Why I'm a Pacifist

I know you mean well, so well, when you tell me how grateful I should be for those who have served in the military, even given their lives, for this country.

I know enough about History to recognize the difference their service has made in shaping both the U.S.A. and the World into what they are today, for good and for ill.

I know some of the most blessed moments of my life have been spent hanging out with and having conversations with those who are serving or who have served, whether they be relatives, friends, or even strangers I meet through happenstance.

I know that the mental and physical toll and dedication it takes to be a part of the armed forces is far more than I could possibly imagine or take into account.

I know that to do the job required of a soldier to the best of their ability it would be impossible for that soldier not to simply follow the orders of their superiors without question.

I know that looking back on past wars and other martial situations, even the most studied of scholars can be hard-pressed to find an option out of those situations that does not include at least some kind of violent action.

I know that this country is neither the first nor will it be the last to have an History steeped in and built upon the bloodshed of military action.

I know that the majority of every U.S. citizen's tax dollars go to the defense budget.

I know that the incentivization of recruitment may eventually lead to the abandonment of veterans.

I know that lives have been saved because others have been taken.

I know that I could not possibly make such decisions for others and must solely place the burden of my own morality on the choices that I make.

I know that I have no idea what war is really like.

I've heard it's hell.

I know that weighing all this and more, balancing the pros and cons of the entirety of human history, all I can say is that I get a little sick in the stomach.

I know the look in a friend's eyes while PTSD takes them too far away.

I know the way a mother, a wife, a husband, a father, and so many friends will wait so long and cheer so hard not for what their loved one does or may do, but for who they know them to be deep down, and how much they hope to see them safely returned home.

I know the lies, half-truths, and manipulative promises that politicians have dangled in front of the eyes of voters on the payroll of private weapons contractors, big oil, and the chance of getting re-elected.

I know that the ones to suffer most in war will always be the poorest.

I know that there is evil in the world.

I know that evil begets more evil.

I know that we can't change anything in the world by not first changing the ways we respond to it.

I know that negotiations between patient, well-educated, open-minded parties can and do work.

I know that it is not always possible for such parties to be given a voice in times of strife.

I know that walking across the room and shaking the hand of a stranger, no matter what differences may separate you, may be the difference between a new friend and a new enemy.

I know I'm tired of people killing and being killed in the name of my country and my freedom.

I know that no one's life is worth more than another's simply because of a separation of borders, economics, or ideology.

I know that to be able to take another's life, one must ignore the complex worth of that life.

I know that I do not want to kill, and my elected representatives should not represent me falsely in this way.

I know my living is not worth another dying.

Honestly, I don't know much.

I don't know how to fix History or save those in situations that seem hopeless.

I don't know why bad things happen to good people.

I don't know what the price of freedom really is or even what that kind of freedom really means.

I don't know what it is to be a soldier.

But I do know what it is to be human, and so do those that are being murdered daily, inside and out.

I'm sick and tired of it.

And really, that's all I know.

(Word) Nerd- "Suspend Your Disbelief"

Part of what makes poetry so fascinating for me is word choice. It's not even simply choosing the right word for what I want to express but the attempt to use words that will convey meaning and even mood to the reader or listener.

Context is a big key. For instance, the context of the word "WHO" makes the difference between whether I'm talking about a certain time traveling alien in a blue box, a race of dust speck residents, or the spread of a new international plague.

Then there's phonology, the sound of the word. "Cellar door" makes a lot of linguists drool (especially those named Frank) based on some sort of inherent musicality.

I believe there's something to the presentation of the word however, which can cancel out, intensify, or reshape the entire perception of a word.

My reason for feeling this is one particular phrase: "Suspend your disbelief".

You see, the first time I saw Star Wars was when it was re-released (with special edition features) for movie theatres in 1997. I might be mistaken but I'm pretty sure that night was the first time I was introduced to the term "suspension of disbelief" in a conversation with my dad about science fiction/fantasy stories. I was a strange kid.

Maybe my mind was in an epic adventure kind of headspace because of having just watched the Death Star explode [context]. Maybe it's the way that "suspend" sounds kind of like super bend to a six year old, especially when combined with the mystical word "disbelief" [phonology]. I had after all just been introduced to the Force.

These two linguistical allies came together like Han and Chewie to scoundrel me into thinking "suspend your disbelief" meant something along the lines of morphing my perception into something magical.

The great thing was that this isn't completely wrong. Sure, suspend in the way my dad was probably reffering to in using this phrase is more like being suspended from play in a game or getting a suspension in school. I should set aside skepticism and enjoy the ride (and I'm glad I did because 1-Star Wars and 2- I was six).

However, what fascinates me is that I got by for so long knowing full well what all the words in the phrase meant and, using such simple logic, the true meaning of that phrase, but the mystic idea of my belief hanging out in some higher plane of existence being reformed into some wondrous new consciousness stuck with me pretty much till fifteen minutes ago. (Okay, it's still kinda there). Maybe it's my love of story, especially story of the fantastic variety, but as much as I'm all for using logic and deduction to dig the answers from the depths of the universe, it is always the exploration of the mysterious which most inspires me.

Rod Serling wasn't just saying be less critical. "Just have fun and watch the bookworm drop his glasses, kids." He was inviting us enter into a realm where words are more than their assigned meaning, when the sound and placement of a combination of letters surprises us by not only hitting us where we think but also where we feel.

And that's why poetry is like...

Petrichor.

p.s.-check out my sister's awesome Mongolian Adventures!

This Town

It's been a long time, too long probably, since my last update.

Not much has changed and everything is always changing, right?

For those of who have been following the adventures of me, you would know that I previously worked at a thrift store, pounding away like a zombie starved of the right kind of brains.

That's right, I said previously (also, zombie...because I follow trends I guess).

My current position is sitting on a bed at 5 in the morning, but my current job position is working the front desk at a hotel! Sometimes I drive the airport shuttle, sometimes I check people in, sometimes I answer the phone and say sorry to people's silly complaints, but mostly I have plenty of time to write my novel.

Yes folks, I'm writing a novel (no, not that one, a different one). I'm participating in NaNoWriMo, which is crazy times, mostly. Essentially, I'm attempting to write a fifty-thousand word first draft of a novel during the month of November. Why? Because I'm insane.

Also, in doing so, I hope to develop the habit of not only writing every day, but also using the first draft as a freer, less edit-heavy space where creativity can flow without worry for perfection. I think these are skills which perchance may lead to an exponential increase in productivity on the writing front.

Tonight, however, I've already done a great deal of writing and am only still awake because in about two hours a strange person is coming into my room to stare at the water damage in the ceiling. Believe it or not, I actually cleaned.

Before all this sitting and writing, I was at a Friendsgiving party with some fantastic new friendstrangertypes I'm slowly growing to love. It was fantastically brilliant in the way that only a packed house full of people I don't know well but who still jump at the chance to bless and encourage me with our similar loves and hopes and questions can. I am blessed to be in an area of the world where crazy, talented, creative, wonderful people can gather and eat tons of food and just be there in the midst of one another. Yes, it's awkward for the introvert sometimes, but that's why we have a tiny box for him that I keep in the back left of my brain. I let him out for exercising most nights around this time, so it's okay.

As far as music goes, I am not sure of the exact date yet, but the first new single in (for)ever should be "dropping" as they say in the next couple weeks. SO LOOOOOK OUT!

More on that bit to come.

Love you all, and I hope you're getting more sleep than me.

p.s.- check out my new acoustic video right here: CONSTITUTION HALL

Days of Future Past

In retrospective contemplation, I feel compelled to say I'm better off because of how life's worked out, opportunities I've had for taking certain paths instead of others.

What if I'm not better off, though?

Perhaps "better" is a coping mechanism. Perhaps I don't have better, while I do have now. This is where and when I am, but seen parallel, other options could potentially be much better under certain analysis.

Who am I to judge the man who made different decisions simply because I did not? Different circumstances. Different consequences.

Is he a failure who seized the opportunities I didn't?

Then again, could I have really done differently as I sit here with separate results in a separate reality. (Free will sometimes seems a shaky concept in hindsight.)

Right now does not equal better. It could have, I suppose, but I dare to admit than in my case it doesn't. This recognition is the meaning of regret.

I would imagine that hope, as far as free will is concerned, lies in that chance we might make the choice that not only seems the wisest at the time but whose consequences would stand up to the scrutiny of all other possible situations. It's the hope that even if the best is too far off, better off is right around the corner. Not only that, but it may just be in our hands.

Real life, after all—the one they told you will start just as soon as you're done doing whatever you're doing now—is the conglomeration of a whole lot of misplaced priorities.

Where Am I and Who Are All These Crazies?

Been bringing in some really cool folks to record on the new album lately, and between all of them and the utterly fantastic engineer with whom I get to work, I am simply surrounded by talent and kindness. The creative energy truly just drowns that tiny room in some not-so-fancy but still very much brilliant and exciting ways.

I mean, check this out:

That right there is the phenomenal Ashley Wright laying down some mind-blowingly cool piano parts (think Mozart meets One Republic) for a track that the wicked talented Whitney McCombs  had sung on (read: broke hearts into a million pieces) only a few days prior. I've also had my dear friend Chris Murphy adding some very catchy guitar stuff, and am hoping to bring in some more of my friends—old and new—quite soon. 

This is all so exciting. I mean, I just played a house show with a whole bunch of artists I'd never met. Every one of them was so nice and encouraging and...TALENTED. I'm surrounded by it, drowning in it, engulfed in the mighty wave that is this crazy town and its crazy people. 

I know I've spent a lot of time on this blog complaining and philosophizing (more like angsting, which should really be a word) at length about what's wrong with my life down here. I now have a place to stay for relatively cheap rent, a job that, despite a certain amount of soul-destroying, allows me to live in said place and eat food and pay for gas and buy music stuff and so on... Still, though, there lingers questions of morality in being a part of so many corrupt systems. Those questions haven't disappeared (though going from a car to a bed has made me realize how blurry the lines between societal classes really are). 

However, being generally pretty depressed means I have to find ways to lift my head up and keep pressing forward. Honestly and with all the sincerity in my heart, I tell you the only way I have been able to do that is the fantastically genuine and supportive group of creative folks I've met down here. It is often hard for me to believe I have friends or to know what to do with them once I've got 'em, but these folks are good, unusually honest (and quite excitable about new ideas), and fairly patient with me.  

I hesitate to say that is through others we find ourselves, but perhaps in the midst of others we can at very least get some fairly overwhelming levels of feedback. 

Good, bad, inconclusive. 

People. 

>sigh<

Voting or Not

So I’m not the smartest and didn’t really do my homework. I knew I was registered to vote…in PA. I live in TN now, but my registration hasn’t changed. I thought I could do the absentee ballot thing, but I’m neither a student nor in the military. I’d have to fly back to PA and vote in the county of my license there. This makes sense and I’m not saying it’s wrong or anything like that. However, I can’t afford to fly to PA without taking a pretty big risk of not being able to afford November’s rent. 

So am I too poor to vote? Maybe. Maybe not. 

Did I really want to vote in the first place? Maybe. Maybe not. 

You see I believe that exercising my right to vote is an important part of preserving one of the great symbols of what’s still good about the US. Still, with the electoral college and battleground states and lying douchebags running for both of the two major parties, it is mostly just a symbol. 

Does your vote matter and should you vote if you can? Yeah, I believe so.

Will you then be responsible for choosing between two politicians? Obviously.

So it’s kind of a relief to be honest. The president doesn’t have as much power as this season makes us think, and no matter what/who gets elected. The way that you live in your local area, loving your neighbor and all that, will make a bigger contribution than your vote will. 

(and I was prob gonna vote for Jill Stein anyway)

What Really Matters (Art for Art Sake)?

By the end of this month, a few things might transpire in my topsy-turvyish little life. 1) I stay at a job that is making me feel increasingly miserable no matter how hard I try to see the bright side, and I then miss out on some really great opportunities as my soul slowly melts like an overly hydrated wicked witch of the west. 2) I find another, at least somewhat more palatable job, one which allows me to either start after or start and still take off for those "great opportunities" (one of which includes maybe playing a show), and quit my current job. Or 3) I find myself at a place where I must choose between leaving a job for aforementioned opportunities or staying at a job where it's okay to mislead your employees about their ability to take off for said opportunities as well as melting their souls on a daily basis. It's a statistical improbability that everyone hates their day job, right? Right?

All that to say I'm trying to get into a better situation—one which will not only allow me to continue to live under a roof but also free up time in the right places so I can continue recording and performing and writing my book and countless other creative endeavors. My current job (and most other entry-level jobs by their descriptions at least) require an elementary to early high school level education, and yet somehow the employment process makes it seem like I'm not qualified for any of them. I really hope all those folks in my "class" who graduate this coming May find themselves in a very different situation than the one I've been in. (If not, please know it is possible to drastically lower your middle class standards for what is an acceptable level of number of showers per month if necessary...2 maybe 3 sounds good.)

  

On another note, I've met a lot of fantastically talented songwriters in this town, but I've become to notice a trending dichotomy. There is this line between those that write as an art and those that write as a craft. The former shatter open a bottle of their inner most thoughts and feelings, pouring out an over-exposed, blurred mess of gut-wrenching, heart-squeezing, tear-jerking REAL set to music. The latter build a machine, cog by cog, with such finely tuned precision that it basically spits out radio play and awards to give itself. There have been a few throughout contemporary music history who have been able to bounce back and forth across this line, bringing handfuls of one side to the other. No one can traverse the tightrope all the way across that gorge, though (all that plays at my work is late 70s to today's pop music and I've yet to truly find correlation besides bipolar relationship issues). 

I'd almost rather have something real that rips my foot off and feeds it to me still raw and bleeding than a tin toy that timidly trots over and coaxes my toes into tapping. (alliteration overkill, oh well.)

A friend today asked me if the whole point really was to become rich and famous or to even be heard or if art for art sake could be enough. I used to think, used to hope that it could be. 

Back then I slept in my car for two months and was more creative than I'd been in years. Now I'm paying rent and hating my job and trying to find not just the time but the motivation to keep creating. After a long day of work, it seems almost impossible to crank out the same level of material that I made when my life was either so taken care of or so desperate that I couldn't or didn't have to worry about much. Growing up or in school or when I was just roaming, the art was all I had. Now, all I have is getting through the day... adulthood, by some definitions. 

I still believe art for art sake should be enough. I still strive to be someone who creates out of the deep, honest places in my soul, because that's just who I am. But then I gotta pay rent, and I gotta eat, and I gotta this and that. You know the propaganda. 

All I can think, though, is what's the point if what you gotta do to keep living takes away what makes your life worth living? 

Movin' On Up...or Just Further Away?

So tomorrow night I might just be moving into a house, and if you read my last post, you're aware that I've started working a job.

There's a part of me that's more relieved than words can say, as I'm actually making an income of sorts and beginning to think of all the things I'll be able to do with an actual Place (mostly catching up on some sleep).

However, there's another part of me that wonders if all I'm really doing is buying into the paradigms of a stuff-centric society. Is being more comfortable all that my life's about? Will I really be able to speak truth when I'm cashing in on the benefits of a lie—the lie of material joy?

Today I got to see some of the many ways the second-hand goods and clothes at work help young families and the immigrant poor in the greater Nashville area.

I also had to sit down with my paycheck and figure out how much I'd have left after rent and such each month. Whereas before I felt no real worries about money (I knew I was steadily getting poorer so why not give to anyone who asked) now there's this rising voice in the back of my head. It's saying something about a budget and being fiscally responsible and sounds like a curmudgeonly math teacher.

Sure, with an income and a room of my own, I'll have less to worry about (getting kicked out of places or woken up by cops with their hands on their sidearms), but I'll also be less connected to the real folks down here.

Everybody hurts, everybody suffers, everybody has issues. But if you want to get to know a species, find them on the edge of their selves. That's where you don't even need to debate ideologies or philosophies, because they're busy having debates all over your face.

Getting any more comfortable or affluent than that and it's just a slowly numbing slope till you become too detached to relate.

p.s.- One of the things that really bugs me about work, I will say, is that it's a fairly fixed schedule and one that makes it impossible for me to keep recording on saturdays. I am hoping to do something about this soon.

Philosophers are Hypocrites

Last night was too cold. If I was walking around a city and enjoying the day as I did both yesterday and today a bit, it would have been perfect weather, ushering in Autumn with the only thing missing being the fact that Autumn belongs to a northeasterly city with a coastline and a baseball team named after dyed undergarments. However, when my day of wandering and conversing and being interviewed for things that get my hopes way too up was concluded, and I was venturing to fall asleep, it was too cold. So tonight, I decided I would give myself a chance to escape. I drove a ways away, spent more money than I can probably afford on the cheapest motel room I could find, and locked myself inside. It's not too cold in here, at least not in the same way it was last night. Soon enough, though, I'll have to leave.

I'm too poor for this temporary place. I'll be too poor for an apartment pretty soon, if ever I find one, even with the income that will soon be segmenting a tiny portion of its made-up worth into my somewhat reluctant hands. At a job I can justify as its cheap prices make the so-called necessities cheaper for those who can't afford better, I am an ant in a long line or a cog in a machine or a single thread of a long rope, mindlessly rearranging the hand-me-downs of the middle and upper middle classes's overweight children. As much as it's been pounded into my skull lately that I must survive and that to do so requires I pay homage to the gods of consumptive materialism, I do wonder if even the seeming moral benefits of my position compared to other areas of employment are not fallacies as well.

For instance, working at a thrift store, the prices of the clothes are marked down drastically from what they would be sold as new in the mall or at a department store. I don't know much about fashion (and I sincerely hope I never do), but it seems like in the time it takes for the clothes to go from new to thrift status, there would be some cost to their fashionability. There is also anywhere from a barely noticeable to a severe amount of wear on these clothes, marking them, at least to a certain extent, as second-hand. However, staying true to their origins—and especially show because I've been working in the kids' department of late—the clothes are in no way lacking as billboards for advertisement, whether that be copyrighted characters or logos from various brands (in many cases, both).

What does this say about our culture then? Perhaps that we are doing something to reuse materials and not be wasteful. Perhaps that we care for the poor in society and have found a way that is mutually beneficial—clothes for them, pocket-change for us—to take care of a social issues. Perhaps that we have chosen, in the guise of benevolence, to fall on the side of the wire which believes that to help the least of these is to dress them up like us but not enough like us as to be indistinguishable. They can wear the clothes of a higher income level but a few months after those clothes go out of style and only once we've worn them down to a shabbiness fitting poverty and misuse. We're not allowing others to reuse the material goods we love so much, we're recycling them, making them into something new—the uniform of the have-nots.

To pay for my supper and someday a roof over my head, I'll go into work tomorrow, stand on my feet all day, and sift through the racks of your children's hand-me-downs and leftovers so that some ghettoized toddler can have a stained jacket with Buzz Lightyear on it or a game of Don't Break the Ice with most of the blocks missing. I'll justify it for the moral reasons, but mostly for the personal ones. It was too cold last night, I'll say to myself, hanging up a pair of early 2000s designer tween jeans. I don't want to go hungry in a month, I'll muse, unlocking the cabinet where we store the knives and old video games. I hate sleeping in my car, I'll complain to no one listening, trying not to sing out loud to the barrage of pop music coming in over the store radio.

At the end of the day, I'll be dead tired, having barely thought a meaningful thing for the past 8 hours, and wanting so badly to create something but hardly able to even put two words down. I'll get in my car, lean the seat back, pull up a blanket, know exactly why I'm doing it, and still be unable to tell myself it's right.

'Cause in the end, I'm gonna say I disagree with a system that puts looking good and having junk above being good and creating art. And in the end, I'm gonna have spent too much of my life participating in that system anyway. Show me a groundbreaking philosopher whose ideas spat in the face of traditional society, and I'll show you the ISBN code on the back of their book.

An actual music update for once (sorta).

I've been recording some tunes with Jacob Utting Audio Engineering for the past couple weekends, and yesterday was an especially uplifting occasion. It astounds me some times how the right arrangement or little riff or lick or accent can make such a big difference in the size and energy of a track. Helping us out with this was the amazing Chris Murphy, who dropped in for some seriously inventive and spot-on guitar playing. This whole music thing is beginning to get almost, dare I say, exciting. 

As far as other life things going on since last time I ranted at you, I started working today at a thrift store, my first delving into the retail business. There's certainly some intense cognitive dissonance going on, but mostly there's just sore feet. 

Tonight I saw Jill and Kate perform at Rocketown. 

Firstly, the opening act, Reva Williams of Gretel, completely took that space and focused it, wrapping us in a warm embrace like the space between the wire and the feet of a tight-rope walker. The air tingled electric as longing became tangible through sound...and...well, she performed a fantastic set is what I'm trying to get across here. 

Then! Oh Then! JILLANDKATE came onstage and, with the news of the release of their new album, with wit and welcome and wonder, with rhythmic acoustic guitar that filled up that room like a symphony, with chillingly perfect and unobtrusively interesting harmonies, they did it. I'm quite sure what it was...hypnotized the audience? stole our hearts for the space of maybe 45 minutes then gave it back in more mature, more awe-struck pieces? proved that no matter who came or didn't or why, they deserved to be up there on that stage, true artists in their own right? displayed a distinctly empathetic, honest, and darn catchy sensibility for songwriting? rocked the house with two voices and an acoustic guitar? 

Yes, yes, and yes to all of the above. 

I met with someone the other day (i'm meeting a lot of someones lately; what am I in Nashville or something), and he told me that one of the lessons he learned early on in his songwriting career is to, as he said, not "compare apples to apples." His turn of that old phrase was to convey that he learned he couldn't try to compare the songs he wrote with those in some other town or situation who was trying to do something different. He had to write at the level of those on whose level he wanted to be. 

Another old phrase is "dress for the job you want." Of course, if I did that you'd never see me.

'Cause I'd be a ninja. 

Blessings and Curses

Perhaps this is inappropriate for today: but I think murder is always wrong. (And I also think that the purposeful taking of another's life is murder, just so we're clear.)

Why would such a (perhaps) obvious statement be inappropriate for today? Because unlike a whole lot of folks in this country, I don't give moral pardon to the military when it comes to the subject of murder. You don't stop being a human being when you're in a uniform or when you're being shot or blown up by someone in a uniform.

Yesterday, I heard a politician on the radio say that today we should take time to thank those who are serving in the middle east for protecting our freedom and keeping us safe from the type of terrorists who made a tuesday eleven years ago mean something a bit more daunting than it should have. I know this isn't a popular opinion, but I'm not gonna thank you for killing in my name. I am an American citizen and as such I feel the same weight of pain that any citizen would if they didn't know anyone directly affected by the tragedy back then.

It hurts, still, and it's hard to think of normal things happening on this date. I still remember that it was a tuesday then too. I was in fifth grade. My class was angry when we found out, and it was generally accepted for us (grade school students at a "Christian" private school) to react with vengeful expressions. We cheered the idea of wanting to get those terrorists back for what they'd done (even though none of us really understood what they had done for a while and most of us hadn't even heard the word terrorist till that day).

A few years later, I started referring to myself as a pacifist. And a few years after that I hear a politician talking about how I should thank the military for spending my tax dollars on occupying, bombing, and shooting up countries filled with human beings who had nothing to do with flying those planes.

Evil works systemically. And it's a very wide-spread system. We are not immune because we're American.

In the words of Author Scott Evans: “To go closer still is to acknowledge that we’re not really ‘pro-life’ if the only type of death we’re against is that of the unborn.

To be pro-life is to be anti-war, anti-poverty, and anti-hunger.

To be pro-life is to fight against depression, self-harm, and all causes of suicide.

To be pro-life is to refuse to live out a religion that brings condemnation, judgment, superiority, guilt, and shame. Especially if it calls itself Christianity.”

Even now, the TV in the McDonalds (whose free wifi i appreciate, even if their food kinda makes me sick), military leaders applaud the sacrifice of those who've killed and died in the name of freedom which just kinda makes me feel more guilty. It's as if the victims of the attacks and the soldiers who died in Afghanistan or Iraq should both be seen as victims of the same villainy. No, sir, though they are both victims, the villains in the second case are those who sent them there. In the general's words, I'm blessed to live in a country that's so free. (And now the news is elaborating on a story of soldier suicides...hmm.)

All this to illustrate perhaps a completely unrelated point:

Today, I woke up on someone else's couch. I folded laundry I had done at a different friend's apartment a few days prior and stuffed it into my bag. I drove around till I found a Waffle House (because it's good and cheap without being meatburgers), and then drove around some more till I came across a lake, by which I sat and read because I didn't want to have to pay just to sit somewhere. When I got too thirsty and finished the book, I resigned to paying to sit somewhere and wrote at Starbucks for a while.

I would much rather have spent all day inside my own air-conditioned apartment, writing and reading and drinking my own water. However, I also wouldn't have had it any other way than to sit by that beautiful lake. I didn't get any response from anyone I've contacted about jobs or apartments today, but I also got to have dinner with an old friend who encouraged me a lot. I'm getting poorer by the day, but I'm also not working for or paying taxes to a hypocritical, murderous government.

If we look at the terrible things that surround us and we don't acknowledge that they are terrible, we cannot critically find ways to change them for the better. However, if we are lost in the darkness of the night, we may not learn to appreciate the moon and stars. As the old book says, "Don't be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good." (Yes, out of context biblical paraphrasing is annoying, I know.)

If I am focusing on the curses in my life, it skews the way I see the blessings till I can't really see them as blessings anymore. (It would be great to have steady income, but to do that I would not have the time to work on my music and writing this much.) However, if I can wake up in the morning and make the choice to take note of the blessings in my day, then curses start to look a little bit more like the road less taken, problems more like opportunities. 

Please remember, I am not nearly that optimistic and truly believe that the world probably is all going to shit. But, it'll still all be okay. "It's the end of the world as we know it, but I feel fine." 

And just because something horrific has happened in your life, does not mean that you have to be horrific in return. Just because your day, your world, or your situation is in the midst of chaos, does not mean that you must cause more chaos in how you react. Chaos is a necessary part of change, but it only leads to positive change if we react with love. 

In the midst of curses, seek to be a blessing. 

In the midst of blessing, seek to be a blessing. 

Wicked inappropriate enough 9/11 blog? check. 

From the Parking Lots of Life

Today I wrote about 2 new chapters of my little story. I also played guitar in the amazingly perfect weather and had some nice conversation with new friends.

And yet because I don't know where I'll be sleeping tonight, and because I have no income stream or "normal" job, I feel in many ways like a lesser member of society...

When I'm trying to find somewhere I can sit and write without having to buy something...

When I'm trying to find a bathroom or a place to change or somewhere just to be for a little while...

In this country, if you don't have money, you must blend into the background, hide away. There is some public space, but it is mostly outdoors and even parks have curfews.

And like spikes on the top of walls to keep the birds off, we've placed bars on the benches so you can't sleep, even when no one else would be around.

There is nowhere very safe or welcoming unless you're a customer, and even then, you're viewed with some suspicion if you're not in and out, like some kind of consumption machine.

In many ways I am glad that I don't make enough to pay taxes, because the majority of my tax money would be going to violently bullying the poor in other parts of the world, and the rest of it would be going to shutting us out here in the homeland.

Yes, I would like to have an apartment, which I can't really have without a regular job. I would like these things and am trying every day to get them.

However, the goal of my life (when I'm my best self) has never been to fit into society's box of what makes me worthwhile. I'm poor and getting poorer, but that does not define me.

Because today, I created. I used words to tell a story, to sing a song, to paint a picture of the mind. Art, Music, Poetry, there is a currency for a much more open society, a society where we don't put bars on the benches and close the parks at 11pm. We make better benches, and we don't kick people out of their homes because they can't afford them. We build homes for those who need them.

I'm not saying build me a house, and though it'd be cool to be pointed toward any jobs or cheap apartments or whatever, that isn't my goal in writing this.

All I mean to say is that there is so much more worth in being who you are, in honest expression of your most genuine self, than there is in chasing after financial stability. It's hard because you are going against the grain, but if you see something wrong, you can't solve it by participating in the cause of the problem. You can bandage a lot of symptoms by being a good person in a bad world, but you can help be the cure by flipping the world on its head, caring more about people than whether or not you're a good person.

As Nathan Johnson says, "You don't have to play by their rules if you don't require their rewards."

Nashville

A little over a month ago, I packed up all my earthly possessions in my car and headed south for about 800 miles. Now here I am in Nashville, with no job and no real place to call my own, all in the pursuit of some crazy dream.

I felt so greatly the need to go begin my own life—to seek, as John Green wrote, "the Great Perhaps."

Music is, in many ways, my deepest and truest artistic passion, but more so as a sailor is to the sea than a sailor is to their ship. Writing is my vessel, whether that be songs, poems, or even a story here or there. I don't profess great talent, but rather I admit that there's not much else I can do very proficiently at all (possibly one of the reasons I am still unemployed).

This blog is where I will chronicle my journey as well as post any updates or pertinent links to Odist Abettor-related material on the internets.

Currently, I am doing some recording with Jacob Utting Audio Engineering, writing songs, bits of poetry here and there, and potentially a novel (but we'll see what happens), as well as playing at various open mics in the area.

For booking or other information, feel free to email odistabettor@gmail.com 

To download my EP for free, visit noisetrade.com/odistabettor