsmith. Action is left behind along with reality. Thickly woven lies. How long...? Only the entirety of a declaration.  This not beauty. This is bullshit.