the good fight, part 9.

I was talking to Ryan a few days ago about the price a person pays when they decide they aren't going to work for the man no more. there is a distinct possibility the price of freedom is a trip to debtor's prison. sure, I have some money socked away and every day I think of cashing in every last dime I have to go all in. but just to get back to zero? so I guess the price a person pays for sanity is their life's savings.

there are evil shadows cast by whisper knives born of glances toward the fields of green grass yonder, on the other side. you got to find a light to burn them out.

there is a good fight that goes on against the easy impulse to be bitter and caustic and jealous and all those things that topple saints. you taste blood in your mouth every day from biting your tongue and wish you could wash it down with a really good cup of coffee for a change.

you do find ways to be thankful, and the blessings are abundant in the grand scheme, but that doesn't take the pain out of your hands and back and stomach. you have to find a way to laugh about it. and not let the songs in your head and heart die, and keep moving because you know if you stop for a moment it will probably kill you.

you've got to make every day a good one somehow.

hold fast.

hold fast. hold fast, man. hold fast.

...

the Cathedral

it was a castle, a fortress of solitude, a crossover station for a meager few of the waylaid, a portal to creativity. it was a tower at the top of a hill in a shittown city. it was massive. I lived on the 2nd floor near the back. I only lived there a couple years under some strange circumstances and coincidences but some amazing things happened there. only a few people ever came to visit me there. the Modern Bohemians Club was born there one afternoon. I dreamed (?) up acoustic songs there in a way that never happened before that I still don't fully understand. this place was my recording studio. those songs were never finished or released. a lot of other things happened there too, and some other interesting people lived in the other parts of it. Poppy jokes with me all the time about missing my quiet times there...sometimes I do sometimes not. but I reminisce in my head about it all the time. here is a peak, for old time's sake.

lord of the dunce, part 2.

there are only 2 things in this world I am actually really any good at. TWO. the first one is playing the washtub bass. the second one is tearing apart buildings. I give everything else hell, I give everything else I try my johndamndest best effort for johndamn sure, with mixed results and/or failure in terms of success or accomplishment to my personal satisfaction.

I have explanations of this realization and how I feel about it and why I chose to document it but I am too brain tired to bleh out the words.