just beyond the stone wall

Finally, the sun. It comes on like birds, an endless flock of them swirling up into the sky. And there are birds. You are on your bike at the base of a hill. You are sweating. There is a barn off in the distance, and the birds rise up like leaves caught in a whirlwind. They spiral the air, and you believe they are leaves at first, some miraculous and strange gift of the earth. You wonder why they do not crash up into the air like this by your house, for you could stand watching for hours. And then you know they are birds, and you laugh.

Rain. The rain that will put skin on the bones of the skeleton trees. The green begins to rise from the earth, flowers showing the tips of their heads. And though it is cold still, spring has arrived. You have left the garage on your bike many times, and ponder the purchase of a long-sleeved, wool jersey.

They predict a heavy snowstorm this weekend and you have come to revel in the absurdity. You feel you could punch away here all morning, but a trip to the grocery store demands your attention. So you leave. You will come home and have lunch in the cold sun. You will play guitar. Sing. Watch the green come alive. Bugs flitting. Bees and beetles. Ladybugs, red with life.

{still no conclusions about this place} {none} {but you can feel them looming like warriors, just beyond the stone wall}

To the leaves

On the roadside, twenty miles out. A cold wind from the north. Forty two degrees in the shade, warmer in the sun. I am bundled in gloves and hat and wool sweater. Sitting there, quietly on the banks of some road whose name and number I do not know, watching the water of another nameless thing run. There are birds overhead. Hawks. Seven of them. I imagine myself being lifted up by them, all at once, their claws sinking into the wool, and soaring up into the air with me. They fly me around and they are gentle. They know that they cannot eat me, and so they just fly me. Up over Old Baldy Peak, and down through the trees in the valley, my bike a speck on the ground. I see the carless road and the patches of snow. The bundles of hay. And this is time travel. This soaring with the birds, the red atop their skulls, jutting forth.

"A stagger in the air as if a language failed, a sleight of wing.
a snipe's bleat is fleeing its nesting ground into dialect, into variants,
transliterations whirr on the nature reserves~
little goat of the air, of the evening, little goat of the frost.
it is his tail feathers drumming elegies in the slipstream"
~Seamus Heaney {from The Backward Look}

Still gathering thoughts about this place here. Some wonderful insights you've all presented. I especially liked the quote about Spalding Grey. This morning though, i will rake the leaves, pulling their fragile skeletons from the earth benetah the snow. They will lay in piles like weightless bones. Angels, not corpses. That will be my art this morning. Neither the words nor the guitar. The leaves.

In other news, I happen to be selling one of my guitars. I plan to sell it on Ebay, but figured I'd offer it here fist if anyone's interested. You may read about, and look at it HERE. Send an email to info@abovetheorangetrees if interested.

To the leaves~

jumping trees

I am not questioning if I will continue making art.

"You must ask yourself in the stillest moment of your night, if it were denied you to create, would you die? And if the answer is yes, then you have no choice. If your answer is no, then please go do something else." ~Rilke

What I have come to question, as any artist worth their salt does, is the medium itself and the outcome of what is expressed, due to said medium. As stated, I question what impact THIS writing has, on the rest of what I create, including my life, as I most certainly view that as an artistic process as well. I believe that any artist and any human for that matter, should be constantly questioning things about certain aspects of their art or their lives. It is the sum of these questions, that cause us to push off into new places as artists. The examples are endless…..Pablo Picasso. Joan Miro. Jackson Pollock. Eric Satie. Radiohead. James Joyce. E. E. Cummings. And so on. These artists all found themselves at some sort of impasse, and pushed into a new place, in many ways, making something that no one had made before. While I’m not arguing that I’ve reached some sort of revelatory moment as an artist, I am simply questioning.

I also must acknowledge, that while I attempt to refrain from thinking about the readership while I write here, I believe that because of the immediacy, it is nearly impossible. I suppose we are always cognizant of our “audience” as artists, but this is somehow different. The “audience” is free to “critique” everything I say, as immediately as they wish. It therefore affects the psyche in different ways. It is both a blessing {the potential for community, and intellectual debate} and a curse {the existence of inane and immature dialogue}.

I personally, don’t believe that much great art is made, when the artist is overly aware of his/her audience. Quite the contrary. There are of course, contradictions to this, Guernica being a great example, but I would exclude such things as “socially conscious art,” as the very nature of it is to acknowledge, provoke, inspire, etc. the audience. This too, is an enormous debate I believe.

In terms of the internet, I find that it is important to always question technology. As a culture, we are fed these ideals of what is important in our lives, largely by an enormous media machine, that I for one have virtually no faith in whatsoever. Frankly, I cannot believe that people buy most of what they are selling; and I mean that both literally and metaphorically.

For example, how does a cell phone impact my life? Does it fulfill me in some way? Does it make me happy? Does it make my life easier? better? What are the costs {both monetary and mental} in having this? In my case, I answer no to these questions. The costs, outnumber the benefits. Therefore, I’ve only used a cell phone for one summer {a job I had, wherein I occasionally used one to call my boss not included} while I rode my bike across the United States. And then I cancelled the service. Another example: Keri and I have wireless DSL. Is this necessary? Do we really need to be able to access the internet from all rooms of the house? I could, if I wanted to, check my email while I shit. Is this a good thing? Again, what are the costs? So we must ask ourselves these questions when we move, and decide if we really want wireless DSL in our new home. I could of course go on.

As for the journal itself, I’m still figuring things out. Processing if you will. I certainly won’t be stopping the journal, but I may write quite a bit less. Or post excerpts from my fiction. Or write things of a much less personal nature. Or write things of a much more personal nature. Or? Haven’t decided yet. As I mentioned before, I do have an idea, which I am still deciphering in my head. When it becomes more clear, I will share.

Perhaps I simply need to pose more questions on the site. Ask you to debate things and discuss things. That is after all, what has brought me the most enjoyment here.

As for the malevolence, I refer you to an old post from the summer. It is a long and tired annoyance on this site. Those of you that are new here, may of course to go back through old posts and read the comments. As you may have noticed, in recent statements for example, john alluded to having a large penis and being able to beat people up; certainly the thoughts of an intellectual heavyweight. I’m sure Noam Chomsky would be writing just like john if he were here. As a matter of fact, I heard somewhere that Mr. Chomsky has a new book coming out, all about his penis and how tough he is.

Those of you with encouraging words, I offer thanks. It is both flattering and humbling to read. It is indeed tiring in some way to make art and have the “powers that be” continue telling you that they will not sign you to their label or print your poetry or fiction. These are things that any {most} artist suffers. It is simply par for the course, as are the valleys and mountains that we cross in life. Sometimes I feel like I am a brilliant musician, other times completely awful. I don’t know many {any?} artists who don’t go through this.

As much as this endless winter has worn my soul, it has been one of my most artistically productive 6 month periods ever. I am on a fast-moving train.

And maybe some of you are right. Maybe I just need the sun. Yesterday, I went for my first ride since the first week of November. It was windy and cold {a mere 40 degrees} but glorious. The river running, free of ice, and the fattest of groundhogs standing the field. The crows jumping trees. Bugs aloft. I could actually feel the heat of the sun on my face, and stopped at one point to lie on my back at the side of the road. I felt like a giant white bird, emerging from the nest for the first time. Spreading out wide-winged and breaking into the sky. It was fucking perfect.

I came home and read the new Adbusters cover to cover, which is indeed a great issue. I highly recommend. I also chuckle at the thought of buying one of these. Hallelujah.

what the fuck is going on?

Today, this third day of April, the snow falls hard, and drops me back into the dark water. A blizzard. Not only a blizzard mind you, one that has dropped well over two feet of snow in the last 36 hours, and one that has caused both highways in and out of town to close.

And I am a plunging stone. I am twisting into the black water, my vision blurred.

I attempted to practice guitar this morning, but my hands could never warm, leaving them far from nimble. They stumbled across the strings, across the frets, like ants with missing legs. Twisting clumsily, making sad sounds.

Last night, Keri and I watched a documentary called The Corporation, which was fantastic; simply wonderful. While nothing new for me, sometimes we simply need a kick in the ass to jostle our brains, our souls. And so it is. I feel shaken and determined to be more proactive in the beliefs that I have. {which I will get to in a moment}

This coincides with my having spent much time lately, thinking about the Internet in general, and more specifically MY place here in the infinite sea. I could of course, write a terribly long piece about my feelings on the matter, but frankly I haven’t the desire. Simply put, I’m tired of it. Both the internet and this “blog.” I’ve finally admitted to myself {as did my wife} that I have fallen slave to this machine, this technology, and it owns a great deal more of my mental landscape, AND my soul than I would like it to own. As keri said, I want more of life’s direct experience. More time walking in the woods. More time on the bike {when the snow melts}. More time listening to music with my headphones on. More time playing guitar. More time just sitting, with no machines.

I ask myself, why do I check Christian’s blog ten times a day to see if he has posted? Mike’s. Andrea’s. Keri’s. Why do I check every post I write, constantly, to see if anyone has commented? In Short, it is a rather pathetic behavior I think, and admittedly an addiction of sorts.

The email is perhaps worse. I don’t really know how many times a day I check my bloody email, but it has without question reached unacceptable heights. I must ask myself, “What void is this filling?” or perhaps, “What part of me so desires to waste my time?” “Does it make me feel more liked by people when I get an email?” or, “Does the email that I receive really NEED to be read immediately, or could I respond in a day or two?”

What the fuck is going on???

Important questions, I think. What if, for example, every time I felt compelled to spend five minutes checking my email, I put headphones on and listened to a song. How would that effect me in comparison? What did I do before the internet existed? Seems an absurd thing to say, but a valid question I think.

I believe that for some people, the internet functions as a place of information, inspiration, research, etc. Certainly good things. But for me, it is most often a poor way of spending {wasting} my time. The reality is, that ninety percent of the time, it is a diversion for me, as I believe it is for many, if not most of us. This is of course, not the first time I’ve had this thought. I have, over the past decade signed off from the internet on more than one occasion, denouncing email entirely. Sadly, after sending out a bulk email telling all of my friends that I was done, and asking if they would please send REAL letters instead, I think I received one in the first year, and none after that, having completely lost touch with some of the people.

Nearly two years ago, Christian and I began sending each other postcards with poetry on them regularly, inspired by Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser. I cannot even begin to explain how much MORE these postcards mean to me than the emails that I receive.

In some way, or perhaps many ways, though the intent itself and its possibilities may be quite different, I find that it is painfully similar to television, which I have not watched on purpose for about twelve or thirteen years. {maybe this piece of writing will be rather long after all.}

All of this said, I have no intention of ceasing to use this resource, as I have certainly found some great music, writing, and art. Hell, even Keri and I met through the contact of a friend in this digital world. BUT, I do need to redefine it all for myself. Examine it. I have to ask myself if what I am doing here really feels like making art anymore, or if it is some lame excuse to make me feel better about my lack of artistic success.

So when I began writing here nearly three years ago, my intention was that it would be a way to get things out, and to write daily. I also had hoped that it would help me, and the band to grow, which sadly has not really happened. Frankly, I find myself rather depressed that I sell very few cd’s here, unless I’m playing live regularly, and even then it’s minimal. But then I guess that is one of the simple, if not harsh realities of being an “unsigned musician,” who is ultimately rather poor at self-promotion. It is my opinion that the internet has been both great and terrible for musicians. It is great because anyone can put their music out there, basically the home recordings that they make. But sadly, it is terrible for the same reason, in that this causes a flooding of the marketplace, much of which is just plain awful.

I also question the lack of honesty here. I certainly don’t tell you people everything, and I wonder if that may be compromising my art in ways that I am not aware of. The music I make is honest. Completely. As is the poetry and fiction that I write. But here, there is a veil that I keep eternally up, one that I don’t wish to drop.

Also, I wonder what it is that I desire from the potential accolades of the people, yes YOU dear reader. Is it that I’m not a “successful” musician or writer, and somehow the positive response that I get now and then, makes me feel better about myself, because I can’t seem to get anything published, or get a goddamn record deal? Does it make me feel not just “successful,” but even famous in some small way? There is after all, quite a large number of you coming here each day. Yet more questions worth the asking.

Anyway, the website {more specifically the blog} is not functioning for me in the ways that I desire any more. In terms of the writing here, while I enjoy it now and then, quite often I feel like I “should” post something, and sadly I feel like this takes away from my poetry and fiction, because I squander my thoughts, ideas, images, and metaphors here, often before they’re ready to live on paper. Sometimes, I even rush, hurriedly punching away, to get a post up Friday before people go home for the weekend.

Every time I post a photo or painting, I feel a bit strange about it. It’s not necessarily because I lack confidence {which I do}, but more a questioning of my ego. Perhaps more specifically, WHY I feel compelled to share it in this way, here. It is indeed true, that all artists have an inherent desire to share their work, but I question the vehicle. It feels somehow dishonest. I’m not entirely sure why, but it does. Above all, it feels like a giant ego-explosion, with me talking about what I had for breakfast every day. Which in some ways is completely valid, and maybe even the best art that there is. Who knows? In some way, how different is it from me putting my songs up here on the mp3 page for you to listen to? I don’t know why, but at the moment it just feels different.

When I started this blog, I remember talking to friends about what I wanted from it. More than anything else, aside from my own daily writing exercise, I wanted it to be a place of intellectual discussion, a round table of sorts, which it has been at times, and which I am thankful for. But more often than not, I just feel like I’m tossing my words off some cliff, into a giant and endless void. Of course, in keeping with honesty, would i feel differently if indeed i had a plethora of comments all of the time? I don't know.

And perhaps these questions right now, this decision for change, is commercial suicide. Perhaps I am standing on the precipice of exploding, catapulting myself into the masses as a “great artist,” and I jump from the cliff, soaring to an impoverished life of menial jobs and constant monetary struggles. But is that any reason to keep doing something? Fear? I think not.

Lastly, I feel like I want to be making a more concerted effort to change the things about this world that I feel need to be changed. For years, I have wished that I could play shows like the Tibetan Freedom Concerts or tour with Fugazi. Open for Springsteen on his Kerry support tour. Donate proceeds to causes that I believe in. But the fact is that it just feels rather useless when only 14 people show up at your gig. Or for example when Mike and I sold “The Great Sitting” t-shirts this summer, intending to donate the profits to the Lance Armstrong Foundation. The sad truth is that we received a check in the mail about a month ago for $24.75. That my friends, will not change the world.

Anyway, this is far too long, my wife sits by the fire, and I wish to join her. I will not disappear, it will simply change. Maybe I’m just sick and tired of this fucking endless grey. I did move to “Grey County” after all. Anyway, I do have an idea, about which I am REALLY excited, but this has been long enough already. I will unveil said plan in a few days. And who knows really? Life is, at its very core, unpredictable. It is, I believe, this unpredictability that makes it worth living. My wife, a fire, and wine.

The terminal winter carries on. It buries me and drowns me in the eternal white. Will it ever stop?