Hanging with my son today,
A rabbit hole of self-discovery,
One and the same,
A hanging and realization
That he and I are cut from the same mold,
Only he’s much smarter than me.
We braved the Easter world of new diners
In fancy new buildings,
Of course, it wasn’t up to diner standards,
Or maybe our palettes are changing,
For mine was overly fried, sloppily arranged,
His barely adequate for dipping
And the waitress’ hickey,
Offered a little too much information.
Off to a music store,
A chain of six-string proportion
Where the stores out west and the local outlet
Seem to have a liberal employee sharing policy
That only serves to demonstrate
Having a skill, be it musician, gamer, athlete
Means nothing when providing service
Or whoring every serviceable offering from the store.
Throughout the philosophy of life raged,
My simple, maybe even rudimentary wisdom,
Put up against his limitless vision,
Unbounded by the chaste philosophical stoicism
I’ve created to protect myself from the practical life
I was rebelled against in school.
A fork became payola money,
A spoon was the gatekeepers of creative opportunities,
A straw wrapper, torn and tattered, was a band hoping to make it,
And rising from the table, a knife
Enlightenment, genius, higher planes of thinking,
That creatives hope to achieve
Without needing a knife or fork.
Our debate was more Sienfeldian than Silva,
As we tried to figure out
How to have this and that
Without bending the knife
To satisfy forks and spoons.
My truth is,
I do whatever the eff I think is good,
Like it or don’t
Just be nice if you don’t
And sincere if you do.
Then again, my creative obstacles are not driven by forks or spoons,
Perhaps age has helped me come to grips with that.
But then, it got real for me,
Not philosophical, but sort of spiritual,
Am I allowed to say “sort of” on Easter,
We listened to some music from Africa, not Toto,
Solid, mind stopping, conversation halting music,
Then came, Comfortably Numb,
I drifted off in that good way guitars bring a nod,
Only to be pushed further into passenger seat ambivalence
By Spiders, and the hyped distortion of Wilco
Then came, Bad Love from Clapton,
I faded into guitar solitude,
Dropped further by She’s Gone, a Michael Hill’s Blues Mob anthem
And finally massaged back to a non-drooling state
By Europa, the Santana version.
That could have ended my day right there,
Except that I had a rambling brain,
Something triggered my heart rate,
It jumped without any stimulation, probably caffeine or sugar
From the diner or just maybe
I was rising from the cloud of contentment
That is such a poison to growth and development.
Each song had put me closer to euphoria,
Each one leaving me with visions of the guitar guys
Loving what they do,
Having the music stop their time
While allowing us to experience every second, beat, note,
And feel our auditory erotic version of their ecstatic moments.
Being the musical village idiot,
I knew I would never achieve that feeling with a Strat, but,
Why couldn’t I find a higher awareness through running?
Why not become so immersed in what I’m doing from a mental standpoint
That my physical experience rivals those I have
Listening to Floyd, Clapton, Santana, and the others.
My heart was beating so fast, I took a couple of breaths,
Knowing that my challenges are to push the mental, emotional, and spiritual boundaries,
To get over the just running, losing weight, trying not to get hurt, each
Experiences I’ve been settling for.
I need to exercise in a guitar solo energy,
Wrapped in time, each muscle tuned to the next move, producing results
That takes me somewhere else.