|The Bamboo Room - Up|
|The Bamboo Room - Down|
A couple of panos of The Bamboo Room, the place I go to in my mind to read and write and play music.
Well, it used to be. I'm in here today for the second time in, geez, four weeks.
That mess on the floor is a reflection of my messed up head.
A while back it felt like something came loose, or broke, or snapped and my facility to play the guitar and write disappeared in a fog between my ears.
First, I lost the guitar.
Let me tell you, owning four guitars and a bass, stuck on stands around a room has had zero effect on whether or not I pick them up.
Months, a year, years since I experienced an insatiable need for the beat and the bop.
And now, it hurts to write.
It is as if the only things left to say are in the belly of a cold volcano. And i have to use my hands to scratch them up, out, and onto the paper, or, the screen.
On the other hand, everyone tells me how pleasant I have become.
Pleasant, as if I were enjoyable weather for the rest of the world's spring day.
Somehow, I have become agreeable, amiable, and worst of all, socially acceptable.
I'm not sure pleasant is a healthy ingredient to a certain type of creative person. Someone like, say, me.
Maybe words and music left and pleasant seeped in to fill my empty places.
Please don't take this as a final epistle. I am not going anywhere. I can still love and be loved.
I believe I am at the center of a galaxy of people I love.
And animals. and the dirt clod I rubbed between my hands this morning, sifting into a brown flour near the bird feeder.
Still, today, this is my formula.
pleasant = hollowemptydrossdriftforgottenforgettinglostmissingsunke... = pleasant