Making Sense

I remember one line from the movie, "Across the Universe" that sticks with me constantly. It's not one of my favorite movies, and although I like a lot of the Beatles' remakes therein, there is one non-musical line that speaks to me, "Man, music is the only thing that makes sense anymore." I dig.

I spend so much time reading, learning, digging, feasting, and the more I take into my little pod of a brain, the more I realize that I know nothing at all. In a previous entry, "knowledge is power for the power hungry", I touch on this in more detail. The point is that the explosion of chaos in my head often leaves me depressed, tired, bewildered, and altogether spent. In these moments when no amount of emotion or reason can enter my soul, I am peirced by a well crafted sonata, or a meaningful lyric and nothing else. It's the only thing that makes sense to me.

Let

A long time ago, the ignorant, bright eyed version of me told a friend of mine, "Be happy, you never know who's in love with your smile." Of all the things that I've forgotten from that era of Ivan, I think it's a strange to remember that one. Especially since I need to take my own advice the older I get.

Truth be told, if I ever encountered the "me" from 10 years ago, He would be disgusted at what he saw, and I'd probably trip him, or give him a wedgie as he walked away in his self righteous, much more athletic way. However the little bugger had a point, and I've always wondered if she listened to me.

My new pursuits in comedy are especially trying, and I'm amazed that so many comedians i know have a serious, thick, deep interior that is to be marveled at. Comedy seems to be a way for these people to scoff at what eats them, or at least laugh amidst their stressful schedules. But a lot of them are very serious, very passionate, (someteims just bitter) people. I cherish this time of learning to get over my stage fright, learn to just trust that somebody may be appealed by my smile, or some off color mistake thrown out into the mercies of the judging. I focus a lot of energy on this blog, and in my mind on concept of just letting ourselves be...I have the hardest time doing it.

My first stand up attempt is in the next couple weeks, and I hope i've finally worked out the jitters to share what I find laughable...Only because I choose to remove it from the category of "excruciating past." A way of opening up the closet of my life, and choosing to scoff at the monsters inside. Life is just life. Live it. and Let it go.

Halloween Blues

Within the walls of Bone and steel that cradle feeble thought,
I find the festive musings leave me anxious and distraught.
Remembrance sings the horror of last Hallow's eve's disgrace
When all my peers requested me to party at their place.
"Come! For all will Lingerie alone a donning be"
Only now am i aware they meant the girls, not me.

The Killer of the Cow

I find it counter artistic to thoroughly explain most of my work. It is a beautiful thing to have a work of art projected into a demographic, and to explore the interactive element of interpretation, criticism, and reaction. Usually, when I'm asked questions about the content of a song, I'll dish out some canned rhetoric and say "go listen and think about it," but in the case of "The Killer of the Cow," there are elements that, I think, beg a few questions for it to be a more enjoyable listen.

My childhood was not one of normality. My parents decided, when I was 5, that we should move from the suburbs, to an obscure Utah farm town, the population of which reflects a number close to an average graduating class. I encountered immediately new chores like feeding horses, castrating pigs, digging holes, hauling hay, etc. etc. etc. Not that I condemn the desire of my parents to give their kids a working environment, but it was a strange, traumatic life alteration to move from the suburban comfort around which I'd already built schemas, suddenly into the labor saturated farm town I then despised. Amongst the new, unexplained chores forced upon us were milking cows, feeding cows, graining cows, re-fencing cows, blah blah blah cows, cows, cows! COOOOOWWWWWS!!! Cows became a religion, and the fulcrum to every other activity i wanted to do. Cows, the lumbering, slothful, groaning beasts of unequivocal stupidity, had become my obligatory deity. Cows were not only MY diety, but it seemed the whole town, in which there was only about 3 females of my age and technical species, was saturated with bovine stink. Oh, there were other creatures; horses, sheep, pigs, even a llama here and there, but Cows dominated all the resources expended upon our farm, includig the time that could have been productively spent in gaining friendships, or riding horses in the mountains. I have no pity for cattle. In fact, the PETAesque videos featuring the "barbaric" methods of slaughter employed to make some use of these devil resembling creatures do little to stir emotion inside of me, except for the emotion that bursts through a bovinicidal filter and yields a "KILL! KILL! KIIIIILLLLLLL!" incantation to pour out my bloodthirsty mouth.


With my disdain for cows firmly established, it's important to introduce the hero. Ever since I can remember, my little brother has been a remarkably odd human. One of those unspeakable geniuses that, as such, is naturally different than many other human beings. He's always been an outlier, and thus, a person who has no place in subjection to uniform culture's rating system. Don't get me wrong, he's also always been able to fit in well enough with his peers, and in High School, helped lead the way for many identity stricken friends. He has always had a following of fellow athletes, lost souls, and girls (although he's often ignorant to all three). I marvel at the real way he chooses to be himself, sometimes breaking new trails of simple mentality. As a young teen, I think my little brother frightened me more than anybody, and in protection of my mentality, and my perception of normality we had a lot of violent fights which are some of the only memories that can still bring me to sobbing tears. Why did I feel so threatened by such a kind hearted, sincerely curious human being? It's something I never will understand.

I've since released my curious fear of my brother's remarkable mind, and now consider him to be a hero. When I wrote "The Killer of The Cow", I didn't understand all the connotations of the lyrics, but listening to it now puts me in awe. Without uncovering the gems of the lyrics, I will say that My little brother is the protagonist, the hero, the KILLER OF THE COW. What literally happened is that when my brother and i were teenagers, we went out, as normal, to subdue the bellowing cows with hay. I remember both of us grumbling, moaning, swearing etc. on the way out to the cows, and I also remember after getting a bale of hay, walking around the corner to see nothing but the befuddled look on my brother's face as the subjected steer lay on it's side, flinching epileptically in the mud and manure. After a half hearted attempt at cow CPR, and some twitchy discussion, I found that my brother had thrown a rock at the cow...punishment for not moving it's head out of the stanchion area. I may also state that a rock to the head is a mild reaction compared to precedent. In my moral system, I see nothing wrong with shooting a cow for merely being in my path of vision, but the real point is that I can't count the times I've thrown a rock at a cow, simply to have it moo slowly, and stare back blankly. It's unheard of, that a cow could be killed by such a thing...the bovine equivalent to a dodgeball.

To summarize, my little brother, my hero, had killed the cow. No more would that particular cow own my life with its needs. Although it was quite an ordeal to break the news to my dad that our most market ready steer had been destroyed by a small rock, there was a gratifying undertone to the remarkable event that had just occurred. It seemed to be a freeing mindset that whenever my mother would say, "The cows NEED to be fed." my first thought would be, "Not if they're dead. hehehe."


This is not the reason my little brother is my hero, nor should it be mistaken that the song is about a cow by any means, for I despise the thought of any bovine to gather enough attention yielding significance in words. This is about the oppressive mindset that can so often accompany cultural boundaries, religious fixation, or relationship musts. This cow is simply a metaphor for that which I loathe most in this life; ignorant, oppressed submission to an empty god, whatever that "god" may be. My brother is simply a metaphor for those few souls who dare to counter culture by incident of their honest mind telling them we're putting "a cow" way too far on a pedestal. The rest of the meanings and subplots in the song are yours to decipher.

Sheltered Genius

I remember my sophomore year of high school, in which I was first introduced to the band "Blink 182". I was not introduced to the band by the hearing thereof, but rather by a girl donning their T-Shirt explaining that she "really liked them before they sold out." Having been previously home schooled, and not acquainted with things such as girls' communication patterns, or the term "sellout", I was not entirely sure what she meant, and for the same previously mentioned communicational cripplings, I didn't know how to acquire further understanding...so i guessed she was telling a colloquial joke and I laughed. She looked puzzled. In retrospect, it was baffling how much my persona was altered by the speaking with girls, and the perceived personality I must've had due to my attempts to appeal.

I've endlessly wrestled in my mind about the concept of sellouts in music, in art, in writing etc. The contradiction between expression from a genuine, untainted source, and the appeal to the audience of often collective mind. A consensus of value is applied to the understandable, corporeal fraction of human substance which is the product, "refined", packaged, tapered and sold in the process of "selling out." Often, the product, whether it be a politically charged essay, math equation, or breathtaking sonata, can have the title applied of "Genius", or "Masterpiece". These titles are based, I would argue, upon either mass appeal, or vote of an authority given such by mass vote or another authority, (cyclical). Thus, that which can be proven, demonstrated, and ultimately somehow observed in some way gains said merit.

Resolving my internal struggle with my potentially unrealized "selling out" is the concept, which I subscribe to, of the Observer Effect. I apply the Observer Effect, although most basically applied to physics, to human expression in that the observation of a phenomenon consequently changes the observed phenomenon. On a side note, I find it ironically hilarious that many scientists have dubbed the "Observer Effect" as a valid concept based upon experiments to validate the same. Anyway, not based solely upon the observer effect, but in parallel, I choose to embrace the fact that my craft, of any kind, is altered, even if slightly by any observing, or even expected to observe. Similar to a journal entry I know others will read. I welcome the sharing of the process. Risking the appearance of a complete nerd, I reference the movie "Stargate" (I've never cared to even attempt patronizing Stargate SG-1, or Stargate STD, or Stargate PTSD, or anything of the like), in which the protagonist eventually realizes that the required 7th symbol required to activate the stargate is the observing point of origin. If there are any dweebs amongst my MASS of followers, go elsewhere to criticize nerdological accuracy, for if this is not how the movie was written, it should have been. (example of perceived observation affecting my content).

I realize I may be cross breeding an apple tree with an orange tree here and there, but do so to express the inexpressible. I'm infatuated with the non-recordable, intangible, incorporeal, unobservable that due to scope limitations I will call "genius" for the sake of expression. That which is unsung due to being unseen; the "genius" that a Harvard produced test score can't demonstrate, and that the Nobel Peace prize can't validate, is that after which I would seek if I thought it findable. I'm not speaking of untapped dimensions...I don't think. This is the place where, for me, faith lives, not as in that hyper-loathed, horrid Cherie Call song "where faith lives", (i debate using my wording now, but stubbornly stand my ground against the wretched contradiction of that song...google the lyrics, and then google "faith"..."that's where everybody guesses, but you're the one who really knows..." grrrr, I digress) but the faith which connotes belief/action toward something without necessity of evidence. Thinking back on previous blog topics, I feel that the repetition of my limited ideas is like an autistic kid beating on a wall to signify hunger...what am i hungry for i wonder? is it the same "observation" that I claim alters? Do I just want to be altered?

Repetition or no, I suggest, that the unseen "Genius" some may or may not carry is protected by the inability to be observed. Poetry never written, equations never proved, Songs never sung are only metaphors I can make to express the quanta I don't understand, but can only ALLOW to carry intuition.

The One Moment

"Pearls Before Breakfast", an article in the 2007 Washington Post, describes a truly sobering demonstration of priceless value hiding behind accessibility. The gripping article, accompanied by videos when read online, portrays the famed violin virtuoso, Josh Bell, standing in an obscure corner of the DC Metro station playing a $3,500,000 violin. Of the thousands of passers by, only a handful recognize the intricate musical delicacies for a spectacle worth a gait alteration, and only one person, to her knee-weakening awe, recognizes the world famous musician himself.

I have no desire to recreate the article, but feel profoundly inspired by the fact that the artist himself, already world renowned and validated by millions, including the world's most accomplished performers and professors, describes how nervous he is for this particular performance. He is nervous not because he is performing before royalty, or because he is in a heated contest,(neither a new experience) but because, as he claims, he's not been accepted by the audience yet.

Before reading the article, I've often mused about the concept of consensus, and its effect upon perceived value. So often the selling point of a product, service, or idea is the claim of how many people also subscribe to the same. In fact, in a way, my opening paragraph could be construed similarly, since I validate Josh Bell by his being renowned by the world. Regardless, as a result of my reading, viewing, listening etc., I'm preoccupied with what gives a person's talents value, and in what currency the talented would find equal or even sufficient value to exchange said talent. Is there an acceptable trade for the most deep, vulnerable, soft spots of a human being? Do we all eventually resemble prostitutes by selling our souls for a pittance of pottage? Is it really just better to keep the tender items of the soul tucked away, protected by a hard shell of silence, or the abrasive shell of cynical sarcasm? Perhaps the deflective shell of socially acceptable presentation...a smile? a sound byte? a uniform? a precedented mask?

No! I write! I write about the latent dissonance that surfaces in the most sober moments. I sing about the hate that REALLY stirs my soul and puts me face to face with my God as I say, "yeah! well so what?! that's the way it really is! that's the way I REALLY feel about it all. Strike me with lightning, damn my soul, but at least it's MY soul." I also sing about the love of which only a fool dares dream. Having a somewhat talkative and seemingly open demeanor, I am met with disbelief quite often when admitting my private, shy tendencies. This in reference to the previously mentioned deflective shield of charismatic diversion i wear so often. As with anybody who is known by close peers, I am known intimately by very few people who understand the delicate nature of EVERY soul when it's able to be touched. This is MY currency! The mingling of souls, and the vision of a raw being, stripped of symbolic clothing and cultural "shoulds".

I often frequent open mic nights, and cafe music performances, to see solo performers who sometimes sheepishly tremor their way through originals, or covers of their own interpretation. Every rare once in a while, I catch the glance of the eye of a musician as an unworded library of expression escapes their countenance. One in particular I remember, was singing a song about his religious views, in a room full of irreverent college students, mostly impatiently waiting for their turn for 8 minutes at mic. This particular performer powerfully penetrated my roaming attention, as I tuned out the bustle of muttering in the room to see the soul before me fully exposed. I couldn't stop examining every lyric that poured from him, and I couldn't take my eyes off his wincing expressions as the melody channelled raw sincerity directly into my soul. He is a talented musician, lyricist, composer etc., but the breakthrough I received the night I payed attention, was that I was receiving him, and he was courageous enough to release him THROUGH his talent, skills, and musical education into a room of ignorance.

This humble, religiously fanatic performer had no idea that I was penetrated in such a way, and for all he knew, everybody was talking and ignoring while he simply played music for none but his own ears. Although I took crucial note to tell the bearded singer what I experienced, I empathize with the feeling of playing music into a vacuum. This is what it often feels like to play at open mic nights, or coffee shops, or bars...it feels like teaching Shakespeare to a kindergarten class. In a culture where the iconic musicians of the day are really just objects for instant stimulation per the demand of the under stimulated, I fear that so little art is actually created by artists. I've checked the sound system at restaurants often, wondering why the crowd can't hear me play...because surely I'm good enough to catch AT LEAST a glance or two. Nothing's wrong with the sound system? you can all hear me fine? What's wrong with me then? It's moments like these that force me into questioning the multi-currency depleting pursuit of music.


Then it happens; The one person, like a statue, glassy eyed or otherwise obviously captivated by something coming out of me. Some stretch of my vocals that only a performance can bring, which enlightens my awareness of my own abilities. Some twist of musical improv that harmonizes in an unprecedented way, SOMETHING breaks, which connects my wandering eyes to the eyes of that one aware person. A myriad of emotions exist for a musician in these moments of connection, where the dew on one's voice is just so reflective of the crisp sunlight shining through the lyrics, that it yields refreshing resurrection of soul, and a slight rejuvenation of hope that is all but tangible...not just for the musician, but for the receiving listener. I've gone through years of performing, only to experience this phenomenon less than a handful of times.


I've spent precious talent in auditoriums, bars and restaurants where the whole crowd was in sync, involved, and in complete homeostasis with the performance, and I don't intend to diminish that feeling at all as it is an adrenaline rush all in itself. But it's a different ballgame for the musician, of self assuring ego boost, and is not comparable to the intimate, humbling connection of that one person, separate from the crowd, who often ventures afterwards to wait around for the moment to tell you that they heard that lyric, identified with that idea, or that they were moved by the music for some unknown reason. The difference between this and somebody who simply thinks "you're talented and your music is really good", is that the former is accompanied by a firm handshake, a sincere latent eye twinkle, a recitation verbatim of intricately thought out lyrics they heard you sing only once, but mostly just the intuition of some poignant emotional or intellectual need having been met in the life of the listener. In reference to the few times I've been humbled by this experience, I counter the cynicism that is stirred from being ignored time and time again, with the argument that I may be simply just not looking at the right portion of the crowd to see that one person. In addition, I may be overlooking that it really doesn't matter if I notice an effect in another human, as long as they're affected. When I feel as though my hard fought lyrical battles have fallen on deaf ears, I may actually have reached at least one hidden soul, who smiled, cried, or just breathed, and then disappeared to a world into which my awareness will probably never bleed.


In a sobering, introspective string of logic following a show in which I felt purely vestigial, it occurred to me that my trivial, arrogant need to KNOW concerning whether or not I'm heard, understood etc. is a deterrent from the art form, and the influence with which I'm so preoccupied. Again, what's the point in performing at all then? Hence the revelation: There could be thousands of "one moments" I never know about, millions of ripples from the small, meager, yet meaningfully emotional expression I release. In contrast, what if nobody cares about my insignificant contribution? Either contingency is not my concern...The revelation is to just play, just be, and enjoy such being. If the "One moment" is shared by many, I shall be one of the many who doesn't miss it by seeking the empty lucre of recognition...of being 'renowned'. If the moment belongs to nobody but myself, I wish to close my eyes, feel the dew off my lips, and let myself walk away into a changing world as a result of my participation in music. In a lonely piano studio, some of the most magical musical moments are those in which I've found myself reverently sharing this one moment only with the God who gave me the ability and love for the music that I find can only be God given, whatever God may be. These are the moments, when I cherish knowing that if I sing a melody in a forest, and nobody's around to hear it, I am. TRULY loving the sound of one's own voice in truth, is ironically one of the most humbling, and freeing achievements a musician can seek. One of the results of the freedom being the ability to release preoccupation with who listens, to simply allow the gifts to flow from one's self and circumstantially touch fellow beings.

Performance is but one talent, and I find that most of the visible talents are under useful, yet overpraised, thus inappropriately diminishing the face validity of silent, often crucial talents of the shy, or those who don't seek publicity. One example I can think of is my mother. Although both my parents deserve volumes to be written about their oceans of unsung merit, I choose to simply cherish my mother for the antique, lightly weighted Rudolph Wurlitzer she insisted upon having in our house. I worship her for providing me with piano teachers as a boy, and I soberly thank her, along with my dad, for allowing often obnoxious exploration of the instrument and limited airspace which, overtime, I learned to fill with more than the plunking, arrhythmic Hiroshima which marked my early compositions. My mom sacrificed so much of herself to provide lessons for me. One of the sacrifices she made was the yielding of lesson time for her children, when she herself went without, although she later told me with tears in her eyes how badly she has always wanted to play. As her current piano teacher, I can't place value upon the observance that she and I have both experienced in that she has a gift for music, and grasps finger movement, theory, and abstract musical mysteries she never before thought. Although my mother has visible talents, Her less visible talents shadow these; her incredible talent for teaching, her intuition for her kids' needs, her ability to work harder than most people understand, her silent love for her grand kids, her intelligent, simple communication. These far more crucial talents are never framed on a wall, broadcast over radio, or displayed on stage.

As with the renowned violinist, Josh Bell, many times, magnificence is overlooked due to unstaged availability, or masked behind abstract influence. I often find myself hoping and praying that those silent, less visible gifts that people offer, are not diminished in the mind of the bearers simply because they're readily available, or because they're unsung by recognition. I Hope more and more, that the gifted among all of us will learn to close eyes, and simply release, embrace, and allow the ripples to flow where they may, to find that magnificent influence is a beautiful circumstance of being. With the seemingly mundane and common, yet crucially beautiful every day gifts humans possess, if the "one moment" is never known, may the lesson I've learned therefrom, simply being, be enough.

Knowlege is power for the power hungry

This blog is simply a suppliment for my listeners, be it only 5, to experience a small taste of my mind. i know my own mind best, and although seeking to know others' minds as well, I can only speak for myself. Thus commences the e-literary journey with one of the personal gems that fuel my inspiration, "i don't know".

"I don't know!" It has been a recent, stubborn adjustment in my recognizably small existence, to embrace the concept of "I don't know." If there were a cartoon character based upon my life, his name would be durke, and his catch phrase would be "duh....I dunno."

Speaking of "I don't know", I haven't the most shroom induced idea why in the world I thought of a cartoon character, but if I were cartooned into animated canon, I would probably be the apparent know-it-all, talking dog professor, who eloquently tests everybody's knowledge of literature, history, science, or music trivia. Upon stumping everybody with whimsical quearies, and pompous tests of intillect, I'd smirk through my canine spectacles, with folded arms as they'd ask, "WELL?...WHAT'S THE ANSWER?" Then I'd shrug my little dog shoulders and go, "mmmm....I dunno either, but I'm still wagging my tail." Not actually...in fact I don't know where the cartoon reference really comes from. But in ironic reference to it, I guess i don't have to, do I? Them's the rules! The jist is, why are we obsessed with "knowing"? In the words of Ben folds, "why you gotta act like you know when you don't know?"

It has become a more apparent observation that much of idiocy has been excused and compensated by post nominal abbreviations, power suits, prominent heritage, or cultural consensus of authority. One who seems to wear the perverbial "lab coat" is rewarded 10 times the credence of somebody who has actually spent his time in the lab, or better yet, genuine life. In other words, I tend to respect one who earns the title "PhD" by way of incidental biproduct, far more than someone who seeks after the same title as a self excusing token of superior status. The latter may abuse the culturally worshipped tokens as an exlusion of human involvement.

I find a strong resemblance between the stages of greiving (which I accept only for what they are: man made, categorical observations) and the process of letting go of "knowing". It's a violent, depressing, exhausting battle within one's mind to critically examine the conceptual mansions one has built, and be willing to accept the seemingly solid, concrete foundation as possible origami...intricate to behold, but as structural as soup. It's like the death and rebirth of a soul to let go of the self confirming bias we often call "knowledge", and embrace the anxiety inducing chaos that comes with looking the unknowns square in the eyes. As a metaphor of course...i don't know if they have eyes, and if they do, they're watching me from a damn good hiding place.

I fear lest I'm misunderstood to mean that i don't agree with learning, and the pursuit of knowledge as it referrs to comprehension and stretching of the mind. I crave exploration, research, theories, etc. The main difference is there always must be room for supplimentary information to ammend previous suspicions. Otherwise we're just filling in the gaps of unknown with comforting biases. I speak of using "I know" as a crutch to excuse ignorance. The surviving persistence of lazy bias engulfs many, and easily does so by using the fuel of fear to feed the ignorant side of dissonance. The perception difference between those who feel they have arrived at their final conclusion, and those who leave the door open to further understanding and mind altering ammendment, is often expressed through resulting action.

One of the most paralyzing, and self destructive abuses of "knowledge" is inaction until one is sure of the outcome of their action. What a great way to constantly mediocre, safely survival oriented life. Besides, any surety of an outcome is trumped by what I call the asteroid principle anyway...at any moment our supposed security could be destroyed by armageddon anyway...and Ben Afleck will be nowhere to save us. I understand well the fear of taking a chance...looking at the unknown and yet running as hard as I can to see what I can MAKE out of it rather than wondering what it's going to turn out to be. At times the result of my decision to vulnerably hold my arms out, hopefully aiming for self stretching nirvana has hurt so profoundly as to render me sobbing in the fetal position in a sewer of self loathing. Other times I have experienced such exquisite joy on the other side of the blind leap, that all I posess is raw expression to fall to my knees in gratitude and, without weak words, simply nod.

It's a personal belief from my own experience, that real inner peace can be heavily realized by admitting that "I don't know, but I'm fine the way I am." Not in a lazy, helpless way, but in a way that embraces choice, creation, decision, and pure, unprecedented authoring. Rather than relying on the demon of "fate" to puppeteer us through decisions, may we cut the strings of TRUE helplessness and courageously accept our wobbly kneed walk on wet soil. Rather than blame God for a predestined dot-to-dot, may we open our hearts to TRUE faith, pray our guts out for strength, and then work like hell to learn how to swim in the water once seen as hardwood. To quote one of the few verses that has brought convicted tears to my eyes,


"...It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul."

-William E. Henley-

Ivolution

It is not without reluctance that I make public a few musings with which my mind is occupied, but I feel it appropriate that those of you who choose to subscribe to the music that I've so passionately composed, get a vulnerable slice of my mind if they choose. Rejected, accepted, mocked or misread, I'm me; flawed, self accepting, ever changing, hopeful, human, frail spirited at times, and sincerely anxious to understand my fellow souls here on earth. In truth, I just need to write...I'm not balanced without putting down my feelings somewhere, whether it be my pompous opinion concerning a completely non-inspiring Megan Fox movie, or the cathartic babblings about some unseen God. My future posts will vary from effectual fingerpaintings, to attemptive Rembrandts.





I'm humbly grateful for the experience of creating the album "Ivolution", and as much of a perfectionist as I am at times, I can honestly say, i'm pleased with it. Genreless, sincere, somewhat choppy, I accept it the way it is. I hope those who hear it enjoy, and are positively influenced by the blunt and subtle messages therein....even through the twisted humor, and often just outright catharsis.

I hope the music is as satisfying to listen to as it was to create. I look forward to the possibilites, and the soul stretching ahead.

Of Monarchs and Butterfly Babies.

Ivolution is under way, and I must admit that the quest toward a goal has altered me into a person who comprehends different goals. I admit that most of my ambiguous ambition is based upon previously unrealized vision. But I'm pulling everything out of my guts to see what can be accomplished, and I'm praying, planning and working like hell toward the hope that my seemingly quaint and raw abilities will grow in proportion to the person I become as a result of my ambitions.


This is the exact concept, in my opinion, of my most meaningful lyrics from "Low Flying Clouds". The protagonist, with constantly fluctuating resolve, is trapped in the all too common (yet mostly unnoticed) existential tug of war between the human spirit's tendency to dream, and the cynical fears that convincingly preach safety, ease, and mere survival as end goals. I love the ironic prayer offered Wherein the protagonist begs his diety to allow him to shrink...to have his dream of never needing to explore his bounds. "I'll sink low, fly under the radar, I'll give up my my potential, because the thought of having to look at myself, and actually find what my limits may or may not be, obviously is more frightening than never growing. I don't want to know how high I can fly." Stretching a bit, it reminds me of a caterpillar never committing to the cocoon for fear of leaving caterpillarhood.

This leads to another thought, the fact that AIMING at all, leads to an unforseen potential, and at least moving in the direction of my dreams has often opened my eyes to new dreams that trump the originals. The person i became in pursuit of the original goals differs from the person who MADE the original goals in that he now cares about new goals as a result of changes that pursuing the original goals provided. Keeping in mind that I am no biologist, and would never claim to be an expert on any species, and therefore using only some allegorical qualities of the latter to serve my point...Since we're on the topic of Caterpillars and Butterflies, consider the following story, the king of the caterpillars:


I think of the caterpillar world in all it's crawling glory...a community of monarch larvae, hornworms, swallowtails and other such creatures living the culture of the caterpillar. Suppose they have no Idea of the sweetness of their potential to have wings...to fly, and to be beautiful. After all, they're chubby, segmented, often furry, irritating plugs, useful to the eyes of many a dirty-faced boy as good for nothing but fodder for the practical joking of a sister. To boot, they're abandoned orphans anyway...for all they know, their mothers crawled off with the local grub worm, or pimp daddy stink beetle.

Regardless, these crawling critters work through their abandonment issues, build an entire society based upon the caterpillar culture, currency, and just like any gang color-identified "side of the tracks", their world tempts a limited, myopic view. In fact such a small world it is that the top of the totem pole for these slightly mobile crawling corks, is to eat as many leaves, milkweed, and foliage as possible...Whomever dies with the most leaves having been eaten wins. Therefore there is a scrambling amongst the caterpillars for the square foot of foliage within which they were born. The universe contained in a square foot of green, is the extent of the King of the caterpillar's domain.


Let's speak of King Danaus, King of the caterpillars. He's spent his whole life from an abandoned, orphan egg on a milkweed, accumulating as much food and followers as he possibly can. It's taken a lot of time, but he's learned through much molting, and many life trials how to be a caterpillar, expending his many energies learning how to exploit the caterpillar hierarchy. Having worked his way up the ladder of the hierarchy to the most covetable positions as possible, the king, he's used all his means to store up food to ensure a long life, and subjects, thereby defying the coffin cocoon, which marks the end of life.

It is every young grub's ambition to become as the King, who fights away the urge of sinking into his Chrysalis as long as he can...he loathes the thought of growing aged and dying in the self made coffin, a collection of unending sustenance to his discretion...the symbol of eternal life and security. So comsumed in his own, sluggish reality, of the maximum potential of a caterpillar's existence, Danaus rarely even notices the flying creatures about his head, occasionally dropping for a drink of nectar, but never daring confront the great King to try eating any of his domain. Oh yes, He's full of himself in the fact that these winged, skinny bodied pansies don't dare touch his kingdom's food source, and rarely dare to land on the ground itself, but only occasionally land on the flowers to remove the very drops of useless nectar...beggars! What's more, in the little discoveries he's had of these flying foreigners, he discovers that they seem to be ignorant of the WAY THINGS WORK. They don't understand hierarchy, and value of things, nothing in store for future needs. "Starving gargoyles, longing for what I have, but they'll never get it!"...they're ignorant, foolish, and are apparently well below the understanding of even the simplest of monarchial standards. Even in his rare encounters, trying to communicate, however violently, with these crude flying creatures, they don't even speak the same language, and are far too primitive to comprehend the greatness of the magnificent KING DANAUS.


Alas, finally, even the attemptively immortal King of the caterpillars, having lived nearly 3 weeks (an unheard of age for the oldest of caterpillars), must one day lay his head down. As an aged, tired caterpillar, still in denial concerning the need to retire forever, Danaus, seeks solitude. Perhaps, he thinks, just for a nap and a molt, but inadvertently fading into the wakeless coffin, dangling lifelessly from the ghost town branches of His kingdom...asleep, dreaming, dangling for eternity, unable to resist the anticipated, yet avoided death into the coffin chrysalis he's spent more than an average lifetime trying to avoid.

Thus ends the life of the great king caterpillar, Danaus, a legacy to be only spun into legend by admiring subjects, who likewise seek the goal of status, immortality, and endless security. But what Danaus' limited paradigm did not include is that after inadvertently subjecting himself to the endless sleep, he will learn that it is a lot less endless than he previously imagined.

In an unanticipated wakening, the King, frantic, scrambles gradually, and painfully out of this strange, hard shell. Blurred vision, achy limbs. WHAT? LIMBS? It's like a dream of lucid abstraction. "Wake up!" the pompous king screams to himself, as he realizes what morbid thoughts his loathing for the primitive winged creatures yields. All too soon, as he anxiously scrambles for strength, he realizes that this is indeed no dream at all...it's a lucid nightmare of inescapable horror. However with the resourcefulness of his instincts, coupled with his arrogant denial, he eventually defaults into an incident of flapping his wings. What used to be segments attached to segments,is now attachments to legs and wings, nothing in his anatomy matching with itself anymore. He attempts to inch along as usual, only feeling the terror of wing spasms launching him sideways and upward, with no foundation of earth nor shrub...NOTHING but the foreign inertial thrusts of panic, yeilding more panic, and twitches of perpetuation bringing him higher and higher until he abandons his prior schemas into a cognitive rock bottom of hopelessness.


Welcoming death, and the eventually inevitable plummet, this time with much more accepting awareness, Danaus relaxes his wings, frees himself from the terror and embraces his fate. It is just at that moment of acceptance and embracing abandon, that all is still...all is calm as the flowing breeze of sweet air catches his wings, humming softly in his head...whispering soft melodies of unprecedented newness sending a rush of euphoria through his thorax. The more He relaxes and lets his unfamiliar wings relax, the more of a parachute effect they have. For the first time in the whole awakening, he realizes the beauty of the view, taking in the vast forests of green, and experimenting calmly with his new body, learning the mechanisms of inertia and constraints. Eventually these new instincts shadow the old, and although envigorated, his new trust for instinctual tendencies leads him to a flowerbed, to drink the sweet nectar he once thought as useless fool fodder. He feels the new strength in his limbs, gaining yet another discovery of life, as the new creature he is presents an unending array of possibilities yet to be determined.

As his energized body is again taken to flight, he flies over his domain, and views as though a speck, his previous kingdom, far below. In a rush of panic, the new potential overshadowed by the resonance of his prior life as a caterpillar, he thinks "MY KINGDOM! What is to happen to my kingdom, my foliage, my ownership?" With residual instincts still remaining, he dives frantically to see what plundering has taken place, projecting his new identity upon his old system of rules. With what will could be either final purging of schema, and the completion of his rebirth, or his ultimate shrinkage below what he has now seen as possible.

He lands...He lands hesitantly, bracing himself for the worst, holding dogmatically to the stystem of kingdomhood and superiority still poisoning his mind. He finally allows himself to open his eyes, to what turns out to be the place of familiar echoes...the ghost town of meaningless anchors. In the silence, the landed Magestic Monarch, struggles with the dissonance of habitual holding and the logic of newness battling within him. Peering through the drone wasteland of self indulged crawlers, ignorant to all outside the margins of their finite vision, the pompous grubs live in ignorant preoccupation, Complete misunderstanding of the apparant gargoyles. The Monarch finds himself apathetic toward what he once loved, realizing the emptiness of the previous ultimates.


Strangely, the clear vision of future possiblities, endless exploration in flight, and undiscovered creation, are imprisoned in latency by the lurking of sadness from time that the Monarch can't seem to accept as having been useless to his current existence. After a comparative eternity of meandering, comes the decision; the decision of thought into action; the decision to mourn the once heavily valued dross clinging thereto, or rejoice in new comprehensions. Harbouring a breath deep into his abdomen, the winged creature glances at the haunted, green riches representing his protected, vaulted doman, and fights the thought that in his quest to return to his kingdom, the key element, himself, is no longer there. His mental terror again returns as he seeks to relapse into a vestigal system. His fear cripples his majestic wings as he attempts to cognitively cram them into the slug shaped constraint about which he's fully knowledgable, and in which he's fully comfortable. Trying to convince himself he still fits, he shrugs off admitting the decision he has to simply open his eyes...simply breath in the fear and possibilities of the flight he recently tasted. Attempts to align his infinitely expanded horizon back into the comfortability of his finite prior existence, meet with ultimate frustration and despair. The realization upon the journey back to one's self, that one's self will never again exist, resonates hard...banging upon the barricades of his stubborn consciousness...He waits, he weeps.


With the hurricane's eye of timestopping silence, the Monarch sheds his final tear, releasing the dead ashes of once shiny riches, and simply stares upward. No more thoughts, no more arguments, all of a sudden just welcoming "being"...Just being what he is. He lifts off lightly, with the only simple thought of, "let go". He lets go the leaf upon which he has been perched, and flaps into new heights, new life, new self. Opening the floodgates of his consciousness, embracing the time spent as a primitive pompous crawler, and also embracing the stepping stones of infathomability. The Monarch flies.

May we embrace our newness, releasing the vestigal moltings of our prior lives into the oblivion where they belong. Move forward, move upward, move into not only new horizons, but into new creatures fitting those horizons. Even if 90 years of molting yeilds one year of enlightenment, embrace that one year as the meaning for the meaningless, rather than sifting through past ashes for the refined.