The Bloom Between

Three quarters done, thoughts drifting from the weather up there to the weather in here (tapping the gut). The good doctor and a lot of bright people claim it all starts here, the little brain, the serotonin producer, and I wonder, day 2 into a cleansing regime how much the cleanse will help and hinder my quest at marathon number (counting) Seattle, Vancouver, Vancouver, Victoria, Denver, # 6.

Everything below the waist is fine - dead ass heavy and tight, but ok. And the weight and tightness is not unexpected, given that Saturday was a 32 km run, followed by one day off and 7km, then the next day (today) a 7 km.

So much for outside exteriors and interior-exteriors. What about the interior of the interior? THAT, kids, was focused on feeling a bit beat up and week, ruminating about body functions that might or might not have to be taken care of on the run, and some mantra work. As always, good for so long, but it's time to slip into the IPOD now and

sweet Jesus musical anesthetic. It's hard to feel down or heavy or steeped in self-ruminating obsession with the run when Let There Be Rock Comes on. Or a ballad that reaches up through the troublesome gut and tendrils out through the emotion centers. This...

THIS

is what it is so easy to forget about the long runs. Like pain - so real then ephemeral in the time it takes to change breaths - emotion can hit like a ghost. This, friends, is the deepest of deep tissue work. Alexander? Bowen? Hah! I give you the long distance runner

Into hour 2 or 2 and a half, the first level mind tricks are gone, the easy points of motivation used up, the clock is floating in front of you like a demon 40 days in. The clock is the worst, it is the most pain at the most naked. How in fucks name am I supposed to keep running when the legs are tired and the gut is not happy and there's still 2 hours to go and I look at the watch again and

good mother of god, it's only been two minutes

and so on.

It's the gentillion candle power of will that keeps it going at this point - and maybe through the whole thing. And it's 2 hours and a half in and the salt is drying white streaks on my face and the clock is bitch slapping me and then

then

Thunder Road comes on, sung this time by Melissa and Bruce.

Deep red rose blooming in my heart center and thorning up in terrible beauty, spearing the emotional centers and hidden chakras and brilliant, fecund energy boils down into my legs and up into my head and its all summarized by

The tears that well

THEIR genesis is that dark and secret garden below the heart center that stores the parcels, some half opened, many dark and yellowed with age and as the thorns break open they throw surprises like a noire jack in the box

And I cry

And the tears dry

And I'm amazed at the privateness and openness of the moment. Interesting too, the clock was forgotten - more like it just ceased to be in those few minutes.

Music, god's anaesthetic, powerful stuff. Took the pain away, and washed me with the blood of my own crucifixions - some imagined, some real - all real, as the imagined has its truth as well.

And I'm lost in the altar of music - the temple that I took up housing in for 15 years is such a holy place

And it's connected.

I'm most of the way through the run now, know I'm going to make it but still playing games with myself to keep the clip clop stodgy pace going and I need to take the earpiece out for a second and holy shit

Satellite by DMB is playing into my left ear, AS WELL as my right ear - which would be fine if the earplug wasn't hanging down the front of my acrid shirt.

It's the car I'm waiting for at the intersection. And it's not just playing a close approximation to where I am in the tune - it is note for note the same. The light changes before I can act on this strange synchronicity (what would I do anyways - hey buddy nice playlist I've got the same one?) but there is a moment of eye contact before the convertible drives away

And it's me looking at me.

Like that dream I had, except in that one I was rolling over a dead me, weighty, fleshy, shirt off, tattoo showing.

This time it's just a subtle-body realization that I'm looking at myself but it's crossing worlds into the gross and I don't really get it

And maybe I don't have to.

Maybe it's just god looking at me through the same eye that I look at him with

A moment of bloom between here and there, the place where all the mantras collide and settle and end (or just continue fueling the hum under the universe)

And in a moment, this too is gone

Here-ephemeral-here-gone

Time for a shower and lunch.

Chop wood, carry water.

proselytizes wildly that music is God's anaesthetic

Breathe Me, Break Me
(:...Chuck, Dave, Colin)

Your face is bruised with charcoal
And the nite a tear of red
Absent from the emptiness
Hold on

Too soon for the mourning
Too late for the dawn
Do I celebrate your passions
Or break now that you're gone

(Chorus)
Thread time's ribbon gently even if it fails again
Through the tears of lovers
And the anguishes of friends
Fragile we may be but when we circle touching now
Breathe me break me breathe me break me whole

This goodbye will always be half away from done
Falling from the thunderheads
Into a midnight sun

I'll thread time's ribbon gently
Even if it fails again
Breathe me break me breathe me, make me whole

Seems an appropriate post, given the mood of late. Not bad production kids. I mean yes, by today's standards, hideous production, but we're talking cassette in an apartment closet with a keyboard, mike, midi'd PF85, guitar and an M3R (or was it Johnny's Prophet 2000?)

I'm Alone_processed.mp3

Sorry, Mr. Simon

And truly I am. This is from 87, still adore the song, I think it just reeks...life. I was at Cap College, taking voice with Shannon Gunn, and a band was gots-together to put down the bed tracks. Yes, I have some tuning problems. The production is better than some of the other stuff, but still compromised by sitting for 20 years on a cassette tape waiting, ney begging to be released to digital, where it can feed the noosphere.
african skies processed.mp3

1987 kids. 21 years ago. First time I took a song with a pseudonym for a past relationship into a music college's studio, made friends with an accomplished drummer for the tracks, and recorded a song.

Michelle_processed.mp3

That sounds amazingly bad, doesn't it?

Well kids, several of those posts sound beyond atrocious. I'll be taking them down and re'mastering' soon.

Sheeeit

I Wonder

Well, yes hoss, I did wonder. You know what I'm talking about. At one point in your life you become close to someone. At another, they leave. But those with who the friendship super-glue was cured never wander far, and when you pick up with them it's like they never left in the first place. And knowing friendship, having some of those nonlocal qualities to begin with, it's less 'like' and more 'actually'.

I wonder processed.mp3

What Can I Offer

I get inklings, but to be honest often it's a hazy toothy serpent winding it's way through my life.

Picked it up from a number of places that a good attribute of something that you were born to do is the fact that it turns into a timeless activity when you do it.

Now, time has often been a painful thing for me - that's grist for another post, so without too much upfront analysis the pickup would seem to be fair.

And where do I get that? Is there anything that truly turns into a timeless endeavour when I'm doing it?

Well, yeah kinda. Songwriting. Seconds, minutes, hours, half days literally vanish. No tiredness, a direct plug into the noosphere. Creativity is unbridled in this activity. I don't have to try, a few notes on the keyboard, the vision is there, and the lyrics roll out.

Interesting.

The Gaping Maw of Hungry Ghosts

Yep, the history behind this one almost ate me alive. Sometimes it still burps a bit. Great Buddhist visual that was passed onto me via Genpo Roshi of a hungry ghost with a permanently distended belly, a mouth too small to get enough in, and the whole thing powered by desire.

Not talking just the one dimensional desire in this song, but a longing so visceral it cuts.

Can I See You Tonite.mp3

Wrote this hristmas Theme for Grandma, Ruth, and Doris. Rest in peace, dear ones.
Christmas Theme for Grandma Ruth Doris.mp3

The Sponge of Self Discovery

But Mez, do you have a song of self discovery, written with nothing but your ability, a Korg M3R, a Yamaha PF85 and your voice? That doesn't sound like some of the other's you've posted here with lyrics struggling to get out of the mucky production values?

By gods yes, here you go:

My Eyes, My Tears.mp3

Sorry for the Bottom Dwellers

Ok, if you were brave enough to listen, especially streaming over computer speakers, you might very well have gotten pissed at the mud-production. Me thinks it's worth listening to, so try downloading it (you'll get the lyrics that way too) or plugging in a pair of headphones. Production improves a wee bit around the last 30 seconds where I added some post-post-post chorus via a .wav editing tool.

You are?

Yes, I am. I'm here.

And using history and a good predictor of future behaviour, might as well follow my short-lived bliss and get more stuff up. Gods bless Google for keeping my other blogs around for a couple of years now. Maybe I can ply them for more copy in about [insert 2-12 weeks random number] weeks when I start to follow my inevitable bell curve down, down, down to mediocrity and hapless wandering and wondering.

But until then, I'm Here

You don't need liner notes for this one in terms of meaning, but it is worth noting that I did take this song into a studio (not this version, another one which may or may not ever make it here) and recorded it au proper with a real bass player, drummer, and production quality. Still, there's something about the honesty in this one. Bare with the muddy production and try to enjoy it.

The trivia on this one is that I wrote most of the whole thing during a shift as a tour guide on board the huff-puffering 2860. Hung out for lengths of the shift with George - # 2 in seniority on BCR before it was sold - in the conductor's car, full open side, and a big rail to lean on as we watched Howe Sound go by. As memory serves, the music was pretty much complete in my head o'er the trip, and the words didn't take too much longer.

Leader and the Fool

What the hell were you songing about in that one, anyway, Mez?

Years ago - about 20, I worked at a company for a boss who had a lot of things going for him - chiseled good looks and muscular physique, intellectually gifted, lady-killer, financially successful. Also, I felt, astonishingly lonely. So plug that into the song, and it should make sense.

Repositorium

When the serotonin is right, slick and viscous psychic surfground, I go back and look at things I've done. Things I've accomplished.

One of those is music, a force that defined and pursued me for the first 30 or so. Started pulling out the cassettes a couple of nights ago. Holy shit, 20 years old - some a little more, some a little less.

Yup, the production is shite*. The musicianship ranges from nice to groundbreakingly sacharine or plain sloppy.

And yup, I stand behind it. Would have liked to have seen what could have happened to this stuff with better production, more self esteem, starting piano earlier than y20. So let's start chucking this up to the noosphere. Forward ho, gamey songster!

*Four track Yamaha with a six channel mixer. Literally used casette tapes, a special metallic tape let the machine recognize it as media and split it into four tracks. So I'd record click track, then drum's triggered from a keyboard, similarly bass, then bounce down, add vox, bounce down, then the lead. And the four track had a storied history of ghosting tracks. Which meant for a lot of the stuff I did, I had one chance to get it right or live with faint out of tune mischief musical sprites splayed under the song.

The Leader and the Fool