Divine Relaxation

I was gifted a book called This I Believe for Christmas. It was one of my favorite gifts. It was a used copy that was delivered via used book gift exchange, and I love the idea of someone feeling as though they needed to pass along the wisdom within it's binding. Tonite we stumbled upon Louden Wainwright's:

Here's a question: How do you believe in a mystery, in something you don't understand and can't prove? When we're children we're encouraged to believe in some mysterious things that turn out to not necessarily be true at all — things like the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny or the flag. Naturally, we're disappointed after our illusions have been shattered, but usually we get over it. Some of us, however, become skeptical, even cynical, after that.

I've been asked on many occasions how I write my songs. Often I'll glibly reply, "I sure don't wake up in the morning and sharpen pencils." Then I'll admit how lazy and lucky I am, and how successful and downright great some of the more notorious pencil sharpeners have been — two of my heroes, Frank Loesser and Irving Berlin, being among them.

If I'm feeling expansive I'll bring up the mysterious aspect, the mere five to 10 percent that matters the most — what's commonly called "the inspiration." That's the thing beyond the technique and the discipline, when the sharpening and the gnawing stop, and something, as they say, "comes to you." It's a bit like fishing, really. There's certainly luck involved, but maybe what you took for laziness was (and I'm going out on a limb here) a sort of divine relaxation.

When I write what I consider to be a good song, when I realize it's going to hang together, when I somehow manage to get it into the boat, so to speak, I invariably find myself looking upwards and thanking something or even, dare I say it, Someone. If I'm alone, my heartfelt thank you is often an audible one. Oh, yes, I've been known to mutter a few words at the head of the table at Thanksgiving dinner, or hoarsely whisper an "amen" at a wedding, funeral or Christmas pageant, but usually it is just embarrassed lip service. As a rule I don't give thanks at a dinner table or in a church pew. For me, it happens when I've been hunched over a guitar for a few hours.

I believe in the power of inspiration, in the mysterious gift of creation — creation with a small "c," that is — creation as in one's work, hauling in the day's catch. When I write a song, I'm happy for a few days and it's not just because I've been reassured that I still have a job, though that's certainly part of it. Mostly I'm happy, I think, because I've experienced a real mystery. I haven't the slightest idea how it happened or where or from whom or what it came. I'd prefer not to know. In fact, I'd prefer not to talk about it anymore. It might scare the fish away.

Let's Roar from Mountaintops

Chex Mix is just a snack, but it can also be symbolic of something marvelous. It is a combination- many individual snacks that, when combined, become truly delicious. When I surfed to the Roar session on daytrotter this morning it was like eating Chex Mix online.

Besides the obvious reasons, there was a line in the Moeller-musings that really vaulted the metaphor: I can't keep the lid on and I roast Rivers Cuomo all over again, kicking the ground, punching the walls and bad-mouthing the horrible lyrical bed that he made and sleeps in so fucking comfortably.

While potentially out of context, this is the statement of a generation. Maybe not a generation, but a sect of a generation. Maybe not a sect, but a whole bunch of dudes that I am realizing is more than just me and my buds. It is a statement I have made sitting in many different chairs in many different homes with many different beverages in hand. Usually everyone is in agreement too, and it turns more into a wake than a bro-hang.

Alas, this statement was the peanut in the Chex Mix. It was the crucial element that made me realize that what I am tasting is delicious. My good friend Owen and my friend who I know a little less, but still like to call my friend, Sean, combine to constitute the corpus of the calories and then there is more: daytrotter, the site that makes the internet seem like it has a soul, is a beautiful place to make this discovery. Especially while drinking coffee on a sunny Sunday morning. So many different flavors, all joining hands in one moment of one day.

foxy follow-pup

So I have not seen my fox friend since the other night. I find myself looking out the window each night hoping he pops back in. In fact, I've found myself seeing the fox everywhere... in my head. I relayed the story to a friend and he said I saw my spirit animal. I have to admit, I've given serious thought to that claim. I can't help but wrap myself in the beauty of the whole event and the series of events before and after the fox stared into my soul. It is all connected and it is all natural. At any point an electron could be in a number of different places forcing a number of different neurons to fire in different directions creating alternate realities, but the reality I am blanketed with found a fox speaking to me with it's face- Staring at me, scared or hyper-aware or hyper-hyper-aware of everything happening: noises in the woods, scarcity of food, freezing weather, pressures of society, the impotence of consumerism, the importance of family, disgust of money, the need to be loved, and the hope that everything is somehow connected.

The fox knew.

I keep thinking of the fox. Even more so after the events of Tuesday. Get ready to read some crazy shit. Granted, some of the stories I have told on this blog are false, what you are about to read is 100% true and blew my mind to another stratosphere. I won't be able to truly capture it with my poor vocabulary, but just imagine the scene in Eight Below, when Paul Walker finds out what happened to his favorite dog. It was like that a bit:

I woke up, readied myself for the day, started my drive to work and listened to a podcast that was mainly annoying, but touched on some great points involving currency being more than just money- a comedian was discussing how he was paid very little money to open for Louis CK, but his true payment was the education he received from a successful comedian. I worked all day with the thought in my head that paper money is of less or equal value than certain experiences and lessons that can happen. How much money would you pay to eat dinner with your hero or take a long drive with your ancestors? It is a great debate, but not for this post. Anyway, with these thoughts in my head, I trudged through my day. I bumped into a professor from Temple University who I had met a few months ago, while standing in the same spot (A Whole Foods demo table). He dropped a good bit of knowledge on me as well, when he summarized this speech he had just played his students. Alas, I was still sour and depressed, but trying to combine all these short events into a collage and the only picture I had in my head was the face of a fox staring at me. Where was the fox now? Was he still hanging out near the house? Was it a he or a she? Was she going to make it to spring time? I couldn't get around the fox. So I drove home and listened to another mostly annoying podcast that did have one redeeming point that involved a Nike slogan. It was a nice ride home, I was tired and paid a lot for gas, but all of that is only to further build up the suspense before I drop the bomb. What happened when I got home was the most amazing event that might be considered coincidental. I walked in, gave out a few hugs and kisses to fiancees and dogs and then, before plopping down on the couch I noticed the mail. Atop the mail was this month's National Geographic. Has anyone seen it yet? Well if you haven't here is the cover:
Can a fox become man's best friend? That is pretty much the exact question I had been asking myself the past 2 days, and suddenly it is the cover story on the only magazine I get in the mail. A magazine that my mother has gifted me every birthday and Christmas as if she knew that someday it would completely shake up my whole belief system and cause me to hit my head on the ceiling in excitement. I don't need to kill the fox! I don't need to ever have that thought again. It is all in their genes, they have a gene that can make them be my friend. It's all in the article. Way to go March 2011 issue of National Geographic. Not only did you get my blood pumping, you included some great photographs that a high school art student will do a color pencil portrait of in the next ten years. The fox is not the enemy.

From there, I have thought of a number of ways to end this post. I have decided to say this: To have a series of fairly ordinary events tie together and excite you as the events above have done to me feels great. It is a wonderful feeling to search for meaning and purpose in things that are easily pushed into piles of meaningless and purposeless. Every day has countless events, and even more events if you search them out, and within those events there are connections and within those connections there is something I'm not sure of, but it is strong, like gorilla glue. I hope more steps are added to my fox adventure, as I will climb them wholeheartedly.

I trust the fox.

Barkley

“There are only five real jobs in the world, teacher, fireman, policeman, doctor and someone working in the service. Everybody else should just chill out and enjoy life.” -Charles Barkley

Well put! I don't think he was talking about Life magazine or Life the board game, although both of them are occasionally enjoyable. I enjoyed a short moment of life last night when a fox came and sat on our porch for a few moments. Off in the woods, something was howling, and it was almost as if the fox was hiding from the howls on the porch. It had a look of alertness I rarely see. Just a fox, on its toes, looking into the darkness. I shined a flashlight on him through the window and he looked over. As it stared into the light, I watched the fox for a good minute or two and thought about how I could kill it. Then, I kept staring at it and tried to figure out why that particular idea jumped out at me. The chickens were safe, we were safe, Badger was safe and snoring and the fox looked as though it was the only unsafe creature around. Maybe I figured it is best to just play it safe, but there was a certain unmeasurable value to that fox staying alive. It visited me on a dark cold February night and came right up to my front door, and stood in front of the spot where I often eat breakfast and read magazines. I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture in attempt to capture the magic, but it was an impossible task. I was curious what the fox's next move would be. would he try and dig into the chicken coop? would he snuggle up on the porch and get some rest? would he stand up on two legs and ask me for a cup of sugar? anything was possible I was so mesmerized.

In the end, the fox ran off, back to the woods, to rejoin whatever beasts lie in the cold winter night. I laid down and went to bed with another thought in my head. Why did I want to kill the fox? The obvious answers don't quite explain the immediate urge I felt. A flag just dropped in my head convincing me that the fox was the enemy, but I don't think that's true. The fox brings a lot to the party. Just this internal discussion I am having with myself and trying to figure out via blog-post (it's therapeutic- alright!) has value, not to mention the enjoyment of staring at a wild fox trying to survive in the dead of winter. I would say it is more valuable than the $10 I spent to see Transformers.

winter beasts

I've been meaning to update the 6 of you that read this on our chicken coop. Here are some chicken thoughts that have been cooped up:

I've been reading a lot of facebook updates lately of people complaining about the weather. Don't worry friendly faces- do like J- when I start to worry of the weather I just look off my porch and see 7 chickens toughing it out with no problem.

Chicken literature-- read it-- states that when a chicken becomes stressed out or unhappy they often stop laying eggs. Our chickens are surrounded by a foot of snow and living in arctic conditions, but still hook me up with breakfast daily. They aren't stressed out. They aren't whining about how much better summertime is and how depressed all the cold weather makes them. They don't even have thumbs to knit warm mittens and hats with. They are out there fluffing up their feathers and working as a team to conquer the cold. I love it. Right there, I am already warmer just thinking about it.

They even boycotted the heat lamp we turned on in their coop. We flicked it on when the weather was real cold- towards the beginning of December, but the chickens stopped going inside at night when it was on. "what, Jon, you think we are a bunch of toucans? We like the dark for our beauty sleep." It really is something.

Chickens are commonly thought of as whimps. I am here to tell you, that's a bunch of bullsquash. They are out there even when the squirrels and Texans, surrounded by nuts, are avoiding the cold. The only place for them to escape the elements is a little shack made of some plywood and tin. They aren't migrating, they aren't putting on smart-wool, they aren't even putting vaseline on their combs (except the one time Nogeeshik and I did do that as we were scared they were getting frostbitten). Every time I eat an egg, whether it be scrambled, poached, fried or in a tuna and pickle and egg sandwich, I think to myself, "Jon- why are you so soft- where is your hard shell surrounding the gelatinous goop you think is a man! Get naked and run through the snow right now and make a snow angel mooning the heavens!" Every time, I just sit down and eat my egg in front of a basketball game.

Kudos to the chickens... Let us raise our mugs of hot cocoa and toast the hen, for they know not what it is to complain about the weather, they only know what it is to eat, shit, and lay eggs.