Like I said I live in my head. I keep up there among other things a pen that is constantly scribbling on the walls of endless halls and numberless rooms.Only a micro fraction of these heiroglyphs actually make it through the gates of the eyes to my hand on this physical plane. These days it feels as though I'm walking through a dark valley with nowhere to lay my head. The road is rocky and the night is pitch black.I scribble blindly in my restless pace. My hand is spastic as I stumble over pot holes to make my way.I cradle my pen and paper unable to read the results.One boot in front of another I'm praying for the dawn when the eastern star will come. Why do I bother to draw and write? These things will come to nothing still it's all I know to do. The longer I trod here on this mud ball the less sense it makes to me. I know who I am and where I'm headed but that's about it.

I have found to keep a back pocket notebook is essential for capturing the fleeting ideas for songs and art. I make it a point to always carry a pencil and one of the five or so sketch/note books in progress with me everywhere.All the more so now that I'm in a season of song writing for my next album. I collect couplets of rhymes off the top of my head while sitting ,walking, dreaming or even driving. The immediatecy of recording these ideas is imperative for they come quickly and fly away just as fast. I find if I put off jotting them down for the least amount of time they are swept away by an invisible current on their way to the sea of forgetfulness.Last weekend I was hiking on a very hot day down in a ravine of a cool dark forest .There was still a little water flowing in the stream on this dry summer day and I followed it's winding course leap frogging from stone to stone.The almost full notebook I carried having a life of it's own must have escaped my back pocket during my jaunt. It was like losing yet another precious brain cell. Laying lost on the woodland floor or adrift on the brook were the secrets of my of heart revealed in this little book of big ideas. I was back at the fort when I discovered it missing but by then darkness had fallen. Too late to organize a search party I could only pray those private pages would not fall prey to the wild raccoons...those voracious readers that inhabit that region.They would most certainly devour the entire volume in one sitting and after digesting it's content would publish it abroad. As it were I was unble to return until 48hrs. later. I prepared for the worst fearing I might find a mangled body of work or a drowned manuscript. After twice retracing my hops from stone to stone I had all but given up when a turquoise angel doubling as a stellar blue jay yelled at me to look down now!And there floating face down in the shallows was my notebook.Halleluyah, I whispered to the Spirit always nearby.I pulled the soggy pulp ashore and applied CPR blowing air between the pages.It finally started to open up and breathe.It would spend the next 12hrs. lying on my car's dashboard recuperating in the sun. Upon closer examination I noticed the text was blurred but still spoke the words first written.On the wilted pages a lot of the ball point ink had bled into a beautiful blue wash as though it had been sumi brush painted by an anonymous nature artist. Some of the pencil sketches of animals had floated off the page and dissappeared. I imagine those line drawings weaving their way down stream to the sea and coming to rest in tide pools where children would capture those critters collecting them on to little pieces paper thus starting the cycle of little back pocket notebooks all over again.

If you haven't checked Summer Pierre's blog lately she has been doing some amazing reflections in the form she calls "flyers"or as I call them "illustrated memories." I've known this "great gal"for 30 somethin'years. Though she loves people and we adore her she's never been afraid of the lengths of solitude it takes to look deep inside and express those things with one of her giftings be it writing, music or art. She spent a lot time by herself growing up not by choice however in those times of loneliness she developed a rich internal life. I was not available physically or emotionally most of the time yet we share a very close bond today due to her huge heart and willingness to reach out as she does with all the folks in her life. I could tell you about her substance as a songwriter and her killer rhythm guitar.I could speak of her talents and the painstaking time and expense that has brought us all an album that I in particular never tire of listening to. We could discuss her draughtsmanship and how I've seen her actually invent and draw her peers and groups of friends before they even manifested on the scene. I could talk about her keen observations,her sense of humor and knack of storytelling with dead on impersonations that absolutely slay me. I could try to articulate the near euphoria I get eating her lemon meringue pie or banana cake. All of these abilities by the way are self taught. But in the final analysis what is talent without character? You can tell a lot about person when children and animals are drawn to them and this is Summer's case. I've witnessed her genuineness when asking someone how they're doing, then listening to that person with focus and care, offering encouragement as well. She can put others first to a fault but still an admirable trait. Honest as the day is long always trying to do the right thing. The kinda person you would want as a friend. What else can I say she's my daughter and my close friend. Happy Birthday "Minnow"xoxo dad

Again I'm working only with materials available. In the beach cove I have mentioned below is the evidence of a campfire long since extinguished and buried by wind blown sand. With a little excavating this produces some fine sticks charcoal suitable for drawing with. At the high end of the three sided cove is a hundred year old sea wall. It's grey concrete has been smoothed by ions of plus tides leaving a surface of "good tooth" most suitable for charcoal renderings. Kneeling in front of the wall poised with drawing stick in hand, I'm looking into the solid wall and through it. Waiting for the image to emerge, I'm aware of the repelling waves of light, movement like the ebb and flow of shore break bouncing from my eye to wall. I reach way back into my mind of imagery and I hear over my shoulder the splashing laughter of a child frolicking in the sea. The child is mine and I realize I am the child also of so long ago. Something is triggered, I turn the black carbon stick between my sooted fingers and all of a sudden like a sailfish he breaches the aqua blue depth of myth and memory. A vision suspended above my soul glistening wet in a mediterranean sun, it is the legend of the "Boy on a Dolphin". Before the two can slip from my hands, I calm them both with a song and capture their likeness with my burnt wood wand. Just as quickly as fish freed from the hook they disappeared back to from where they came.I then heard the booming word of "Awesome" coming from a husky voice echoing off the cliff. A burly bearded dude leaning on his spearlike staff with his wolf dawg on a rope had been standing close behind me watching me draw. I said "thanx man" and added the finishing marks to my sketch. His appearance brought to mind the evidence left of prehistoric times when tribal stories by cave dwellers were recorded in much the same way by using charcoal and other materials available. The cave painter artist working in flickering torch light must have appeared awesome to his kinsman. They probably regarded him as part magician and part entertainer.

Taking a breather, I stood barefoot on a beach shoreline staring out to sea. I am restless and feeling as grey and cold as the sky and water. A dark mood has me in a foul weather mood.Yet the poet in me smiles to hear the sounds of sea gulls shrills and children laughing as the two sounds blend together to where one is not discernible from the other. Nothing makes sense to me without creativity. Working with only materials available and without disturbing the environment, I set out gathering large rocks. This action starts to put me in a more open frame of mind. All at once I'm in tune with the place and I get a strong sense of purpose.I summon my powers of balance and physical strength for both are required when stacking stones into a penticle.Like some mystical mason from stonehendge I first examine the sides, planes and possible connecting points of these beach boulders.Blood pumping from exertion like some geological gymnast I begin to lift the massive weight upward into order. The first attempt of juggling three tumbled and I ensued minor injury to ankle and knee. I now have an audience of sun worshipers and sea creatures. This time I take a wider stance and ready myself for quick side steps. I jokingly advise the crowd to stand clear and not to try this at home. Each stone lifted has to be minutely adjusted in relation to the rocks below until all boulders are in perfect precarious balance. With a shout of victory, the last stone in place,I stand back to ponder the pile. My gloom fog has lifted for the moment and I am reminded that all things including our solar system of great rocks and the universe beyond are miraculously held in place by the unseen hand of God.

I employ a kazoo in my one man band. It is held in place by my harmonica rack worn round my neck. This allows me free hands to blow the thing and play guitar at the same time. Without tooting my horn too much I can honestly say I'm a proficient kazoo player.When singing falsetto tremolo through it's tin housing I can mimic the lead licks of an electric guitar. I can get the sound of a dixieland brass band out of it also. I can even sound like a two cycle dirt bike shifting gears,the kids love this. However I hesitate to call a kazoo a musical instrument. It sounds more like a fly on steroids and for the most part a very annoying and rude contraption. I know there are so called orchestras dedicated to it's importance but I found it serves another purpose. Ninety percent of the time it's metallic humming actually causes my audience to disperse . This is quite funny and it can be utilized at markets when a couple of loud obnoxious people are standing on top of me or when a camped crowd congest the walkway for too long. I'm not sure people realize why they must flee from the noise but a look of question and bewilderment overcomes their faces when the rattling waves from a professionally played kazoo reaches 'em. There's only one other sound I can think of that perplexes the pedestrian listener enough to where he don't know whether to flip or fly.That of course is a song that makes direct mention to Jesus.

I've been making the rounds with my traveling minstrel show and was due to play an outdoor market in the car town of Urban Sprawl. This little nitty gritty city is a real salt of the earth blue collar community, folks who have always been generous to me. It's a virtual melting pot of many diverse nationalities living and working together.For centuries in every corner of the world the open air market has been a universal age old tradition. It's a meeting place of neighborhoods and a place where one can still get to know the growers of small independent farms. We can taste their produce and learn from them. This festival of farmers has an international feel ,taking place at any time and at any place on God's green earth. To me it's like a living art form, where my role is to weave a sound track of music into the organic multi-cultural tapestry,a weave of color ,texture, styles and languages. One might see here a little of Eden where all peoples could gather for a potluck supper and all sit at the same table in peace.