The prisoner is not the one who has committed a crime, but the one who clings to his crime and lives it over and over. We are all guilty of crime, the great crime of not living life to the full. But we are all potentially free. We can stop thinking of what we have failed to do and do whatever lies within our power. What these powers that are in us may be no one has truly dared to imagine. That they are infinite we will realize the day we admit to ourselves that imagination is everything. Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything God-like about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything.

It seems the fog of amnesia has settled over me, again. Yes, I’ve been over this ground before, I’m certain of it. Whatever is being communicated to me is something I already… fucking… know. Been here, done this. And yet…

Until the age of 30, the rules of the game were simple: every thought, emotion and action of any significance was wrapped up in the grand project of finding “the one” who would love me the way I needed to be loved. With each “failed” relationship, I understood a little more about the folly of such a project. At 40, I can note — with more than a little gratitude — how each morning I emerge from sleep to the joyful discovery that I am not alone. In fact, I wake up each day to the knowledge, rather unsettling at times, that I presently have everything the 30-year-old me ever truly wanted, and everything that any human being could reasonably hope for. And yet…

Am I spoiled rotten? Have I gotten too soft? Perhaps my edges were forged by the years of burning angst and the constant hammering of struggle and failure. It’s as if I don’t know how to be… comfortable.

Maybe I’ll invent a new game, create a new project and lose myself again in the drama of it all. Maybe I’ll stop all this navel-gazing and focus my creative energies on those less fortunate, those who would consider it a luxury to wrestle with my itty-bitty demons. Trouble is, I’ve been there too. I’ve been the martyr and the saint. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve been over every inch of this territory, wherever the hell I am. It’s just that my tracks have been covered up, and I can’t remember for the life of me what it was I discovered here that seemed so earth-shattering at the time.

Whatever it was though, it was somewhere deep down.

Better start digging.

The sense I get during these movement meditations is that I’m literally unwinding various patterns of tension and inhibition, like the way a twisted rubber band will follow its way back to its slack form in precisely the reverse pattern with which it became twisted. At the end of this unwinding I feel incredibly clear and free, and I’m often showered with insights for hours.

Of course, it’s not always a super-intense experience, as the whole thing is about dropping into what’s actually going on in my body, not about trying to make something cool happen (although admittedly I’ve fallen into that trap many times). For whatever reason, I only do this practice every once in awhile, when I feel particularly compelled, which is usually when I’m particularly wound up. (Inconveniently, this has tended to be at like, three in the morning.) It’s only recently that I’ve explored this on a regular basis. That’s because it’s only recently that I’ve had the time to regularly indulge in such extended periods of purposeless. In so many ways, this “no job” period has been far more glorious than I imagined it would be. I know it won’t, can’t, and probably shouldn’t last forever, but I definitely can see myself getting in the habit of taking these extended “me retreats” more often in the future, should I continue to be so fortunate.

On the surface it might seem a bit self-indulgent to spend so much time navel-gazing, so to speak, but in my experience the benefits of such sustained inner focus usually extend far beyond my little Bob-o-sphere. Disconnection from my deepest intentions leads to disconnected experiences, disconnected actions, disconnected habits, disconnected relationships. Any investment I make in reconnection leads to, well… reconnection. It’s as simple as that. In short, the quality of my experiences–i.e. of my life–has always depended, in large measure anyway, on the quality of attention I’m able to bring to any given situation. Taking the time to truly unwind (as opposed to getting pleasantly distracted from being wound up) has consistently led to increased clarity of attention, refinement of sensitivity, deepening of self-awareness and, ultimately, a greater capacity for open-hearted communion with my fellow humans.

Or I’m just being self-indulgent. Who the fuck knows…

Anyhoo, I’m not sure how I got on that tack when really I just wanted to drop by the ol’ blog to post my recent cover of Roy Orbison’s “Crying”, which has until now been confined to Facebook and Twitter. “The Big O” was one of the first musical voices I heard growing up, as both my parents were huge fans. This song got lodged somewhere deep in my marrow before I knew a thing about heartbreak. When I recorded this the other day I wasn’t thinking about any of the numerous girls who crushed my corazon over the years, but rather of this town in which I’ve felt very much at home for eight years of my life, and to which I must now bid adieu. Sweet, sweet Carrboro, you will be missed…

Crying by Isaac Dust

Now I know I’m not dead yet, that I’m healthy and likely to have many good years ahead of me, and that no one near forty (or older) wants to hear anything but positive spin when it comes to aging. Wisdom, and all that. But the brown spots are starting to show, and that fact means something to me. I’m not sure what it means, but I don’t want to gloss over it. I don’t want to turn away too quickly from the pangs of fear and wonder, from the slightly nauseating mysteriousness of it all. Birth, life, decay, death. Why not dwell on it a while? The times in my life that have been marked by the most personal growth have been those times when I’ve chosen not to turn away from uncomfortable feeling and thoughts. When I’ve stopped and turned toward what’s been nipping at my heels.

The last time I felt real terror was when I saw a man sneaking through the sliding glass door into my bedroom. It was about three in the morning, and it took me a moment to realize what was happening. When I finally realized a stranger has just broken into my home, I sprang up to my feet and, standing on the bed, I tried to scream. The sound that eventually came out of my mouth sounded like… well, I’m not really sure. Strangely, “a grizzly bear having an orgasm” is what comes to mind. Whatever it sounded like, it scared the doo-doo out of my wife, who had been snoozing soundly. In the end, the would-be burglar turned out to be my microphone stand, which I had set up a few days before. What does this has to do with turning forty? How the hell should I know? I’m only 39. For ten more days. But I’m guessing it has something to do with breaking the spell of illusion. Buddhists say our entire sense of self is an illusion. So who is it then, really, who’s turning forty? This physical organism? Scientists say that every cell in the human body is replaced every seven years, so that like a tornado or a whirlpool it’s really only the pattern that persists, not any particular object or thing. And everyone knows that each night we dream an entire universe into existence, only to forget about it before we’re done emptying our bladders the following morning.

Whoever “I” am, I was right about journaling. This is fun. But I was wrong about the banana. It turned out to be perfect. As far as taking pictures during my strolls through town, I’m not sure I have an eye yet for drawing out what’s most interesting:

My wife and I got to our hotel room (near Dulles Airport) late, crashed on the king-sized bed, and drove to the West Falls Metro station at about 9:30am Saturday. If not for the fact that thousands people were trying to get to the National Mall by noon, I’m sure we would have made it to the rally in plenty of time, as it’s only a twenty-five minute train ride from West Falls. As it turned out, however, the trip took us five hours, so we didn’t set foot on the mall until the rally was in its final few minutes. The crowd was unbelievably massive (the estimate of 250,000 sounds about right to me), and my wife and I are both under 5 feet 7 inches tall, so we saw and heard next to nothing that was happening on the main stage. What we did see was people. Lots and lots of people. People dressed in goofy costumes. People with goofy rally signs. People waiting in line to get into the Metro station. People waiting to get on the trains. People crammed into trains, pressed up against the walls and windows and each other like in a jelly jar full of gummy bears. The truth is, it was pretty insane. The truth is, we pretty much missed the rally and didn’t really know how it all went down until we got home late last night. And the truth is, neither one of us was too disappointed. We showed up, and somehow that felt like it was enough.

So I don’t have any personal photos to share, and I can’t share my reactions to the show Stewart and Colbert put on. I missed all that. I did take away a few important things from the experience, though. First, I feel a lot better about the state of our country and about the basic goodness of the people who live here. When we finally did manage to squeeze onto to the Sane Train heading for the mall, we found ourselves packed in a tiny corner, shoulder to shoulder with every type of person imaginable—men, women, children, black, white, brown, Asian, Middle-eastern. We all had sore feet and full bladders. We were all missing the rally. But we still were kind to each other, made room, gave up our seats, shared the streaming video on our smart phones. I’ve had phrases like “People are morons” and “People are assholes” bouncing around inside my skull for too long. It feels good to think to myself “People are basically decent and good at heart.” Second, I realize now more than ever that it’s far more fulfilling to take action when I’m inspired—even if the results are disappointing or even painful—than to wallow in cynicism or surrender to the pull of inertia. Better for me to enjoy or even suffer the consequences of pushing boundaries than to snooze away in the comfort zone. Finally, I have a renewed appreciation for my wife. She was super-busy, but made time to keep me company because she knew how inspired I was by the event. The day could’ve gone a lot smoother and we could have had a lot more fun, but we were there, together (along with about a quarter-million of our fine friends). Your welcome, Jon Stewart!

And thank you, Jon Stewart! The needle on my sanity meter is moving in the right direction (I hope).

Oh yeah… And while talking to my Mom on the phone this morning, strolling around the block telling her about the rally, a leaf hit me right in the chest, sticking there long enough for me to make the official catch. I still plan to take the tree-covered route tomorrow, but I won’t be concerned about which way the wind blows, or if it’s blowing at all. It’s all gravy now. You still might see me diving onto someone’s front lawn or running out into traffic to chase down a floating leaf. You might even see me chasing a few squirrels. But from here on in it’s just good sane fun.

A song that descended from the Great Unknown on January 2, 2008, while I was living in Mexico. I finally got around to singing it:

Go Beth, go catch your breath
Just slow things down a little bit
One day you’re gonna be okay
Just watch your worries float away
Like whispers on a breeze
Messages on stormy seas
Like memories of a dream
Nothing’s ever what it seems
Rest your weary heart

Wake up, my little sleepy head
You don’t wanna spend all day in bed
Get dressed, take a walk with me
We’ll watch the leaves fall from the trees
Like young hearts into love
A shooting star from high above
A tree onto the ground
And we’ll be there to hear the sound
And rest our weary hearts

[Narration: 1) Henry Miller, reading "Third or Fourth Day of Spring" from his book "Black Spring"; 2) Myself, talking to myself in "el cuarto", Mexico, 2008.]

“Never more loneliness than in the teeming crowd, the lonely man of the city surrounded by his inventions, the lost seeker drowning in the common identity”.

To me, Miller’s writing is–among other things–about transcendence through creativity and self-knowledge. He ends “Megalopolitan Maniac” with these words:

“Tomorrow you may bring about the destruction of your world. Tomorrow you may sing in Paradise above the smoking ruins of your world-cities. But tonight I would like to think of one man, a lone individual, a man without name or country, a man whom I respect because he has absolutely nothing in common with you—MYSELF. Tonight I shall meditate upon that which I am.”

Word.

These are the things that swirled through my head yesterday as I played around in the studio (I was pleasantly surprised I could play the instruments with only minor discomfort). I’ve also been thinking a lot about creativity, and how much I enjoy exploring a particular moment in time through music or writing. And my shoulder hurts like bloody hell, and it’s impossible to sleep for more than an hour at a time. Here’s what I recorded last night before fading out:

I was only 34 years old
when I thought I played my final show
But who was I to think I’d know when it was all over
I went away for 4 long years
and thought I conquered all my fears
But man you saw me shed those tears when it was all over
I got back up and hit the scene
to find out what it really means
The sleep ain’t always worth the dream when it’s all over
So many times the same old thing
I think I’m out but then I’m in
I thought I’d lost but I just might win

We watched it go under the bridge
There ain’t no sense denying it
And who’ll be left to give a shit when it’s all over
and said and done but I was never one to jump right in
but I might not see your face again
We can say goodbye or just say when

I’m trying to recall how many “last shows” I’ve played now. I’m pretty sure tomorrow will be my fourth. I remember like it was last month (it was actually two months ago) when I played my last last show. It was a Friday night at The Cave in Chapel Hill. We opened for Transportation (one of my all-time favorite local bands), who I’m sure were in fine form that night. Well, actually I’m not 100% sure, because I didn’t stick around for their set. Aside from being worn out from a draining work week, I was just not up for all the boozy-breath-stankin’ questions about why I was leaving the band. So I hitched a ride home, stuck my bass in the closet, and figured I might never again see the inside of a dive bar. Two months later, I’m getting ready to play another show, at a place actually called DIVEbar.

My wife has a job interview today. If they offer her the job, two months from now we’ll be moving to a town in Oregon 2842 miles away. If not, depending on other job offers, we might instead be heading to Pennsylvania, or Ohio, or West Virginia, or Tennessee, or Mexico. Of course, no job offers means we stay put for a while longer. Anything could happen. Who knows.

Come to think of it, the first rock concert I ever saw was on HBO in 1982. It was The Who’s “Farewell Tour,” and it was my introduction to rock and roll. To this day I still rock Who covers on the acoustic on a regular basis. Seven years after The Who’s last hurrah in ’82, I found myself at Giants Stadium in New Jersey cheering for my favorite rock band of all time — you guessed it, The Who. Funny how stuff like that happens. Anybody see the halftime show for this year’s Super Bowl? 28 freakin’ years after the old, washed-up geezers sang their supposed swan song, not only are they still alive (Okay, so only two of them are still alive) but they’re still performing as The Who. WTF?

So, after my last show tomorrow, I won’t be putting the bass in the closet. Minor Stars will be recorded and interviewed by a local TV station in early June. Technically that’s not a show, so I don’t think it will qualify as “Last Show #5.” But it might be the last time I play with Eric and Matt. It might be the last hurrah, the final farewell. Who knows…

I watched it with the volume muted, to keep up the appearance that I was working on the monthly accounting report. Eventually I did get to working on the report, and the day passed in an uneventful haze. A coworker gave me a ride home, which added about forty-five minutes of precious me-time to my evening. Once home, I decided to finally tackle the job of dismantling my condenser mic to figure out why it was no longer working properly. I was ready to give up more than once, but persisted in taking the mic apart then putting it back together, a process which miraculously resulted in the mic working once more like a charm. Relieved and self-satisfied, I headed off to bed, albeit a bit later than I would have liked.

As often happens, I popped awake at about 2am feeling restless and stiff. I fell into a meditative trance while loosening up my muscles with gentle, subtle micro-movements. After about twenty minutes of this, it happened. Again. A sense of clarity dawned on me so intensely that the last several months of waking life seemed like a coma by comparison. All the life issues I’ve been struggling with felt either completely resolved or else utterly unproblematic. I knew without a doubt what I needed to be doing with my life, how to refocus and realize my full potential and destiny. Part of this crystal clear life plan involved re-immersing myself in my study of Somatics and Integral Psychology, so I ran downstairs to look up a few books online. Flipping open my laptop I noticed a new email. It was from my father-in-law. He had written the obituary for his father, who has just passed away at the age of 94. I knew his father and felt a profound admiration for the man. When I married his granddaughter he gave me the honor of wearing and owning the wedding band he had worn on his finger throughout his more than fifty-year marriage to his wife, who had passed away a few years prior. Reading about the man’s long, full life made me feel even more intensely awake and committed to living my life full-throttle. I could hardly go back to bed at this point, so I picked up my guitar and began to strum a few chords. Within about thirty seconds a song idea came to me that promised to be my best ever creation. I quickly recorded the basic idea then jumped back in bed. It was about 3am by this time. Only an hour had passed, an hour I would normally spend dreaming and drooling.

This was not the first time I’ve caught a glimpse of crystal clear consciousness and I hope it won’t be the last. I knew it would fade. I knew the alarm clock would ring with cruel precision at 6am. I knew I’d have to drag myself through the day in a relative fog, and I knew that by the time I got home I’d barely have the presence of mind left to tap out a hasty blog post about the whole thing.

For whatever reason, I felt the need to post something on Twitter last night before I surrendered to unconsciousness:

I just woke up, as if from a coma of 10 years. Suddenly, everything is possible. Books, albums, written in my head. 3am. Back to sleep?

135 characters — five to spare… Life!