I was deeply insecure and sad for no special reason and ready to play anywhere for no compensation, anywhere at all. The days stretched on forever, and I can’t for the life of me remember how I filled them all. Death wasn’t aware of us then the way it is now. Hey, Linda! We were in our early twenties and we were untouchable. Linda was a beautiful girl then - still is - and everyone loved her. I remember screen-printing shirts for an old band of mine with my friend Linda at her apartment on Gough Street in San Francisco in the year 2000. Because I’m the only one who knows how it all went down. ![]() I don’t care if anyone reads it, I just want to be the one that writes it. I fear I won’t finish my book that I’m writing one verse and one chorus at a time because I want to be the author of my own little history. All I’m afraid of is that I won’t finish everything I feel like I need to finish before I go. I hope it doesn’t hurt too badly, but I’m not afraid for my consciousness to be gone from this Earth and I don’t worry about what comes after. But, hey, that’s also a debate for another time. I don’t see that particular crowd having much interest in beautiful art, which is ironic because it’s the one thing that could save them. My friend Brad says that Republicans act the way they do because they’re afraid to die, and that seems like a neat way to sum it all up. Its permanence - and we can debate later what forever might mean - has the power to dispel death. If I’m going to have a gravestone, I’m damn sure going to decide what’s on it.Īrt is a bulwark against time’s dispassionate ticking. Not for money - I don’t make any money - and not for fame, because nobody knows who I am, but for beauty and emotion. Maybe I started writing songs to defy time? To stand with my back to the clock? To order my world in an arrangement of my own choosing? There must be some part of me that hopes that someone - my kids, maybe? - will compile every word that I’ve written into one document when I die, and that will be the book of my life, and it will be unique because I will have written it for reasons unquantifiable to most people. He’s still alive, he’s fine, fine enough, but, shit, time - it’s the way that time speeds up the older I get that can spook me. ![]() I’m almost the same age that Dad was when he had his heart attack. Sometimes I get really inside my head and I start to feel like I’ve made a big mistake but it’s too late to turn back. Life is a series of wi-fi codes, but we’re having a good time with it. I’m at a Wyndham Garden hotel in Tallahassee, Florida.
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