Tag: Isaac Dust

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Memories, dreams, reflections

[A snippet from a writing project in gestation, which will probably make very little sense if you haven’t read these other snippets: Square one, No importa, New tables, Belly of the beast, & No turning back]

Fortunately I managed to transcribe a good bit of the Scroll of Charmin before it disappeared. Yes, one moment it was resting peacefully atop my new refrigerator, the next it was in the back seat of Jesús’s car, bouncing around on its way back to the ocean town from whence it came. Of course, it was never mine to begin with, and how could I expect Jesús to know how much the thing meant to me. I can’t even say, “Pass the rice” in Spanish, much less communicate the idiosyncratic intricacies of my creative process. Shit, I can’t even make sense of all that in English. He knew I had already read through the thing, so naturally he thought to return it to his nephew on his next trip to the coast. I say “naturally,” as if we’ve all seen how people handle rolls of toilet paper inscribed in a foreign language! Anyway, I’m already planning a trip to the coast myself, not only to transcribe the rest of the roll, if possible, but also to see if there is anything else like it kicking around town, or any other clues related to the author’s existence or identity. I’ve started referring to him as Mr. Whipple (“Don’t squeeze the Charmin!”). I’m still thinking “archeology grad student trying his hand at short fiction,” but I can’t completely quiet that itty-bitty voice whispering, “What if Whipple’s for real?” If it were to turn out that some dude was (or even still is) being held against his will in some makeshift prison, well, then I’d feel pretty shitty about ignoring his cry for help. Also, however much I hate to admit that I’m thinking along these lines, I can’t deny that the whole thing would make a pretty good story for me to write about. Truly extraordinary.

Anyway, I did manage to jot down a bit more of Whipple’s message-in-a-bottle. Some of what follows seems a bit too lighthearted, if I am to believe that it was penned by someone held captive, terrified, and nursing a head injury. Again, not that I could possibly know how a person would “naturally” behave under such extraordinary circumstances, but still, it’s hard to buy into the narrative with all these red flags cropping up. See for yourself:

I’ve spent a lot of time in front of mirrors. Too much time. As a kid I would make faces, practice impressions, and make believe I was on TV. My sister and I sometimes played the “News Game,” whereby we would sit on my parents’ bed, facing their big dresser mirror, and pretend to be television news anchors. We’d begin by delivering the news straight-faced – “The weather will be sunny today; the Yankees beat the Red Sox 4-3 in extra innings” etc. Then, without warning, one of us would start acting like a maniac – screeching, laughing, making silly faces, bouncing around the bed – until the two of us burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

Once puberty hit, I’d spend interminable stretches in front of the bathroom mirror, picking at zits and fooling with my hair. Even as an adult my family makes fun of me for spending so much time staring at myself. My mother says I’m like Dorian Gray, checking each day to see if the devil is keeping his end of the bargain.

As you might expect, there’s no mirror here in the cell, no reflective surface at all, in fact. My beard’s coming in full and it itches like crazy. I’m curious what it looks like, what I look like. Considering the memory issues and the cloudy, surreal ambiance, I’m not entirely sure I’d recognize my reflection as my own. This thought terrifies me, bringing to mind a recurrent childhood nightmare. I’d dream I was in the middle of a casual conversation with my father when all of a sudden I’d notice a slight change in his facial features. He still looked almost exactly like himself, but something was slightly off, as if a look-a-like actor had sneaked in to take his place while I glanced away for a moment. The realization that this man was not really my father, was an imposter, would shake me awake with fear, set my heart pounding, my lungs gasping for air.

This whole fucking thing has got to be a bad dream. Nothing makes sense. I am a man without a face, without a voice, without a clue. Perhaps I’m dead, waiting in some sort of antechamber as a jury of angels and devils deliberate on the state of my soul. Perhaps there’s such a long delay because the swing vote is in the hands of a mixed breed, a devil-angel with pitchforks for wings who’s prone to epileptic fits and extended periods of catatonic stupor. Or maybe I’m already in hell, and El Diablo really is just the devil in disguise, fattening me up for slaughter with his flavorless gruel.

But why not be optimistic, right? Who’s to say this isn’t heaven? After all, nobody’s strung me up by the toenails yet, or branded my backside with the sign of the beast. Maybe there are seventy-two virgins in the cell next to mine, very quietly primping, readying themselves for the official induction orgy, tentatively scheduled for next Saturday.

Or better yet, perhaps I’ve been bitten by a very rare form of psychedelic insect, or a toad maybe, whose venom has set me wildly tripping, distorting all sense of time and place, and in reality I’m just sitting on a rock alongside a hiking trail, holding on to my wife’s hand as we wait for the effects to wear off.

Shhh… The devil in disguise approaches… He speaks, with a forked tongue: “Ocho mesas” – not a word more, then he slithers back toward the steaming shadows…

I’ve been thinking about it all day. “Ocho mesas.” Eight tables? I think not. And my “new” table never did arrive, undoubtedly because it wasn’t new, but rather “nine.” “Neuve,” of course, is “nine” while “neuv-o,” if memory serves, is “new.” What a difference a letter makes. You thought you bought a farm, but what I actually sold you was a fart. Didn’t you catch a whiff while we were shaking on it? Don’t beat yourself up, though. It was a mistake anyone could make, but sorry, all sales are final.

Now, I can’t be sure just yet, but if El Diablo says “siete mesas” about thirty days from now, then my suspicion will be confirmed – he’s counting down. And probably by months rather than tables. So, if the Final Jeopardy answer is “Nine months,” then what, pray tell, is the Final Jeopardy question?

Me: “Well Alex, I’ll have to go with ‘What’s the time I need to serve in this prison cell before I’m released a free man?’”

Alex: “I’m sorry, that’s incorrect. How much did you wager? Everything? My apologies.”

Me: “No wait, I meant to say: The time I have to wait before the big Welcome to Heaven orgy.”

Alex: “I’m sorry. You forgot to put your response in the form of a question.”

Me: “Fuck you, Alex, you smarmy bastard!”

Alex: “Thank you for playing. The correct response is ‘How long before you hang from the toenails for all eternity.’ Bwa ha ha ha ha…”

I always suspected Alex Trebeck was the anti-Christ, but in all seriousness, I could be waiting to mount the gallows. It’s doubtful they’ve locked me in here to protect me from myself. I don’t remember any men in white coats or Thorazine injections. Then again, I don’t remember anything at all.

It’s strange how desperately I want this all to be real–a man’s pain, suffering, confusion, terror–just so I can feel special by association. After all, the Scroll found its way to me. It’s my destiny we’re talking about here, my salvation. But it has to be the genuine article–at the very least based on a true story–or else I’m just being taken for a ride.

What’s real is what matters. It’s all that matters. It’s like the divinity of Jesus to the faithful. It makes all the difference who you think the real father is: God, or some woodworker named Joe.

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No turning back

[A snippet from a writing project in gestation, which will probably make very little sense if you haven’t read these other snippets: Square one, No importa, New tables, & Belly of the beast.]

It’s a quiet, comfortable evening here on the pueblo. There’s a heavenly breeze blowing through the window and Molly and I have settled into our pre-bedtime “routine.” I had to use quotation marks because our routines change frequently with the ever-changing circumstances. We don’t have electricity in the room per se, just an extension cord coming from their living room. There’s a light bulb hanging from a nail on the wall across from our bed. It provides enough light for basic circumnavigation, but not enough to read by, so for the past few nights, after we take showers and brush our teeth and whatnot, we wind down by playing on the computers and/or listening to the iPods. Last night a neighbor lent us a DVD, in English, of Bring it on Again, a B-movie sequel to the dopey cheerleader flick Bring it on. Back home, I wouldn’t watch either one of these films under any imaginable circumstances, but I have to admit, last night I couldn’t have enjoyed the movie more had it been directed by Francis Ford Coppola. Bring on that English! How sweet it was to relax my comprehension muscles and simply let familiar words funnel into my ears.

The bed is a multipurpose piece of furniture, serving as a place to sleep as well as acting as the sofa and general “thing to throw shit on.” I pulled it about a foot away from the wall, as I’m still a little jumpy about creepy crawlies. I had another run-in with a big, furry spider, this time in the front pocket of my backpack. My reactions to such things border on the ridiculous, but I simply can’t keep them in check. Something buzzes or crawls by me and I jump up, dance around a little, then grab a flip-flop from my foot and assume the pummeling position. In many respects this is becoming my default response to life’s daily challenges.

Tomorrow, Molly will “present” herself to the local government officials and begin some legwork on her research project. The meeting is subject to the rules of “Mexican time,” which means there’s a good chance it won’t happen at all. Such things used to trouble me more, before we got our refrigerator. This morning we had cold milk with our Raisin Bran. If I can count on leche fria, I just might make it through this.

The widespread poverty presents us with daily ethical dilemmas. We have a limited supply of money for food and basic necessities—grant money from the research foundation. Our own meager savings is paying for storage back in the U.S. We simply can’t afford to support our host family. That was never part of the deal. We can’t do it, or we’ll run out of money, forcing us to return to the U.S. before Molly can complete her data collection, which is slated to take nine months. So we had to stop having dinner with them every night, because night after night we ended up paying for all the food (despite clear, repeated agreements to split the cost). Although I’m no longer going to bed hungry, the new arrangement has created an awkward dynamic. The fact is, some nights they don’t eat. Tonight, it turns out we had enough to offer them some leftovers, but this hasn’t always been and won’t always be the case. I hate to think of the kids eating cheese doodles for dinner, but we can’t feed them every day. We just can’t do it.

Molly says she will “work it out” – her standard reply to my incessant whining and worrying. I know she’s keeping them financially afloat somehow, under my radar, but at this point I’m just going to have to accept my powerlessness in this strange universe. Some things refuse to be pummeled into submission.

*

It’s early Saturday morning and I’m enjoying two of my favorite pastimes: reading Henry Miller and swatting insects. Molly bought me the fly swatter in town, after she met with the government officials about doing her research. I can feel the sense of powerlessness giving way to strength of will. I am now an active participant in my environment. Things buzz and creep and swoop and I, in response to each and all, swat. I’m ruthless, too, stalking my adversaries with the patience and alacrity of a Venus flytrap. “Alacrity” – such a word only comes to me when I’m reading Miller. It’s hard to believe it’s been over ten years since I first stumbled across Tropic of Capricorn in the laundry room of my apartment complex in San Francisco, an event that more than any other ushered me into the world of art and creativity.

The dryer cycle had only a few minutes to go and my jeans were still a little bit damp, so I popped in another quarter to buy some time. I rummaged through a pile of old paperbacks setting on the table beside the washer. Miller’s name jumped out at me because my brother was always raving about him. Other than what I was forced to swallow in high school (I literally would rather have eaten the pages of Beowulf than read them), I had read almost nothing in the way of literature. But as I flipped to a random passage in Capricorn, I found myself becoming intrigued by Miller’s unconventional use of language. It was all over the place, flung onto to page stream-of-consciousness style, with seemingly little concern for standard fare like plot or character development. I was fascinated. It was intoxicating, really, and despite feeling slightly disoriented by the style, there was an unmistakable sense of life flowing through his words. This was living, breathing, pulsating prose that inspired, made me feel more awake, more connected to the world both around and inside me. My jeans were burnt around the edges before I roused myself from my trance, enthralled by this strange and tantalizing experience. I couldn’t put the book down for days.

In retrospect, I can see now that I was on the threshold of the about-to-be-known, like when, at the age of twelve or so, I would stay up late to watch dirty movies on HBO. At that point, I didn’t quite “get” the world of sex, but I knew I was onto to something big, something compelling and all-consuming. There was that palpable yet inscrutable sense of “No turning back.” And so it was with Miller’s world of creative self-expression.

It’s amazing how quickly I transformed from a person possessing not a spark of creativity to one who would come to place an almost supreme value on the creative process. Seemingly overnight I began reading voraciously, writing on an almost daily basis. I grew my hair long, bought a 1971 VW Bus, learned to play guitar and started writing songs. Family and old friends seemed at turns amused and baffled by the sudden change of persona. Mysteriously yet unmistakably, those first few flourishes of Miller’s Capricorn set me on a course I had hitherto neither considered nor even imagined.

Eventually I broke through to a whole new perspective on life, or perhaps it was rather I who was broken down, made more receptive in some way. I only know this: I was moved. Movement! Life! Somehow that’s it, the heart of the matter, although I can’t explain it anymore than I could tell my high school teacher what Beowulf was about. Of course, had I been assigned Miller in high school I probably would have disregarded him along with the rest. They say that when the student is ready, the teacher appears. I was ready for Miller at twenty-six and not before. Now, a decade later, just as I was beginning to fear that there might not be any more big surprises, any more soul-shaking discoveries, a man named Jesús hands me a roll of toilet paper and a new course is set.

No turning back.

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Echoes

I was just fooling around with some guitar effects, still trying to figure out how to use the equipment I’ve owned for like, seven years or so. I stumbled on some cool echoey sound and played a simple descending progression to see how it would sound recorded. I liked it, so I layered on a few more tracks. It ended up sounding like this:

Pieces,
I see pieces of
All the promises that I used to love
Sometime
Down the line
I’ll be free
I’ll be fine

Echoes,
I hear echoes of
All those useless words that I let go of
Memories
Fantasies
While the fire dies within me

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Little one hang in there

There are songs that I come to again and again, that I never tire of, that I turn to when I need to tune up and tune in. Many of these songs were written by my friend Brian Hall, including this one:

Little one hang in there by Isaac Dust

Away from here (Little one hang in there)
[Written by Brian Hall]

You were brought into this world unknowing
as innocent as you ever would be
and I’m fearful of the changes you must go through
’cause soon we all must face reality

Who’s gonna be your father figure
now that daddy’s not around
and who’s gonna hold your lovely mother
who’s gonna pick her up when she gets down

So little one hang in there
for the light is shining brighter on the other side
please know that I care
and if I could I’d take you for a ride
away from here
far away from here

Life does not come with how to instructions
Looks like we’ll have to make out on our own
Sometimes we don’t find out that we are lost
until we’ve traveled a thousand miles from home

So little one hang in there
for the light is shining brighter on the other side
please know that I care
and if I could I’d take you for a ride
away from here
far away from here

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On the run

Gonna pack up all my things
I’m on the run again come the morning
Gonna cover up my tracks
I’m never looking back come the morning.

Why do I run?
Why do I run?
Why do I run when I’ve only just begun?

The sharpest knife can’t cut you out
In the dead of night your eyes still haunt me
Like a photograph through broken glass
You’re under my bed
Behind the mask.

So why try
when I know
I’ll never get it right?
Why did I go?
I’ve only just begun.

It was never if
but when
I’d come crawling back again one summer morning
Guess I’m never gonna learn
to let that fire burn through the morning.

Why do I run?
Why do I run?
Why do I run when I’ve only just begun?

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Change

A life filled with days of constant struggle, desperately trying to catch a creative wave and ride it home. I haven’t made it yet, but then again, I haven’t drowned yet either…

Change by Isaac Dust

Change
Another tap has been kegged
The question is begged
Wherever you go
they all want to know
A battle of steel
A final appeal
But is it a crime
to step out of time?

Maybe I’ll crack,
but the wind’s at my back
Some things don’t change
when everything changes

Another sun’s on the rise
in the back of my mind
Above I’m awake
but below I am sleeping
I wake up undressed
Guess I’m under arrest
But is it a crime
to take what is mine?

Maybe I’ll crack,
but the wind’s at my back
Some things don’t change
when everything changes
Don’t ever change…

Have you ever been dreaming
you were singing a song
and you wake up to find
you can still hum along?
The words quickly fade
but the melody lingers forever
Yeah, forever

Maybe I’ll crack,
but the wind’s at my back

[Put your hand upon my heart
Do you feel anything?
I don’t feel anything at all…]

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Unwinding

I do a very idiosyncratic meditation practice of sorts that has evolved over many years — a little song and dance I call “unwinding.” Basically, I just lie on the floor, on my back, and do nothing. I inhibit any and all voluntary movements as I wait for anything that feels involuntary, any movement that feels as if it’s happening of its own accord. For the first several minutes I may only get a few twitches, but eventually, if I tune in enough, a whole series of movements will begin to emerge, and I follow them wherever they go, as long as the sense that it’s all “just happening” is driving the action. After a while, I might be bouncing all over the room, or end up on top of the refrigerator (this has actually happened!).

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

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Breakthrough (Take two)

I tried a little something different with this tune, i.e. laying down some bass, electric guitar and drum tracks first, then doing the acoustic guitar and vocals live over those pre-existing tracks. The synching of the video and audio is slightly off, but what can you do…

I actually recorded a version of this song a few years ago. As I blogged at the time, I had just flown to New Jersey from Mexico to have knee surgery, and I didn’t have access to a guitar. So I wrote and recorded this tune using a keyboard and the GarageBand software on my laptop. This is one of those tunes that just came to me fully formed from out of the blue. I took the photo above moments after that first recording, holding my crutches out in front of me like the prison bars they had become. Having been through four knee injuries and three surgeries, I’m hoping those fuckers don’t come out of the closet again any time soon. Anyway, as with all my creative projects, this song continues to morph as the years unfold. Perhaps next time I’ll just whistle over a beat box…

Breakthrough
I woke to the birds and the best of intentions.
I tried every way I knew to express them.
I get on the train and it’s taking me somewhere
Away from myself…
Away from this cell.

But I can’t get away from you.
I lock all the doors but you still break through.

Where did the time go? How did I get home?
When did I get old? Show me the slideshow.
Somebody told me: “It’s all as it should be.”
So I’ll keep on hiding, just so you can find me.

But I can’t get away from you.
I lock every door but you still break through.

Here’s the “album version” (i.e. mixed and trimmed), with an intro from the ghost of Alan Watts:

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11 Things

Reverb 10 Prompt (from Sam Davidson): What are 11 things your life doesn’t need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life?

Okay party people, I won’t try to fake you out with this one. I needed a break from staring at shiny rectangles, and a song descended from the Great Unknown, demanding to be birthed into some form of existence. There are only so many hours in the day, so I’m gonna have to half-ass my response to the prompt. To make up for it, I will perform the song for you (via the trusty iMac I got for my 40th birthday!). As an added bonus, at the end of the song I tagged on a cover of Bad Bone by The Frames, just for the heck of it (which is why it’s such a long video clip). Anyhoo, 11 things I can do without…

1) Triscuits: Especially the Cracked Pepper and Olive Oil kind. I just ate a box for dinner.
2) Self-imposed isolation: Gotta mingle with other humans more often.
3) Playing on the computer after 9pm: Last night I tweeted in my sleep.
4) Watching television: I don’t watch much now, but admittedly I watch crap online all the time, which is pretty much the same thing.
5) The belief that I don’t need any insurance whatsoever: While I very rarely get sick (like, once every few years), I am an old man now, so I probably need one of those rubber-glove-up-the-wazoo exams at some point.
6) The belief that I’m an old man: Seriously, I need to drop that one immediately. I know damn well that I look and feel great for my age, and when I think about it for even a minute I realize with certainty that I’m better in every way now than at any other point in my life. Except maybe when it comes to sports.
7) My resistance to hard work: I prefer to go with the flow, but sometimes you have to bust ass.
8) My crippling fear of rejection: Dude. You’re f-ing 40 years old already! Get over yourself!
9) My avoidance of friendships with women: I’m afraid of what will happen if sexual attraction rears its head (so to speak), which with me is almost unavoidable. Is it possible for such a friendship to be charged and intense, but not lead to anything that could jeopardize my good standing with my wife? I wouldn’t know, because I maintain my distance to such an extreme than any sort of close friendship with another woman is impossible.
10) My belief that people, for the most part, are ignorant, cowardly a-holes who refuse self-awareness at every turn in favor of distraction and empty pursuits: I’ve been working on this one a lot lately. Everyone’s doing the best they can with the cards they’ve been dealt and I am no better than anyone. When I choose to see people as basically good-natured, everybody is much happier.
11) My tendency to wait for good things to happen instead of putting myself on the line to make them happen.

I will work on all of these things by keeping up with my core spiritual practices: Creative expression, authentic relationships, mindfulness meditation, somatics (body-centered stuff), self-reflection and critical inquiry. And singing songs:

Don’t lose your head
Don’t
Don’t focus on the pain
You’ll only make it worse
You’ll drive yourself insane
If I don’t get there first
You’re standing on the edge
Without a parachute
I’ll see you on the ground
Enjoy the ride
[Don’t lose your head]
So
How many have I loved
How many never knew
I kept it to myself
Then gave it all to you
And now that you are gone
There’s nothing left to lose
So I’m back here on the edge
Here goes nothing
[Don’t lose your head]

Bad Bone [Glen Hansard]
There’s a bad bone inside me
All my trouble started there
All the cracks are adding up to be
A little more than you can bear
When I met you, you were bitter still
From a scar you’re never gonna show
And I was cursed with a jealousy
It’s killed every love I’ve ever known
And oh, what’s the point in staying still
When there’s so many places we can go
When the anger that you feel
Turns to poison in you soul
And the cracks you only feel
Start to show
You were waiting on the balcony
And I was sleeping in your bed
You said I pleased you only partially
But I knew my hunger would be fed
And oh, what’s the point in holding out
For a love that only will destroy
When the anger that you feel
Turns to poison in your soul
And the cracks you only feel
Start to show
And oh, all my thoughts of getting clear
And of getting out before my time
Have died with you upon the vine

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Drive all night

I’m still in my Glen Hansard phase, spending way too much time watching/listening to every bit of him I can find on YouTube. A few weeks ago I saw this video of Hansard, Markéta Irglová, and Colm Mac Con Iomaire sitting around a tree in Milano, Italy playing a cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Drive all night”. I was never a big Springsteen fan and I’d never heard the song before, but I was just blown away. I immediately downloaded the original version from Bruce’s album “The River”, and was not disappointed. I hadn’t realized the song “Hungry Heart” was also on that record. That song was in heavy rotation at the Frear Park ice rink in Troy, New York back in the early 1980’s, and it’s impossible for me to hear it without vividly recalling the sound of skates scraping the ice, and the sensation of cool air streaming across my face as I whizzed around, zig-zagging between slower skaters, trying to impress some doll-faced girl wrapped up in a pink scarf with matching mittens. There was also hot chocolate in the vending machine and absolutely no chance I’d want to stop skating when it was time to go. It would be nearly thirty years before I’d hear any more of that Springteen album, but it was certainly worth the wait.

Since I can’t get the song out of my head and can’t stop playing it whenever I pick up my guitar, I saw no harm in hitting the RECORD-button last night. Although I haven’t yet received permission from The Boss to post this online, I’m sure he won’t lose sleep over it…

Drive all night
When I lost you honey sometimes I think I lost my guts too
And I wish God would send me a word
send me something I’m afraid to lose
Lying in the heat of the night like prisoners all our lives
I get shivers down my spine and all I wanna do is hold you tight

CHORUS
I swear I’ll drive all night just to buy you some shoes
And to taste your tender charms
And I just wanna sleep tonight again in your arms

Tonight there’s fallen angels and they’re waiting for us down in the street
Tonight there’s calling strangers,
hear them crying in defeat.
Let them go, let them go, let them go,
do their dances of the dead (let’em go right ahead)
You just dry your eyes girl, and c’mon c’mon
c’mon let’s go to bed, baby, baby, baby

CHORUS

There’s machines and there’s fire waiting on the edge of town
They’re out there for hire but baby they can’t hurt us now
Cause you’ve got, you’ve got, you’ve got,
you’ve got my love, you’ve got my love
Through the wind, through the rain, the snow, the wind, the rain
You’ve got, you’ve got my, my love
heart and soul

Copyright © Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP)

[The photo above is a tree that I walk past every day on my way to and from work. Anyone familiar with Franklin Street has probably seen it. Reminds me of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”.]