The Robber yells… “Throw your hands up!”
The Rapper yells… “Throw your hands up!”
The Rabbi yells… “Throw your hands up!”
Seems like some twisted posture of prayer. I haven’t been praying much beyond “thank you” lately. Exhaustion + Guilt = Avoidance.
I’m driven to make records people are dying to play. The challenge is doing that while simultaneously writing from *that LONELY (unavoidable) PLACE. “A ship in the harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.” That’s how I feel about making music. In contrast to everything I’ve ever been taught, I only know how to dream big. And not just in a material sense. In fact, I’ve learned over the years that material dreams are the smallest of all. So in sitting down to write “REDEMPTION”, my sole goal with this project is to affect people - to have a lasting effect on HUMANITY.
For the last four days I’ve been having the same dream. I’m in a room that I think is supposed to be the room I grew up in. In the center of this room is a child holding an illuminated PENROSE in his hands. Almost like a secret he’s trying to protect. I don’t know the child. Or at least I don’t think I know him. And he doesn’t look like me at all. He looks to be about 9 years old. There’s an old school record player in the corner of the room playing “Imagine” by Joan Baez. In my dream I am standing in the dark, staring at this kid, saying nothing. The kid never looks up. And I never look away. Then I wake up.
I recently returned from Seattle, WA where I had a series of interviews about a song I wrote. All signs point to something substantial happening in the future, but I can’t shake this sense of impending doom. I just want to write. But they want me to perform. So my time is split between coming up with the right words and learning to be entertaining on stage.
The Robber yells… “Throw your hands up!”
The Rapper yells… “Throw your hands up!”
The Rabbi yells… “Throw your hands up!”
And the critics. Oh how I adore the critics. Those, who if they saw me fly, would call me an elitist for not walking like everyone else. I sometimes wonder if they even know what that LONELY (unavoidable) PLACE is or looks like. If they’ve ever truly been there. I write from my soul - from my own beautifully hellish lonely place. This is why critics don’t hurt me. Because what I write is of me, and from me. AND THEY DON’T EVEN LIVE HERE…
The Robber yells… “Throw your hands up!”
The Rapper yells… “Throw your hands up!”
The Rabbi yells… “Throw your hands up!”
i yell… “stand up! and be heard”
