February 9, 2010

Visions

The other day as I skimmed through my dream journal, I found an entry from sometime last year, written vaguely and as if I was half-asleep, in which I described being told by a voice to write down and clearly define my ideal life situation. I never followed up on that. I see that it is now due time to have an honest look at how my relationships, housing, career and health, among other things, would appear in the purest expression of my life. This is of course from the limited perspective of where I am at right now, and so it will be incomplete, but everyone knows that’s all we ever have anyway. Terence Mckenna preaches the acceptance of “unclosure,” or being okay with things never really finishing the way we’d like them to. So I’ll do my best.

While what follows is likely to come off as, and very will could be, childhood fantasy, we probably don’t get enough of that nowadays. So here goes, a bonafide orgasm of imagination.

I would like to remain vegan for the rest of my life. I visualize myself “getting better” at it, broadening my culinary horizons and skill, thus eating as healthily as possible. I need to be active in some way every day, wherever possible. I have decided that this need is administered by the fact I am a Sagittarius. I come with a certain expendable reserve of energy each day and a large portion of it must be used in a physical way or else I begin to feel pent up and cornered. Running, kayaking, biking, climbing, swimming, hiking, skiing, these are all activities I see myself actively using in my ideal vision.

I imagine myself with a woman who is grounded and independent. I believe my ideal relationship is one that is okay with alternating times of great space and great intimacy. Room to breathe is very important to me, but so is the ability to return to union, with the understanding that this cycle of movement is natural and honest. The most attractive partner to me is one who is extremely interested in her own calling and pursuits, someone who is full of zest for experience. I am unsure at this moment whether I would like children. I have recently not felt very interested in the idea, but like everything this could easily change. In either case, a relationship that values communication, adventure and grounded spontaneity is part of my highest vision.

I have been recently visualizing myself owning at least two properties, one in a city and one in the relative wilderness. Both of these are situated on larger lots, with lots of trees, open space, water, simple and wild landscaping. The idea behind two properties is to balance my shifting inner longing for stillness and stimulation. Both houses are very petite, using only space required, and one may be styled in geometric domes. Extravagance is decidedly absent, especially in the wilderness house, which in my mind is a unity of Japanese, Northern European and Northwest Coast Native design ideals. I have thought more of this house, mainly because the idea of a retreat in the forest, relatively near the ocean, is very appealing to me right now. Both properties would have self-reliance in common, with solar panels, composting, septic fields, windmills, and other energy producing/saving measures, even more so in the country, with the use of small hydro-electric mills in nearby streams, providing the ecology was secure. The idea would be to remain off-the-grid and perhaps to contribute surplus to neighboring dwellings. In both houses, all efforts are made to conserve simplicity. An aura of energetically clean, authentic humility permeates the spaces, which are decidedly cozy and welcoming. The scent of sustainably harvested cedar beams is notable. Hardwood floors, recycled and restored antique furniture, west coast art, a sleeping loft and a small fireplace are highlights, and spaces dedicated to writing, playing, meditation and yoga practice are taken into account. The key to my highest ideal of housing is simplistic living within the earth’s means, peaceful, yet vibrant.

Obviously there must be a means to achieve these dreams of housing. While the dwellings may be simple and petite, high quality and good land comes with a price. This means, in my highest vision, is by becoming a professional musician.

I envision myself creating lush, emotive and melodic records that inspire feelings of warmth, contemplation and positivity. I imagine a refined poetry in my lyrics, a further development of the spontaneous writings that I have previously experienced. Each word is chosen specifically and each work is intuitively reviewed and approved, with attention to heart feeling, and not outer expectation. I imagine both solo performances and involvement with others, in duos or bands, playing multiple instruments. The focus of the music I create is on the general sound, which is very specific in my mind, but difficult to translate into words. It is a full thing, full of luscious chords, balancing basslines, one-off organ quirks, tasteful percussion, melodic fingerpicking, etc. Other projects may ensue that are more direct, more “rock,” but my initial vision is an acoustic one. Live shows are quiet at times, and at times bursting with emotion. An emphasis on polish is high; polished vocals, instrumentation, venue choice and set up, etc. All conscious and consistently intending to learn and teach and learn. While fame is secondary to creative freedom, with my current perspective, I see it as the means to this end. The quietest fame possible would be desirable; a status that allows for the touching of lives but does not remove me from human-being-hood. The ability to interact with people as people, naturally is of paramount importance. No contentious attitude.

I imagine fewer, high quality records. Each song must clearly burn the pages they are written on to be included on the tracklist. They must ring like ancient cedars. I collaborate with other artists frequently, both newer and those who I look up to. I play the summer festival circuits. I include remote locations on my tours. My approach is always fresh. If I become stagnant in any way, everything must be thrown out the window and begun again.My highest vision of my music is like that of my dwelling; clean, simple, yet rich and warm, intensely fulfilling.

Excess profits from my musicianhood must obviously go somewhere after establishing a clean, simple life. I imagine my efforts benefiting organizations that work directly for the preservation of the earth and the spiritual sanity of its people. Giving back to the places that taught me what I know today, like the YMCA and community associations of my hometown, would be primary. Then a long-term donor relationship with environmental projects and cultural initiatives would be set up. The emphasis would take on preservation and nurturing of the land, wholesome, sustainable K-12 alternative schooling, organic and local foodsharing, native language revitalization, SPIN-farming, support of local art communities, alternative energy systems, rehabilitation programs, etc.

There are a number of ways to serve the community of the earth. Whether through medicine, sciences, the arts, trades, working the land and many more valuable occupations, I believe that we are all here with a unique purpose that is ingeniously designed to both fulfill our hearts and to support the planet. It is simply a case of accepting one’s deepest inner calling and then accepting the path and whatever lies upon it. I see a future where the people of the earth will choose their actions based on their intuited purpose. I cannot see how if people followed their hearts, the planet would not benefit greatly.

Take some time to ablute yourself of the traditional, society directed thinking. Feel where you are pulled the most and investigate that direction. If there is a place, an occupation, a certain anything, that continues to return to your feeling, to your longing, then you must investigate it. I posit that this calling is your personal key to the grand enigma. Allow it some breathing room, sit with it in a quiet corner of your house, speak with it in the rain, stir it into your tea and sip it, listen to it tap on your windowpane in the middle of the night. It is there. All you must do is allow it to take the reins and to hold on.

These grand visions are certainly a long way off from dishwashing in a café three times a week and a pocketful of songs. But the cliché is steadfast: you must start somewhere. My vision is to serve the earth through music.

“Those who do not gain treasure in their youth perish like old herons in a lake with no fish.”

Buddha, Dhammapada

January 25, 2010

Tea

Such stillness,

such warmth

the gift of time,

cherry blossom icicles,

a favorite mug.

Blessed.

January 19, 2010

Maps EP

This is a recording I made in the late evening of August 6th, 2009, in a cabin named Hemlock, Camp Thunderbird, Sooke, BC.

It was the last night of 3rd session and like always I had been directed by my boys to sing them to sleep, starting with Wolverine (written by Jake Smith) and then whatever of my own, as they would drift to sleep very fast after the first tune. I took this opportunity to play songs without any sort of pressure, which is somewhat evident as in my opinion there are quite a few mistakes. However, it was pitch black in the cabin, and the long session was almost over. My exhaustion is sometimes apparent, especially in the rambling “Maps,” which at the time was a sketch for a song I still haven’t quite finished. It certainly has come a ways since then though.

I was quite emotionally charged from recent events at some points as well. In any case, it’s raw and unedited, and I hope you enjoy this window into the last night of a summer camp session in the dark, toadcroaking, mothflittering forest. These are rough recordings. I remember putting my guitar down at the end of my playing and falling asleep within seconds. How sweet it was.

S.S.

1. Wolverine

2. Past Life #12

3. Blushing In The Dark

4. We Belong To Summer

5. Maps

January 17, 2010

So Much

I bet
your revenge is like the chasm between
crushed photographs and a careful whisper
threading the charcoal walls
while your left hand sews
with your teeth
and your lips rape the ground
that we slept upon.

I bet
you’re avenged
when you find the letters I didn’t mail
nailed to a post, drenched in trawler oil
when you sting me like a hawk
and ring me like windchimes

when you find me strewn across
the floor
like madness put in my pockets
you swiftly cut
as I tilled the ground
we slept upon.

I bet
you’ve rearranged the lamps
so that the way his hair moves
over your skin
is a legend on the dunes
like the endless froth
off Benbecula,
or moths on the cabin floor.

Honestly, Penelope.

My fingers are strings you could’ve played
had you strung them over
that sacred arch of your back

between monasteries perched
on feather golden wheat
and streams of alabaster.

I have to walk down to the ocean now,
Penelope. And as I
quench this broken beach,

I’ll bet
that when you’re down to the last sip
on another wheezing bottle
you’ll sigh to yourself
like the heaving jungle at dusk
and as the sun sets in his
southern cross chest,
silently:

“For Andromeda.”

January 8, 2010

Wisdom

“I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavours to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and interpreted in his favour in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings. In proportion as he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness. If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.”

- Thoreau, Walden

January 8, 2010

All Maroon

Finding a job appears to be more difficult than I originally proposed when I confronted and accepted my “just a kid with a crazy dream” syndrome. There’s no going back now though. Not in the sense of I couldn’t get back into school and follow some other exciting career, eventually. In the sense of I have decided and thoroughly shot myself down the barrel of this crooked gun, and must accept the consequences.

My days are filled with strange tinctures of feeling, some plucked from trees of worry and others from freedom kelps, and this swirls in my tea as I drink to drain the swollen bags under my faithful eyes. Despite everything always appearing to be worse than it actually is, I can sense underneath the current of strangeness that there is an underlying devotion to the Mystery. It is not so much a faith of everything playing out just fine, a kind of blindness now ever pervasive. It is instead a pure giving of a type I have not experienced in myself beforehand, with anyone or anything.

I have said I will do anything for the muses and their infinite mystery, and now they come to collect their dues. Which on the outside of the issue is quite frightening. But somewhere I feel the restful place that is reserved for devotion, sacrifice and unremitting love. I feel myself there when my surface mind is downtrodden or “stressed.” My body complains in ways it does not often vocalize, and their nature of infrequency alarms me, for a part of me believes I may be sick with hidden disease. But I return to this altar of devotion. I say “I will do what you say, I am what you say.” I suppose it’s kind of like what Christians believe as per “God’s Plan.”  Perhaps they deserve more credit from my camp than we’ve been giving them. They might be onto something.

I say, O Goddess

Priest of the Mystery school

Navigate your trireme through passage after

passage, the helm’s yours to keep

I will beat the drum, the song will be sung

roles to roles, pauper to proper

the teadrops on a saucer

are rain on cliffs steep

unmoved

by callused oarhands

and so I leave them to you

to you, to you

let us waltz through

the open pinestands

take this lead, I offer my

surrender

and only ask for grace.

December 31, 2009

Butter Lamp

We packed the skates,

feasibly sharpened by grist

of the past three years

war

grey as a Steòrnabhagh dawn

and tramped down the faerie path

with nothing but a butter lamp.

We scintillated over bowling lanes

hurricanes that wept

’cause the timing was

wrong

wrong, all wrong

So gosh, Charlie, now those rambles are

just tightly bound balls of yarn

and bison fur

stacked carefully in the loft

where barnlight echoes, thats all

and O Steppe, we are so ready

to step on to your christened lake

in time to ravi guru

as the shaman pair

while the tribe fingers gut bows

astounded

of our white hot smoking magic

and the maple sap

is good this year,

Charlie.

December 31, 2009

Torch & Fjord

The dusk is like

The thickest musk

Though pure

croft

As if dropped from

Flowering antiquity.

The remnants of realms

known by nightwatch

torch & fjord

caressed in private,

perfect aurora.

And the trees, let me tell you

silent as the abyssal monastery

within them, dormant,

rooflack safety somehow

the snowed roots snake

haltingly in pews.

Cloisters, tucked

in by a duvet of the

quietest comfort;

this sentence, serving

awaiting, yet in moment

allowed to splash and settle

into the winter’s infinite calm,

Fading now to spring’s

torrential stream and fertile karst

a verdant third eye

promised by the sparkling

poltergeist drifts

alit in waxlune,

while the coast curls like

butter

on her ice-wine skin.

December 31, 2009

Switzerland

When my father left for Switzerland

I knew how guilty he felt

By what he got me for

Christmas

I told him not to give me anything.

He sent me a cheque for 300 dollars.

December 4, 2009

Black Starling

Have you ever noticed the kids who play like flatpebbles across white pine creeks? Those confluences, veritable, venerable streets for whippoorwills and upstate demigods, trailed by nymphs of all description, they serve as lines on the palms of her hands and disobey all speed limits regularly set elsewhere.

And I submit, I have committed, I have stacked and knelt and confiscated myself before the ancient altar, I have burned my gloves and hat, met Gnosis and sacrificed my collections of leaves, I have stained my robes with the virgin tartans of last night’s nuptials, and yet still I stand stoic as a statue at the head of a well used park, except this time ’round a place naught but a whisper of yew and ash against the january sky.

In this fashion I await like the brawniest black starling, practically ferocious, “Savage,” as Sebastien would say, and my orange juice gets warm, and I run on low heat until “full speed ahead” is just a note I find stamped on my door, from some aroused admirer, but whose existence cancers inside me like a knife with no blade.

So in the months that come she promises cotton cheques and vials of maple amber and other cosas del invierno, and thus one day I believe the carvings on the tree are ours, a trap set deliberately for myself, while I wallowed in the barbiturate moonlove of yesternight, but sometimes not, for what is a carved tree but a wounded stump anyway, and what worse a soothsayer than that.

However, one day it all converges, like I was saying, and we’re back on air at the bottom of the dial, slowly sliding way out, through the reservation bands and the alternative country spoongrease, and all the while tissues flying across the room past cassettes I made for her once, but the laundry is finished, so we halt this fantastic skychurch battle at CKYX 100.1 FM YOUR MUSIC, ALL THE TIME, of the grandstand stallion type, you know, and then pipe through the chutes and get it all folded up nicely and good and comical, and as soon as it’s in the basket the house is like a woodstove sauna, the big old tyme, so to speak, atop a cozy fjord and northern lights just waltzing up and down the ballroom night.

Well you know how it goes, ’cause when we get up past 108.9 I figure it’s time for the AM band, and she agrees, and thank god, and hare krishna that I found such a woman amongst the reeds, but that’s another story your canoe can tell you, because as you know I borrowed it that one time to pick tea herbs in those cold shield pocket lakes, and the rest, is history.