Where It All Comes From
Keep on keeping. Don't sleep when you're weeping. I can't believe that Slow Leaves came to town on October 13th and I played that show with him (Grant) and his pal (Rusty) and my homeboy Marc from Still Winter Hills.
Time is a tidal wave. It creeps up in the oceanic dark, under radar, and then throttles you -thrashing you to the ocean floor of existence and consciousness.
Sometimes I have dreams about long flowing hills. I don't know what that's about.
I also dream a lot about the ocean. And fields. And lost love. And withering hearts.
Some people in this life have saddened me more than others. Everyone is sad - we all carry around our buckets of sadness and regret and hate and hurt. But it's what we do beyond that point that makes us into who we are. Do we leave the buckets by the roadside...or keep carrying them?
I simply don't have the time for small-town/small-mind drama.
I live how I live, and I make tracks on the naysayers.
But isn't it beautiful to let go? TO just....release.
That, my friends, is where it all comes from.
