FINDING YOUR FEET

Things started making sense today. A coming together of sorts. Lately, I've been trying to learn some patience, or been forced to, at least. In the wake of the Everything in Transit record, I have had to become a bit of a journalist. I spend days now sorting through and piecing together the events of recently passed years. Honestly, the transit record became so much a part of me that my life and it might as well have merged entirely. It became so hard to tell where it left off and I began. As amazing as it is to be this wrapped up in the things you create, in this case I have had to pause and wait for transit to work its way from my conscious making way for new words, new sounds, new music. Slowly, I am finding the music. Perhaps it is finding me. These past several months have been about detaching. Detaching from expectations of the world I have built around me. The business of releasing albums for major record companies can be very scary and very threatening. You have to be an Island sometimes, I have found. You have to stand there some days and say I want to make something real. I want to make something that matters to me and hope it matters to everyone else, but Ive got to start in my gut and not on some assembly line. Youve got to forget that you have fans, fans that expect whatever they may expect for your art, because in some ways it's their art, too. You have to forget your past and relearn that feeling of building a song like it was the only thing you might make before you don't make things anymore. Out here, insecurity is the device. It is waking up and realizing that this music I am making will eventually be offered up to be either liked or hated. In that though I find freedom. I realize now that all I can do is write my songs. Write them as well as I possibly can. Try and make something that means something. If only for the inspiration of it at least it will serve a purpose. It's funny that I started jack's knowing that the only way I could satisfy my drive to create was to create without restriction. For a moment there I convinced myself I had my back against a wall, and suddenly the only wall I find my back against is that of a 10 by 10 writing shack in Glendale, where the summer days average between 90 and 100 and each song can be quantified in the sweat it took to write it. There is no ac in hell, and sometimes you've got to get down to get up. The train is gaining speed I should think.