So, I'm listening to some of the back catalog today, stuff I haven't listened to in years. Stuff that puts me squarely into a very specific place and time and context. That is what is so significant about music in my life, it's what what the music does to me. In this case I am transported back to The Zone®, Smelly Hell®, and a kingdom very few comprehended then or now.But philosophical questions arise when we stimulate our memory cells. You know the kind: As if the Great Gazoo took you literally one day and conjured up a time machine and goes, "so are you ready to go back in time, master?" The brain is a powerful tool [Uncle Ty's advise: don't waste it on nonsense, kids].
Warning: if you're a tldr type, then you should just go away now because I'm just warming up in this riff. I have the headphones on and a cup of coffee as my right hand man. Hell, Rich just sent Ween at Red Rocks videos. I got time. ADHD I'm not and for the internets record, multi-tasking is dead. TLDR? Suck an onion, will ya'?
Time is wonderful and time is horrible. Time is our context. Through time, the universe talks to us...
Like today, Trace told me about a situation from over the weekend. You know, Gerhardt Fuchs fell down an elevator shaft and died [clicky]. 34 years-old. Just like when Ania died the very same way in Philly a couple of years back. I mean, rhetorically, how many people fall down elevator shafts to their death?Anyhow, perhaps it's a good time to revise our wills and revisit our manifestos. Noting major. Tweaks. For instance: with regard to will, I'm seriously considering making a fundamental change. My plan was to be inexpensively cremated with ashes discarded via common disposal; organs made available on a first-come basis. Now, I'm pondering research cadaver donation.
Like today, I was reflecting that Saturday was my father's birthday. As I reflected on that The Game's song "Like Father, Like Son" came on the shuffle. Rhetorically, how does that happen? Like father like son. I love my father but perhaps we are too fundamentally alike rather than different. Sean was instrumental in working this issue. Much gratitude.
Like today, I had to reconcile a whole lot of feelings with regard to the good old days and where we take the train in the future. Through time, the universe talks.
As Helen says, perhaps I can help several live via organ donation but maybe I can help many learn via cadaver donation. Learn trumps live, right? It's all vehicle to prolong our existence anyway. Let's not pretend to be selfless and altruistic anymore.
With regard to manifesto, the further I travel with my work, the more I understand certain things. I am understanding, mostly, what is important. As an artist. As a person. As a observer. As a mentor. As a collaborator. What is important to me is my fucking work; all of it. Every unfocused, random thing about it. And I ain't a doing it for you. I'm doing it for me. It's why the aforementioned "back catalog" exists. I'm glad somebody enjoys it. I'm ecstatic somebody understands it. There are very few people I even want to work with anymore and I don't have to tell anyone who they are because they know who they are. I'll just work with them. The supporting cast will ebb and flow as always.
Where I once distilled what I wanted from life to three things I now distill to one: I'm just going to do what I do, artistically. My work is important to me. Essential. So I'm moving forward with my superstar-guru-one man show traveling snake oil carnival. And I might very well be selfish sometimes.
I have Middlespace of America to execute. And now I have the album bug to satisfy. I just have lost the passion for Johnny Drama. Let's make stuff instead.
Thanks for listening to me whine-ramble like that. Next time just tell me to STFU or something. But I got shit to do. And it'll all be right here whether you want it or not.
"There are no more street preachers, just bloggers."
- Seany Hi-Def, paraphrased
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