18 Track 18 Soundtrack to blog.
A good friend of mine recently went to prison. I hate to say it, but this news came as no huge surprise. You see, he had always lived his life behind one wall or another—–a wall of alcohol and drugs (until he got help and quit) a wall of pretension and success (until he lost his business and money) a wall of arrogance and deceit (until his fraud was exposed) a wall of emotional insulation (until he was filleted and spiritually gutted). In jail there are no walls between you and yourself, the only walls there are the ones keeping the rest of the world out. The prisoner and his keeper are forced to coexist—-hope—like pardons, float just out of reach.
Sometimes when I consider this life, I see each of its participants living out their existence where “they need to be”—-please don’t misinterpret this as meaning “where they may want themselves to be”. Perhaps its arrogant of me to say such a thing, who am I to know what another may or may not want or need? I am arrogant. Arrogance comes with the territory of being a writer. A writer is the last unwitting peddler of authenticity for all crumbling cultures. To be a good writer, you need to have something to offer, something new and interesting to say, a revelation to shine a light upon. As for me and my writings, I intend to confound the smart asses, frustrate the conventionalist and piss off the righteous. Cause, if I mix the colors just right, I might create a picture that becomes a window for another to peer through. I always wonder the same thing about others, “Tell me what you see—what you feel?”
I loved a girl once. And maybe she loved me back, these things are illusive and subjective—or more than likely, I’m just plain hard to love. Love melts in your mouth not your hands, and it’s very difficult to see whats going on inside another’s mouth, let alone within their heart. M&Ms lie, they all look different, but they all taste the same. She took me to her home, a place where she kept her clothes, slept, stocked her cupboards and fridge, where she dreamt her dreams, hid her tears, bathed, put on her make up and stored her smiles. I tried once to live with her, but my stuff cluttered up her neat organizational scheme of things. I left before the walls she was constructing became to high for me to scale.
There’s a place in the High Sierra’s known as Desolation Wilderness, what a mystic and daunting land. A place of stark granite walls, gnarled pines and hidden alpine lakes, a place where one can either lose themselves or become re-aquatinted with what was meant to be. It is here that I sort out my devils from my angels and decide who is the lion and whom is the lion tamer. The lion cage is where I go to discover what comprises the alchemy of my soul. And I will tell you this, it takes a lot of courage to put my head inside that lions mouth.