What's in a name?

Untitled (Song 4)

I'm holding it against you

Because I got a good view

Of her stuck to you like glue

The two of you all tangled

Though it was just a bad dream

Saw your dark eyes all agleam

It just made me want to scream

Mark your body, make you cry

In dawn's light you seem so fake

And I just can't seem to make

Myself put on the brakes

To stop this from unfolding

Chorus:

Sometimes bad dreams do come true

Best left sleeping, these dogs that lie

They steal into daytime and pursue

Peace of mind gone by and by

No I can't avoid this fight

Brewing since we said good night

Not fair but it sure feels right

To wake you up to a war

Later sitting in a chair

You look serious and spare

Hungry and a little scared

Looking for some kind of truce

Just my imagination

You two a crazy fiction

But if so why the notion

That you seem all too contrite?

(Chorus x 2)

Daily Write: Wild at Heart

He's staring out the window again, and always looks so miserable like this. His whole body is sunken into a dejected slump, eyes open but not alert, sighing slightly with each breath out. He's staring out at the world out there, just waking up: the rough-barked tree trunks, the sparse shoreline bushes with leaves fluttering in the light breeze, the birds hopping from branch to branch, the chipmunks racing for cover between rocks and roots. The rain has picked up, and is pouring down relentlessly again, straight down and heavy. And with everything wet and it too early for adventures (according to me, because I haven't had enough coffee yet, nor gotten dressed), he's relegated to staring, and sighing, wishing that he could be wild and free, out there chasing chipmunks and breathing it all in, his snout pushed into the dark moist earth.

Finding Grace

Another "rough draft" of a song here, this one entitled "Finding Grace." Need to work out a chorus, or at least some sort of repeatable refrain, which I'll think about this weekend. Meanwhile, the verses are pretty far along. 

The other two songs I've posted here have been getting worked on too; a friend took the lyrics and worked out chords and melodies for them. We actually even (very amateurishly) recorded them, so that I could hear his ideas for the songs, and think about them, and make adjustments to lyrics, etc.. When we work out what we really want for each of them, we'll do a better job with the recordings. It's all quite fun, and challenging, and... well, we're just living out a classic musician's fantasy, I suppose. Good stuff.

Anyway, here's the new one:

Finding Grace

Middle of night at an Ohio truck stop

Just spent my last dollar on coffee and smokes

Fluorescent lights buzz above in the ceiling

On us tired and threadbare traveling folks

Paid one-way bus fare, bound for the seacoast

Not sure where I'm going or where this might end

Just know that I'm headed straight for the city

Lose my old self there -- start over again

Grace she is waiting, out there where the sunrise

First lights up the buildings all tall brick and steel

Wrapped in her robe by a small kitchen window

Drowsy and tousled, her dreams just concealed

Sun glints on the blue harbor water in morning

Markets burst open to the barking of men

Feet pounding concrete, all quick and determined

Trains rumble deep, through her heart and her veins

I am awake now, the wind blowing briskly

Here in the park looking out at the bridge

Grace she is out there, I know that I'll find her

In everything 'round me her tender image

The Widower

Well, this songwriting thing seems to be up my alley... or at least, it's feeling fun to do, and so I'm doing it quite a bit! I've got a couple of others in bits and pieces, and one more complete "first draft," called The Widower. It seems, by reading it back, to be a bluegrass tune, perhaps...

The Widower

Thought I saw you standing there

Out the corner of my eye

Though you left 10 years ago

And without a sweet goodbye

Left here to live alone when

Years ago you disappeared

Wake crying ev'ry morning

You still gone as I had feared

Your brothers laid your ghost to rest

On the hill by the sugaring tree

Spitting cold rain that late Fall day

The day you were set free

I confessed in voice so low

While to me your ear you lent

All the things I wrote to you

In those letters never sent

Can't go on without you here

So keep you in dreams I must

Spectral bride to warm my bed

That of death I do not lust

Your brothers laid your ghost to rest

On the hill by the sugaring tree

Spitting cold rain that late Fall day

The day you were set free

Dry Creek Valley

I've wanted to try my hand at writing song lyrics for a while now, but without the ability to put them to music, I lacked the proper motivation. No band to play the songs... so... no songs.

Recently, a friend suggested that he and some friends, musicians who play covers and fiddle around quite a bit, have long wanted to try to create some full-fledged original material. Lacking a lyricist, they somehow never really got going. With this obvious synergy, I decided to finally go for it... try writing some song lyrics.

Until we try to put them to music, I'm not sure whether they're really workable. I did try my best to pay attention to things that would, or wouldn't, lend themselves to being sung, and being backed by a structure of chords and melody, but... well... who knows? Anyway, I'm sure this song is going to change and evolve as attempts are made to put it to a tune, but here it is in its first draft form:

Dry Creek Valley

Let's go, I said, let's get out of the city,

So we headed out 'cross the Golden Gate,

To Dry Creek Valley, up North in sunshine,

Whipping 'round curves, flying along straights.

Dirt road stones popped under the tires,

Like rough-hewn bullets sharply ricocheted,

Beam of light caught the ring on your finger,

No words spoken, everything conveyed.

I just hadn't told you yet,

But I knew that I'd be leaving,

Drinking ruby Dry Creek Valley wine,

It wasn't the time for grieving.

River running full this rainy time of year,

We perched on rocks above rushing waters,

Steelhead silver scales pushing hard upstream,

You spoke of someday sons and daughters.

Flecks of gold in your eyes, you rambled along,

Head in my lap after we'd broken bread,

Talk of the future, all your big ideas,

Sunk swift to rest on the river bed.

I just hadn't told you yet,

But I knew that I'd be leaving,

Drinking ruby Dry Creek Valley wine,

It wasn't the time for grieving.

Daily Write: Alone in the Woods

Being alone is my favorite way to experience the woods. Gone are the distractions of conversation with people, or keeping track of where the dog's disappeared off to. Gone is the self-consciousness related to strenuous exercise in the presence of others; no need to care that anybody's hearing my labored breathing, or seeing that I've sweated through my shirt. Gone is the requirement to keep pace with a companion; nobody's there to go too fast, or too slow, both of which can be ruinous to what would otherwise be a good trek. My stride is the perfect speed, and I can stop when I want, for as long as I want, without feeling like a bother or an imposition. I can drink all the water, and not share my snacks. I can spend 10 minutes trying to get the perfect photograph of a happy group of Tiger lillies in a captivatingly magical meadow -- these meadows, they appear around corners when you least expect them, tucked secretively into shadowed forest -- or sunlight filtering through the yellow-green leaves of the birch trees, highlighting papery white bark as it sloughs off of their trunks. I can spread my arms wide and spin around in wonderment when I pop out of a shrubby trail above tree line, greeted by a stupefying vista that makes me just grin dumbly, lost for words, and without the desire to say anything to anyone anyway.

Daily Write: Snap, Crackle, Pop

Once a Summer, the whole of Camp would don long sleeves and bug spray, and grabbing flashlights, slowly trek deep into the farthest reaches of the property upon which the camp sat, in rural Maine. At dusk this journey began, the older girls watching out for the younger, suddenly solemn and wanting to be motherly caretakers, wanting this night to be peaceful and perfect for everyone. Girls holding hands, carefully placing their feet on the path of dried pine needles so as to avoid the treacherous roots of the towering evergreens all around, lighting the way for one another, panning their flashlight beams over the terrain ahead. Deeper into the woods, darkness fell quickly, and it was incredible how quiet and serious 120 girls, the eldest only 15, could be. Gone was the typical giggling, chatting, and even the pervasive singing that rang throughout Camp the rest of the season. In their place, hushed whispers, downcast eyes, and an arm wrapped 'round another's shoulder. Arriving at the bonfire site, listening to the pops of water and air bubbles exploding from the logs, watching the showers of sparks burst upwards, zipping and zig-zagging skyward, each girl held her secret carefully. Written in soft graphite on a dry piece of birch bark, she awaited her chance to set this secret free, and be rid of its weight, anticipating the quick sizzle and bright flare of the flames as they engulfed her private message, no longer needing to be kept hidden, and no longer needing to be told.

Daily Write: Bright Lights, Big City

Lost again, turning look-alike corners in the sameness of this urban jungle, at each turn finding the same people, pavement, buildings, busses, taxis, storefronts, hot dog vendors, pigeons. I dissolve into New York, the solid physical self of me dissipating as I walk, bits of me breaking off and blending in with the steamy exhaust blowing up from the subway grates, rising up into the skyscraper canyons, and disappearing into the thinner air above street-level. My calves ache, my hamstrings begin to quiver in protest, and I can feel each individual tendon and muscle running along the arches of my feet as they cry out in a chorus, "Stop! Sit! Have you gone mad?" In a few more hours, I won't know as much about who I am anymore, or anything about where I've been today, or why I'm still walking, but I'll keep losing myself like this, fading into New York with its hugeness, its callousness, its bright harsh light, its concrete, steel and glass, its money and yellow cabs and knishes with spicy brown mustard, its bridges and stairwells, brownstones and parks, 5th Avenue and Mott Street, Tribeka and the Upper West Side. It becomes me. I become it. I am found.

Daily Write: Homeward Bound

The cab pulled up to the curb in the humid grey light of the June dawn, the idling engine the only sound aside from the occasional melancholy hoot of a mourning dove. He fished out 30 bucks from his wallet, told the driver to keep the change, and climbed out of the back seat, peeling his moist back away from the vinyl upholstery. The day was heating up already, and he was glad to think of getting inside, taking off his suit jacket and shoes, rolling up his sleeves, and sitting in the air conditioned kitchen with a cup of coffee and the just-delivered morning paper. He trudged up the few steps of his front stoop, garment bag slung over his shoulder, briefcase in one hand, and keys in another. This last effort was almost more than he could muster, but somehow he managed to swing the screen door open with a free couple of fingers, and awkwardly jamming himself and his baggage between the screen door swung wide and the front door, he fit the key into the lock, and turned it counter-clockwise, hearing the "welcome home" thunk of the deadbolt being thrown aside. Grasping the polished brass handle, he turned it, and pushed the heavy wooden paneled door open, immediately refreshed by the cavernous cool air hitting his face, and sinking quickly into the weave of his damp clothing.

Catching Up

Got a little behind on my daily writing exercises, and so did three in a row tonight, after indulging in a long hot bath to help get into a relaxed, creative mood. I like some aspects of all three, although of course find fault in all three of them too. I realize, however, that I have to cut myself some slack, since they're written in 10 minutes, and there's been no pre-planning related to them, nor any editing after the fact. Will post them here momentarily, although I really have no idea if anybody out in the ether is paying any attention, or cares. Oh well, mine is not to wonder about whether this writing is being read, and instead I must simply try to write. In theory. In practice, I seem to indulge a little bit in the wondering about whether anybody's reading, too.