I meant to start this earlier in the day and somehow time has slipped by. I have been looking at the empty page and figured I’d give it a go. The weather is partially to blame, because i was figuring a beautiful ride on my cycle, Flaming Lips, would liberate the ideas I have been holding captive for a couple of days. Sunday afternoons have always been one of my favorite times to write, because the bike serves as a mechanical muse for me.
I was in great spirits this morning. The sun was smiling and there were more bikes than usual gathered at the 7/11 in Lihue. When I pulled into the parking lot, there was a text from my son with sweet pictures of him playing a little basketball with his son. There is a special magic to grandparenthood that gives an added dimension to your life, a priceless gift, one that makes you shine inside, a blinding light exploding from your heart.
For the past few days, I have had an idea about a couple of things I wanted to share. One deals with a special photograph I have had for around forty years and the other is the shocking absence of THC in my system.
We rolled out a little later than usual, because of this thing called aloha and I wouldn’t dare try and define it. If there is such a thing as heaven, populated by angels, that’s the vibe and it has to be experienced, but far too ethereal to explain. The split seconds of embrace are perfect, unbridled joy.
The first music I heard on my speakers was Joni Mitchell singing, Chelsea Morning. She is a lady Leonard Cohen, a poet who sings her masterpieces. When we hit the open road, launching into our high speed ballet west, on the way to Waimea, Santana set me on fire with Soul Sacrifice. I was writing my story with the invisible ink of my mind and looking forward to the solitude of the afternoon at home alone, with Nina Simone for company.
When we began to backtrack east in the afternoon, we headed into clouds with nothing but rain in their pockets. Riding around 60 mph in a heavy downpour is a special kind of wet, puddles in your shoes, your ass floating in a pond, eyes riveted on the road and oncoming traffic. By the time I pulled into the garage, dry was the only thing on my mind, thoughts lost in the flood.
One of the young people at work, actually all the people at work are young, asked me if I had any photographs when I was around 25. I have two stuffed albums, which are now in boxes, stashed in a closet at one of my son’s homes. They are a record of my ancient past. I have always had a favorite, which is at the top of this story. I was somewhere in my early thirties and the boys were around 5 and 3. I was in the broadcast advertising business and one of the networks chartered a bunch of buses to take people in the biz to an Army/Navy game at West Point. It was a conservative business and my hair was dangerously long. I was actually wearing corduroy farmer overalls, daring a hippie style statement in the world of the Izod. . It was so long ago and I loved my boys to pieces.
One of the many purposefully confusing tenets of Zen is about the past, present and future occurring simultaneously in the mind of the moment. The photograph, which I kind of take for granted each morning when I look at it, threw me backwards to a time long ago. My life had come apart and blame was easy. My failed marriage wasn’t my fault, nor were the heart scars it left with my sons. I look at the picture today and it doesn’t feel the same. In the forty some odd years, my perspective has changed and I own it.
I am no longer a young guy, feeling way over his head in a world of grownups, who seemed so certain about themselves. Back then, I felt like I was pretending and had endless excuses, avoiding responsibility for my choices. There is nothing more unattractive than a perpetual victim, convinced the world is happening to him.
Please forgive me, but I have to stop for a few minutes. You must listen to Richard Thompson sing, 1952 Black Vincent Lightening To Ride, a tale he is singing right now. It fits this moment perfectly, a romanticized young love with an ending that is so sad and yet filled with promise. The photograph is its own perfect dream, the eternal happiness of youth, peppered with hope and expectation.
i should be stoned out of my gourd right now, but I am not. Excuses get lost in smoke and when the air clears, the rock of responsibility enters, the consequences of actions. At the same time, the last thing I want to sound like is some guy, who has suddenly been blinded by the light of truth and all is clear from here to the horizon. However, there is a difference between being high and being straight, whatever the hell that word means.
I bounced around a little, a tendency of mine. The photograph brought back a slew of memories and a way of engaging the world that stopped working for me a long time ago. I am also tempted to slap an advisory on this piece and anyone I have ever written or will write. If I ever sound like I know something you don’t, I want you to please tell me how stupid that sounds and don’t be kind.
Thank you.