One fool, a hill of my own making, assembly in progress
I feel like I should be returning here to tell of deep, dark secrets. Of how I've spent the past few doing dangerous things, learning of intimate and disturbing knowledge.
Mostly, I've been reorganizing myself. That's the start of the year, right? That's what we do when we turn to resolutions. Or, as I said here a few months ago, in my case examining more generally how I spend my time.
Reading habits, music habits, writing habits. My day gig takes its share of time, a great deal of it what might be termed prep work. That's a lot of reading.
I'd like to say I'm a great note taker. I can't though, I've always had a poor habit. But my journals have been getting a bit more of a workout than they had been. Just like my feet have. I've put in a few miles walking lately.
More prep work, that. For the days ahead and behind, for the time I'd like to see. I found myself thanking Flea the other day.
I read his biography last year, though fair warning, that particular book is not what you might think. Oh, there's the musician's story, but only up to a certain point. Flea has a bit of the Zen fool's view of how he wants his story to unfold.
He makes a statement of purpose there along his way. Regarding the groove. Bassists, drummers, rhythm players know what he means.
Friday, I was about a mile into a cold walk around one of our little town parks when I hear a groove. Side effect, really, I thought at first, of a little bit more guitar practice lately.
A moment of rhythm that I'd bring back to Friday's guitar moments. A beat that resonated with my walk.
And washed away thoughts of the day gig, and this writing thing, and all those moments that rise up and demand you think of them now damnit. Like you can do something about them now, other than let them take over the circuit and drown out the world and the moment you're actually in.
It wasn't so much clarity, as just... a groove. A sound a noise and then the walk. There's a little duck pond, the park's along a creek and when they built the park, they cut out a little pond and retaining wall next to the creek.
It was cold except where the sun gave such a brief respite there. The ducks waved their tales at me, and the couple of other folks out braving the temperatures of the walk.
Shorts and a hoodie just barely did it. I felt a bit like the other shorebirds,white feathers and long thin orange legs and hooked beaks they the twenty of them sorted through the grass with. They ambled down to the water as I passed and bothered whatever lunch swam there.
What then does it mean to miss the forest for the trees? I made a late walk Wednesday evening, late enough that the sun chased its way to elsewhere while the softball teams did work, one kid shagging flys just about hit the back fence whenever she wanted to, a good level swing with an easy pull to left field just as pure as could be.
I never notice when it looks easy. Just the hard parts, the way the garbage cans don't get taken away because the guys never came back down our half of the street, or the way the fence always seems to need a repair just when there's something else to do.
Work days and days I can't get to the keyboard and days where I have to ask myself if I've ever even seen a guitar why can't my fingers find this shit anymore?
It never feels easy.
Until it does. For some random reason a few hundred words get up there on the sccreen and they look kind of good, don't they? Kind of like the way that pattern felt under my fingers, the little arpeggiated passage that ran chromatic through only one simple shift and then another.
Nobody notices? Ok. But I will be nobody today and someday, I say it, feel it, sing it, write it, play it.
