Go West

For Every Song, a Story:
Go West

Santa Barbara.

Communion & Liberation retreat.  “What moved Christ to compassion?”  Jesus was moved... by our need. Compassion, not contempt.  “How different than the way we look at ourselves.”

Sweet balm.  Man, did I need it.

I was mad as hell.  At my bishop, my father, my people.  Mad at myself and my heart, all cracked stone and bloody powder. I was sideways, needing something, and fast.

I ran West.  Like every man does.

Had to regain the center, the child, some softness.

Retreats to Big Sur, vast coastal spaces fighting a death match with my desire. Bloody affairs, but ah, sweet life they were.  Wrestle with that rocky, windy, salty, tall tree and wild water God, a tough terrain you just had to respect.

It hit me all at once, like a sweet violence.  Vastness without, vastness within.  The same, we were.  Kin.  Plates shift, magma boils over. 

Eruption.

First ash, lots of tired grey old ash.  Then, fissure breached.  Ah, sweet fire.  Out came the lava, out came the pen. I wrote and wrote and wrote, the words my tears, every word a fresh breath of hope.

Withered aspirations, beginning to revive.  California, she became sacrament, mouthpiece of the Almighty, tellin me it was good to be alive.

Something new began that day.  New era, new life.  Nothing easy, you won’t never hear me say that.  New.

A Dream is a Precious Thing

For Every Song, a Story:
A Dream is a Precious Thing

Every kid wears a cape.

That's from Bill Johnson, one of my favorite preachers. Standard issue. Wearing it's natural. Shedding it's what needs the learning. Lots of A's in that subject.

Where's yours?

Who's it helping, sitting all balled up on the closet floor?

What happened to that dream?

Conformity's too easy.  Good Lord, how many verses have I sung of that old siren song.

All well and good, some would say. Nice and humble, there there that's it. Nice Christian.  Punch that clock.  Never mind the jokers and thieves, let em be. World's theirs, heavens ours.

Screw that.

Some good old medicine called Johnny Cash finally kicked in. Been taking it a long time. Who knew about washing it down with some leadership books?  One day I woke up, all healthy and new. Fever broke, and out came this song.

And a wrinkled old cape.

Go find yourself a stage and sing.

Spell My Name

For Every Song, a Story:
Spell My Name
For Zachary

I was talking to my brother Mark about the trials of his autistic son Zachary. Autism literally means self-ism. All trapped up. Signals scrambled, a social-emotional cripple. Trinity's image, all that high stuff... and here he is, sentenced to solitary in the emotional gulag by some damn disease he never deserved.

'He needs an Annie Sullivan,' I said.

'Yeah,' he said.

Then, silence. Just a couple of brothers and the leaden tension of impossible desire in an f'd up world.

Some prayers, I swear, it feels callous and criminal just saying them. There's no justice that way. They gotta be sung. It takes time, forming cries like these, and this one was no different. Was it months? Years? Anyway, it doesn't matter.

We don't write em, they're just there, waiting for a voice to give em an honest to God hearing and telling. Gritty, not pretty... this is the blues, not Broadway. Needing a worthy voice, never mine, but become mine, because its time has come and the right singer hasn't showed.

I remember, as a child, this TV special on Helen Keller.  That scene at the well, Miss Sullivan taking that small hand, making her understand...W-A-T-E-R. Brilliant. Do yourself a favor, read that scene again. The autobiography is .99 on Kindle. Powerful, magical stuff.

To get a little into that terrifying silent darkness of that little girl. How? Why? Who knows...that"s the mystery, that's the muse.  Pecking out those prison shell walls, into the clear light of day and that tender touch of the other. You can't get that ecstasy without that agony. Cruel but true. It's Helen's story, not mine. Zachary"s story, not mine.

Or is it?

Oh for an Annie Sullivan.

If I Could Sing

For Every Song, a Story: 
If I Could Sing

Karin Bergquist and break dancers.

That's where it started. Late August, bike ride. I can tell you the exact spot. South Ridge Park in Urbana, making the loop. Some Over the Rhine song came on, and it was good jealousy, not bad. It wasn't, man can she sing, I hate her. It was, man can she sing, I love her. You know. Just wishing I could do like that. Limpid and crystal, soulful and elegant, happy and sad. 'If I could sing.' There it was.

My faulty router kicked back on and suddenly my WiFi had full bars. My soul hummed and sent the signal to the universe that I was open for business. The ironic title was too juicy to resist. I knew I was onto something.

A few days later. Quad Day. Passing by the Floor Lovers break dance club. These guys were tearing it up, man. On a plastic fold-out 10 x 10 floor. I just stood and stared, forever. You're talking to the guy who bought a how-to book on break dancing in 6th grade (pre YouTube). One nice dude insisted on taking my info. For twelve hours, fantasies of a blissful, free, less-white life crackled and electrified me.

Mitch sealed the deal when,  passing Joe's Brewery, he said he once saw Angeline 'clear the floor' there during a hip hop number back in the day.

From there, it wrote itself. A bucket-list extra: finding a licit way to include Huckleberry Finn. What self respecting American songwriter hasn't wanted to write him into a song.  I could only smile, satisfied that I got one right, at least.