Know/Don't Know

Things I Already Know:
I am a happy person.
I am confident in myself and the abilities I already possess.
I tend to like people quickly.
I put the needs of others before my own.
I am a loyal friend.
I need the sun to stay positive.
I am mindful.
I believe the connection between all living things and what evokes emotion to rise up in is all is the only divine thing and to understand it is to understand the Truth.

Things I Don't Know:
Why I am who I am; or how my childhood has affected how I live my life.
Why I disliked Wisconsin.
Why I liked California.
Why I think my family is insane.
Where I'm going in life.
What I need to be happy for the rest of my life.
Where I will end up.


I was feeling introspective and curious about myself so I compiled a list of things that I know, don't know about myself. There is a certain level of conceit in being introspective that I tried very hard not to cross. I believe that if you know me as a person, you will see that I haven't crossed that line. Also, this list will always be changing. I am certain that I will discover, and question, more things about myself throughout my life and to suggest otherwise would be ludicrous.

Seven Cities; Five Days

San Francisco, CA to

Minneapolis, MN to

La Crosse, WI to

Trempealeau, WI to

Milwaukee, WI to

Madison, WI to

Marshfield, WI to

Trempealeau, WI to

La Crosse, WI to

Minneapolis, MN to

San Franscisco, CA.

Seven Cities; Five Days

San Francisco, CA to

Minneapolis, MN to

La Crosse, WI to

Trempealeau, WI to

Milwaukee, WI to

Madison, WI to

Marshfield, WI to

Trempealeau, WI to

La Crosse, WI to

Minneapolis, MN to

San Franscisco, CA.

Seven Cities; Five Days

San Francisco, CA to

Minneapolis, MN to

La Crosse, WI to

Trempealeau, WI to

Milwaukee, WI to

Madison, WI to

Marshfield, WI to

Trempealeau, WI to

La Crosse, WI to

Minneapolis, MN to

San Franscisco, CA.

MOVING

I've moved to Wordpress.com. They offer better templates. Sorry, blogspot!

Here's the link: http://kailosunshine.wordpress.com

No More Road To Walk

The other night, the housemates and I went to Ocean Beach (above). We had nothing else to do; this was also the best suggestion put forward. I could hear the ocean howl in the distance the moment I stepped out of the car, a strong wind coming from her dark waters. We crossed The Great Highway and walked on the beach. I walked towards the water, a fairly decent trek from TGH. When I finally got there I took a moment to take it all in. It was overpowering! I turned to the City and smiled. America. Fucked up America. All her problems right in front of me, behind me cold dark ocean. I was on the edge of the world with no more west to travel by foot. I wondered, "Now where?"

Conversations

In the past few days I've overheard various (slightly hilarious) conversations on the bus, street, and other venues. One instance, a bus driver and passenger were arguing over whether or not she, the passenger, would cook supper for him, the bus driver. He contested that he "was easy," only needing "some lettuce, tomatoes, and some ice tea or water." I laughed when I heard this, standing between the two on a crowded bus. She argued that if that's all he wanted he could cook himself supper instead. She was also insistent that her "kitchen was closed" and that she cooked enough for, I'm assuming, the driver's brother.

Another conversation was overheard at the bus stop. Two older women were commenting on the neccesity of a ticket for the driver of a car who passed a fire truck on the left while it was backing up (and coming into the left-hand lane of traffic). They were adement that this is what he needed and continued to comment on it before switching topics to the lateness of the bus. After a few minutes into that conversation, I silently agreed with them and started walking. I heard them say to each other "Oh, that man is gonna walk. He knows it ain't coming." I turned and gave a friendly "Yep" and a wave before catching the bus at the next stop. Conversations like these lighten my day and show me the city is much more than people running to wherever they have to go.

Brown-baggin' It

Lost. Adrift. Next to the sea. Surrounded by sea, really. I'm here and enjoying myself, very much so in fact. The City is NOW. There is no sitting still. Maybe laying back, but no sitting still. I like the busyness of the city, its car horns and tire squeals, sirens and car stereos, buses and bikes. But I feel I'm missing something. From the Midwest, California had it all. Sun, beaches, ocean, babes. Now I'm here. There is usually only fog which usually hides the sun and the ocean. And the babe count at CC is low. Aside from going to class each day and working toward an impractical college degree, which, in itself and as of now, doesn't mean anything to me, there is little in my life right now that puts me to sleep with the feeling that I did something with my day. I jam often with my new friends but that brown-bag funk that Sack Lunch had isn't there, which is something I surely miss. I've lived here for a month, and am having a great time, really, but California looked a bit more lustrous with the sun at her back. Now that I don't have to squint to see her, I could really use that brown-bag.

Update

Hey everyone. I've been so preoccupied with school and friends and the City that I haven't taken the time to sit down the and write. I'm not sure how dedicated I am at this particular moment either, but I'll try and let you guys know what's been going on...

School is going well. I'm enrolled at City College taking all music classes (this was not my intention but perhaps a blessing in disguise). I've met a number of people in my classes who are competent musicians as well. I've jammed with a few; the prospect of starting up a "band" is there but I question my drive and the drive of my new friends to make something happen. But I'm ok with that for the moment. My sister and her friends have moved in. Living with them has been a lot of fun so far. I'm anxious to see what else we do together this coming year. I've visited various parts of the City and am slowly figuring out where things are in relation to the house, campus, BART stations, etc. The city really isn't that big, roughly the size of Brooklyn, NY. And its mass transit system makes getting anywhere easier than you think. I took a nap this afternoon but the night is catching up to me. Gotta save some energy for tomorrow.

The Infamously Unfamous John Stevens

Before I explain why John Stevens is important, I must first explain his birth: When people are drunk, they can't pronounce Guthrie. I thought it'd be in their best interest, and in mine, if people simply called me John. Easy to remember. Easy to pronounce. Can't go wrong with that. The last name Stevens came about at 10,000 Lakes Festival during some rant with Jenn. It was soon decided that I was John Stevens. John Stevens is now a famous man, well, a famous name. I introduced myself, last night, to a number of individuals at various points of sobriety as John Stevens. One particular individual was blown away by my presence. The very fact that my name was John Stevens threw off his groove. He asked what I did with a name like that. I said "I don't know man, I play the guitar a bit." He became thoroughly convinced that John Stevens would be incredibly famous, if he wasn't already, and that his meeting with John Stevens was a astrological anomaly and that it would forever be remembered as historic. When other people would walk by, he would introduce me to them as John Stevens. I was very much amused by these ravings, so much so that I had to remove myself from the room. It's hard to keep a straight face while being infamously unfamous.

8-9 through 8-12: Westward Ho!

11:20p (CT)

Underwood, IA

8-9-2008

I will rest my head tonight under the neon glow of the Underwood Motel, a less-than-par attempt at a hospitable stay. I'm content with just about wherever I sleep but the smell of stale cigarettes is enough to make my dad less than happy. So far it has been a good trip. We left Trempealeau around 3:30p and put seven hours behind us before retiring here. The GPS in the Element says we have twenty-seven more hours until we reach Kathy's house in Novato, CA. After we got to the UM, my dad and I went for a walk to stretch our legs. Dad left me on a corner next to a rusty lawn-mower and boarded up building where I smoked two cigs while talking to Jenn on the phone. I've noticed that, until now, I've always returned from a big trip. This one is different. I'm going, yes, but that's it. There is no coming back, at least not right away. I miss my friends already but I know they are well and stoned and enjoying the last few weeks of summer. I felt awkward being the first to go but thankful I wasn't the last to leave out of my circle of friends. Their voices and Facebook pictures will be the closest we'll come to being with each other for probably a long time but I'm ok with that. I know it is my time to go and to be on my own and explore my world and my Self.

I didn't write 8-10-2008.

9:30p (PT)

Sparks, NV

8-11-2008

We drove 13.5 hours today from Rawlins, WY. The drive was long; Dad did most. Wyoming country is gorgeous. Coming down from the mountains in Salt Lake City, UT was exhilarating, going 75mph racing semis just want to drop their load. We stopped for lunch at the Flying J, a chain truck stop with a diner and lounge. As we crossed the salt flats, a tw0-hour stretch of nothing, with nothing on either side, I pulled out my stuff. I didn't ask my old man; I just did it. His reaction was a rational "No" but he said he might later. This sparked a thirty-minute conversation about pot and the Day. We pressed on, both sober and straight, for another six hours. We have about four more hours until Kathy's house, where we will empty the car to make room for Lauren when she arrives in Oakland tomorrow night. As for now, I will lay my head to rest on another motel pillow in the heart of Sparks, NV.

10:40p

Kathy's; Novato, CA

8-12-2008

We arrived today around 12:30p after a hearty breakfast in Truckee, CA. Dad showed me the Bar of America where he threw back a few in the Day. We pressed on to Arco where we stopped for a map at the California Welcome Center. The lady was very warm and helpful. I felt welcomed! I live here now and I've never felt more terrified in my life. I am fortunate to have Lauren and Soren with through this transition. I don't think I could do this on my own despite many daydreams of leaving home unannounced with nothing more than a guitar and backpack. My friends have told me that the first months are the hardest. I am anxious for the day when my feet are settled and I know the geographical differences between the cities and streets of the Bay. That'll be a good day. We spent the afternoon at Kathy and Dominique's house in Novato. Dominique is growing pot legally under Prop. 215. One stands about four feet tall and five months of growth. He moves them into direct sunlight at various points in the day. I was amused. He hopes to yeild a year's worth to divert the costs of purchasing. I smoked the spliff I rolled last Friday night en route to the Frosty Mug in Holmen, WI with Melinda and Mark. I told myself I would save it until I go to CA at the perfect time. And it was good. We pickeed up Lauren at the Oakland Airport after having an excellent Southern French meal prepared by Dominique. Her flight was late and we were early. We parked the car six dollars and waited for her outside the terminal. Multiple languages were spoken in passing and Dad said he saw Joan Baez walk out. We drove back to Novato via the Richmond Bridge (the northernmost connection over the bay) and almost ran a red light after missing a turn. Glad to be going to bed tonight. And that's what I'll do. 10:30p feels like 12:30p still; time zone changes can have adverse effects depending on where you go.

No More Cold Lunch

Sack Lunch jammed for the last time today. We jammed over an hour and touched base on all our favorite SL tunes: Awesome-sauce, The Masterpiece, Summertime Rag, The New One, The Reggae Jam among others. We also explored a bit toward the end figuring out some pretty cool jazzy changes. Sack Lunch developed out of some lunch-time jams with a substitute band director. When he left, I still wanted to jam during lunch. Dave and Ben jumped on board right away although Ben didn't know how to play bass. In the beginning, Dave and I would jam as I taught Ben bass simultaneously. The lunch-time jam soon became a regular thing. People would mingle in and out and watch us play as they ate their lunch in the band room. Through this practice/show scenario, we were able to spread the buzz among the high school as well as work on our jams. It was during this period that The Masterpiece became a masterpiece and our other jams were formed. Awesome-sauce was written during the lunch-time sessions as a slower, mellow, lets-see-where-this-goes jam as well. At some point, we decided to play a few legitimate shows, albeit most were in some illegitimate venues. We played the Hotel in Trempealeau multiple times, the Showcase at the high school, the junior post-prom and a couple garages. We got together on the idea that all we wanted to do was play. We didn't want to write or sing or rehearse. We just wanted to play. And through that, we figured out how to be a band. 

The Clichè Kid

I turned 18 an hour and forty minutes ago, officially. It would be clichè to say that this is a milestone in my life, just as it would be clichè to say how I feel, because I think we all feel this way when crossing a "milestone" in our lives, so I will save you my ravings. I can say this, however, as I turn 18 with only a week left in Wisconsin, I feel my life stirring. In one week, I will be in a different time zone. I will be surrounded by man-made structures; the only signs of divinity lie in ocean waves and Redwood trees. I will be on a bus once again in my life surrounded by people I won't know who won't know me. Strange things are afoot and I can only imagine if it will ever settle down. I am nervous, yes, but I know I am ready to leave Wisconsin for California, just a clichè kid and guitar heading Westward ho!

The Final Stretch

My summer has hit a plateau of excitement, 10K probably being its most recent climax. I had one of the greatest times of my life. I spent it with people I love and we all had a great time. Now that I'm home, I've fallen back in place with my circle of friends, our sources of entertainment so limiting we often resort to apathetically waiting for something to happen, unlike 10K where something was happening all the time be it a show or a dude tripping balls in a rabbit costume trying to hide behind your car in the middle of the night and scaring the shit out of you. There are no tripping rabbits here. I've spent the past few days packing up what little I want to bring with me to California in large Rubbermaid tubs, squeezing in a stack of books and movies and music things and other knickknacks I feel the need to take with me. The rest lays out on my desk and floor, waiting for a box to be put in. These last nine days in Wisconsin are easy to pass by but difficult to see go. As I recollect my memories with their materialistic apprehensions, I say goodbye to an eighteen year history here, only to start anew and create my own. 

10,000 Lakes Festival; Pt. 2

I am making the transition back into the "real world" once again. It is part culture shock/part familiar but all the same, I'm back to where I was. For the past week I was lost in a world where anything is acceptable (except playing metal bands on the stereo). At 10K, I expounded on ideas about time, music, space, hacky-sack; I danced until I couldn't dance anymore. I wore a skirt and felt 100% comfortable about it. I followed random kids down a dark trail. I saw the Flaming Lips and Dark Star Orchestra, among many others. I hacky-sacked with complete strangers (I take that back; there are no strangers, only friends you haven't met yet). I bathed in a lake. I had an excellent time with Gregg, Lauren, Amanda, our three neighbors Ross, Kate and Adam, and my great friend Jenn, who, living in the moment, decided to come and was nearly fired from her job. I was able to be myself without having to sacrifice to others' prejudices about appearance and such. 10K is my heaven, my nirvana. The energy there is divine. I am now home. Dreadlocks, dirty clothes and beaten-up shoes are replaced with blue jeans and crew cuts. Drum circles and nearby footsteps are no longer heard. I now spend the little time I have here waiting to see the world.

10,000 Lakes Festival; Pt. 1

I leave for 10,000 Lakes Festival in a matter of minutes. The car is packed with various camping gear: sleeping bags, tents, back pads, chairs, foods. This will be my third 10K and, entirely likely, last 10K. I'm more ready for 10K than I was for Bonnaroo (Bonnaroo came right after graduation; late nights frequented my schedule which made it less of a change). I'm healthy. I hate my job (I don't have to work again until the 1st) and this will be a great break. I'm not so excited for the What-Has-Been but I'll manage. The return is as much of the trip as the departure. 

What Will Be And What Has Been

The past week has gone by incredibly fast. Some night this previous week, friends of Melinda's came to town. I met Jenn, Brandon and Matt. Jenn was born forty years too late. Her old soul would have lived in Golden Gate Park with flowers in her hair, covered in filth and loving every minute of it. Brandon was a fellow skirt-wearer, compared the J-man to the B-man, and struck up very meaningful conversation. He was biking from Melinda's house to Minneapolis when I last saw him. Matt, whom I had met earlier, is a quiet kid with a lot of heart. Cool people. We spent the evening playing guitar and joking around. The next day I met up with Jenn, Matt and Brandon (Melinda had to work). We were going to go strawberry picking but they were closed. Instead, we went to the wildlife refuge. We found a trail in a far corner of the refuge that went along a dyke towards the river. We found a beach-esque patch on the trail and went for a swim. It was amazingly refreshing as it was already muggy by noon. We dried off and went to the Coffee Attic for lunch. I worked that evening. I got to Melinda's afterward just in time to say goodbye to Matt and Jenn. Brandon, Melinda and I went for a bike ride through Galesville and drank tea. On Thursday, I went to Madison with Melinda and Haley. We dropped Haley off at Lauren's house and hung out in the city for a few hours. We smoked cigs and walked around State St. and the campus. We also stopped at the coffee shop, with Soren and Amanda, where Lauren works for beverages. We ate excellent spaghetti cooked by Jeff at the Pheonix. After supper, Melinda and I hit the road for Devil's Lake. Melinda's friend, Jenn, works there. When Melinda and I pulled into the parking lot, we found Jenn on her back with her ankle elevated. We went over to her and found that she had sprained her ankle trying to chase down a train. We drove her up to Julie's cabin and comforted her for the rest of the night (it was all much more dramatic than how I've described but on the off chance Jenn reads this, I don't want her to have to relive it). I played my guitar and Julie taught Casey and I how to make bracelets. Since, I've purchased 21 different colors of string and have made a number of my own. After a few hours of this, we moved to the campsite and sat around the fire until people went to bad one by one. Melinda and I camped in a tent with Casey and Arnè. It was cramped but we made do. The next day, Melinda and I met up with Jenn after she got off work. We went swimming in the lake by her house. After our dip, we drove to Baraboo for lunch. We parted ways and Melinda and I hauled ass back to Trempealeau so I could make my 4p shift at Pizza Corral. I was late by forty-five minutes. 

Since my return, I've tried to settle back into my "real life" routine in Trempealeau. It's been an uncomfortable few days here after seeing the sights of the city and meeting a handful of new people, all of whom I would have loved to know hang out with for another week. Seeing a glimpse of what will be and then returning to what has been has proved to be a hard, rapid, drastic transition. My upcoming move will be another equal drastic transition. I welcome it blindly. 

Five-Second Impression

Tonight I had the wonderful opportunity to attend a house party in Winona. I knew only one person there, a co-worker, who I also happened to be in an all-star jazz band with my junior year. I went with Melinda. We walked in and met everyone. Names flew by too fast; I remembered only a few. Upon arriving, I met people in various forms of sobriety. Their five-second impressions were left and the party went on. I was open-minded throughout the night. Most of the people were "weird" people; the type who ate lunch at "that" table and played D&D in their basements. I was/am very much the same so I felt comfortable in such a rapid-changing, short-paced environment. Melinda and I stayed for a few hours. I even busted out the guitar for a bit (I made seventy-and-some-odd cents). We took our leave, unannounced, and left our new acquaintances to themselves, in their basement, secretly hoping the music would change and that the buzz won't die before it happens. We stopped at another party on the way home. A more familiar bonfire-binge scenario. My classmates slurred their words, argued over how intoxicated their were and genuinely had a good time. The change of scenery was harsh. A mellow, I-don't-know-who-you-are-and-that's-ok setting to I've-known-you-since-forever-and-you're-shitfaced-again setting where conversations were not anything new and exciting. The conversations all had been said at the latter; consistent bickering and drunken tirades filled the void. I'm tired of these same scenarios. I can't say I'm tired of the people but I'm growing old of their mannerisms. 

Muted Work

I recently came down with an unfortunate illness that forced me to call in sick to work Sunday night. Since then, I've developed a sore and hoarse throat from coughing up phlegm that doesn't get swallowed or blown out my nose. It's become terribly uncomfortable to talk. When I went into work tonight, I told myself to take it easy and watch how loud I'm talking, if at all. I was virtually mute the six hours I was there. I knew trying to talk loud enough for other people to hear me was going to hurt so I refrained unless needed (i.e. "Reprint on ticket 20"). I tried to carry a conversation with the other guy on table but I soon realized I was only trying to remedy his whining. This was useless chatter that was doing anything but help my vocal chords and throat. I let him whine. It grew frustrating at times but I didn't have the energy to coax him to work faster. I kept on pace, saucing the pizzas and slapping on ingredients. I'll admit, we were incredibly understaffed for a Wednesday evening but I had no control over that. Nor did I have control over the fact that I had to make all the pizzas because the other guy didn't work fast enough to effectively help me. Albeit, toward the end of "the rush" we had a pretty decent, partially-verbal system going. The night was enlightening. I was able to observe my co-workers without having to talk to them. I could observe the whole night without saying a word. I took in the same laughs, the same complaints, the same words, the same smells, the same movements, the same people... I soon realized the terrible routine of my job and the total disregard for creativity in the food service. People don't want creative things in their food. They want creative things in their ears and in their eyes. I'd rather make something creative and compelling and moving and worthwhile rather than cook shitty pizzas. And a pizza won't move you. 

Ten Dollar Haircut

I woke up this morning at 8.30, the earliest I've been up since Bonnaroo (you often wake in a pool of sweat by 9.30a), to go to a quarter-sale in Winona with Justin. I met him in Centerville and we were off. The quarter-sale was located in a Goodwill-esque building just outside the downtown. We walked in to find a good amount of women, mostly mothers, shopping to their hearts' content. While looking at some pants, a guy walked up to us and said something along the lines of "You know it's a fucking quarter-sale with all these women just shopping until they can't hold anything else." We observed our surroundings, laughed and parted ways. Justin and I also ran into Diane Thatcher, the director for the high school plays. Despite planning this days in advance, we didn't spend a dime. We left, slightly disappointed in the selection of items (mostly clothes, some pillows and a rod-less curtain a lady said we could have for a quarter). Desperately looking for something to do, as to not waste our morning, we went to His & Her's Beauty Salon and I got a hair cut for $9.95. 

Big Town Business

I had two separate and very different encounters with police tonight. The first was in Galesville around 10p. Melinda and I went for a walk from her house to the swinging bridge. Whilst walking through the parking lot, the Charger, driven by the dick-cop Brutose, pulled in. He stopped to question us; our names, our destination, our previous steps, etc. Apparently some kids had been walking near the graveyard and he thought it could be us. I wonder if walking near a graveyard at night is illegal. I guess so. The second run-in happened a block or so from my house. Melinda was taking me home and rolled a stop sign in town. Neither of us noticed and, at the time, wondered why we were being pulled over. The cop told us what we had done wrong and took both of our licenses. I wondered why he took my license in a situation when I wasn't driving. It seems that small town cops mean big town business.

New Shoes

On a park bench near the Orpheum Theatre in Minneapolis, MN, a name-less man sat down between Gregg and I and began to complain about his broken cigarette and how cops stole his shoes and gave him navy blue prison-issued slippers and that he was homeless and that he was only knocking on a door but got busted for burglary instead. I bummed him a light and tried to ignore his pleas for redemption. This encounter sparked many thoughts after Gregg and I did what we could to leave the man peacefully in his sorrow. What was he doing at that door? Was his broken cigarette as good as an unbroken cigarette? Was it his last cigarette? Where had those slippers been before they brought him to that particular bench at that particular moment in time? Where did he sleep last night? Where will he sleep tonight? The world can be a hard place but I sure do hope he finds some new shoes. 

What a trip!

I returned to my neck of the woods last night around 12a, having spent a full fifteen hours in Gregg's Honda Element. I will try to recollect my adventure to Tennessee and back but please note, my memory is somewhat sketchy from this week. So much happened!

WEDNESDAY

Lauren, Jamie, Amanda and I left Madison around 9a on Wednesday morning. The drive through Illinois was an incredibly boring one. We entered Kentucky and stopped for dinner at the first Waffle House we saw. Delicious. We hit the road again with another four hours-or-so to go. As we entered Nashville, TN, we realized that we had not picked up any booze for the weekend yet. We entered in Frugal McDugal's liquor store in the GPS and soon found ourselves driving in the heart of Nashville. We got our alcohol and pressed on. An hour later, we pulled into the Manchester, TN Wal-Mart parking lot and found a parking spot. We sprawled out with chairs and coolers and food and beverages. A New York punk band, Tiger Piss, set up outside the doors of WM and played a few songs for the hippies and metal-heads waiting for Bonnaroo to open her gates. The cops soon intervened for no reason. The band was walking around the lot meeting people and handing out stickers. When they met us, we ended up having a great conversation and I promoted the Warehouse to them for a possible tour stop. Around 2a, Lauren, Jamie and Amanda went to sleep. I pulled out my guitar and met some nearby hippies. I jammed with a dude who played mandolin. Someone else saw what we were doing and told us to come over where he was at. We walked across the parking lot and started jamming with two other guys, one of them had a drum. I soon found myself among fifty-or-so people, alone but with the company of strangers. It was exhilarating. I broke a string and went to bed. But a good night.

THURSDAY

We woke up around 5.30a and moved towards Bonnaroo. We didn't wait in line for very long, I think it only took about two hours to get from WM to our campsite in Bonnaroo. For those of you who don't know, two hours is NICE. We got placed in the far corner of Bonnaroo, the distance between our campsite and Centeroo (where the shows are) was close to equidistant as last year. We set up camp and met our neighbors, one of whom was a very well-educated Southern guy, who, needless to say was ready to party, but totally changed my perception of people with Southern accents. I have met other Southerners but none as intelligent as this guy. He did away with my "Southern-accents-sound-ignorant" mentality. I was very impressed. At some point in the afternoon we checked out Centeroo and met up with some other Madison locals who were there. They were camping in a group of eight, I think. After returning to our campsite, Amanda and Lauren were bent on packing up camp and moving to camp with them. I was opposed due to the heat, the energy required in the heat, the fact that we had just driven twelve hours and now we were packing up again. I was strongly opposed. But the majority ruled and we picked up camp. We left a note for the neighbors, thanking them for the desserts we bought from them. The desserts were very good, by the way. We utilized the new Bonnaroo Taxi service, via golf-cart, to haul the nessecities to the new campsite. We left the Element and the easy up. After setting up and introducing everyone, we made a move for the first shows. There was line to the gate, something I hadn't seen before but expected because it was the first night of the fest. In line, I met this amazing girl, and her friend, from Kalamazoo, MI. The people I were with charged to the front of the stage for MGMT. I was less enthusiastic. Instead, I spent the evening with these girls. I was immediately attracted to one of them; she just graduated high school, was 17, her graduating class was 150-200 people, she looked like Helen Hunt, etc., etc. Around 1.15a during the Dark Star Orchestra set, they decided to go back to camp. We made plans to meet up for Tegan & Sara Friday afternoon. I stayed for the rest of the set and went home, ecstatic to have met someone so amazing in a crowd of 60,000. 

FRIDAY

I went to Tegan & Sara at some point in the afternoon with high hopes of seeing the girl from Kalamazoo. I saw the whole show from the back right pole, where we said we'd meet, and she never showed. I was incredibly saddened and blamed myself for her standing me up. Perhaps she didn't think I would show, I thought. Or perhaps I came on to strong. Many useless thoughts were in my head. I shrugged them off over time. I saw My Morning Jacket play a great set in the rain before I caught a bit of the Superjam (Gogol Bordello and his band with Les Claypool on bass) which wasn't that impressive. The rain was welcomed by all.

SATURDAY

At some point in the morning, a neighbor came up to meet us. She was an author from Virginia working on a story about the Sexual Revolution of the 1960s. Somehow she had convinced her superiors to buy her a ticket for Bonnaroo to get a firsthand look on the subject. I don't know how well she got a look but she seemed rather pleased with what she had gathered so far. We ended up walking to Centeroo together and caught the end of Gogol Bordello. We walked over to see Zappa Plays Zappa. I had planned to leave ZPZ halfway through to catch Ben Folds but I was so impressed that I passed on Ben Folds completely. After ZPZ thoroughly impressed me, I walked to the $1 grilled cheese stand (fucking epic) and headed back to camp. I hung out there until Pearl Jam at 10p. They played a very solid set. After Pearl Jam, I watched Sigur Ròs with a melted face. I was astounded. I could see and feel the connection between the band (from Iceland) and the crowd and how the crowd confused the band (who didn't speak much English) and how the band confused the crowd and all these things at once. I had no energy after their 3a curtain close that I found my way back to camp. I hung out there and talked to a guy we were camping with who was doing 'shrooms his first time. We were on the same boat but his was rocking a little bit harder. I went to bed and listened to Kanye West's TERRIBLE set through my tent walls. I'm glad I didn't go. He was over an hour late and didn't have a band and lip synced much of the show. He failed to address the crowd or apologize for his tardiness. It was said that everything was very scripted. And the premise of his show was that some computer turned into a chick he could fuck. No lie. Read about it. 

SUNDAY

Sunday's lineup was pretty weak. Nothing that motivated me enough to go to Centeroo until about 4p when I caught the last bit of Jakob Dylan and the first bit of Yonder Mountain String Band. It was a solid performance from both. I went back to camp to get out of the sun which was consistently beating down on us before heading back to Centeroo for the Robert Plant & Alison Krauss performance. It was much better than I had expected. After that show, I headed back to camp and chilled out there for the rest of the night. I had somehow managed to fall asleep before Widespread Panic was over with.

MONDAY

We got up around 7a and packed up our shit. We were on the road by 8.30a and stopped at a Waffle House on the way. The waitresses there were really excited to have us and gave us Waffle House paper hats and Waffle House pins. It was a good end to our Bonnaroo experience. We drove all day and got to Madison around 9p. I was feeling restless and awake so I drove the last few hours home last night. I got back to my nook of the world around midnight to find that nothing had changed. The dog house for sale on the corner was still there. The familiar trees still stood tall. I knew I was home.

All of these stories are legit but some are cut short of detail for various reasons. If you want the full story, ask me in person. I might give you the full scoop.

On The Bus; 'Roo or Bust!

I embark on my journey to Bonnaroo tomorrow. I will leave early hour for Madison in Gregg's Element, where I will spend the day. My older sister and myself, along with a couple others, will depart early morning Wednesday for Tennessee The smell of the open road, with its dirt and grass and hills and prairies and Waffle Houses and rock museums and Guntown Mountains...I can hardly wait! I am excited for the adventure as much as the festival, if not more. The thrill of taking new steps in new places is one that I have grown addicted to over my life. I can quickly recall last year's experiences but I try to forget them just as fast. This is a new year. A new 'Roo. A new road. A new experience. And I am on the bus.

Chaos Can Be Peaceful

I listened to jazz on the radio under the swinging bridge while lightning flared up in the sky. The chaos in my ears and eyes brought thoughts of happiness and peace. Behind saxophone licks, crickets sung from the grass though my open window and filled the air with excitement and energy. For a town with nothing going on, there sure is a lot happening. 

Thanks, But No Thanks

I was hoping for a great realization about how I feel in regards to graduating. It did not come. Instead, graduation seems like a petty insignificance to the whole. Do not get me wrong. I enjoyed my grad party and the graduation ceremony immensely but graduation, per se, does little to make me feel like I'm ready to go into the world. What did I accomplish, really? I managed to show up and do my homework for four years. I am congratulated for doing what I'm told for four years. And now I'm on my own and there is no congratulations for living life. A funeral is the only "celebration" for living your life. Perhaps I deserve no congratulations just yet.  

In the past week since I got out of school, I've done little except stay up late, sleep in and hang out with my friends. But I've done quite a bit. I have spent more time by the Swinging Bridge than the average Galesvillian. I have gone through more packs of cigarettes than I care to count. I have put more money in the bank than I ever have before. I ate Little Caesar's with stifled laughter at 11.30p. I listened to a veteran-for-peace curse at the wind for blowing his papers around. I nearly ran over a bird on my longboard. I graduated high school. I have eaten enough potato salad for the next five years of my life. And there's still more. I left a party to evade possible, and eventual, cop intervention. I wrote a song. I tasted six different flavors of McDonald's ice cream for free and walked away without buying anything. I handwritten twenty-some thank you cards. I've become infatuated with the works of Henry David Thoreau. I saw my older sister for the first time since she left on her world trip in November. I tested mattresses with Melinda for an hour. I've gotten to know old friends better than I've ever known them before. I learned how to stop and smell the roses now that I have more time in my day. I've never had this much fun. 

Stowaway on the Train of Thought

Even after walking ceremoniously down the hall, passing well-known friends who shake your hand and give you a pat on the back and say "Good luck, man", the fact that I am done with high school has not quite yet registered in my head. Four days until graduation feels like six weeks left of school. And now, all of a sudden, my age has caught up with cultural tradition, its rites of passage standing true as daydreams slowly, but surely, become reality. I am saying goodbye to friends I've just begun to know and to friends who have just begun to know me. This is the death of my presence G-E-T. My friends and teachers mourn but I rejoice. I am taking my first steps on this un-foretold path. As excited and eager as I am, I am equally nervous. I think in circles about my future and how I want it to be and my fears of not being happy or why I am forced to follow the systems of our hyper-institutionalized society. I try and imagine how I'm going to get by in San Francisco. I wonder if I'll even make it. I get no where with these thoughts. Yet I am going somewhere. It seems my mind is a stowaway on the train of thought.

"Switzerlandman"

I caught a firsthand glimpse of the order of status, in a workplace, based on experience or position; in most cases, experience dictates the position of power. Tonight, it was voiced among some fellow co-workers that one particular waitress has a false sense of superiority over the other employees. My CO, whom voiced some of these opinions, has no authority to fire her yet stands on a higher rung of the corporate ladder, amongst a bunch of miscreants, most of whom are good, honest people, who can, in this case, hold a false sense of superiority, without acknowledging the fact that they have less experience and stand on a lower rung of the corporate ladder. As a new-to-the-scene dough-roller, I hold little power. When starting new, only experience can dictate one's superiority over later newcomers. Should I be promoted to "Chickenfucker" (this is an unfortunate detail; either you are "Chickenman" or "Chickenfucker"), I would have some authority over the dough rollers. This authority is rarely used ("except from this one asshole," according to my co-workers) because there are too many higher positions in the kitchen. It can be argued that the waitresses are more important, thus standing a bit higher on the ladder, but PC kitchen staff doesn't accept their kitchen-presence, so we don't really count them. The man running the stove or the taco table (some titles are so far ahead of me I can't confirm them) usually has the most authority and tends to, it seems, share it with the driver. I enjoy my position on the bottom of the ladder. I feel it offers me the best viewpoint on issues such as this particular waitress. I remain neutral yet present. 

I saw the moonrise through the Trempealeau trees and rooftops.  

Do blind people hallucinate?

Author's note: This blog is a very long account of my recent adventure to Six Flags this past weekend. I won't make you read all of it if you don't want to.

Friday afternoon I left with the vocal jazz and jazz band for Chicago, IL to perform for a music competition. We left around 1p and arrived at our hotel (about an hour north of Chicago) at about 7p. We went to our rooms to change and stretched our legs before promptly hopping back on the bus to drive about 45 minutes towards home to a middle school of an unknown name. Jazz band performed well. My guitar amp cut out as I stood up for my solo, so the first few bars were spent tapping my input to get some signal. I didn't freak, as this is an unfortunate, yet common, occurrence for my guitar. After the jazz band performance, I had to race to warm up with the vocal jazz. My voice was feeling "sketchy" from the bus ride. Six-hour conversations are never good for vocal health. We set up our sound system in the middle of an auditorium. We didn't do too bad considering the extenuating circumstances such as a 10p performance time and a six-hour bus ride to boot. We packed everything up and got back on the bus for another forty-five minutes. We were allowed to roam the grounds of the hotel until 1a. Justin, David, Beau and I discovered a running track circling the hotel. There was also a basketball hoop set up too. After searching the hotel for a cheap pop machine (most everything was very expensive; i.e. $3.50 for a bottle of pop) and retreating parched and weary, I went back to my room and stayed up until about 2.30a talking to Dave, Ben and Alex about many random things such as hallucinating blind people. We got up around 7.30a and went downstairs for a catered breakfast. The eggs weren't too bad but the sausage was terribly spicy. We climbed on the bus around 9a and made our way to Six Flags, getting there as the doors opened at 10a. We all split up in groups, some going for roller coasters, others for smaller rides. Justin and I picked up a map and went off to the arcade where we burned through $10 on miscellaneous games and prize-cranes in about twenty minutes. After the arcade, we worked our way across the park to the Great American Raceway. Justin's ankle is still swollen so we were limited to certain rides. However, with a healthy ankle, I can say the GAR was probably my favorite ride all day. While standing in line, we met a Yugoslavian foreign exchange eighth grader named Brandon, who sported a Big Black shirt, a Brewers hat and aviator sunglasses (rather American if you ask me). He donned a "Borat" accent from the moment we saw him. We made friendly conversation, asking about their performance last night (Brandon's friends were wearing uniform choir shirts) and the origins of Brandon. We got on the ride, an old jalopy car which goes around a track at about three mph. Justin and I were in the front car with the pedal to the metal. Brandon and his friend were behind us, and catching up. Our car began to putter and the sound of the engine dying led us the entire way around the track. Shouts of "Why don't you going?" and "Go faster! Why you no go faster?" in a mock-Slovakian accent coming from behind continued to break us down. Brandon and his friend, along with the six cars behind them, were soon pushing us along the track, all the while Justin and I can barely keep from crying from laughter. We got off the track and parted ways with Brandon and his mates, marking the highlight of my day. For the rest of the afternoon, Justin and I hit up some rides here and there. My favorites of the day were Viper, the observation tower (you could see the Chicago Skyline), Triple Play, American Eagle, Whizzer, and Demon. The double-decker carousel was pretty fun too. We were given a free supper of really good cold hot dogs and chicken. Dave and I were bored of walking around (we had crossed paths earlier in the afternoon and stuck together for most of the day) so we hacky-sacked in the Picnic Grove following supper. We joined up with a couple others from GET and we made our way to Viper, a wooden coaster with a mining theme. Its hairpin turns and tunnels made my heart pound for several minutes afterward. At 6p, everyone met at the amphitheater for the "Music In The Parks" award ceremony. I can only describe it as such: a middle school Wal-Mart convention comparing Bugs Bunny to likes of Jesus. A lot of screaming. A lot of over-excited youngsters with high-pitched voices. Both VJ and JB took 1st place out of thirty groups. What I won't tell you is that we were the only VJ and JB in Class A. And I'm pretty sure everyone won. After we won, everyone from GET escaped the convention, reassuring ourselves of our young-adulthood and matured voices. I joined up with my previous group and we decided to ride American Eagle, a wooden racing coaster designed to go really fast with a lot of hang time, before we had to leave. It started to rain a bit while we waited in line. Once we got off and began walking back to the bus, it started to downpour. We raced back to the bus, stopping for a $4 soda and a bathroom break. We clambered onto the bus, drenched, tired and sun-burned. We dried off, accounted for everyone and took off for home. We stopped at an oasis at some point for a late supper. My voice was fried after screaming on the roller coasters and shouting all day so I bought some cough drops and LifeWater at the BP. We had one more stop to make at the Kalahari in Wisconsin Dells to drop off a sax player at a 4H outing. Here's where my day took a 180 degree turn. I was walking in, following Ben and Cassie. The revolving door into the lobby there is split into thirds. Ben and Cassie were walking in while a group of four Kalaharians were walking out. I was walking in via the outer-most pie. Through the glass I saw an act of blatant disrespect that sent me through the roof. One of the Kalaharians put his foot in front of the door, pointed and laughed at Ben for no reason. I became livid, pushing to door to get the point across to the hooligan that I was upset. I remember thinking to myself "This is a school function. I better not start this fight." This small piece of rational thought was the only thing that kept me from walking outside and punching one of them in the back of the head to show that what they did was blatantly disrespectful and incredibly upsetting to me. I stormed off to the bathroom behind Ben and proclaiming my contempt for these assholes. I punched my fist into my hand while climbing on the bus and making a scene. Justin and I had thoughts of slashing the tire of the car those assholes were trying to jump. Our narrations were filled with anger, bringing back an old punk attitude we both used to share intensely. About twenty miles later, I apologized to Ben for overreacting, still wondering what it was specifically that made me snap. Was it because I was exhausted from Six Flags and that I couldn't get comfortable enough on the bus to sleep? Why did I vocalize my irritations with blatant acts of disrespect? I see shit like this a lot at school and I don't act upon it there. Perhaps I will never know. I managed to sleep, I think, from the Tomah exit to the Onalaska Menards. I can only assume this for that block of time is unaccounted for. My sister and I got home at quarter to two in the morning. I smoked a cigarette and passed out. Sunday was equally tiring. Vocal jazz met at the HS at noon to warm-up for a Founders' Day celebration in Galesville, WI. After struggling with a dead voice in front of a crowd of old people, we went to Braden's house and ate food and played volleyball. It was another relaxing reward for such a hard-working year. At 6p, I was back at the HS warming up for the last choir concert of my high school career. It still seems like it was a dream that never really happened. I have been accounting my travels this weekend for about forty-five minutes now and I am too tired to reminisce about my last concert. Expect another post soon.

A Letter to the Music Department

The G-E-T High School band and jazz band will be performing tomorrow night, marking my last high school band concert. This has sparked many thoughts about my high school band experience and my adventures through music. I learned how to play a hand-me down clarinet I bought from a guy down the street at a yard sale for $30. I was ten. Around that same time, I was inspired to learn guitar from a high school jazz tour for Trempealeau Elementary after seeing the guitar player play an eye-opening solo. I switched to bass clarinet, its macho prefix adding a sense of masculinity once hailed as vital to existence, in seventh grade. I continued to play bass clarinet through high school band. Freshmen year I added guitar into my repertoire of instruments via jazz band. Throughout middle school and high school, I've obsessed over learning how to play the guitar, far more than bass clarinet presumably. I've taken music theory classes to understand chord structure. I took a jazz improvisation to improve my soloing abilities. And now, tomorrow night, it will be summed up into one last performance. I am excited yet sad to see it go. Most of my high school memories took place doing something with the music department. I remember getting a stomach virus freshmen year at Jellystone. I remember Trademark Infringement. I remember Mr. Munderloh and Mr. Christianson. I remember marching down the street with a bass guitar. I remember drum majoring with a Styrofoam finger at my senior homecoming. I remember New York. I remember my first jazz band audition. I remember seeing everyone cry in choir and thinking to myself, "I am filled with joy, not sadness, because of this music we create together." I've spent many hours in practice rooms, in theory books, in jazz charts. I've read thousands of rhythms, quarter notes, whole notes and everything in between. I've broken hundreds of reeds and squeaked hundreds of times. And now I can play music, something that can't be taught but only discovered. I thank my directors and my band mates, for showing me the path of self-discovery through the art of music. Thanks to them, I will long reminisce about my experiences in the band and choir programs. Thank you.

Animals, Bears and Speed-drunks! Oh my!

***GRAPHIC CONTENT; BE FOREWARNED***

Drunkenness offers an interesting and numerous amount of personalities. One such personality, often in females, who get as drunk as they can as fast as they can, document their drunkenness, usually by photography, and create "drunk drama" that reaches no bounds, is a very common sight. I will call these people Speed-drunks for their haste in getting drunk and creating "drunk drama." Speed-drunks also tend to pass out early and face bitter "consequences" for their bitchiness and harsh treatment to the emotions of others. There are also the people who get as fucked up as they can on whatever drug they can find, simply for the sake of getting as fucked up as they possibly can. They are Animals. Animals, usually males, like to act as tough as they can most of the time. They usually attract the attention of the Speed-drunks. They bound together to keep order throughout the party. They reserve the right to kick you out and also the right to get you really fucked up. Another group, usually a single person, tends to be aggressive towards others, often for what appears to be no reason. I call these people Bears. Bears tend to be drug-fiends and think they have some sort of superiority over everyone in the room. They can be a real buzz-kill. There are also a group of people, of which I admire for their strong will. These are the Straight-men, although appear in both sexes. They watch over everyone, sometimes getting involved in "drunk drama" but catch people when they collapse into the floor. Animals, Bears, and Speed-drunks rarely help each other out, although Animals tend to stick together. The line in the sand is often drawn by Animals, picking a side in a drunken scuffle. 

What is interesting to observe, in situations where drunkenness is prevalent, are the senseless justifications for certain things to occur during a party. The road to drunkenness usually starts with cracking open a cool beverage and breaking the ice with old and frequent acquaintances. Soon after the first comes a second. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Final destination: Drunkenness. Don't forget to leave your rationality at the door and have a safe trip. Begin "drunk drama." This continues until two factions of Speed-drunks starts something. This is where the night takes a turn for the...well, the awkward yet expected. The drunkenness catalysts the sincerity of these awkward yet expected remarks and, in most cases, all hell will break lose. The Animals will comment on the situation loudly, some showing Bear-like qualities, and the Straight-men observe from the corner, hiding their comments behind an empty hand. Time passes. More "drunk drama." Now, for out of happenstance the following incident were to happen, the mob takes a drastic turn toward anarchical tendencies. At this point in the night, it is very likely that a Speed-drunk has crashed, or passed out, on a chair, couch or even on the floor. Say, for instance, this particular Speed-drunk has instigated much "drunk drama" earlier in the night. And now for the mob's revenge! Someone, usually an Animal or Bear, under the effects of drunkenness will get the notion that whipping out their dick and sticking in the Speed-drunk's face and documenting this is a good idea. So he does it. The mob reacts! Cheers, gasps, moans, laughter, smiles, squinted eyes, turned heads, pictures taken. Straight-men do not react. Fear to stand up against a mob of drunk mentality, they have become Bystanders. The effects of drunkenness create a senseless justification for the wrong-doings of others. There is little one can do after the fact, including during the fact. Drunkenness or a senseless justification? Is there difference? Guilt is a faceless emotion to the Drunk. To be a Bystander, I feel guilty. I admit, I turned my head and moaned, even laughed in its grotesque absurdity. I feel ashamed for all parties. I feel ashamed at the Animal and sorry for the Speed-drunk. But I feel guilty to be the Bystander. My senseless justification for the mob's action was enough to turn a Straight-man crooked. 

Let's Wing It

Tonight, the robed choir performed with the UW-L concert choir for their final concert of the year. We were chosen because "we could represent the area with our choral sound," or something like that. With such a willing director, our choir is a community that tends to decide things unanimously. When we were informed of this prestigious honor, the choir was on board 100%. I, however, wasn't. I still can't exactly explain why. Perhaps it is because I'm sick of school and this is "just another thing" in the way of getting out. But I hardly think that is the case. 

Choir means a lot to me. The seniors in choir have had two different directors (in both band and choir) for two years each. Our previous director inspired me to love music. Choir took on a new appeal as a way to let out steam or describe the angst of the day through the songs that we sung. I loved it. And then we got a new director. We've had two, even better, years with him. And still, having never been invited to perform with a choir as talented and defined as the UW-L choir before, I still didn't want to do it. Reasons, still, unknown. 

Our director made the arrangements and the director of the UW-L choir, Dr. Walth, came in to work with us. This brought a newfound excitement to do it. We had this big-time director coming to work with US, a no-name choir that has never been seen as "worthy" in the music department (we have a shitty school with crappy facilities). I started to change my mind about it all. The song we were going to perform with the UW-L choir was a cheesy gospel-based hymn based on the New Testament. Dr. Walth arranged it. And after working on it repeatedly for about a week and a half, I started to wonder if this concert was really worth it for us to do. Again, for reasons unbeknownst to me. 

Gig day finally came. We worked on only two songs of the four that we performed tonight. This was rather different than for a normal concert, where we will rehearse each song to perfection multiple times in one day for a week before to make sure it is dead-on. This was, for lack of a better term, wung. But it went well. Overall, I had a great time performing in the recital hall of the CFA on campus. The vocal jazz performed there a month ago. It's a great room. And the UW-L choir is amazing. So it went very well. But I'll continue to wonder why I was so turned off at the start. 

Bridge of Disbelief

Such an interesting weekend indeed. Saturday was state solo/ensemble at UW-L. The vocal jazz got a 1, the highest score, and the Children, as I like to call my octet, got a 2. Great performances in both. I was very pleased in the end. The drive back from La Crosse climaxed at the Seven Bridges hiking trail outside of Holmen, WI. Justin and I walked down to the first bridge and started to drum on the beams. It created some interesting sounds. An old man and his dog came down for a walk just after we finished experimenting with the bridge. He asked us, "You boys fishing?" Standing, without a fishing in pole in sight, we replied "Umm, no. We're just taking a walk. (stifled expressions of disbelief)" It was an odd encounter. We continued up the trail and left it at that. I wonder what that man thought. 

Beyond the Black and White

Today was large group contest for many area middle and high school band and choirs. The choir performance was amazing. The adjudicator said that we were the first choir of the day (and we performed late in the day) that moved his heart. He also said he had no criticisms, which I found very hard to believe until he actually left it at that. To see his face from the third row and having sung my heart out to him and the fifty people in the room, I knew we had come together as a choir. So few times this year have I seen us come together as one (as Stumps likes to put it) but I think we hit a new climax today. I feel like we, as a whole, finally saw beyond the black and white of music. I know it exists, whatever IT is but to see the look of pride on the faces of my peers when they realized this connection between the aural realm and the physical world and the emotions it can stir does exist was overpowering. 

The Many Frightening Works of Frank Zappa

"Without deviation from the norm, 'progress' is not possible." I found this Frank Zappa quote online some time ago. His face had been on the cover of Relix Magazine, of which I subscribe to, as well as mentioned, if not headlined, in issues of Rolling Stone. After seeing his face and reading his name so many times and in such exalted tones, it had occurred to me that I had not heard enough of Frank Zappa to really understand him as a musician. I felt obligated to investigate such a prominent figure in the jam band scene, equal to Jerry Garcia in some circles of people I'm sure. I went on a mission. I needed an album of Frank Zappa's to fully understand his musicianship and technique. I am proud to say that, through the works of The Pirate Bay, I now possess the entire Frank Zappa discography in great, low-bit mp3 format. Hooray! And I must say, you should all turn your heads towards Zappa's debut album Apostrophe'. 

(Author's note: On many other occasions, I may review an album. But my review of it is trivial in the scheme of all things. And for me to review an album of Frank Zappa or other artists of his stature is damn near sacrilegious.)

The melodies of Kailo Sunshine are heard!

Kailo Sunshine is the name of my real voice, spoken in an aural tongue. My melodies and harmonies articulate my emotions far better than words ever could. However, to explain myself here I must succumb to words alone. As I live my days in the suburban-rural river basin of Wisconsin, I am constantly hearing music. It connects us. It binds us beyond perception. It can not be recognized in its entirety but presumed to be responsible for odd coincidences such as Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" and The Wizard of Oz. But I see these connections, as I like to call them, between the aural realm and the mundane routine of my day. I feel the rhythm of the world wherever I walk. I can listen to birds to and pick up on the rhythm of their calls. All you have to do is listen. Here I will try and explain some of my interpretations of these connections in my life and mostly anything musical. And with the status quo of the wold so unstable, maybe some political shit too.