Smoke or Die

I was just shut down. Smashed. Defeated. Or so thinks the self-assured young lady who did the trouncing.

The debate was smoking. Brittany, the young lady in question, had just been to a forum in which the student body discussed whether smoking ought to be allowed on campus. She held that it's a health issue and Dixie's pure in spirit should be free to move about untainted by cigarette smoke.

I disagreed, saying that some students who choose to use tobacco should have the right to go have a cigarette between classes. It's legal, after all, and though we're exposed to many things that affect our mental and physical health every day, we press on and live our lives.

Unfortunately for me, I was using painfully extended metaphors and abstract lines of thought she couldn't have hoped to follow. She really did school me, but not on the topic, which she was under-informed and over-opinionated about, but rather in her method of argument. I was lost, reacting badly, not able to defend my points adequately to resist her bulldozer-like rhetoric.

Her mother is obviously a strong-willed individual.

She was a heavyset girl, and I must've brought up the comparison of smoking to fast-food restaurants three times, but she said she can choose to go into a restaurant, but she can't choose to be exposed to second-hand smoke, which I thought was a lame excuse for not wanting to scoot herself over to the other side of the sidewalk.

But, you can't argue with a true believer, and she had religion in her eyes. Her point, which was that smoking is unhealthy and as few people as possible should be exposed to it, was a good one. But she was too emotionally wrapped up in whether or not I agreed with her to finish the conversation. I didn't learn a goddamn thing.

Unfortunately, the above point was her only point, and everything else hung on it, weaving a glittering web of flimsy logic and circular reasoning that i leaped through, pulling my string of unintelligible metaphors along behind me.

She even looked up the definition of diversity, which she defined as 'a differing of ethnic or cultural background'. She insisted that smoking isn't a culture and that applying the word diversity to a campus of smokers and nonsmokers was fallacious.

As I was trying to make a point about diversity, using our friend Chase, who is an extremely well-cultured young black man, as an example, I was labelled '...ignorant, rude, and not worth talking to.' She and her minions flounced off.

I like smoking, but that's not the point I was trying to make. Dismissing your opponent's argument merely because you disagree with them is dangerous. Dismissing anything because you have a morally superior standpoint is even more dangerous. Beware.

Maybe next time I'll pull the freedom card and see what happens.

Never Tread Lightly

Action is the answer. Getting things done is the answer. If you want to affect change in the world, take some action. Take a walk, say a word, hold out your hand, write a song and make sure someone hears you sing it. Never take yourself too seriously, but never don't take yourself seriously enough. You may only be one person, but you could be the person who says the right thing.

Thought I'd dig out this old thing. Writing this made me feel like I could make a difference to someone, somewhere.

Treading in the crosshairs
I once again allowed myself
To be mistaken for an easy prey.
I'm always following the marshlights
Into some self-created hell
I hoped that this time I could find my way.

You were a candle in the darkness
A symphony of strange refrains
Familiar as the earth beneath my feet.
I could see that you were drifting
Out on a sea of empty dreams
But still I've never tasted lips so sweet

I will close my eyes
So I don't have to see
The better half
Of what you've done to me
And if you have to be alone
That's just as well
I couldn't tell
If I was going wrong
And it's hard enough to sleep
Without having to dream

Stopping between streetlights
I have a drink and start to think
I'm waiting for a storm I know won't come
Another ending of an era
It's last call everywhere I go
I'm stranded on your street with no way home

I will close my eye
So I don't have to see
The better half
Of what you've done to me
And if you have to be alone
That's just as well
I couldn't tell if I was going wrong
And it's hard enough to sleep without having to dream.

I will close my eye
So I don't have to see
The better half
Of what you've done to me
And if you have to be alone
That's just as well
I couldn't tell if I was going wrong
And it's hard enough to speak without having to scream

The Psychology of Being an American

On the fourth of July, I was watching the fireworks light up the night, and I was thinking about what it really means to be an American. I started a new song that night, and I finally got it recorded last week in Spiral Studios. You can listen to the song here. Please let me know if you have any thoughts, criticisms, changes, improvements. Even if I disagree with you, I'm bound to learn something from a different perspective.

America

Let freedom ring

That’s what the fireworks are saying in the dark

We never need a reason really

But occasion strikes a spark

America, that person doesn’t live here anymore

Is this who we’re fighting for?

Do we still believe in

What the fathers lit the torches for?

Do we care

That all our children grow up refuges of war?

America, your flags are burning bright on every shore

It’s not worth it anymore

We came

Huddled and stained

From the shadows

Of slavery and pain

We’ve got fire in our blood

I pray to God that there’s a heaven up above

The greatest loss

Is we’ve forgotten how to find out who we are

And as for what the future holds

Well, no one looks ahead that far

America, you’re shining with the luster of a dying star

We came

Huddled and stained

From the shadows

Of slavery and pain

We’ve got fire in our blood

I pray to God that there’s a heaven up above

You can’t throw money at this problem

A real solution must be learned

A global consciousness is not a natural state

It must be earned

Let freedom ring

That’s the excuse that we’ve been using all these years

And if we followed Jesus Christ

Then all our boys would be right here

In America we’ve woven you a tapestry of tears

We came

Huddled and stained

From the shadows

Of slavery and pain

We’ve got fire in our blood

I pray to God that there’s a heaven up above

Insight ≠ Change

It has been said, “Let your net always be cast; in the pool where you least expect, there will be a fish.” I try to live by this as much as possible. I’m on the fringe of a lot of different social circles, so my activities are always a patchwork of D&D, rock climbing, belly dancing, and farming. And free therapy. I started going to a great parenting class last year, and the first thing they tell you is, “Parenting classes are not about your kids; rather, these classes hold up a mirror in which you can see your own behaviors.” Children do what their parents teach them to do, so putting your kids in therapy without engaging in some yourself is a little like patching the hole in the living room floor with visqueen.

The most important insight I gained last night was regarding insight. Insight, that “Eureka!” moment when an idea finally slams home, doesn’t mean diddly squat unless you take action on the insight. There’s a high there, a rush you can only get from personal realizations, but without moving, without changing your behavior, the insight soon fades and leaves you jonesing for the next “Eureka!” Even worse, if you don’t change your action based on the insight, you have to tell yourself lies to stay ahead of the depression of knowing you’re not doing your best.

Moral: If you’re going to have insights (and all humans have them), do yourself a favor and act upon them. Insight is nothing without action, words are nothing without action, love is nothing without action. M. Scott Peck defines love as, “The will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.” Taking action equals love. Taking action equals intent. Without action, you're just another blowhard with a mouthpiece.

You are what your deep, driving desire is.

As your desire is, so is your will.

As your will is, so is your deed.

As your deed is, so is your destiny
Brihadaranaka IV.4.5

7 Habits of Highly Effective Performers

1. Smile! Smiling makes you and anyone who sees you do it feel good.




2. Look into their eyes. Eye contact causes your brain to release oxytocin, a hormone your body uses when bonding with other people. This is closely related to dopamine production. Again, it makes you and your audience feel great. It also gives them the impression that you are performing for each of them individually.




3. Move. Dance. Use your hands. Whatever is appropriate for that moment, do it. Whether it’s just a long look upward or two hands stretched out to the people, move. It makes you fun to watch and unpredictable, so they’ll be hanging on your every move.




4. Don’t always wing it. People love the glamour of a planned show, and you’ll feel more comfortable if you know what songs you’re going to play and what you’re going to say in between them.




5. Make ‘em laugh. Tell some jokes. Tell a funny story about what happened to you on the way to the gig or what was going on when you wrote a particular song. People love a performer who can make them laugh.




6. Get to the point. Don’t ramble on about your sister’s friend who’s a guitar player who taught you how to play Stairway to Heaven and that’s what inspired you to write this song. Find something short and powerful to bring the meaning home to your audience. You want to share your inspiration with them, but you don’t want to put them to sleep.




7. Experiment. Think of yourself as a scientist of the stage. Try something new in your set. If it’s a hit, keep doing it. If it’s not, let it go. The audience will let you know what to do.

And then it hit me...

Being onstage is terrifying. I have a long history of stage fright, and until this year, I frankly avoided the spotlight. From the first song I mumbled out at a church talent show when I was nine years old, I have been struggling to find a way to feel comfortable onstage.

Last week, a jazz singer named Steph Johsnon came to town from San Diego. She and her band were scheduled to play three nights in a row, and my band had been invited to open for her at a friend’s house concert on the second night. Now, one disadvantage of living in a small town is a lack of regular exposure to good music. I can’t go down to Momo’s of a Tuesday night and see a band fresh off the festival circuit, so I was very excited. I decided I couldn’t wait, I had to go see her the first night. And I’m so glad I did.

What I saw that night changed my life as a performer. Steph owned the stage so completely, and with such ease. She was a confident and versatile guitarist. She had a smile on her face every moment of her performance. It was less like seeing a show than it was like watching her hang out in her living room. That’s how easy she was on stage. She joked with us about the local ordinance that doesn’t allow dancing (Footloose, anyone?), she improvised beautifully, she got the audience clapping and singing lines back to her. She told us over and over, either between songs or grooving in a jam, how much she loved each and every one of us. She was larger than life, but in a way that included every person in the audience.

Maybe I smoked a little too much before the show, but I sat in the second row, stone solid for two hours. I had to pee before we arrived, but I held it all the way to the end. I worried that if I left, I would miss some vital lesson on showmanship. I realized, “I can do this. I can be this way onstage. I can make the audience feel what I feel.” I realized, more than anything, that I wanted to make love to an audience the way she did.

And so I did. The next night, we set up on our friend’s back deck in front of eighty people and played our songs, and I felt it. I looked into their eyes and smiled at them and reached out to them and moved my hips and really for the first time felt completely unself-conscious onstage. I got to the end of the bridge of one of David’s jazz songs and I felt tears in my eyes. I was mesmerized by the audience and they were mesmerized by me. It was a deep, spiritual awakening within all of us. And there is no high so sweet as the one I experienced that night.

Make it happen. That's the only way to do it. You've got to get in there and do what you do the way no one else can. We talk about better and best and not-so-good and fair, but these standards don't mean much when it comes right down to a secret moment between you and the audience. In the moment, lives are changed, hearts are touched, people are moved to tears. And they love that. Give it to them.

Another Way To Do It

I started writing songs when I was nineteen years old. They came from nowhere, as they often do, and my reasons for writing were more biological than methodical. You go to the bathroom, you get a better six, you write a song. Since that day, I have very carefully been attempting to sort out what makes a songwriter and what unmakes them, which conventions bind and limit, and which to use over and over again, and how, more than anything else, to keep writing, even when it feels like the last thing you want to do. My theory at the beginning of this journey, is: write about what you love, and you'll never get tired of it. We're going to find out if I'm right.