April

It is assumed that Spring is a joyous season, full of new life, renewals, and expectations for happy times to come. It is the start of journeys of sorts, like The Canterbury Tales, containing stories full of foppery and irony that illuminate truths about human nature in the most rib tickling and side-busting ways. I see that in April, but I also see it as a season that is a collection of memories, like a broken mirror, that is pieced together to form smashed psyches and landscapes of deep pain and regret, very much like The Waste Land. It's a sort of Yin-Yang, and I could never have one without the other.

For the first time in several years, I'm back East, not in Seattle. In Seattle, the coming of Spring is not as defined as in the East. There are two and a half or three seasons out there, and Winter to Spring is less dramatic. Seattle Winters are rainy affairs with little snow and mostly above freezing temperatures, so the effect of going from very cold to t-shirt warm days does not have the same flair. Perhaps it was because of this that I lost my appreciation for Spring. My life was a seed that was buried under the cold Winter ground, and I was waiting for rebirth, but I didn't know it. Like in The Waste Land, "Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers." I was content in my hibernation, perhaps even afraid to venture out of my state because I feared more soul crushing. To be covered, insulated, and hidden was far better than being exposed.

Spring, or I should say, April, took me by surprise this year. I found it while walking the banks of the salt marsh across from where my father's parents once lived; in the low-tide channels that lazed in serpentine grace around the great big mud and grass island that filled the marsh. Swans, ducks, and geese nested on its furry back. Snowy Egrets and a Great Blue Heron stalked for food. I heard April in the wind that talked through the trees in a soothing voice of hope that said, still your heart, trust yourself, believe in who you've come to be. But most of all, I felt April in the sun on my skin, so warm, energizing, giving me strength to recreate my life anew.

Passion

Passion has becomes a buzz word. It's something people have come to say, like, "Please, pass the salt." It's something that is now used to spice up a resumes, like: "I'm passionate about the way I use commas to fully elucidate a fifty page report on the reason why there is no reason." If I hear one more person, especially in the arena of Business, mention passion, I will take a nap.

I started hearing it used about seven years ago. The first time I heard it in person was when I had an interview for a Software Developer role at a company that started and managed Retirement Communities. The guy who interviewed me was a Lead Developer/Manager type. He was amiable enough, but like so many in the business, he was as exciting as a box of unopened, unsharpened Number 2 pencils. He was talking about the mission of the company, and what my role would be. For some reason, at one point, he was almost strutting and puffing his chest out. I guess it was because he was so in love with the company and what he was doing for it that he started becoming a Dungeons and Dragons hero.  I'll never forget it, he said, "I am passionate about developing the most efficient, user friendly, and cost-effective software I can deliver."

I paused for a second when I heard him say, "passionate." I thought my ears were playing tricks on me - passion and software in the same sentence? Was this a joke? Should I laugh? You can't judge a book by looking at the cover, but I'm pretty sure this guy was no Don Juan or Casanova. Not that it means anything, but there was not even a ring on his finger. I wondered if he'd ever been out on a date? I looked at this guy again as he waxed poetic about the company and its software, and the only thing I could think was, "Dude, you really need to get laid."

Passion makes you burn. It sets your soul on fire. It's what you feel when you're slashing paint on canvas, when you're strumming your guitar, crying out to the Heavens, "God, why have you foresaken me?" or are joined as one with your lover, undulating and grinding, tasting lips and tongue, moaning, groaning, admiring each other with sweat burning your eyes, dripping down faces, chests, stomachs, arms, legs.

I hate buzz-words, and I especially hate when people take something as primal and spiritual as passion, and slip it into an arena that is anything but passionate. We live in a society where most things can be bought and sold. It's very convenient. Most really don't want to feel or deal with the feel. Being stirred and awakened is not convenient. It can be heart-wrenching and painful, as well as beautiful.

When I really think about it, and really think about what passion can produce, I sometimes get afraid and say, maybe I should just let those sleeping thoughts lie. I do not need to be stirred, or bothered, or inconvenienced. Sometimes I think, please, passion, just go away, just leave me alone. But then I think of a passion-less life. I think of my interview, or I think about a man who will never know of  the ripping sting and tear of love down the tubes or the ecstasy and the peace of love fulfilled. Yes, give me passion. There is risk in being led by emotions, but there is risk in everything on this journey.

The End of the Day

There's something about the two or three hours before sunset that I love so much. I sit in this room, and listen to the sound of cars passing back and forth on the road in front. It's not silence, but as a I sit longer, I become aware of my breathing and the beating of my heart. As I drift in thought even more, random images come to my mind. There's no tightness in my chest, no knots in my stomach. My mind is just one long, open highway where my thoughts race through, unimpeded by the troubles of the world, and everything feels in balance. I wish the rest of my day or days could be like this, but as they say, without the darkness, you cannot truly appreciated the light. The end of the day is my light.

Honesty

I've come to see honesty as a two-horned devil; that sometimes saying nothing is better than telling the whole truth because, frankly, most people do not like to hear the whole truth no matter how honest it is.

In my ad, when looking for coffee and chat pals, I say, I'm a creative type, which I believe to be an attribute. I take my craft seriously. I continuously write songs, post to this blog, write poems, and am working on a novel that (so help me god) I will finish. Recently, I read someplace that the definition of a writer is someone who writes things that other people are afraid to reveal. Maybe it's because I continually write, create, and perform, that I think nothing of revealing my emotions. I forget that many people, especially those who say they "like" to write, do not reveal their deepest thoughts with such abandon because revealing such is an act that can bring judgement upon you.

I was reminded of this on coffee date not long ago when I met a woman who had two children, was divorced, and lived in town. Like me she works in the software industry, and says she likes to write. Unlike me, she really doesn't write, but wishes she could. She has no time because she works a stressful job she doesn't like and has two kids to raise.

At first when we met, it seemed like an exercise in speed dating with the both of us rapidly trying to summarize who we were in the shortest amount of time. I knew her time was limited, but I thought, this is crazy, this is an opportunity to get to know someone else, and, perhaps, find a connection. Did we have a connection or were we just two people trying to get therapy the cheapest way possible?

I decided to turn the conversation to music. I asked her what her favorite type was and what performers or bands she liked the most. It seemed to work like a charm because the conversation, instead being a break-neck, close to catastrophe downhill ski race, slowly turned into a a leisurely stroll by a lazy river. We both smiled and laughed as we recalled concerts we'd been to and songs that elicited fond thoughts in past and present times. I started feeling at ease with her. I'd already felt an attraction from the time I first saw her, but now, I began to think that this could be someone I might want to spend some time with. U2 and, especially, John Mayer were not my faves, but I'm not nineteen, and my world is not made of people with my sole musical tastes.

The conversation then turned to my music. What was it like? How did I sum it up? She said she liked the soulful quality of John Mayer's lyrics. I said, my lyrics weren't exactly soulful in the way his were. I have one song about a guy who downs a couple of Percocets because he gets dumped by some girl. Another is the story of a woman who marries for money, and is completely miserable. And then there's the one about Albert Fish, who was a real-life serial killer who made stews out of his victims. I told her about the Albert Fish song, and she asked with a smile, was I obsessed about serial killers? I said, no, and went on to explain that it was written because I remembered a friend in high school, who in his free time, would go to the library, and thumb through a book about infamous criminals. I said I remember Albert Fish's picture, which reminded me of a combination of the Abolistionist, John Brown morphed with the Actor, John Carradine Sr. Fish was such a spooky vision that I felt compelled to write about him. She seemed satisfied with my explanation, and before we departed, I told her I'd send her a link to my sound files so she could get a better idea of what "Twisted Roots Pop" was all about.

I sent her the link. Later, she responded with a email that in-part said, "Thanks for sharing your music- great stuff, I like your honesty. I'm heading out of town on vacation with the kids next weekend, perhaps we could meet up when I get back."

Will I hear from her? I'm not sure. Honesty... Be careful of what you reveal. It can be used against you.