My Magic City..

It's like when a murky line in a song you've been listening to and digging your entire life suddenly makes perfect sense; when the clouds part, the dirt washes off the windows and all you see is a garden pathway illuminated by the sun.

Somewhere between the revolving art galleries, the tent cities, the dive bars and the taco trucks rests the unobscured unredacted truth of our city; which is both shamefully ugly and crushingly beautiful, like the ornate and the austere violently colliding to make some kind of deadly, new and righteous dualistic vision.

L.A. is Raymond Chandler, David Hockney and Arthur Lee doin' it nasty up in the park (and you know which park). Sometimes, I still can't process the brutal and near perfect sweetness of it. It's a dirty, fetid city, full of haunted sidewalks and carnival barkers, scabrous neon wonderlands and dangerous alleyways, but it'll always be Magic to me.

Damn, I'm gonna miss this place someday.

Don't Be That Guy..

We are all trapped in our meatsuits on this beautifully strange spinning rock together, and pain and heartache are an inevitable part of the ride/journey/mystery. That being said, allowing this peculiar predicament to infect you in such a way that you become a naysaying cynic or vicious critic at every brush with beauty, artistic expression or mystery, is a rather dark road to travel.

I'm not advocating a position of reverence or even adherence, but if nothing else, maybe we could at least try to never be the reason why someone who loved to sing, doesn’t any more. Or the reason why someone who dressed so uniquely has decided to sheepishly conform to societal norms. Let's not be the deciding factor in someone who has always spoken of their dreams so boldly and wildly suddenly learning that it's better to remain silent about them. Try your best not to be the reason someone gives up on an integral part of themselves because you were demotivating, vocally non-appreciative or mercilessly sarcastic about it.

Creativity, art, self-expression, dreams, goals, life paths - These are sacred things. So let's not trample them with our own fears, insecurities or disapproving conditioning. And if you just can't be supportive, maybe try finding a little more "shut the fuck up about it" in your heart.

Happy Thursday, y'all. 😊

I Guess I Am..

It was a muggy early morning in October when I saw it, from the rise on a lonely stretch of West Texas highway. I pulled the Dodge over, thinking I’d both photograph and simultaneously pay my respects to what I assumed was a large dead bird. I stepped out into the morning sun, already burning like a furnace on the back of my neck, my boots crunching under broken road as I walked over to what was left of the creature. That’s when it suddenly hit me - I realized exactly what it was laying there. It wasn’t a bird at all; it was a Chief’s war bonnet. This thing was ornate, its quality almost mythical; covered in eagle feathers, red and black piping, a dazzling mystery of sacred bead work.

I picked it up, carefully, with reverence for the soul of its owner, and placed it on a nest of tall, dry grass behind some rocks on the side of the highway. I decided to surround it, both as partial covering and to serve as a bit of a makeshift altar; with dried leaves and various twigs. And I stood there for a few moments, flies buzzing around my ears and tears welling up in my eyes; watching the ancient morning sun warm the landscape, as the last bit of the dew evaporated from the tall grass. I tried to hear the Chief’s voice in what little bit of wind would whisper, but the trees weren’t providing much relief from that Lone Star fireball sky.

After a few more moments of quiet reflection, I got back in the Dodge, turned the key to the ignition, and my wheels hit the road. I fumbled with the dial for a moment, when breaking through the static came Mavis Staples, singing to me clear as a bell and warm as a prayer through the speakers.

“I wonder, child, are you on your way?” she cried. Four hundred miles ahead, Ms. Staples. Nothin’ but hope and mystery and a whole lot of road. I guess I am.

Confession, Part One.

I was born with two club feet. My first surgery was at nine days old (I've had several over the course of my life). It took me a long time to learn to walk without braces. I wasn't supposed to play sports, but I pushed really hard and spent the bulk of my early childhood playing basketball and everything else under the sun until, inevitably, I'd severely re-injure myself (including one that almost killed me in the 90's).

My feet have hurt my whole life. Foot pain, along with childhood trauma, were the primary factors in developing a reliance on, and later, an addiction to, pain medication (I later found my way to heroin, but that's a story for another time). Various opiods and benzos were wonderfully efficient in helping me remain upright. However, kicking them (been clean a long time) was no easy task and learning to live with the daily pain has never been as difficult as it has in recent weeks, with my pin slipping and my arch collapsing. The problem with surgery? If I get back on those meds, I'll die. I'm sure of it.

Pain. Some of us have an intimate and grotesque relationship with it. Mine causes frequent suicidal ideations. I made it through 2018. Fingers crossed for next year.

I wasn't allowed to join the military. Couldn't keep playing sports. Wrestling, MMA and Baseball are no longer possibilities. I can barely stand for an hour to play an acoustic set and I used to OWN the stage. So.. For now, I'll do what I've been doing and what I suppose I'll always do.. I'll stretch them for 15 minutes when I get up, I'll put on my braces and I'll go to work. What other goddamn choice do I have?

Wolf Tickets..

Okay.

Enough sad shit from me. Enough debilitating depression. Enough shame spiraling. Enough being afraid of showing my cards and living out loud. Enough of the near daily suicidal ideations. Enough goddamn drowning. Enough waiting for winds to change or the "time to be right." Enough fucking running.

I've had 42 years of this shit. 42 years of getting my feet under me only to sink back into the hole over physical pain and emotional exhaustion or unresolved childhood sexual trauma. I've beaten severe birth defects, parental abandonment, addiction, horrific injuries, near fatal illness and unimaginable loss; and yet childhood has never lost its grip on some part of me. I spent my teenage years being dishonest with damn near everyone because I was terrified if they knew the truth about me they'd abandon me. That voice always told me to build a wall, that the real me was wholly unworthy of their love or praise; that I had no gifts to share and that my heart was not any kind of treasure. Even when I could get a handle on things and gain some sustainable momentum, even when I started being honest and trying to be brave as the years wore on, that inner voice telling me how much hurt I deserve would always reemerge, sometimes when I thought it had been silenced forever.

Well.. It's time to set the alleyways of childhood on fire. Time to slay dragons and bury ghosts. Time to put Durzo and Charlie to rest. Time to make joyful noise and share the sonic architecture of my heart. And no more extra soft bullshit, either. I appreciate that some people value my capacity for empathy, compassion and tenderness, but the time has come to also embrace the beauty of the shadow self and reconnect to my most ancient and primal frequencies. No more apologizing all the time. No more feeling guilted into saying Yes to things I don't want. No more being afraid of being abandoned and unloved. No more creating distance. No more accepting situations where I feel used or manipulated or unable to connect. And no more allowing people to minimize my masculinity by trying to tame it, or define it, or own it for themselves, or call it toxic.

Nobody is f*cking with me anymore. I'm handing out Wolf Tickets from here on out..

I love you somethin' fierce, but you've been warned. Govern yourselves accordingly.

Navigating The Holidays

I don’t necessarily expect most of you to understand or relate to this, but for many of us out there, this week begins the toughest period of the year (it extends through the New Year). The “Holidays” mean something entirely different to many of us, meaning that they're not a particularly uplifting time and we do our best to navigate the trenches of childhood trauma and the ghosts of holidays past and get through them. Please remember that some of us willfully choose to isolate during this time of year. Please don’t take it personally if we don’t accept your offer to dine. Please don't think it's okay to push us or guilt us into taking part.

That being said, some people need the exact opposite. There are many who aren’t coping as well and some of those people don’t have homes or families or communities to visit. The silence that can accompany Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc.; for those who find themselves alone, can be devastating. This year, as we are amidst in record suicide and addiction rates, perhaps we can make a more concerted effort to step up our game. Maybe we can reach out to those “Holiday Orphans” we all know and check on them. You might even ask them to join you. The caveat being, of course, if they say no, please don't take it personally. The trick, I suppose, is to really take the time to find out what the people you love need. It's not easy, but love is never easy.

To others in my tribe feeling the heaviness of this time of year: Hang in there. It’ll be over soon.

"The Last Time"

In the hills above the murky waters flowing with the blood of ancestors and madmen and jilted lovers, we found a dirt path leading up the side and down into the old, dirty town. We scurried along, kicking bottles and rocks, seeing children playing in dying fields, dogs missing legs, with hunger and desperation in their eyes.

I finally found the guy, sitting in the back of a rusted out Ford Ranchero. His smile was more welcoming than threatening. My middle school Spanish proved useless, but he knew what we wanted.

We waited for a few minutes, watching birds pick at a carcass under a straw umbrella nearby, with the nauseating smell of death hanging in the air.

“This is the last time, baby,” she scolded.

“Of course,” I lied. I studied her eyes, doing my best to ignore the tears welling up.

Pretty soon, I was in the front seat of that rust bucket, elbow in the cup holder, eyes half-mast, waiting for sweet oblivion. Out of the corner, I could see her wearily being led away into a room to pay off my sickness.

Maybe death chases us from the day we’re born. My father always told me that some secrets should stay buried, but I can’t think of that day now without sobbing like a baby. The ghosts are never far away; always ready to feed on whatever is left of your soul.

Sometimes, before nodding off, I call out her name, in a sobbing bestial wail, to an empty sky or a god that knows my sins. In the end, it’s always useless.

But wherever you are tonight, please forgive me. I am sick again, my love. Thirty years of sickness. But I promise, this is the last time..

(note: This is obviously fiction)