To The Man In The Arena

"It is not the critic who counts, nor the man who points how the strong man stumbled or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly...who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at best, knows the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."

Pincado, That Mythical Town

So, tonight i find myself in Pincado, the town where i was born, was raised, and from which i promptly fled in search of a better life when i knew i wasn't going to find it here, amongst the fields, forests, factories and, well, cheese. I've been in relentless persuit ever since. I have definitely made progress, i've definitely gotten closer, and i've definitely seen some things. I've even, on a few occasions, felt like i had arrived there, to that better life which i always wanted, but it always continues to elude me.

It's always a strange event to go home, to the place you are from, especially when being gone for a long time. That's where i find myself tonight. My parents look older, the house seems smaller, i feel a bit misplaced. These are all generally sad things to feel, especially on the night before Thanksgiving. For a brief moment i wonder how many more good years i have left of this, before it's gone. But then, of course, you can't think that way, can you. So i stop thinking that way. But it's still strange being here, in these walls. I used to do my Cheerio dance right over there, under the stairs, when i was a baby. I would upturn a bowl of Cheerios and then dance on top of them, to the delight of anyone lucky enough to catch me in the act. Yes there are pictures. This room i'm in right now, it used to be my bedroom. I lost my virginity in this room, i also felt the first pangs of real Loss in this room too. Now it's where my parents watch their favorite show, Lost, on TV. Funny huh? Yeah. Right above my head is where my first band used to practice, Dandylyon Whyne. Small town pop-punk at it's worst, that is until one Travis Pickard appeared in my life in a puff of smoke. But that is an entire other story. This whole house is one giant photo album. It's fun and painful to look at all at the same time.

It snowed heavily for the first time today. There are inches of it outside everywhere you look. This year has disappeared so quickly, in a matter of weeks it is going to be New Years Eve again, and last year's still seems like it was only a few months ago....I've been drinking whiskey tonight. I opened up the cupboard to look for chips, or some kind of salty snack, and Mr. Jack Daniels was there, looking at me....and i looked back. And i had this flashback to when i was a teenager, opening this same cupboard and seeing my parents stash of whiskies, which they NEVER OPENED...and i remembered secretly opening a bottle, and slowly over the course of a summer drinking from said bottle, a sip here, a small cupful there, always filling it up with water, to make it look like nothing was gone....and of course, you can only do that for so long before the whiskey starts to resemble something a little less than whiskey. But for some reason my parents never caught on, or decided to let it slide. Either way, tonight i find myself drinking whiskey, straight, out of a Garfield cup that shows him on a teeter-totter, saying to himself, "I'm not one who rises to the occasion.".....and yes, i replaced my stolen whiskey with fresh Pincado water.

Life has been good to me as of late, i cannot deny, though that slippery life i continue to search for still eludes me to this moment. I remain poor, and struggling to get through school, after all this time.....those that i truly care deeply for remain far away from me, for some reason, and are greatly missed, and i remain feeling incredibly unlucky and maybe even slightly cursed....i rarely get to see my family, the ones that know me best, and who i feel sadly distant from....and then of course there are my allergies....yikes.

But then there is Canada. We just had our first practice with our official drummer, Ryan. It was a magical, historical moment for me. After all these years of playing music with people and being in all sorts of bands, this was THE practice of a lifetime. We played through every song, with Ryan, for the first time, and it was flawless, it was like a dream, the kind of dream i would have when i was young and dreamt of being in a good band one day, and it was happening to me....somehow, without ever playing with us before, he knew each and every song and played them as though he had been playing them for years....we sounded real and full and right....i imagine that that is what the Beatles must have felt on more than one occasion....like what was happening in that room was rare and true and incredible....it was surreal and i felt like crying i was so happy, as did Joe and Saul and Aaron and Amy....i felt like i was 15 again and in love for the first time.....i felt like after all these years things were finally going right....added to that the fact that our first two shows were at The Magic Stick in Detroit, and went extremely well, and that we continue to get shows with great bands at great venues across this State, these things alone come close to almost making up for all of those things that i feel i am missing....almost.

I know you are out there somewhere tonight, doing what i can only imagine, shaping strange destinies and altering the course of small histories as you go....you, that elusive piece of the puzzle, that thing that i continue to reach for, in the dark, i can feel you as my fingers brush against you as you retreat further into the distance. We've met before, we almost had it figured out, you and i, and one day you'll fit into place and things will somehow all make sense, the puzzle will be complete, and i can go to bed at night and wake up every morning knowing that after all this time and after all this work and worry, that i at last have you, that life i have always wanted. At least i have to keep thinking so.

I guess sometimes you just feel like writing. Happy Thanksgiving.

Steven

Thistles, Thorns and Thumbs

I've been hanging out a lot lately with this season by the name of Fall. She is very nice to me. She is very colorful and bright. She is around here somewhere today. She makes me want to leave school and go home and spend the day in my basement writing songs and drinking coffee. Making mini-albums about silly things like birds that fly with wilted wings and die of broken things, like hearts.

Instead I'll sit and draw sketches of pictures of photographs of buildings that do not exist. This one cup of coffee will continue to not be enough. I will also sit and think about the apple, crackers and pbj sandwhich i brought with me to work today for dinner. Because I am already hungry.

Tomorrow there is an ArchiLecture here at school. The speaker is Syd Mead, the guy who designed the buildings, sets and worlds of Blade Runner, Aliens and Tron. I would be lying if I said I wasn't excited to hear what someone like that has to say. I am tempted to sneak in a flask of whiskey which to sip and relax with. Instead I will sneak in hot coffee and a donut.

Before kids came kid-dinosaurs who shopped in diamond candy
stores. Their mothers went berzerk.

Tom Waits, Abandoned Bus Stops in the Desert, Photographing Ghosts

Another dream of Tom last night. Joe and I were invited to his distant ranch somewhere in a part of the United States that never existed. When we arrive there is dust everywhere, and the yard is littered with old pickups and cadillacs. He comes out to greet us and his handshake is firm and fatherly. He smells like safety and god. He says some comforting things that only a perfect being would think of saying and leads us into his home. On the walls are old pictures, plaques, trophies for events that shouldn't exist. The place seems like the place where all good people go when they reach the end. There is a great sense of safety, calm and warmth. His wife, Kathleen, cooks us dinner. Some kind of steak or pork chop, gravy, heavy stuff. I'm so in love with this man I don't have the heart to tell him i'm a vegetarian and i DEVOUR the entire meal. My body understands this and does not rebel against me (thank you body). He takes me and Joe, who also devoured his meal, with a deep and overjoyed grin on his face, out to this abandoned part of town, to the post office, covered in dust, and leads us to a post office box. He pulls out a key from his front pocket and motions us over. He tells us we have to see this. He opens the box and it's suddenly morning and the Wise is meowing at me for his breakfast.

To photograph a ghost, stop picturing their face, and think of years ago.

She

She was born to be

a woman I would know.

The Stairway

The architect wanted to build a stairway
and suspend it with silver, almost invisible
guy wires in a high-ceilinged room,
a stairway you couldn't ascend or descend
except in your dreams. But first-
because wild things are not easily seen
if what's around them is wild-
he'd make sure the house that housed it
was practical, build two-by-four by
two-by-four, slat by slat, without ornament.
The stairway would be an invitation
to anyone who felt invited by it,
and depending on your reaction he'd know
if friendship were possible.
The house he'd claim as his, but the stairway
would be designed to be ownerless,
tilted against any suggestion of a theology,
disappointing to those looking for politics.
Of course the architect knew
that over the years he'd have to build
other things the way others desired,
knew that to live in this world was to trade
a few industrious hours for one beautiful one.
Yet every night when he got home
he could imagine, as he walked in the door,
his stairway going nowhere, not for sale,
and maybe some you to whom nothing
about it need be explained, waiting,
the wine decanted, the night about to unfold.

- Stephen Dunn