Last night, my first back east, was spent in a fierce lightning storm that had me barring my doors and cowering in suspicion away from the blackened windows, drummed upon by heavy rain. The sky was marvelous when struck in purple flameâa ribbon of electricity, the world briefly illuminated, the rain suspendedâas a low crack stretched and broke across the valley like a kettle drum amongst the orchestra of night. I was certainly far away from California now, from the easy days I occupy there in abundance of man-made luxuries.
The movie theaters and countless cafÊs, all offering the same goods repackaged. Street tacos and clothing stores, Arenas and concert halls, band rehearsals, and trips to San Diego, where more cafÊs and more clothing stores wait⌠complete excess that, after such a long winter, I thoroughly enjoy.
My community there, alive in faces much missed, hours to spend, hours to burn with these rare sort of troubadours and wanderers. My lover, of course, and her house filled in the melodies of Silvio Rodriguez and Mercedes Sosa. In her company, all my questions quiet; I would be foolish to wish for more when holding such a treasure.
There in that city, with those people and that music, my youth and my age feel justified and correct. I feel young, like Iâve just remembered it anew; I rejoice and wonder how I ever came to feel so old.
Now back east, on the threshold of spring, the cherry blossoms and magnolias are open in breathtaking patches of violet and magenta, the green buds filling in the grey of ten thousand trees, the black-legged ticks returned in terrible numbers, the songbirds and peepers demanding to be heard, my fire unlit, a single blanket offering pleasant sleep all through the night. It is impossible to be blind to this change of season; it storms every sense, and the music, on its own accord, seems to return to Dylan, Van Ronk, and Furry Lewis. The blues suit this land, and who am I to deny the music its craving?
At the helm, in a charge, further than Iâve ever been, and faced by the infinite.
Or maybe the center? The world spinning, visiting me from all sides, changing me from all sides.
Maybe I am motionless, maybe I am carried.
I do not honestly know. But I do wish to repossess, to rekindle, and to nourish once again that feeling of destiny that has always sat with me, ran with me, covered me, and calmed me. In the commotion of voices that Los Angeles possessed, and then in the quietness of my existence here in books and practice, my mind has stopped hearing destiny as clearly as it once did.
Now I am full of Patti and Emerson, of Jeff and Dylanâfull of their pleas for integrity, their demands to create something worthy and lasting, full of their misunderstandings and their own confused, wonderful lives.
And too, I am full (much less pleasantly) of Eddie and the record labels, of the masses and collective. Their voices insist I am nothing without being known, without public appearances and sacrifice of my precious self. But what of me? What do I wish for?
I used to follow that answer so skillfully, without thoughtâa true master.
Or maybe I was just a child, and if allowed to be⌠all children flourish in that sort of way.
