Selflessness.
Where one serves, another takes their advantage.
Where one sacrifices, another greedily stuffs their face.
It is the nature of grace, I suppose
That one must give and the other accept
But I would reject the way that we shove and push
To get to our own sense of perfection.
If something is ripe for the taking,
Can't you take a look around
First?
Can't you see what's tightly wound
around the verses of human life
drawing light from the roots of the tree you would strip?
Simply waiting for the sweet, soft drop
Of what you would take for yourself
Waiting for it to plop on the ground
We need it to nourish ourselves
As it rots on our collective conscience.
It's sullied nutrition
Feeding the whole
Instead of the one.
Giving us better ground to stand upon.

So maybe you'd call me a socialist
But you haven't seen the same people I've seen
No one should own so much money
As these.
Their sweet, beating hearts
Giving so much to the arts
Giving so much to the medicine
That would cure their aches and ailments.
Nothing's ever truly selfless
Phoebe nailed that, early on.
I don't suppose we could try it anyways, though...
Put down your money.
Put down your guns.
And give someone a goddamn hug.

Look into the eyes of another person and FEEL what they are feeling.

The problem... the problem is that we are all.
all.
so.
capable.
So very capable of these unimaginable evils. It lies
within each of us. It whispers
of how it will treat us.
Maybe it's self destructive. Maybe we get off on that.
We're all going to hell in a handbasket, so get in the fucking basket, man.
I'll take you down with me, man.
Glory be.

How do you even help when someone hurts like that?
How do you even help?
Can you?
I don't think I have it in me.
My parents would say that the answer is Jesus.
That this evil, black, monstrous mold is sin.
That we need Him to wash it clean.
And I mean, cool, kudos to Jesus, thanks to God, but it doesn't fix things to know that. It doesn't fix things to tell people about it.
I guess it helps some things, sometimes. But it doesn't get to the root of the problem, which is really the sick and twisted worldviews of the people who wreak the havoc of their depraved minds, out here in reality.
I suppose it's related to the smaller, pettier emotions we feel; the ones that Jesus helps normal people to seal into their past life. Thank you Jesus, I am clean, and we stand for love.
But it doesn't get to the root of the problem.
It doesn't fix things.
It fixes me. Or you. The individual. And I suppose... if it fixed all the individuals, we'd be good.
But once you're clean and bright and shiny with the forgiveness and grace of God, what do you do?

You go into all the world, I guess, proclaiming the good news.
But not everyone will like the good news,
And sonny, that's why there are martyrs.
Good Christian men rejoice
As they cut off your heads.

So, you see, it doesn't fix things.
Because not everyone submits to be fixed.
Sometimes we resist the things we need the most.

Just... why isn't it armor or something? Bright shiny grace-armor that we can just hit the bad guys over the head with. Smack them with the Bible and get some love into 'em.
I mean, c'mon, Jesus.
I suppose that's the problem with free will. There will always be people who make bad choices.

Hero

We are so quick
To hold up our heroes
When they only and always fail us
No one is perfect
It's quite the consensus
We've all agreed to ignore
That life is more holy than war.

Everyone's human
But we celebrate
Their honesty, passion, and sympathy
Ignoring their guts when they quickly
have to make snap decisions.
We should all be disgusted
By what is so twisted-
It resides in my heart, and yours.
We try to distract ourselves
By telling lies to ourselves
Ignoring what's under the floorboards.

A life lost is not a life gained
Our humanity is what, up for grabs?
Just because, and because, we proclaim our excuse
And defend what should never be had.

Anger embalms us
A society
In misery
moaning beneath our mummified mouths
Preserved for forever
No changes in weather
Will move the sad veins that run deep in our skin
Our shame and our sorrow
Will last through tomorrow
And we'll turn our backs
As ever, and always, before.

And so the wind blows me about as it will
And so it wends its whistling step across
The dross of New York City.

It blusters, blissfully, through the trees
The leaves bristling at the intrusion
But welcoming a kind of reunion
It's fall, you see, and we're delighted to behold
The slow drop, the sweet stop
Of the heartbeat of the sun

And so the wind whirls through the locks
Caresses the tresses of the girls and of the treetops
And so it pulls my thoughts to pleasanter things
And so... the wind blows me about as it will

I am a...

"CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): For over 2,000 years, Chinese astronomers have understood the science of eclipses. And yet as late as the 1800s, sailors in the Chinese navy shot cannonballs in the direction of lunar eclipses, hoping to chase away the dragons they imagined were devouring the moon. I have a theory that there's a similar discrepancy in your psyche, Capricorn. A fearful part of you has an irrational fantasy that a wiser part of you knows is a delusion. So how can we arrange for the wiser part to gain ascendancy? There's an urgent need for you to stop wasting time and energy by indulging in that mistaken perspective." (from the Missoula Indendent's Blog)

There are stories that I tell myself. That I'm bad at this. That I'm worse at that. That my talents are narrow and my skills are set in their ways. But as soon as a statement comes out of my mouth, "oh, I'm so bad at..."  - it feels wrong. It feels like I'm betraying the truth that I know, the one that is different than the stories I whisper to myself. The wiser part of me is taken aback, appalled that I would say such negative, such incorrect things. Because the wiser part of my knows just what I am capable of when I put my mind to it. It knows that I am capable of anything, and my excuses are just excuses, used to hide from the tasks that are difficult or unpleasant.
You see, I am a runner. By which I mean, it's important how you see yourself, how you talk about yourself (to yourself, and to others), and how your actions follow from that perception. And I've been reminded time and time again that my frame of mind needs shifting, until it focuses and settles on the task at hand (namely, music). The truths I tell myself, about myself, are the ideals I aspire to. 
You see, I am someone who exercises. I am someone who does not eat candy. I am a musician. And the things I do with my life and my time are reflections of what a person who is a musician, doesn't eat candy, and exercises, would do with their life.
You see, I am living up to myself, as I visualize myself. And it does no good to simply try. As Yoda so famously said: do. Or do not.



p.s. I had maybe read my horoscope 5 times in my life before I moved to Montana. The last few months we lived in Missoula, I got hooked on the Indy's weekly versions. I've been checking them online every Wednesday, ever since we moved. I don't hold too tightly to these things, but I like the way Rob Brezny suggests you take a look at life and think about things through a different lens.

Just a little green

I've really been appreciating the benefit of being outdoors lately. Often, during my precious lunch hour, I'll scurry as quickly as I can down to the East River to get a glimpse of the shifting water, the free-wheeling boats in pursuit of the sea, and the trees all leafed-out along the promenade. But recently, I've been drawn to the bits of grass that are not-quite-as-far as the water. (This is New York; it is nothing, if not about convenience.)
The grass I like best is a tiny little strip; not necessarily manufactured for human lounging, but just big enough to accommodate a cross-legged girl who wants to kick her shoes off. It's littered with leaves and weeds and tiny ants, but that's sort of the way I like it. There's something about setting your feet on the ground and letting them get all green and grass-imprinted that does an office-computer-weary heart a world of good.

Oops

Sometimes I just like the way words fit together
The way that the clouds can suggest at the weather
But then suddenly I realize
I've written a poem about prostitution.

I wonder what Freud would say.
(Whatever. He was a bit of a quack, anyway.)

Good morning (with a hint of summer)

Oh morning,
I love you and your light, bright clearness,
The way the clouds scurry from your sun

Oh morning,
I love the way you creep toward nearness
The way the birds welcome you with song

The way your crisp winds waft so softly through my windowsill
Like a mother's fresh bread, beckoning her children to return

And so I return to you, each brand new day,
In an ancient, but eternally renewing way,
Oh morning.

It's all about the weather

What a year for weather, and seasons. This is the year that seasons were made for. Summer was hot and humid. Fall was cool and damp and refreshing. Winter was cold, snowy, and long. And now, spring is springing, and April is about to usher in plenty of showers (as it should).

One more

One more storm before we break
To the sunny skies of springtime
One more spray of snow
Before we bid that winter go,
Before we say our terse goodbyes

Another round of cold before we greedily soak up the sun
So take a gasp and hold it in
We'll wait (impatiently) for spring to lift it's timid head again
To spread its fingers over all the flowers
Over limbs and branches unfurling into leaves, please

You bitter winds! Stop blowing down so fiercely.
You haven't got much left in you, do you?
So go on, get out. We don't want your icy breath about here anymore.

It Might As Well Be Spring

There's something in the air today. You can feel it, like a sigh of relief after holding your breath for a very long time. You can feel it in your limbs and in your hair, in how they belong out on the sidewalk, in Central Park, or by the East River. You can feel it in the not-quite-humid way the water hangs in the air, with it's tinges of garbage and freshness and salt.
It's getting warmer. Spring is coming. The concrete has a happier quality to it. You can step out into the city like you can't when it's winter, with your ankles out and everything.

I felt like I greeted an old friend this morning. Hello, New York. Glad to see you stirring and shaking off your sleepy hibernation. Let's get coffee soon.

Purple

This purple noise... swirling about my nose, I can't help breathing it in. It tastes smoky and dark and delicious - like wine from a particular wineglass. Carpets that smell like church and basements - a lingering mold that flavors this stew of music and booze and bodies, oh-so-particularly. The faithful and the foreign linger here, in their respective bubbles, treasuring their own respective baubles from a night well spent, or misspent. But the bass strings play on, and on, and on... moving this purple air in pulses towards my ears, my heart, my head.