Exodus

Spring 2007

I know somewhere in the suburbs, in some damp, warm room, without much sunlight, my grandfather is dying. I called him a couple of times recently but he doesn't really follow common conversation and it takes all of his energy to remember where he is. He used to call me Angel when I was a child. Part of me thought it was because he could never remember my name. I used to love that though, Angel, but as I grow older it sounds the farthest from the truth. Why is it the older we get, the darker we become? Where cynicism breeds discontent and all the other stuff is just lacking in color? Where does it all come from and where can I return it? I am happy here. Though I haven't slept well in over a week and I am surrounded by cardboard boxes and unpredictable weather, I think I am shinning in my gloom. I have this new-found appreciation for whiskey and piano playing at 2am when most people are dreaming of puppy dogs and white picket fences. I sing unto the night sky and stare out my window looking for some tiny morsel of tangible brevity. I've yet to find it thus far so I guess I will just keep playing, and imagine that once my grandfather dies, he will visit me in my music room and applaud me when I play that one song for him. Unbenounced to me, I started writing him a song long before his current downhill decline into death. It's a slow ballad; I think Paul said it was 6-8 time. Whatever it is, I like the way the room echoes when I sing, and the way there's a tiny exodus of birds to my left. They take flight, like my words unto the night, and leave me little presents of bird poo on my car and feathers in my driveway. I guess it truly is the little things that matter. Even if it is bird poo...

Now, I know that in the greater scheme of anonymous personalities and inaccurate pictures that this isn't the best medium for this kind of thing but for me....I guess I just wanted people to know. We are human. We have pain. So here's a little snapshot of my life. Without the flash.