Cacophony: Music. Frequent use of chords of harshness and relationship difficult to understand
I'm leaning back in a very comfortable leather recliner, my feet resting on the extended foot stool. I am staring blankly at a brilliant sequence of lights that are spitting out images of a slightly overweight man with spiky bleach-blond hair, tattoos and ear piercings taking enormous bites of this or that in the back of kitchens here or there. In the spacious room to my left, a horn section consisting of trombone, tenor and alto saxophones is diligently learning and rehearsing the New Orleans traditional, "When The Saints Go Marching In." What started out as a series of hoots, cackles and whales has settled into a loose, yet enjoyable rendition of the timeless song
Cacophony immediately came to mind as the initial uncertain notes escaped from the trio of horns. A belch here or a squeak there disrupted my comfortable existence on my comfortable chair in this comfortable house located in the Rocky Mountains some 100 miles west of Denver. I wasn't deep in thought pondering Rumi's poems of Realisation or laughing heartily to myself as I was about to discover how to take over the world with bass lasers -- I was just sitting and staring. Mind blank. No cravings, no desires, nothing. Blank.
The high frequency blast of human breath through meticulously crafted brass and wood, metal and rubber snapped my dormant mind back to the present. A skillful manipulation of dexterous fingers and a trained embouchure filled the silent air with a tasteful and practiced minor jazz scale, somewhat akin to a guitar player mindlessly fingering their "cool lick" or the drummers imaginary solo to tens of adoring fans
Cacophony: Music. Frequent use of chords of harshness and relationship difficult to understand.
Following a calling as an artist is a harsh and difficult path to understand. I've struggled mightily with the pursuit in my adult life, often questioning my decisions to continue with the tremendously challenging yet immensely rewarding quest for fulfillment. As I acquire a modicum of wisdom with each passing year, I slowly come to the painful realization that there might not be an ultimate pinnacle of artistic achievement -- i.e., no super bowl to win or award that can be earned to quiet the mind into a state of serene sedation. Of course, a Modern Drummer cover, a Grammy win, and a yacht full of bronzed and toned females pouring champagne over my head and drinking it out of my belly button with a straw might calm my frenzied brain. However, tanned booties and luxury boats only carry so much intellectual weight. Actually, I think I'd be pretty happy on a yacht right now as my mental imagery is quickly overtaking thoughts of finishing this blog post....
**By the way, if you do a Google image search for "Girls On A Yacht", you may want to make sure a boss, wife, husband, child, is not in viewing proximity. Unless you're into that kind of thing, which I am. "Grandma! Come here -- check THIS out!"
So what is it that pushes us to create? Is it buried deep within our DNA? Is it cultural? The way we were raised, regardless of hardship or advantage? I clearly have no idea and I'm not looking to get too philosophical this morning as I'm still thinking about tan boat girls cooking meat on my yacht. Nevertheless, as I was handed my college diploma and bought my first suit (thank you Enterprise, they'll pick you up!) a decade ago, it took me all of three months to understand the limitations of my patience in the stifling confines of coat and tie. The mind numbing sport of selling replacement car rental insurance to humans whose existence is defined by the luxury vehicle they lease (I CAN'T GO OVER MY MILES!) is an experience I'd rather not repeat. Upon going through some of my old college text books, I discovered an essay I'd written 3 years prior to that moment in which I declared, "I will never wear a shirt and tie to my job." The next morning, I walked into the drab office illuminated by soul-sucking neon tube lights and handed in my resignation.
May of 2011 will be 10 years since I received my diploma in the Murphy Center at Middle Tennessee State University. To the delight of my three family members in attendance, I sauntered across the stage, shook the hand of the Dean of the Liberal Arts department with my right hand and simultaneously received my diploma in my left. I looked to the photographer standing in front of me and managed to contort my face to some resemblance of a half-smile half-grimace as he snapped photo #354 of the afternoon. Later in the day, while sitting on the toilet inside my favorite Cajun restaurant in Franklin, Tennessee I thought to myself, "Whew... the hard part is over! All I have to do now is find a good job, move back to the Colorado mountains with my girl and start living!"
Uhhhhh... cough, ahem. It don't exactly work that way. First off -- that last statement was a complete lie. All I was thinking about while sitting on the toilet? Wait - who knows if I was actually sitting on a toilet? Right? I mean, it was 10 years ago! I don't remember shit I did yesterday. However, I certainly was at a Cajun restaurant called "Copelands" post graduation. I did eventually move to Colorado (but not the mountains) with my girl and I have used the bathroom at some point along the way. The rest of the life stuff... weeeeeelllllll, I believe that is why I am hacking away on my laptop at this very instant.
You see:
Against the expectations of current socioeconomic climate in the United States in March of 2011, I'm an outsider. I am 33 years old. I own a 17 year old Japanese import that approaches 40 miles per gallon of petrol when conditions are ideal. I posses most of two separate drum sets that have paid the bills in one way or another for the better part of the last 4 years. I have a 5'x10' storage space that contains 85% of my possessions. The remaining 15% resides with me inside of my rented, partially furnished apartment-sized bedroom some 5 miles west of the infamous Red Rocks amphitheater. There is nothing on hanging on my walls and I sleep on a borrowed futon that is without frame. By American standards, I have skirted the poverty line for the last several years. The only debt I owe is due to my college education . I have no children, no wife, girlfriend, lover, dogs, cats, or blow up dolls.
The most valuable thing I own is my freedom. Freedom to choose which direction to wander, freedom to escape the monotony of day to day life, routine and obligation - All of which I have seemed to acquire a strong distaste. The plethora of options leads to endless possibilities that keeps my synapses firing rapidly as I turn to the next blank page of Nomad's** choose my own adventure book. My personal hell is over-thinking choices and not following through with instant decisions. It's a painful and arduous process, albeit one that generally keeps me in good financial health in the long run. I have a no credit card policy that keeps me from making rash decisions--like flying to New Orleans next week to attend The Jazz and Heritage Festival. In order to do things such as this, I need to have the money in the bank and my bills covered. Or, I simply rely on one of my wealthy and enabling friends to give me a long term no interest loan (Any Volunteers?)
To hell with it all. The over-thinking, the responsibilities, towing the line between caution and adventure. I choose adventure. I choose the pursuit of knowledge outside the regimented and linear academic process. I earned a document that legitimizes my wherewithal in a white collar interview but my passport might hold more secrets to my education than that damn, dusty, expensive ass diploma ever will.
I own my freedom and I better take advantage of it while I can.
In the coming year, I'm endeavoring to embark on a grand adventure to feed the mind and soul. I am the art project. I am also the artist. Is that weird? Can I like get arrested for that in some southern states? I will attempt to keep a updated blog as to the goings on as I travel and learn and succeed and fail. I hope to see many of you in person along the way and it's my desire create something new with as many good friends as I can. Call it "Reverse Engineering of FaceSpace for MyBook."
And I swear I will not be this serious and disgustingly self-indulgent from here on out.
**Nomad=Damon
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