I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas.
My fingers are Santa's little helpers.
My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.
I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn.
Sisyphus, sweating uphill.
Bukowski,
scribbling away
in rooming houses.
A river always flowing.
I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
yet forgot to put on a pair of clean underwear to put in his contact lenses and to send his last will and testament via Ansible His socks had holes in them he had forgotten to update his Virgo Supercluster of galaxies Facebook status totally spaced paying his monthly bill to the House Atreides and slowly smacked his space helmet in zero-gravity frustration when he realized that he forgot to take out the trash to the Dianoga compactor The stars still looked pretty, though and he swore to do all of these things when he got back or maybe soon maybe...tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Toys and books arrive in the mail and you don"t remember ordering them because you were drunk.
When he got up that morning everything was different:
He enjoyed the bright spring day
But he did not realize it exactly, he just enjoyed it.
And walking down the street to the railroad station
Past magnolia trees with dying flowers like old socks
It was a long time since he had breathed so simply.
Tears filled his eyes and it felt good
But he held them back
Because men didn't walk around crying in that town.
Waiting on the platform at the station
The fear came over him of something terrible about to happen:
The train was late and he recited the alphabet to keep hold.
And in its time it came screeching in
And as it went on making its usual stops,
People coming and going, telephone poles passing,
He hid his head behind a newspaper
No longer able to hold back the sobs, and willed his eyes
To follow the rational weavings of the seat fabric.
He didn't do anything violent as he had imagined.
He cried for a long time, but when he finally quieted down
A place in him that had been closed like a fist was open,
And at the end of the ride he stood up and got off that train:
And through the streets and in all the places he lived in later on
He walked, himself at last, a man among men,
With such radiance that everyone looked up and wondered.
Somebody took out my appendix last week. I guess it burst. This last week hurt. Friday a doctor unspooled a tube out of my gut. He said that it would feel weird. It did. I decided to work last night because I am badass. I decided to work last night because I am poor. The ten hours that I worked last night is a testament to my veracity, tenacity, and my pugnaciousness...
Kidding. Really. My insides exploded. It sucked. Random.
I need to practice this a bit more, me thinks. I've given up on writing pretty much. I don't do much personal writing lately and all of the freelance work is funneling, counter-clockwise down my motivational toilet and I'm fine with it. So this works. I never thought I was that great anyway. I write like I speak. Like Yoda with Strep Throat. Like Marlee Matlin drunk. Like Jabba without Bib Fortuna. Like...fershure.
It feels a little worse
Than when we drove our hearse
Right through that screaming crowd
While laughing up a storm
Until we were just bone
Until it got so warm
That none of us could sleep
And all the styrofoam
Began to melt away
We tried to find some worms
To aid in the decay
But none of them were home
Inside their catacomb
A million ancient bees
Began to sting our knees
While we were on our knees
Praying that disease
Would leave the ones we love
And never come again
On the radio
We heard November Rain
That solo's really long
But it's a pretty song
We listened to it twice
'Cause the DJ was asleep
This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath
No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again
And on the radio
You hear November Rain
That solo's awful long
But it's a good refrain
You listen to it twice
'Cause the DJ is asleep
On the radio
(oh oh oh)
On the radio
On the radio - uh oh
On the radio - uh oh
On the radio - uh oh
On the radio
I'm going to let my fingertips guide this
but my mind has already decided where this will go
I'm clearing my throat
I do this a lot now
I try to focus
fingertipstypeonmy4head
thinking
waitforitwaitforit
i spend so much time doing something that I hate
my mind numbs
i go home
and spend so many hours searching for things
exposing/illuminating myself to so much
information
i have learned
so much
after
work
"There flooded in the perception of something in the sky. I wasn’t on LSD or any other drug, not at the time; just this deprivation of the sense of other living things about me. What I saw was some form of evil deity…not living but functioning; not looking so much as scanning, like a machine or monitor. It had slotted eyes and always hung over one particular spot. I’ve used it for the title of my next-but-one story, A Scanner Darkly.
It all kinda started at Christmas when my sons and I were hanging ornaments on the tree. We have an ornament that is a little electric guitar and my six-year-old son was looking at it and asked, “What’s this Dad?”
I said, “What??? It’s an electric guitar.”
To which he replied, “What’s that?”
Well, I was kinda horrified so I ran downstairs and pulled out an old hollowbody electric (that is my wife’s), an amp and I came upstairs, plugged it in and ripped into “My Generation” by The Who. Well, my one son actually climbed me in point 2 seconds and leaped off my shoulders while the other one looked like I had plugged the lights on the tree into him. They flew around the room dancing for two straight wonderful hours. I got the point. I grew up playing only electric and it was like remembering how to be free. For many reasons, it was so needed. So I got free.
The next week I headed into my studio and recorded “City Of Ghosts” and away I went. I wrote about the war and being a parent in “The Field”, two topics close to my heart. I wrote about being a teenager and how heavy that time can feel and how it can shape the path you take. So, gratitude is in there somewhere. I wrote about doubts and fear, about God and Spirit, and about hope and possibility and things that are elusive and hard to name. I wrote mostly about them, and they came into the room like angels and beasts.
This whole time I knew the record would be called Blood Of Man. I also kept hearing two phrases in my head during recording. Maybe you can decipher them, for I know not where they come from or what they mean exactly: “Do you remember when the world was young?” and “In the beginning there was blood on the lamb.” Whew.
I wrote about how hard it is to be 34 and be a parent and sane and married and true and positive and yourself and a man and funny and a decent person and a not decent person and human and in love. I turned the music up so loud so often that my ears rang every night. I wrote about death, of course. I wrote about life. I wrote about pain and addiction. And I let it flow and left it raw. I worked fast and I let my heart lead.
I guess I have come to the point in my life and my art where I just want to make music that I love and not mess with it. If people dig it: cool. If not: cool. I will be making it anyway. I have to. I realized that too. By the grace of god: I have to make music. More importantly: I get to.
Also, before anything, I am a music listener. So, this record has not been messed with in any way. What you have is exactly the music I listen to in my van and the way I have given it to my friends on CD-Rs. My hope is that it can help where help is needed. Music saved my life and I am so grateful for it. Thank you for listening. Rock.
Mason Jennings
Minnesota
