Put down your cell phones, put everything away, and feel your blood pulsing in you, feel your creative impulse, feel your own spirit, your heart, your mind. Feel the joy of being alive and free.
When I was a kid, I loved Sherlock Holmes. I’m not interested in crimes. I’m interested in the mind of the detective and his process, which to me is a lot like the artist.
I just know that young people suffer, and I also know music is one of the things that help you get through – music and friends.
Yet you could feel a vibration in the air, a sense of hastening. It had started with the moon, inaccessible poem that it was. Now men had walked upon it, rubber treads on a pearl of the gods. Perhaps it was an awareness of time passing, the last summer of the decade. Sometimes I just wanted to raise my hands and stop. But stop what? Maybe just growing up.
Nothing can be truly replicated. Not a love, not a jewel, not a single line.
How is it that we never completely comprehend our love for someone until they’re gone?
I believe in movement. I believe in that lighthearted balloon, the world. I believe in midnight and the hour of noon. But what else do I believe in? Sometimes everything. Sometimes nothing. It fluctuates like light flitting over a pond.
In time we often become one with those we once failed to understand.
I’m sure I could write endlessly about nothing. If only I had nothing to say.
Not all dreams need to be realized.
Just come back, I was thinking. You’ve been gone long enough. Just come back. I will stop traveling; I will wash your clothes.
When you hit a wall, just kick it in.
All I needed for the mind was to be led to new stations. All I needed for the heart was to visit a place of greater storms.
We feared that the music which had given us sustenance was in danger of spiritual starvation. We feared it losing its sense of purpose, we feared it falling into fattened hands, we feared it floundering in a mire of spectacle, finance, and vapid technical complexity. We would call forth in our minds the image of Paul Revere, riding through the American night, petitioning the people to wake up, to take up arms. We too would take up arms, the arms of our generation, the electric guitar and the microphone.
Anxious for some permanency, I guess I needed to be reminded how temporal permanency is.
I’m off balance, not sure what’s wrong. – You have misplaced joy, he said without hesitation. Without joy, we are as dead. – How do I find it again? – Find those who have it and bathe in their perfection.
Home is a desk. The amalgamation of a dream. Home is the cats, my books, and my work never done. All the lost things that may one day call to me, the faces of my children who will one day call to me. Maybe we can’t draw flesh from reverie nor retrieve a dusty spur, but we can gather the dream itself and bring it back uniquely whole.
I knew he didn’t love me, but I adored him anyway.
We want thing we cannot have. We seek to reclaim a certain moment, sound, sensation. I want to hear my mother’s voice. I want to see my children as children. Hands small, feet swift. Everything changes. Boy grown, father dead, daughter taller than me, weeping from a bad dream. Please stay forever, I say to the things I know. Don’t go. Don’t grow.
In my way of thinking, anything is possible. Life is at the bottom of things and belief at the top, while the creative impulse, dwelling in the center, informs all.