Drifter's Escape

  After the boys are dropped off at their respective daycares and the morning mess is picked up, i'm left with a few hours of rare quiet before I have to go give Marie the van. The "geen tuck" can't fit  car seats so I have to switch vehicles before I head to work. It's a pain but hey it's a process right!
  The caffeine has arrived at its destination so there will be no napping. It's already about eighty degrees outside so i'll skip the driving range today and my landscaping project can wait for that matter too. I can't take the fingers off the keyboard yet though, so i'll let them play a minute and see if anything happens.
  I remember many days, not too long ago yet so damn long ago, I would sit with a guitar, pen and paper and play those six strings until the brain shouted, "Now write dude!" It had become something far more than routine or regular. It was an action beyond what masterful discipline achieves. It just was...it just happened. I almost felt like it wasn't my choice, the songs just had to be created. Good or bad, usable verse or random spittle, the words just made the pen move. It's crazy when I look at Dylan's lifetime body of work and think of what it was like to be that possessed. I have hundreds of pages filled and songs on backlog to record...he's in the tens of thousands range! I understand where he is coming from with lyrics like "I got a head full of ideas that are driving me insane."-Maggies Farm.
  I've been telling people for years that the day I became an artist was the day I stopped caring what people thought of my art. It's not an ego trip either, maybe a little ego is involved, but what I mean by that is, once it got to the point where I could sit and create for a couple of hours it just flowed right out. There wasn't much forethought and I would look at the end product like I had just woken up and there was three pages of drivel laying there! So, bear with me, anyone who had anything to say about my art (in essence) was saying it to the ghost who had taken over my body for a few moments and had it's way with the pen and page.

  Ultimately I do care what the world thinks of me and my art, and opinions at this stage of the game are really just exstensions of the creation itself. Now when I stumble upon these rare hours of freedom I feel blessed to have them, especially knowing that picking up the guitar will still just happen. And whatever the opinion maybe, the words will still come, the music will keep playing, and the dreamer will yield itself to the dream. Strung like a puppet, adrift in an ocean of inspiration, coming back occasionally to the surface to squeeze one's soul into an E string and a bic pen...and maybe a refill on the coffee! Time's up...what the hell just happened!