Tonight's Enough - First Draft of New Song

Hey.

By my count, I've got two months to write four first drafts of songs for the hobo musical.
No small feat.

Here's the newest one. It's a PG-13 version of Pretty .  A grown up approach to how a hobo on the road might find small pockets of love. Sad and sweet and all that.

lyrics

first verse
stepping off the boxcar at the edge of town
face dirty and my coveralls a ruddy brown
heading to the barber college
for a shave and a shine
looking fine
dressing up in my cleaner working clothes
skip the brothel cuz a gentle heart always knows
theres a lover out there waiting
for a little time

chorus
tonights enough if you just start living
put your worries away
let your senses play
tonights enough for a prince or a beggar
in the quickening dark
hold your breath see a spark
tonights enough to be loved by another love

second verse
see you staring bear a grin and you look away
i tell a joke have a smoke listen as you say
never seen a stranger take an interest
in this little plain jane
wild as rain
were holding hands aint it grand
whisper in your ear
you turn to kiss and its bliss
crickets stop and cheer
rising up you lead me onward
to a quiet room

chorus

bridge
only together for an evening
sunrise and ill soon be on my way
still were delighting in the evening
in the shadows face to face well find
we are beautiful

third verse
see a sliver of the sun through the windowpane
i smell your hair and prepare listen for a train
getting dressed i watch you sleeping
shut the door behind
feel my heart unwind
tell myself this is living as im getting by
in another days time she wont even cry
after all she could do much better
than a bo like me

chorus

Mulligan Stew - First Draft of New Song

Hey.

This new song for the musical is super silly, but sweet.

In the hobo musical, Gilly is singing it to a puppet named Mortimer Montgomery (who's the stereotypical hobo, sooty-faced, bindle-wearing, etc)  Mortimer just spent the prior scene showing off all of the misconceptions about hobo culture and giving out bad advice in general.  Gilly uses this song to gently set him straight about what it means to be a hobo.

Here we go!

LYRICS

first verse

in the jungle evening descending
stirring up the embers intending
to brew
mul mulligan stew
get a can some water for boiling
bos will soon appear ripe for toiling
its true
mul mulligan stew
tween me and you
mul mulligan stew

chorus
meal of the moment
to stave off the torment
of life on the rails
its no other
sipping and smiling
with strangers beguiling
whove lived through the worst
sister brother

second verse

if youve got a carrot then share it
pinch of salt and bread go and tear it
to chew
with mulligan stew
pepper and potatoes for flavor
chicken in the mix breathe and savor
the hue
mul mulligan stew

chorus

third verse

staring at the moon washing dishes
only thing we own stock in wishes
we few
tasted mulligan stew
when a bo can give what theyre keeping
have it all combined see the reaping
ensue
thats mulligan stew
tween me and you
mul mulligan stew

chorus

mul mulligan stew

King of the Hoboes - first draft of a new song

Hey.

At the heart of it, an artist is an obsessive.

Some people can parse and place aside an idea or emotion, get to enjoying the flittering now. Find lovers, cultivate caring and mutually healthy relationships. Eke out contentment and be satisfied.

But an artist, their knuckles torn, their breath ragged, they grab onto these small ideas.  Revisit them again and again. Edit a poem sixty times. Sing seven seconds of a new song they're writing on a loop just to themselves for hours in a dank apartment, matted with mold from a broken ceiling and a burst pipe from the room upstairs. Switch up the tone, the lift of a word, auditioning a synonym.

The mold is scrubbed, the paint dries. It's acrid and it burns in the folds of the throat. Still singing, still alone. Coming to the moment where the song finally makes the musical concrete and active. Not a gimmick. But a honest elegy about losing not just a mentor and father figure, but a culture. A subset of society now bandied about in modern association as a joke.

This is a venerable sickness.

Here's the rough draft of the song.

lyrics

first verse
barefoot and twenty
not a nickel to my name
chicago winter out for blood
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
crying in a jungle
from the dark he called me close
asked me for my story
lent an ear
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
god he was clever
he was so damn clever
when i begged for change he shook his head
took off the boot he wore and gave them to me
with a smile and a piece of bread

second verse
at the hobo college
where i learned to read and write
james saw the hope i once forgot
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
saw us bos as people
this forgotten little tribe
travelled round the country
spreading joy
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
god he was simple
he was so damn simple
left a half a million to be free
the way he saw it
werent no point in having riches
coming by so easily

third verse
five days ago
in the middle of the night
he caught the westbound made his peace
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
lord you never made another man so loving kind
and now hes gone his body free
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
theyve got a service taking place this evening
volunteered to speak they want me mum
dont want your kind around
youre a blemish on his nature
just another filthy bum

fourth verse
and here im singing
bout a man who shaped the world
but you didnt know him
not one bit
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
all you are is hungry
no kinship in your eyes
getting by on getting yours alone
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
oh god im foolish
see im so damn foolish
trying to keep the culture still alive
if theres someone out there who will share our story
see the hobo spirit thrive

fifth verse
well ive got nothing
but this weathered old guitar
and a homely face to tell my tale
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
all of us have moments
we can ease each others pain
shoulder up the wounded
sing and grin
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
god he was clever
he was so damn clever
when i begged for change he shook his head
took off the boots he wore and gave them to me
with a smile and a piece of bread

The Mayor of Inwood- song for a three legged poodle

Hey.

Here's a song for a dear friend of mine:

That's my brother, his wife, and their two dogs: Sissy and Peter.  From the day I moved to New York City until they they day they moved west, Peter was a delight.  Full of warmth and joy. Did my heart a kindness when I needed it the most.

Peter has such spark and vitality, even with his disability. Ended up nicknaming him "The Mayor of Inwood", in honor of the neighborhood where my brother and I lived.  And, through my brother's family, I really opened myself up for the first time to revel in and foster pride in a community.

Inwood's not an easy neighborhood to love.  It's out of the way and a mix of economic diversity. Organic restaurants coupled with greasy spoon diners. A sprawling little forest, a Dutch farmhouse overlooking a busy city street. Gentrification's getting its hooks into the locale, but for now, it's got a quirky, earnest charm.

Here's a love letter to this stretch of land.

lyrics

first verse

first day that i came to town
i was a broken down mess
only dress a frown
didn't even have a guess to address the noun
holding up my worry
peter saw i was ill at ease
with a smile and a wag
he was fit to please
led me all around the city
with a happy little wheeze
what a public servant

prechorus
staying alive on this island
surely
isnt a spectator sport
keeping wise
creative ties will guide you
tether your fear to a port

chorus
i miss the mayor of inwood
three legged poodle
his heart could soothe my soul
i miss the mayor of inwood
city changes
love does a dreamer good

second verse
peter plays with the deputy
shes a pretty little mix
shes a jack a bee
see her sigh at peters tricks
shes a prissy little sissy
theyre a good team
took em down to homers run
in the middle of the forest
where the dogs have fun
peter picks a little fight
that he never would have won
with a great dane

prechorus II
peter and sissy
have the tools i covet
style  bravado
done right
steady grace
the will to chase with a fast pace
whims of the world with delight

CHORUS

third verse
been a year since they moved away
california bound hounds
and im sad to say
that the neighborhoods heart fell apart
in a rough way
plain and simple
still at night when i close my eyes
i hear that old familiar whine and those eager cries
from a mayor whose term was a great surprise
thank you peter

prechorus
staying alive on this island
surely
isnt a spectator sport
keeping wise
creative ties will guide you
tether your fear to a port

CHORUS

The Wooden Tie - One Year Later -

Hey.

There's a wooden tie hanging on my wall.

Here's the story.

My father held at least forty-seven jobs in his lifetime, never really picking up roots in one particular career.

A month ago, I was checking my email, and noticed that he mailed me some of his writing projects about nine years ago.  Called the email "Just Some Junk To Read", in his true self-deprecating way. I remember reading and discussing his autobiographical accounts. Just didn't realize I still had the copies.

Here's a summation, in his own words, of the the work which shaped him:

1. Helping my grandfather milk cows  (age 8)
2. Moving lawns for a real estate salesman (12)
3. Started own business selling bags of candy (age 13)
4. Sorting old pennies (14)
5. Running the gas station and the sporting goods counter at the Buckhorn Lodge (age 14)
6. Running a switchboard for an old folks home (age 15)
7. Printers Apprentice  (age 15)
8. Making Donuts (age 16)
9. Started window washing business (age 17)
10. Dishwasher for a Chinese Restaurant (age 17)
11. Houseman for Del Monte Lodge at Pebble beach (18)
12. Window washer for Holiday Inn in Carmel (age 18)
13. Waiter for a Restaurant on the Wharf in Monterey (age 19)
14. Gas station attendant in Cupertino (age 20)
15. US Navy (age 20) He served stateside for two years.
16. Short order cook at EM club (age 21)
17. Gas station attendant in Monterey (age 24)
18. Store clerk for Proximity Devices (age 26)
19. Expediter for Schlage lock (age 26)
20. Warehouse supervisor for Atari (age 27) This was right when the Atari 2600 (called the VCS until 1982) came out.
21. Warehouse Manager for Atari (age 28) I was born this year.
22. Distribution Manager for Warner Brothers (age 29) Atari had been sold to Warner Brothers in 1976, so this was a lateral move.
23. Started own wood working business (age 29)
24. Shipping supervisor HH Robertson (age 30)
25. Material control Supervisor HH Robertson (age 31) Sister born this year.
26. Computer Supervisor for Gallo Warehouse (age 32)
27. Delivered Chronicle newspaper (age 32)
28. Sold at flea markets (age 33) Brother born this year.
29. Janitor and floor man (age 34)
30. Delivered newspapers (age 35)
31. Assembled bulk candy machines and placed them (age 36)
32. Contract Focus programmer for a risk management company (age 38)
33. Sold at flea markets (age 38)
34. Contract Focus programmer for Martin Construction (age 38)
35. Delivered newspapers (age 38)
36. Team lead programmer at Quantel Business Systems (age 39)
37. Warehouse man for Modesto School District (age 40)
38. Delivered newspapers (age 41)
39. Started used bike business at home (age 42)
40. Sold at flea markets (age 43)
41. Started a store front for used bike business (age 44)
42. Contract Focus programmer for UCSF (age 46)
43. Contract Focus programmer for Charles Schwab (age 48)
44. Contract Focus programmer for Coke in Atlanta (age 50)
45. Contract Focus programmer for Clorox in Oakland (age 50)
46. Started Ebay business (age 51)
47. Crystal programmer for Yosemite Farm Credit (age 52)

 

 On one of his programming jobs, a middle manager ordered my father to dress more formally.

In response, my father headed to the garage. He loved his woodworking time. As a boy, I'd creep into his space, lie flat on the matted clothes which soaked up the floor, and quietly watch him work.

He made several dozen wooden ties over the next few weeks. Wore them to work until management gave up and let him dress as he pleased.

He tried to sell them (along with other handicrafts) when money was tight, but they were just too pretty and weird for anyone to purchase in the flea markets we attended, wedged in between the live chickens and the bootleg VHS tape salesmen.

The weekend after my father died, my brother and sister traveled to Oregon.  Found a cache of the ties tucked in a shed, forgotten by time.

And, a few weeks later, at his rehearsal dinner, my brother offered them as wedding gifts.

Look at them.

There's a precision and a clean, simple beauty to these. He always made things so well, with his two hands.

I look at it constantly. Swinging softly on a hook.  This talisman.

Gonna log off and listen to "Cosmic Love" forty times in a row.

Just like last year.

Love you, Dad.

Carter David - new song for a two year old boy

Hey.

So, here's the silliest thing I've ever written.

And I wrote The Stinky Toe Sandwich Song .

It's for CD, my two year old nephew.

Here ya go.

LYRICS

Chorus

Carter David
Carter David
I'll see you Christmas time
you'll be dancing
I'll be strumming
wick away the rime
just a little while
I'll be on my way
it's such crime
we're apart think and living
til the next season's giving returns

First Verse

You're a big boy now
with a brother and a sister
on their way
you're a big boy now
just like mickey you're a leader
help them play

CHORUS

Second Verse

You're a big boy now
Making tinkle in the potty
going number two
you're a big boy now
know your mother and your father
they are proud of you

CHORUS

Bridge

(a bunch of gibberish)

CHORUS X2

The Acceptance Speech

Hey.

So, Ghost On a Stick won (tied for) one award tonight:  Outstanding Performance in a Solo Show.

Here's a longer version of the speech I would have given (if the option to give speeches wasn't cut due to time constraints)

Funny, no matter how many times I end up in this situation, I always end up feeling like the homeschooled kid stepping out on the dance floor of a really fancy prom.
               
But here I am.

I'd like to thank the Planet Connections staff for once again offering untold support and assistance in their dedication to making selfless, ethical theatre.

I'd like to thank the spirit of the festivity itself, as it's given me both commercial success and deep, lasting friendships which I never thought possible in just living here a few short years.

I'd like to thank the seventy donors, friends, family and strangers, who believed in me. Really took a hard look and gave me three thousand dollars to make this show come to life. I can no longer say, in my darkest moments, that I have no worth.  The free market, she sings sweetly.  And may that trust, that kindness, grow and spread forth over the rest of my creative days.  May they feel their contributions are a wise and desirable purchase.

I'd like to thank my director, Megan Jeannette Smith. She broke it open, found the love story inside this tale of mental illness and despair. Made the work theatrical.  She's become a dear friend, and I am fiercely proud of the work she's done on this fair show.

I'd like to thank Lauren Bremen and Kortney Barber for their work in lighting/projections and sound design.  They are worth far, far more than what I could pay them, and their ability to work with limited equipment and funds to capture the mood and the frailty of the story was a blessing.

I'd like to thank Fanboy Design for their engaging, iconic work on the website and postcard.  I'd also like to thank Mark Kinch for his breathtaking photography which summons up the world of the play in just a moment.

I'd like to thank Kristen Penner and Lorelei Mackenzie for their counsel and kinship. Dinners spent with them learning the nuts and bolts of how to make a PCTF show successful and fully funded.  Couldn't ask for better teachers and more nurturing friends.

I'd like to thank all those who offered their time and efforts to house management for free during the show.

I'd like to thank her, she who, despite my arrogance in shutting off the door to my heart and stubbornly believing that vulnerability and dating were over in my life, surprised me and awakened that desire once more. Our connection collapsed, me being me and all. But that pulsating loss was kerosene for those sleepless nights, driving me to push further and further as a producer, playwright, and actor.  I see her now, and I still marvel at her being.  She feels rich and familiar, and I hope she'll have me as a friend.

I'd like to thank A.J Ditty, who, after years of just giving up on the play and stuffing it into a floppy disk, convinced me to pull it out and send him a copy.  His response, his decency, his friendship gave me a second wind.

I'd like to thank Tess Suchoff for reviewing future drafts and offering an outsider's point of view.

I'd like to thank one of my oldest friends, Bobby Lux, for living this show's truthful experiences with me, for reading drafts and offering his wise advice.  For helping to promote the show, and for always being in my corner. He's my pocket aces that will never get cracked.

I'd like to thank my mother, brother, and sister, who shake their heads sometimes at the silly, intense things I do, but still champion them.   They're a wonderful family.

Lastly, I'd like to thank the memory of my late father, almost a year since his passing.  He reminds me every single bleeding day to stop thinking about making things, stop talking about making things, and make them. Make them over and over again.  Help others make things.  Stop wasting time and  (to paraphrase Hemingway) make a living out of your death.  I miss you so much, dad.  I'm doing the best I can, and I'm lonely and I'm beaten down and death is always on my mind. But I keep on making things.  Like you taught me.  I've always been an odd one.  Heart of a poet, face of a prison guard.  But through this world of theatre, I'm home.

Let's go out there and keep making things, together.

Thank you.

Happy Pants

Hey.

Let me tell you another story.

College.  My freshman year, and I was cast in my first play on campus. It was a forgettable dramedy about a high school teacher who takes a classroom hostage until the authorities give into his demands.  My role was Dean, the nerdy freshman who served as a perpetual source of scorn and derision amongst the other students.

(Seventeen years later, and I still remember his name.  That's creepy.)

Had maybe five lines. But here was the one which bought me a small amount of fame at school.

Act One: The students stop harassing Dean long enough to take a look at his clothes and ask him why he's wearing such ugly apparel.

He says:

"These are my happy pants. They make me happy."

That's all it was. A terrible series of words which made no sense. It comes out of nowhere and is never mentioned again.

But I'm crazy.  I'm a crazy person. I see those rambling letters all staggered in a row, and I want to make something out of them. I get the director to dye me a pair of sweatpants one size too small a color between purple and puce. Then I tie about seventeen keys on a loop onto the drawstring. Lastly, I pitch Dean's voice somewhere around the tone used by Roger Rabbit.

So, by the time the show opens, the exchange looks something like this:

STUDENT
Why are you wearing such ugly pants?

DEAN
(to dazzle)
These?  Are my happy pants!
(to proclaim)
(shakes drawstring)
JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE
(beams)
(to confide)
They make me happeeee.

And people, they howled with laughter.  Seriously. My stoic giant of an acting teacher, Paul Backer, cackled like a madman. It was the first time I ever saw him like something I did.  Not in a reserved, arms folded, stare-like-a-grim-ferryman way he always had.  Free and open laughter. And I don't know why.  It was really, really dumb. Super dumb.

The show ended. After that, I wanted to be taken seriously as an actor.  This was a serious business, and I wanted to develop a reputation as someone with skill and gravity.  Not a fat, sloppy fool. I did monologues from ANTIGONE, my chin quavering with righteous, unceasing rage while other classmates were doing pieces from TV or film.  I scowled to hide my dirty, misshapen teeth. Saved up cash and bought contacts so I'd look a wee more presentable.

God, I had so many turtlenecks, too.

I'M

 NOT

KIDDING

After several years in college being a super-serious actor and taking roles in dark, crazy, experimental shows (along with a few high-profile musicals and mainstage shows on campus and taking part in the Edinburgh Fringe Festival with some mad, wonderful people), I signed up to take Paul Backer's acting class as a senior. I was determined this time to earn his respect and somber appreciation.  I was no longer the freshman who bawled in front of him and twenty other students, being unable to kiss my scene partner because (at eighteen and a half) it was the first time I had ever kissed a girl.  My eyes no longer glossed over his reams and reams of worksheets outlining acting theory and preparation. I understood now how to use these dry, esoteric tools, make them precise and engaging.

The first few weeks were like a tug of war. Still wasn't making any real progress.  Still felt awkward and flustered in front of him. Choice after choice was refuted, met with silence. Finally, one day, he stood up, and said: "Jara, why do you have to be so serious all the time? Whatever happened to Happy Pants?  Be him."

So I did.  I took lighter, more humorous choices in class. Last show in college, I signed up to play an anthropomorphic Indian dog in a friend's play. No lines, just barks and crazy physical comedy.  A far cry from my serious, craft-minded ego.

And I've been here in the real world for thirteen years now.  While my default emotional core could best be described as "wounded, autistic bear" , I get paid to be Happy Pants.  Weird, fat, comic types, looming large with grotesque physicality.  Spitting, semi-clothed, occasionally drunk beasts. Animals and little boys which make you laugh and laugh and laugh.

But I'm not a funny person at all.

Not even close.

I'm a high-functioning depressive.

My dreams nowadays fixate around counting down the months until my student loans are paid off and I'm finally able to parse together a savings account. 

And this year, I finally got a chance to show who I am. The version of me from the past, and its echoes in my character today. I wrote, produced and performed GHOST ON A STICK.  And it terrified me to my core. Every single time. That monster. That intense, savage, broken little man. All of that, displayed so openly.  Without my usual parlor tricks.

I'm glad it got to exist. I'm glad theatre can still challenge me and force me to be present and clear.

I'm also glad that I'm making some peace with my happy pants side, too.  If you're in New York City, you can see me in doing Off-Broadway children's theatre on the weekends:  Piggy Nation The Musical . It's fervent, silly, engaging work.

As John Gardner once wrote in GRENDEL, balance is everything.

New Song (Rachel, My Child) - for Ashley Mayhew

Hey.

Now that Ghost On a Stick has wrapped, I'm using the time to do more writing and songwriting.

Over the next few months, I'll post songs completed for top GOAS donors.

Today's song is for a dear friend of mine, Ashley Mayhew, about his daughter.

LYRICS

first verse

the moon shivers
and the light
rends us bare

i'm by the bed
i end the story
stroke your hair

chorus

rachel my child
how you've grown
rachel my child
my flesh and bone

second verse
i remember when your mother
came to my room
we stared like statues
and love so tidy
swept up the gloom

chorus

bridge
and i know that there will come a day
when you'll be wise and on your own
your childhood now a memory
your dreams the seeds which you have sown
and i'll come visit you
but damn if i won't try
to tuck you in
my kin
my rachel
rachel my child

third verse
the dawn breaks
and you giggle
jump in our bed
we hold you close
get you bathed and dressed
get you fed

chorus

Special Thanks and Patrons to Ghost On A Stick Indiegogo campaign

Hey.

I just wanted to once again offer my intense gratitude for the people below who gave their support to fully fund GHOST ON A STICK.  Just three weeks until the show opens!

Tickets can be purchased HERE:

SPECIAL THANKS

Sascha Lorren

Gary Lizardo

Jonathan Pearson

Andy Hungerford

Diane Hubbell

Reggie De Leon

Lisa Kim

Hannah Barudin

Emily Billig

Paul Backer

Tyson Turrou

Ryan McCurdy

Winnie Lok

Nancy Chandler

Shaun Peknic

Dylan Kenin

AJ Ditty

Jenn Litfin

Kathryn Albert

Emily Travis

PATRONS

Meredyth Kenney

Stacy Keele

Alan Corcoran

Jennifer Moraca

Bobby Lux

Lizvette Chavez

Zachary Locklin

Rosa Belerique

Logan Sparks

Erinn Koch

Joe Hogan

James Cobb

Shaun Gallant

Ashley Mayhew

Melissa Qualle

Paulajean Eagleman

Robert Heintz

Jelina Seibert

Kelli Hines

Karen Lotko

Beatriz Jones

Joseph Lankheet

Jasmine Khong

Kelly Brinker

Anna Romero

Rockford Sansom

Lewis Crouse

Louis Berlin

Bryn Carter

Zadkiel Bachiller

Joni Ernst

Carlos Acosta

Len Moors

Karlene Mills

Mageina Tovah

Ashlee Brown

Julia O’ Brien

Jessica O’Hara Baker

Douglas Clayton

Rita Gurrola

Elspeth Carden

Jeric Jones

Valerie Macaluso

Jody Pierce

Allison Kueberth

Anne Delfin Schnirch

Gregory Cohen

Shannon Fillion

Tonja Gilson

David Patrick Ford

Think About It - first draft of new song

Hey.

So, I'm hard at work on Ghost On a Stick.

Check us out on Facebook:

facebook/ghostonastick

Twitter:

@GhostOnStick

and of course, our super amazing website (thanks to Fanboy Design)

www.ghostonastick.net

And, like always, whenever I'm super stressed, new songs tend to pop in my head and demand attention.

Tried to put this one off, but it wouldn't shut up.  So, I set some time aside, let it tell me how it wanted to sound, and whipped up a first draft.

Take a listen!

Lyrics

first verse
she said she'll think about it
you've made your feelings known
and now you think about it
cards on the table

sure
you're scared
shudder with senescence
you're
so tense
but it's rarely presence
now it's months to wait
let time abate it all

pre-chorus
she's got a poker soul
you've got game
like candyland
but then she smiles wide
you see a glimmer
and you understand

chorus
good things might come to those who wait
just be simple
keep your head on straight
step lightly
with an even gait
while manhattan spins
i'll be gracious, gentle grins

second verse
she said she'll think about it
and that is fine by me
i sit here think about it
damn
the norm
let's defy convention
I'm
not nice
I'm just paying attention
she's not a rebound girl
and work, it overwhelms

pre-chorus and chorus

bridge
i know  - don't expect a thing
but won't deny what comes
no motives made
just want some moments
by your side
we'll never stop being busy
don't want to hide, being busy
just try me
i'll try you
tell me you'll think about it

third verse prechorus and chorus
(same as first)

Bowling with Dad

Hey.

So I'm talking to you, dad. It's lane four and I'm wearing rented, tight-pinching shoes.

I'm surrounded by actors. I love actors. One on one, intense, unyielding discussions over dinner. Watching them work. But put more than four of us together in a room and it's like a methadone clinic. Addicts being addicts. Loud, boorish choruses of our shadowed selves that can grate.  Or, in my current situation, anxious, itchy, sullen types who grow paranoid based on the slightest unsettling stimuli.

Not judging.
I switch between these modes all the time.

And we're bowling. I always forget, until the moment I'm walking down a lane with nine pounds of sluggish stubbornness, why I don't bowl.  You tried your best, dad.  Held my bony hand inside your weathered paw, offered a shy smile, reminded me to point my thumb and my wrist straight, follow through, pelvis out.  It just didn't take, like all other sports. Naturally, I gave up and and went back to my favorite activities: daydreaming about being in love, singing made up songs to myself, and reading.

It's the third frame.  I've got a score of 6 at the moment. And you know me, dad. I'm not half-assing it. I don't half-ass anything. I'm taking my time, hearing your voice in my head, trying to follow the steps. And it just doesn't work. I'm eight again, and I have no skills and everyone else at this party are in love and happy and ripe with promise and I'm just a fat weird poor brown kid from modesto who can't roll a ball straight.

First ball down the lane. I stare down the pins, and find myself pleading with you: C'mon, dad.  Help me out here. Don't let me further embarrass you.  Summon up some wind. Something.  An earthquake, maybe. Just strike down these ten soldiers rising up against me.

And I roll.

The bowling ball shoots steady and fast down the middle for a few feet, then wildly skips to the right, lapping at the gutter.

Ten pins still stand.

My head drops. And then a friend spies me, cheers me on.

Even though you died over seven months ago, dad, I can hear you sigh. It's an orchestral sigh. You sigh because you know that this friend, with the holes in her stockings and a grin that shoulders a river of hurt, this friend is another silly crush of mine.  Unobtainable.  You sigh because you've seen it before and there's nothing you can do to save me from my foolishness. It's not my path, relationships and all.

While I wait for the ball to return to me, I apologize for my terrible bowling, mutter: "You know, I'm the only kid in my family who never won a bowling trophy".

I wedge my fingers into the misshapen holes, lift the mass, and walk down the lane again.

But just as I lean back to release the ball, she says:

I'll make you a trophy.

Dad, my wires crossed, and I almost sat down on the ground. I turned my head, choked back a sob, and disguised it as a laugh. Tossed the ball and knocked one pin down, head swimming.

I'm 34 years old, dad. Same age you were with three kids. Something like that shouldn't unravel me. You dealt with floods and children who almost died and children who were mislabeled as autistic and incurable. I'm a potted plant.

My role in improving this human experiment has been minimal at best. I need to give more people trophies.   I need to stop wanting them so much from others.  And if I'm given a trophy, I need to be grateful. Not glum out and wish it was bigger, or more prestigious, or a friendship trophy instead of a boyfriend trophy.  Just give thanks. 

I hope you're well, dad.

Love you...

My first Indiegogo fundraising campaign - for Ghost On a Stick

Hey.

So, this started today:

http://igg.me/at/Ghostonastick

So excited and terrified. My first Indiegogo fundraising campaign, and it's for the world premiere of my one man show, GHOST ON A STICK.  Please take a look the amazing work at the site, and please donate and share with your friends!

Thoughts on Ghost on a Stick

Hey.

Started pre-production work on my one man show:  GHOST ON A STICK.  One of my tasks was to come up with a nice, short summary of the play for the festival.

That meant rereading the script.  Since I last revised it in January 2012, I hadn't read it. Sent it to tons of people hoping to stir up interest or get it produced somewhere. But over a year had gone by and I avoided looking over the work.

Why?  Didn't want to get my hopes up and revise it another time unless there was a specific goal in sight, I suppose.  But the real reason is that this play frightens the hell out of me. Being a semi-autobiographical account, there's some raw, embarrassing truth on those pages. 

So I read the script. Bawled like a baby. Identified some of the clumsier moments, and expressed disbelief with how wickedly the last third unfolds.

And days passed.  Today, I checked in and tried to figure out why I'd been feeling so shitty yesterday and today. Shut down. Unable to focus or summon the will to do any self care.  Wasn't until I dragged myself outside to go walk in the forest that it finally made sense.

It's a weight of overpowering shame and guilt.

At the time most of the events in Ghost happened, this was me:

I was poor as hell. Felt immensely ugly. Ate unbuttered toast and water for every meal at home for a year. Looking back on 2000-2010, I see how much of a selfish, abusive monster I was.  And it sickens me.  So much time wasted. An acting career stalled by fear and self-doubt.  Thousands of people treated like garbage.  People I loved that I let down in small, irreparable ways.

Like to say that, with a decade behind me, that I wouldn't be so callous now, that I wouldn't treat a job as a license to hurt complete strangers because my life was spiraling out of control. That I'd be a healthy, welcome part of a relationship. But I really don't know if that's true. Since then, I haven't had a relationship last longer than a month and a half.   Today, I strain so hard to be a decent person even when I don't feel like it, but it feels like a rotting mask about to cast off at any time.

And with the news that Ghost is going to be a living thing with a world premiere and a production staff and people to watch it, new levels of fear and shame emerge.  Who the fuck do I think I am to steal together parts of my life and my friends and loved ones and throw it out there for people to see?  How arrogant and selfish am I to go out and beg the world to help me finance this story?  Who really wants to see me and this play anyway?

Finding solid answers to those questions will be my project these next few months.   

 The heart of Ghost On a Stick is this:   We each want to believe, so fervently, in a sense of control and recognizable order. It's what keeps us from screaming and screaming with the realization that we shall one day cease. Yet, there's always that singular moment for each person where it's clear that the construct we've made in no way matches up with the commonplace horror of what we eventually experience.  A healthy person learns to redouble their kindness and appreciate what pockets of love they receive.  Or, in the case of this story, they can become savage, sharpen their skills and enjoy how well they can torture people, burning themselves out with the misguided belief that work will set them free.

 Somewhere in that summary is a powerful, essential piece of theatre.  Got four months and crew of wonderful people to find it.

Word Buddy- new love song

Hey.

Like almost everything I do, this song grew out of an inside joke between myself and a friend of mine, Catherine Fowles. But, as time grew on, I discovered that this concept of "word buddies" - child-like as that phrase may be - really encapsulated the relationships I enjoy.  Raw, open discourse with people who continually remain unsatisfied with small talk.  Kindly beasts who press me to elaborate and who do not blink when I firmly do the same.

And this desired exchange with others, (combined with my deep, abiding affinity for pushing words together like toy cars in a sandbox), resulted in this song.

It's a love song about linguistics.  When it comes to my adult definition of love, Leo Buscaglia continues to shape my muddy thoughts.  In short, my pledge when I love someone is the following: to pay them attention and to fill their humble vessel with kindness and unexpected support. Granted, there are are a multitude of degrees these ministrations can take.

Lyrics and the video are below. There's quite a few odd, informative links in the lyrics, so be sure to poke around!

first verse

triadic relation
stepping out  through the mind's root cellar door
using echolocation
oh joyful noise  im craving more

sure i know im silly
sure i know youre cheeky
got a manicured mind
sure youre salty like a well-timed
epithet
sure i know your ribbing is the generous kind

chorus

but i dont want palaver and prattle
chew the sound and scorn the meaning like cattle
ill challenge you to signify
until i die
youre my word buddy

second verse

etymology hearken
buddy borne from brother kinship galore
see your countenance darken
its not so heady
heres whats in store

sure i know im zealous
sure i know your kidding cuz youre really quite scared
sure your armor is the fold of a syllable
sure i know that terror when your meaning is bared

but i dont want palaver and prattle
chew the sound and scorn the meaning like cattle
ill challenge you to signify
until i die
youre my word buddy

bridge

i must confess
ive got a motive nestled neatly
through this song
try to impress
pare down the facile and obsequious
its wrong
no matter if
were friends or sharing whispers in our bed
lets galvanize
cache your cogitations in my head
so one day senses fed
i will confide
i love you
and you will know the timbre of my
tidings
thats all i want

third verse

triadic relation
seeking to understand before i reply
feel that flush of elation
our resonation stronger than you and I

sure i know im silly
sure i know youre cheeky 

sure i know im silly
sure i know youre cheeky
got a manicured mind
sure youre salty like a well-timed
epithet
sure i know your ribbing is the generous kind

chorus

but i dont want palaver and prattle
chew the sound and scorn the meaning like cattle
ill challenge you to signify
until i die
youre my word buddy

youre my buddy 

Two years in NYC

Hey.

The day after I buried my father, I headed back to New York City.

Didn't travel so much as just sobbed cross-country.  I was working off a bad head cold, too. Airline personnel were hugging me. The rubber band stretched tight inside my chest the four months from my father's death until that final moment where they lowered his ashes into the earth finally snapped. Landed in the city, took a taxi to my apartment. Stored my things, went to my computer, printed something that wouldn't shake away, and taped this to my wall:

It's all I think about now.

I may never be commercially prosperous or critically acclaimed or have a healthy, loving relationship.  But I can't let depression piss away what few moments I may have left.  I have got to keep working. Got to give more to myself.

Same as before, I'll break it down into three parts: what I've done this year, what I've learned, and what needs to change.

WHAT I'VE DONE

Performed in 8 productions this year - Even more than the year prior.  The first nine months were a blur.  I didn't even buy groceries for seven months at a time, I was so busy. 

Kept the 30 pounds off I lost last year - my weight's been fluctuating, and I haven't been nearly as good at doing exercise as I should, but still, I'm at 270 at my highest times.

Wrote 10 new original songs this year - it's been crazy.  Writing songs based on dares, writing wedding songs, music made in an effort to keep myself focused during the fallow winter period.

Booked a long term, Off-Broadway show - Saturdays, I perform a two-person version of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, and it's been a lifesaver for me.

WHAT I'VE LEARNED

Giving up and refusing to fight will kill you.

Dating is not my path - after a break of a year or so, I aggressively dated in 2012.  Over a dozen women later, I've come to see that I'm the problem.  It's not my role on this earth.  Hard part now is accepting that.

Any creative, positive boon I've achieved this year is through the efforts of kind, wonderful people who took a chance on me and referred me to others.

I'll eat Thai food anywhere, anytime.

There is art and there is commerce, and I can't hold on to the silly notion that focusing on one will lead to the other.  This started in college, when several of my friends got really tv and movie focused and I (like now, not so wild about my looks) pored myself into theatre and thought that it would be the path to lead me to more lucrative work. It doesn't.  It's wonderful all its own, but will not yield a career.

Don't do theatre for free anymore.  You're 34. You've been doing it for free for a decade and a half.  Doesn't matter if it's a dollar, being paid is a form of respect for any job.

GOALS

1)Weigh 230 pounds one year from now.  I have a gym.  I have the time.

2)Better Self Care - this means so much that I've been slacking on in life.  New clothes, weekly groceries. Home cooked meals. New furniture. Massages. Books. Music. Seeing theatre by myself.

3)More career-minded work - on camera commercial acting classes.  A professional website for acting. Voice-over classes and a demo.

4)Produce and perform GHOST ON A STICK, my one man show - if the festivals I've submitted it to don't pan out, then I'll work with some producers to see what affordable venues I can get on my own.

Thanks to the following people:

the memory of my father
my mom
Jelina Seibert and Dave Seibert
Jeric Jones and Stephanie Girard
Bekki Doster
Mark Kinch
Jennifer Moraca
Tess Suchoff
Bobby Lux
Joe Hogan
Winnie Lok
Shannon Fillion
Ryan McCurdy
Alan Corcoran
April Newhouse
Paula and Emmett
Rob and Maureen
Michael Irish
Ginger Reiter
Julia Beardlsey O' Brien
Catherine Fowles
Tony White
Kristen Penner
Lorelei Mackenzie
Abigail Taylor
Rockford Sansom
Tod Engle
David Mendenhall

Mother Dear - an old song

Hey.

Here's an older song I wrote about a decade ago for my mom.

Another stark winter. This was in Los Angeles, though.  2001.  Moved back to South Central after taking seven months to save up money in Modesto (after college). 

I was impatient, and hungry for change. Let my unease take over my common sense.  Who goes back to LA to try to be a substitute teacher and pursue an acting career without having a car, without possessing a driver's license?  My savings ran out quickly, and I spiraled into debt and misery.

This is the first time I lived alone. The studio apartment was rife with stiff, brown shag carpeting, and the cockroaches were not afraid. Used to wake me up with tiny time steps on my face.  Determined not to lose myself to depression and self-doubt, I did what all twenty-something creative monkeys do: plowed through copies of THE ARTIST'S WAY and THE VEIN OF GOLD, littered my apartment walls with taped quotes in an effort to inspire me. Harnessed my self-hypnosis skills.  Used them to get past my flaws and finally, after seven years of painful trial and error, procured my driver's license.

Twelve years later.  I'm living another solitary life, this time in New York City. Loved and lost, earned a few minor successes. And I think about this song.

My mother has a fountain of hope and faith brimming inside her which I will never match.  It's such an intense power to witness. She's silly and passionate and wears the quiet strength a lifetime of hardship has tested and tested again. She's always been there to support me and the rest of her children.

Te amo mucho, mama. 

Here's the song:


first verse
mother dear
hear my cry
this januarys gonna
wring
me
dry
send a prayer
double time
my bodys achin
from a
nameless
crime

chorus
everyone should have a mother
borne of tenderness like you
though apart from one another
i still see you
at night when im asleep
a child again

second verse
mother smiles
beacons light
her worlds been ragged
but she still
smiles
right
mother saves
little things
old yearbook photos
invitations
strings

chorus

bridge
and im beginning to stand
on my own
two
feet
crash and burn and cry sometimes
but its all right
yes its all right
oh mother dear
youre the purest
human
creature
one
could ever hope to know
as i live
i sing
your
mothers song

third verse
mother dear
hear your boy
this januarys gonna
bring
us
joy
trouble come
trouble go
what only matters
is the love
we
sow

chorus

Scars

Hey.

Didn't sleep a drop last night and I'm doing all I can to stay up another five hours. Errands, housecleaning. Writing.

Funny how winter always makes your scars tingle. Cold snatches at the taut skin, smooth and bone white. Each one a lesson, a talisman worn to stave off death for another day.

Let's review three of mine (all self-inflicted)

UPPER RIGHT HAND SIDE OF MY SKULL
Size: About the diameter of a nickel
Seen: When my hair's short ( you can see it when I sing the high notes at the end of  Jumping the Shark )
How It Happened: I was about a few months old when my father took me to work ( he worked for Atari in the warehouse department)  Somehow, he was on a forklift, I was always super squirmy, and I fell. Like Humpty Dumpty.
Lesson Learned:  I wish it was "don't be squirmy", but I didn't learn that until I racked up a great many more death-defying leaps and bounds over the next few years.  I guess my father learned not to bring babies on a forklift?

ROOF OF MY MOUTH
Size: About the diameter of a #2 Pencil
Seen:  If you're staring at the roof of my mouth (you weirdo)
How It Happened: In first grade during class, I dropped my pencil on the ground. And, in that instant, I hatched a plan borne of genius.  I would pick up the pencil NOT with my hands, but with my mouth.  Gripping the metal bars of the desk with my bony thighs, I leaned over and deftly cupped the pencil with my lips, point side in my mouth.  And, on the way back up, I lost my balance, and fell.  Shoved it right through the tender skin .  I stood up, the teacher almost fainted.  Kindergarten teacher is called over, and she grabs brown paper towels to mop the rising tide of blood gushing out of my maw. I'm more surprised than anything (though that was probably due to shock)
I'm driven to the hospital, and my father is called, but they can't reach him.  They can't reach him because, at that precise moment, he's in the same hospital with my mother as she's in labor with my younger brother. Finally, the hospital administration pieces it together, and my dad finds me.
Lesson Learned: Pencils are deadly.  Also, don't do anything crazy regarding balance, Jones.  You have none.

LEFT INDEX FINGER
Size: A curved parabola of about five inches, j-shaped.
Seen: Pretty visibly, if you're paying attention.  Out of embarrassment, I tend to keep my left hand in my pocket when I'm not acting or doing things with my left hand.
How It Happened: Sophomore year of high school, Spring semester. I didn't get cast in the school production of West Side Story, so I signed on to work props.  We had a elementary school performance of the show prior to the final dress that evening.  In my efforts to get the votive candles lit in time for the Tony and Maria bedroom scene, I was burning my fingertips.  Wanted to find a smarter way to light them.  Settled on punks (long, thin wooden sticks you light and then use to light narrow glass candles).  We didn't have any, so I chose to borrow a crew member's dull Swiss Army knife and found a spare piece of pine.  While the final dress took place, I was backstage cutting thin strips off the board with the knife. Towards me.  Talking and joking. Got the blade stuck in a knot, and I pulled.  Sliced clear to the bone.  Again, no screaming.  Lot of shock and shame. Sharks and Jets from the dream ballet in their white-t's scurried past me as dollops of blood spattered the green linoleum tiles.  I had enough training in first aid to remember to raise my hand above my heart, and that (with compression) stopped the hemorrhaging.  Drama teacher calls my father. In urgent care, I'm cracking jokes with the nurse practitioner as he stitches the wound (six stitches).  It's only when I get home and it's dark that I realize how stupid that all was, and I sob.  I sob so hard my ribs ache.
Lesson Learned:  A dull knife is so much more dangerous than a sharp one. Always cut away from yourself. A tool mandates holy attention.

My Coffee Name

Hey.

Let me share a little of my crazy with you.

If I'm at a coffee shop, and I order a drink, I always lie to the staff.

They ask for a name. I give them, "J", and in a way, J has become my coffee name.

It's a disposable moniker. I size someone up, immediately decide whether or not someone's gonna be in my life for the long haul, and  I make that choice.  Random stranger on the street?  Acquaintance of a friend of mine? Another new person whom I'm not going to see again? I'm not gonna invest the time to make some poor person deal with my weird name.

That's some pathological work there.

But I've spent a whole childhood with an odd first name. Four little letters with a host of pronunciations. I've had a smattering of genders and ethnic qualifiers labeled upon me.  As much as I loathe Dale Carnegie's book, How to Win Friends and Influence People (it's such a manipulative, cynical text), one aspect rings true: a person comes alive and responds when they hear their name expressed correctly.

If we're casually acquainted, know that you're taking a friendship test with me.  One which you pass when you can spell and say my name perfectly, unaided.  Most of the time, I won't correct you.  I'll hope you'll seek this knowledge out in an effort to know me.  I do the same with you.

Final crazy name story:  there's a coworker at my day job whom I've known for over eight years. She has crazy amounts of power and has worked with me in various capacities. In the past, she has done some vicious, conniving, misguided behavior (with the best of intentions).  And she refers to me by a pretty common nickname, clanging nasally like a crow when she does so.  Normally, it's a formal utterance, but it just inherently sounds disrespectful when she speaks it.

And I just let her do it.  I do so to remind me on a constant basis that, despite her current behavior today, there's always a sliver of chance that her emotional drunken rage will re-emerge. I hear this affectation she's chosen, wince, and I remember to protect myself.  Remind myself that this is a day job and not the artistic life which occupies the rest of my time.

Playing House - First Draft of new song

Hey.

I remember the first time I heard this phrase. 

I was talking to a conservative acquaintance of mine about seven years ago.  That's not a political label; she's just someone who lives at home and has an older paradigm about some social mores.  Told her about this long term relationship I had and how we didn't plan on ever getting married.  She stared at me, smirked, and said, "Oh, so you're just playing house?"

And that still fucking burns me. At the time, I had every intention of staying in that relationship for the rest of my life. We had been together for five years at that point, weathered so much. Sure, my relationship by no means fit a standard mold of what couples normally did. But I never said I was normal.

When that relationship ended, I reflected back upon those two words:  playing house.   And it saddened me to think that, in a way, I was doing this.  Not by the "traditional tenets of marriage" - whatever those are- archetypes.  But in the small fact that I ignored and masked a great deal of problems while trying to reinforce a construct of peace at all costs.  And that's not fair to anyone.  It's not communication. It's not being an adult and I'm sorry that I hurt somebody along the way while learning these somber lessons.

So, this song is probably the closest I'll come to writing a Placebo song.  It's angsty as hell.  I don't know why it came out this week. Probably just the combo of my mental health being a wee off and still thinking about death far too much.  Has a few cool parts to it.

lyrics

first
like a rubber band thats tethered
see the cold neglect thats weathered me
tell it straight now
watch it as it curls
lock the doors eyes closed and weeping
make excuses tension creeping fast
in my lonely laughter
after all thats passed


chorus
dont want the pills again
cant stomach the thought of those well dressed lies once more
whats the point of feeling fine
theres not a reason at all why somebody outta feel right for
sometimes the floorboards break
sometimes the mortar wont take
stead of playing house ill think ill let it fall

second verse
like a peach so lush and tender
im expected to surrender skin
chew me up and scatter
seeds and matter strewn
scratching at the mold thats spreading
no ones biting winter threading harm
failing sense i flatter
sing this wary tune

chorus

bridge
watch me die in slow motion
to prove i ever lived at all
ill bear the same and rouse your name my friend
a little kindness handmade pall

third verse
like a shudder fore the violence
muscles warning all is silence
cant you see youre hiding
words just biding time
thats enough now tell it plainly
that im frightened fault is mainly mine
that im week and chiding
gussied up with rhyme

chorus

The End of Dating

Hey.

So, it's six in the morning, and I'd been steeling myself for what came next for about a week.  Auditioning the experience in my mind.  Running the simulations.

Logged on, saw my earnest, unblinking face staring back at me.  The same picture thousands of poor women have seen over the years.

I sighed.  I've been sighing far too goddamn much these days. 

Scrambled for the next step, pushing back all other dissenting voices in my head. It was time. I had no business hanging on, lying to myself.  Had a good run, earned some strange stories, but it's not my path.

Deleted my OkCupid profile.

You know how there's satellites out in orbit right now which are little more than snippets of the human experience?  They transmit audio broadcasts in hopes that some highly advanced life out in the inky void will hear them, and respond.

That's what online dating sites were for me.

Plenty of Fish felt like when you donate blood and then stagger over to a buffet restaurant.  Peering at the steam trays, sweating. Each individual cuisine fuzzy, muted, soggy.  But you're so hungry, you're shaking. Of course you have your fill. Nothing has a flavor. Just calories.

Match.com reminded me of an over-eager grandmother who reaallly wanted to see you married before she bought the farm.  Stringing together tenuous reasons for people to interact with one another.  "Oh, look -she's the oldest child - AND YOU'RE THE OLDEST CHILD.  Talk to her!  You should talk to her. Just talk to her and invite her to coffee.  It's just coffee. She likes card games, too!"  None of the women I met on Match.com I'd describe as "fun".  All dauntingly beautiful, all very serious. All slightly concerned about the direction of my life and artistic ramblings.  Most drank heavily.

I never did Eharmony, but friends swore by it, and it brought them together.  Seemed like a site you'd do if you were religious and wanted to be married.  So I skipped it.

All of this led me to my long-term trials with Okcupid.  I could spend hours on Okcupid stories (from the behavioral psychologist in Brooklyn who really seemed fun and interesting and then stood me up on the first date and whom I'm not entirely uncertain did so just to run sample data on how people handle rejection -side note, I was outwardly calm and collected - to the spirited thirty-two minute discussion I had with a OkCupid computer programmer on the subway to the FIVE women from New Jersey who bailed on me at the last minute due to mental health issues/having to make an Odyssean journey into Manhattan because NJ is far from everywhere  - second side note - DON'T DATE PEOPLE IN NJ UNLESS YOU LIVE THERE)
All the women I met on OkCupid seemed much, much more bohemian and worldly than me.  They'd seen at least twenty countries.  Spoke four languages.  Climbed mountains.  Did time in the Peace Corp. Had parties where they wore fake moustaches.

And, without fail, not a single person whom  I contacted directly on OkCupid contacted me back.  It was always the aggressive, playful women who saw through whatever sad attempt of being clever I was trying that week and wrote me.  And, much of the dates I did with OkCupid women were me being open-minded, exploring beyond my preconceived notions of what I normally considered "attractive".   The discrepancy between picture and reality when it came to online dating was the widest in OkCupid land.


But it's done now.

Let me tell you a story.

When I was about ten or eleven, I begged my father for a pet hamster.  I had already lost two hamsters, and my father was understandably reserved about spending the money on another one. He agreed to let me have another pet if I took sole responsibility and if I fed the hamster and cleaned the cage.

And I was dutiful at first.  Poured the cedar chips with a steady hand.  Refilled the water tank.  Stocked the food pellets.  But then I grew careless, and I just forgot.  For weeks. My father observed from a distance, watching that hamster wither and die. As an adult, I can't even imagine how tough that had to be, to teach me a lesson and not jump in there. Watching your child disappoint you, day following day.

The lesson came.  I finally began to smell that old, familiar odor. Death's a sickly sweet, bitter smell. Ran to the cage.  His body was pressed tight like cardboard.  Eyes black and pupils split. Fur greasy and runny.

My father came to my side, shovel and newspaper in hand. I sobbed, took them and headed outside.

I had work to do.

After that moment, I was de facto member of the household in charge of burying other kid's pets. While my brother and sister would cry over the loss of their beloved animal, I'd be in the back yard, hacking at the white birch tree's gnarled and ravenous roots, looking for a small space to stow their animal.

Haven't owned a pet since.

Gift # 7 - Swing Low, Sweet Chariot (Cover)

Hey.

Here's the last gift I want to talk about this week.

Not doing well.  Can't sleep much. Just hours and hours in my own head. Nothing seems to help.

I'm either blunted and fatigued beyond sensation, or I'm just a ball of panic.  And I don't know what to do.

My father had a lovely singing voice. It was gentle and rich, not tinny and high-strung like mine.  He was self-conscious about pitch, though, and would only sing on car rides to the kids or at night, as we slept.

While not a religious man, he had a deep affinity for spiritual songs. I remember the first song he ever sang me, "Michael Rowed The Boat Ashore".  It's the only time I'd get chills hearing the word "Hallelujah" sung so simply, with such love and power.

At the funeral, my mother requested I play Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, one of his favorite songs.

So I learned it.

And it's so goddamned heart wrenching, you know? 

It's a song people without hope sing.

When your mortal life is spent and each moment is a unblinking terror, it's a song for people who fervently wish that the next page is a pain-free, comfortable respite.

It took me a month to get it down without shaking and weeping each time I tried to play it.  Did it okay at the funeral. I held the guitar on my knee and took deep breaths, watching the vapor strike the foggy air.

Here it is.

lyrics

chorus
swing low
sweet chariot
comin for to carry me home
swing low
sweet chariot
comin for to carry me home

first verse
you know i looked over jordan
and what did i see
comin for to carry me home
a band of angels
comin after me
coming for to carry me home

chorus

second verse
you know im sometimes up
and sometimes down
comin for to carry me home
but still my soul feels heavenly bound
comin for to carry me home

chorus

third verse
i say
if you go on and get there before i do
comin for to carry me home
tell all my friends that im coming too
comin for to carry me home

chorus

home
home
i really hope youre home