I always think about what I’m going to write and it’s not like I’m sitting with an endless list of subjects. After a memoir for my grandson, recounting most of my exploits, cutting off around seven years ago, followed by a blog with around 250 stories, I have covered my history pretty thoroughly. I also realize it’s idiotic to think that everyone, who reads one of my stories, has the read the book and every single post, while possessing a photographic memory. I also know that memory changes every time we visit our past. So, I could retell my adventures as I often as I like, but I can’t.
Revisiting my stories feels like cheating on an exam, which I know is stupid, but I just don’t like repeating myself, a silly hangup I can’t let go of. Each week, I never start out thinking, “Oh, I want to tell the story of my being a concert promoter in Santa Fe, NM”, which I am sure I’ve referred to a number of times, in detail and with glossed over references.
I’ll tell you something else about writers and all those, who feel obsessed to deal in forms of self-expression, they tend to be bit a pre-occupied with themselves. Honestly, I don’t know how else one could do this stuff, even my weekly posts drop me into the creative quicksand of “what shall I do next?”
Truthfully, what I like most of all is inviting you into my head and heart on a pretty regular basis. These are my footprints that can never be erased by time, my very modest attempt at immortality. The motivation has never changed for me. This whole life changing experience has always been about leaving my stories for my grandson, an act of love. I don’t know about you, but I really didn’t have the mileage to be curious about my inheritance from those who preceded me, most having crossed over before I had the life experience to appreciate their journeys.
I am not sure I have ever written in silence. The first day I sat down to write my memoir, the music was there and now it is always there. The very first time, I somehow had the crazy courage to begin this whole thing, I was actually on an airplane, flying back from Portland, OR. It was absolutely the only exception to this musical ritual of mine.
Of course, you might want to ask, “ Why the hell is he bringing this up now?” Well, I’m going to tell you. The ever present music has been louder than usual, because my neighbor has decided that Saturday afternoon is the perfect time to fire up their goddamn mower. I have grown to revel in silence, with music being the gloriously comfortable bed I can rest my words upon.
A couple of paragraphs ago, Leonard Cohen, in a recording from his later years, when he was forced to return to performing, because he had been ripped off by greedy bastards, began a song with the words, “I am so glad to be here on the other side of intimacy.” Music has always provided the magic carpet that picks me up when I pause. Thank you, Leonard, for the words that do the work for me. I love this kind of sharing.
I wanted to write this piece about joy, which feels in such short supply these days. It feels a bit schizoid to me, because I could write about it small or BIG. Truthfully, BIG is too BIG and way beyond my capability. It feels a bit fucked up to be writing about it and ignoring the world. When I look out at what is going on, far beyond the reach of my words, I feel a bit like a self-indulgent fool.
I am sitting at my computer, Pandora in the background, glass of wine at the ready, in my sweet little studio, on this make believe island of Kauai. I try and travel to places I cannot imagine, where suffering and depravity is every, suffocating moment. It could be on Lesbos or the childrens’ cages in Texas and I think to myself, with a Pavarotti accompaniment, how trivial am I?
This is its own kind of trap. I don’t ever want it to muzzle me from sharing. I got here, right now, because of an excerpt from a poem by Jane Hirshfield I read nearly a week ago. It got me going on this dual path of my own small reasons for writing and what I choose to write about.
“So few grains of happiness/measured against all the dark/and still the scales balance.
Yes, except we furnish both the grains and the scales. I alone can weigh/ the blue of my sky, you of yours.”
I only have domain over my own life and my rights end there. Still, it does feel like a bit of a luxury, knowing there is so much suffering for people in places I will never see for myself. I guess that is the trick for all of us, especially now. I cannot recall a more stressful time. This is exactly when we need to remember words from people like the Buddha, who devoted his life to finding meaning for our lives.
In the midst of this shit show, where do you find happiness? I think this is where you have to look away from the BIG and turn your attention to the small. I find it in moments, the sunrise, the Beatles, my son’s voice, my grandson’s face, being loved by a woman, in spite of myself, finishing one of these stories, or thinking back over the incredible richness of my life. It’s like turning your back on the world around you, fully facing and quietly embracing your life, lived until this moment. If you are one of the few people reading this story, you are blessed, simply because you can and certainly not because of the story. This very moment is a magnificent luxury. Take pause. Enjoy it.
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My podcast, Mind and the Motorcycle, is up and running. This week, I am talking about a real political nightmare. It’s about a very familiar, mythical country, a political parody a la Mel Brooks, told in the style of Princess Bride. The following week, I imagine running for President, setting in motion my vision for the world 100 years after Orwell’s 1984. It sounds pretty damn impressive, even to me!