Do You Have It?

Did she ever have it?
The girl with flowers in her hair.
Dances with the moonlight.
Sings sorrow.
Sings of love.
Maybe she was.
Maybe she wasn't enough.
We hold memories of her,
Shining brightest like a sun beam.
She's gone.
Leaving those around her to wonder,
Where did the imagination go?
The glimmer of light might have been taken.
Or maybe it was a dreamless existence,
That took the light for themselves.
It's a fickle thing.
To dream in a world that's unkind.
We grasp to anything showing hope.
Then we can say...
Did she ever have it?
And she did.
After we have taken it for ourselves.
Shell became her heart.
She wasn't ever understood.
The songbird.
She knew at least one heard though.
She sang in the dark to an empty room.
Filled with only the thoughts of an even one ear.
She still dances.
When no one is looking.
When the manontany of life is so real now.
Where everyone waits to die.
She began to live.
Fly.
The dreamer.
The inventor of crazy things.
Wild thoughts ran through her like wild mint grew.
The crazy one.
It brought her to tears, sometimes.
Holding on to a secret she felt.
The world always had many no's.
But she did have it.
All along.
It was the way people looked at her.
It was as simple as people knowing she didn't belong.
Dear god, who belongs?
It's that difference that strengthens a soul.
Some people never leave that place.
Then she wonders if they ever had it?
It's noones fault.
We do the best we can.
I just would rather dream something crazy.
Then never dream at all.
Do you have it?

To Hope.

It's been a journey. From a small town to a big city of lights. From a hippie beach town called Venice. Every chapter seemingly more exciting then the next. I live for experiences that have changed me.  That give me something to write about.  These eyes are not shy to the things I have witnessed. There is a time though of true darkness.  Every great artist feels the brakes slam.  Watches the wind pick up, feels a relentless rain.  To say it's a low time is an understatement. Every artist, everyone if they are lucky will be humbled.  It might seem like what you went through wasn't worth it but there's a small piece of you that doesn't believe that lie.  Or some days you do.

I have lived from a suitcase for what will be a year in August.  Bouncing around with what feels like a fallen plan. A plan unraveling as I write these words.  I write from the room I grew up in feeling humbled.  Most days I am here other days I am my old self in New York.  The constant ache for a city that made me in a town that grew me.  To say this is a low time is an understatement. To flirt with the idea of giving up is soul crushing.  The highs and lows feel daunting.  It's like walking in a foggy forest, every turn offering some hope that the clearing brings a road. But there is no road just hope.  Maybe that's enough maybe it's not.  It will clear though because it has to.  That's what having a relentless faith does to you.  It reminds you that you were your biggest fan first.  That whatever you created was inside of you all along.  Support helps the most and it's needed for moments when the fog doesn't seem to clear. When the rain feels like nails. No one said this was easy and that's why most never take leaps.  Never fly or forget to dream when they get older. It's easy to live a simple life it takes courage to be brave.  To dream something crazy, to do something wild.

It's terribly lonely but let's not pretend that everyone has it all figured out.  We don't know what tomorrow brings but at least I hope the fog is clearing.  My humble moment in the room I grew up where my first dream began as a seed and grew.  Continues to grow like golden sunflowers under the sun, is my only hope.

Europa

And gradually she lost her fear, and he

Offered his breast for her virgin caresses,

His horns for her to wind with chains of flowers

Until the princess dared to mount his back

Her pet bull's back, unwitting whom she rode.

Then—slowly, slowly down the broad, dry beach—

First in the shallow waves the great god set

His spurious hooves, then sauntered further out

'til in the open sea he bore his prize

Fear filled her heart as, gazing back, she saw

The fast receding sands. Her right hand grasped

A horn, the other lent upon his back

Her fluttering tunic floated in the breeze.

Spring.

It was over. Like the way a snowfall happens in March when you think winter is over but it's not. The way it fools you. I know spring is coming and he always thought winter would stay. Now that's when we became different. You and I.  I always knew that and you didn't. Maybe that's when a change came because Sping was on us and we were having a bad day. It would pass and the birds would sing and the blossoms would bloom cause that's what spring does, if you only saw it. You wanted to stay in winter and for that I finally understood what would come of us. It never changed and you never saw Spring.

Drivers Seat.

Living in a creative city helps the juices flow. For sure you feel the spirits that still haunt a city. You can not not be inspired. I used to think that one needed to be in a city in order to be creative. Creativity lives in you either way. As my life has chosen different roads for me, I know this to be true.  My time in NYC was an education that money couldn't buy.  As the tide changed for me feeling like I was going to somehow fall off the creative train was a dooming thought that simply wasn't true.

I had a thought one day that I would never sing again and it pushed me into such sadness I knew I couldn't bare it. Sometimes a break isnt a bad thing but the process of what that meant has propelled me to continue to choose this dream.  It's not something you easily give up on. I remember what I learned and took away from that moment in time. It's a special part of what makes life so interesting.  I now what it took to end up in my small hometown again but the thing I wasn't gonna do is forget that. It's all a giant lesson and sometimes it feels unfair or stacked against you but if you continue to write and create then I know the creative city helped me but didn't become me. It was me along. It is you all along.

In that chapter of my life it was perfect and for this chapter it isn't. It's not to say that one day it won't happen again. For now the pressure is off and being true to myself will create even better art. Until the road changes again and who knows what that will bring. I am grateful for it all.  The good and the bad and the unknown future. I am a dreamer by nature and now I know it starts with me in the drivers seat continuing to make it happen. No one else will do that for you, so keep driving.

My Mother.

It's been a long road.
Mostly it has been good.
There have been times,
There are always times.
When we need a hand,
A look in the eye.
Just kindness.
Cause I'm not gonna break, you know.
Only she knows that.
I wish others knew that.
A mothers does.
And it changes you.
And you are better for it.
Changed because of her.
The single most important thing.
Just to have her.
And never let her go.
Or make her think you grew too fast.
You will be her baby forever.
She's the keeper.
My mother.

Something Beautiful.

The sun wasn't out much. When it did decide to show it was beautiful, and warm.  When you passed by there wasn't much, but snow.  I walked as I always do. It was white and it was something that stopped you. The way beauty has a way of doing.

The snow was melting, not a car in sight. As I walked I sought to see something beautiful. I would go for however long it took. I didn't care.

It was a bright blue day.  The suns brightness reflected the most glimmering light off the snow.  Entrapped by the smells of cold, my cheeks felt like rose petals. I felt I was alone and it was for the first time in a long time.  No traffic and no noise. I saw a snow storm coming our way and even though the wind pickup it remained a perfect mid January's day. The plants looked dead in color you still knew life grew around you. My breath was so vivid it fogged my sunglasses.  I could hear crunchy footsteps but no true direction on where the sound was coming from.

It was the most beautiful natural musical progression. The way the wind sung through certain trees.  Whistling and howling, deeping the sound and balance. Bouncing off of thick oak and twirling past the pines. Every so often a bird joined in.  This felt like a moment out of a Hemingway novel. It is something the whole body experiences. It stops you. Like the way new buds bloom in the Spring. When trees turn gold from the first frost in the Fall.  The way salt feels on your cheeks after wading in the ocean. The way the full moon cascades such a light you can see all its craters.

Being there and feeling like you are the only one.  The gravel road stretched out as far as I could see. A moment of silence in nature, now that's a beautiful thing.

The snow storm finally gave way and dropped perfect flakes from the sky.  Cold crystals fell onto my cheeks melting from the remaining warmth on my skin.  The sun was hidden from puffy dark clouds.  I turned around from the dirt road, passed the horses grazing in a wide open field. Felt the harsh wind pick up on my back.

My time was done I had found something beautiful all in a winters day.