Musical Inspiration

The man, the myth...the legend

Down There by the Train
by Tom Waits

There's a place I know where the train goes slow

Where the sinner can be washed in the blood of the lamb

There's a river by the trestle down by sinner's grove

Down where the willow and the dogwood grow

You can hear the whistle, you can hear the bell

From the halls of heaven to the gates of hell

And there's room for the forsaken if you're there on time

You'll be washed of all your sins and all of your crimes

If you're down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there where the train goes slow

There's a golden moon that shines up through the mist

And I know that your name can be on that list

There's no eye for an eye, there's no tooth for a tooth

I saw Judas Iscariot carrying John Wilkes Booth

He was down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

He was down there where the train goes slow

If you've lost all your hope, if you've lost all your faith

I know you can be cared for and I know you can be safe

And all the shamefuls and all of the whores

And even the soldier who pierced the side of the Lord Is down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there where the train goes slow

Well, I've never asked forgiveness and I've never said a prayer

Never given of myself, never truly cared

I've left the ones who loved me and I'm still raising

Cain I've taken the low road and if you've done the same

Meet me down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there where the train goes slow

Meet me down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there by the train

Down there where the train goes slow

Where's the pause button

Sometimes I catch myself thinking "am I controlling myself right now." Like when I have one of those reflective moments in between my daily tasks and I'll think back on what I've done that day or the past few days, or past few weeks. A memory might pop into my head, like eating lunch with my dad, and I'll think I don't remember how I got there or I don't even remember eating, and the things I said seem like they weren't even from me. Was I even in control of that moment, was I saying the things I wanted to say.

I wonder how much of our life is predetermined, and I wonder if we are even capable of altering it. And all our thoughts of "what if" are like rats looking through the glass wall of their maze at the ground far below thinking what if I jumped I could die right now, not realizing that even if I wanted to I couldn't because of the unseen glass wall. The glass wall being each moment passing by and bringing a new person. What i mean is what if everything that happens is allowed, and each moment that passes we lose ourself and find ourself simultaneously and the person that is in memory seems not like us or out of character. because each moment that comes brings a new person who the old person will never know. Thus I have the feeling that the person in my memories is a person different from me now...now...now...now...now...now...now, and each new person continues on the predetermined path unknowingly because the person of the moment hasn't realized they are acting toward what the next momentary person will think. 

Pirate or Cowboy

What would you rather be, a notorious pirate of the Caribbean or a renegade cowboy of the wild west?

Would you rather have the fresh sea breeze rush around your body as you hear a fellow shipmate yell "land ho!" With the sun warming your tan body, you race to the starboard guardrail and lean over the edge to catch a glimpse of your destination upon the blue and turquoise horizon. Below your face you see friendly neighbors leap in and out of the ship's massive wake. Your heart pounds with anticipation as you imagine the gold filled chests buried in wait for your hands to dig them up. A smile creeps upon your face as you reminisce the obstacles and enemies you've conquered to get to this point, and then a deep breathe of rushing wind into your nostrils follows. You turn to face your loyal crew and raise your sword with a victorious yell.

Or would you rather gallop into a town aback your thorough-bread black stallion. Your hat is tilted down to hide your eyes from the sun, only your mouth and stubble are noticeable. All your clothes are black except the silver shine of your bullets in your bandolier wrapped around your chest. You jump off your horse and tie it up to the stall outside the tavern, you give her a soft pat before pushing your way through the swivel doors. Inside no one knows you, but they all stop talking and stare at you in silence. A slow stroll to the bar commences as the clanks from your metal spurs pierce the silence with each step. "Whiskey." It's swallowed without a grimace. "Another." Suddenly a man orders you to leave, he says you don't belong here. A smirk cracks upon your face. You throw back your whiskey and turn to face the man behind you. There are three other men standing beside him who made the demand. Four against one...you love these odds. And before another man could take a breath, there is a swift brush of your coat with your left hand a grip of your gun with your right and a concession of four shots with your index finger that lay the men all dead. You twirl your gun back into its holster, and reach into your coat for a cigar and match. The pierce of metal spurs follows you out of the tavern.

I can never.

A surreal person

Surrealism: Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations.


Sometimes I wish I could climb above social limitations or fear of consequences. Sometimes I imagine myself shattering expected behavior and doing something unorthodox, not to be an exhibitionist, but because I'd be in a mind-set that is outside normal.

I try and imagine a person that would embody the idea of surreal. An image of a person strolling down the street naked, screaming at the top of their lungs with unkept hair and anxious eyes; an image of someone holding a gun shooting people at random and yelling "your welcome after each shot;" or Ted Bundy sneaking into a house late at night to dehumanize another unlucky lady. It seems like the only image I can manifest is a "crazy" person, maybe it's because to be outside morality is to be opposite of morality...but what if to be outside aesthetic and moral preoccupations is to be amongst a limitless morality.

What if to be outside moral preoccupations is to be in a place where you have no preoccupations, morality is simply your nature. What if a person who embodies surrealism is a person who loves everybody no matter what they do, or a person who gives up everything he owns, or a person who sacrifices himself to save someone else, what if the person claimed he was the son of God, would he be "crazy?"

But even so these are still two spectrums of opposite scales determined within the moral law. I guess I'm over analyzing this a lot, because now that I think about it, if a person embodied surrealism they would do nothing, I think they would sit on the couch and stay there until they died because they have no reason to do anything. So when I say I wish I was able to climb above social limits I'm talking about something other than surrealism...so at least I've gotten that established.

Dreams of the Future: Researched based blog

Now I want to know what the hell a deja vu is. Every time I have one I feel like I'm a character in a movie that suddenly realizes he's in a movie. I lock up, I freeze. I say, "Oh man...I'm having a major deja vu...this is so weird." In recent years whenever I have a deja vu I've thought how similar it is to being in a dream, and then I think what if this is a dream? What if this moment is something I've had a dream about and that is why it seems so familiar. In fact there have been several times where I was almost certain my deja vu was a past dream.

This concept of seeing the future through dreams is referred to as precognitive dreaming. There have been many instances throughout history that have referenced precognitive dreams (The Bible), but concrete evidence is still lacking. Psychologist claim that dreams are too unpredictable for anyone to say what is a precognitive or not, after all you can't be sure if it is precognitive until the actual event occurs. But in a book titled Dream Telepathy, written by psychologists Montague Ullman and Stanley Krippner, there have been experiments done where test subjects slept in a lab for 16 nights and there were 5 nights that were recorded as precognitive of the following morning's events. Now of course this could be just a coincidence, or it could be clairvoyance. But sadly this is only a research related blog teaser, and I have run out of space to continue on.

Make the mundane original: an ice cold glass of...

What if the blood that coursed through our veins was not red but clear, like water, and what if Dasani bottles contained a thick crimson liquid, like blood? What if the showers we cleaned ourselves in were blood-splattered? What if mother's smiled and laughed with their children that splished-n-splashed in kiddy pools of warm blood--dunking their heads under the dark liquid? What if we surfed in AB negative waves and each cutback sprayed the person paddling out like a seagull in oil? What if sprinklers squirted 98 degree liquid onto the grass of the football field where players drank bottles of Gatorade with only one flavor: Berry Blood. What if after a restless night with a sore throat the first sip of ice cold water you drank in the morning was a thick glass of metallic-tasting blood dripping down your esophagus? Would we view water with a different undertone? Would we treat water as a life source? Would water become an image of life and death? Would we treat water better than we do now?

A Sweetness From Poop

I love going to concerts. The energy you gain, the melting pot of style you see, the heavy bass that rattles your chest, and the inspiration you get from watching your musical heroes. Usually the concert experience occurs on weekends; because we all know that going out on weekdays and staying up late is irresponsible when you have to wake up at eight in the morning. But to me, that’s what makes concerts during the week so special, it’s like pulling a Snickers out of a pile of poop.

This past Tuesday night a Snickers presented itself in the weekly pile of poop. It was behind the airport, sitting next to the 5 freeway, resting on the outskirts of downtown San Diego in a bar named The Casbah. It was 8:30 when people began packing into the dimly-lit, 1980s style venue. The requirement for my ticket was 21 and older, and I felt like I was the only 21-year-old and everyone else was older. Now I’m not talking about 40s and 50s, I’m talking about late 20s to late 30s, the type of people that have nine to five jobs. But I didn’t really care, because I saw top hats, mo-hawks, piercings, chains, tight pants, loose pants, deep V-necks, tattoo-covered skin, long hair, short hair, and no hair. Then the band we’d been waiting for finally took the stage. We all hooted and hollered. The bass of the first song began to vibrate my whole body. I closed my eyes and smiled. The Snickers tasted so good.