Wednesday, December 29, 2010

A CONVERSATION with A-Priori-minded Teacher and a Kin-like Student Violinist

.Sitting in liquid

Drained from obscure, intensely painful reality, I struggle to get out and catch something worth salvaging in my

................catch yourself a fish,

and ya gotta throw it back

unless your gunna eat

and poop it back out..."

"....Ew....Oh man, this guy's depressing..."

Ha. I ain't over-analizin'.

"So, what's your problem then, brah?"

Problems start in the mind, sire.

"Wha.. (turns to posse and smirks dumbfoundedly)"

What's the matter, padre...

"(Anger builds)"

..The colors ain't what they used to be??


Haha...You play your violin, but you don't play yourself.


Yourself. You go to your job, and you return to your home; but do you return to gentle snowfalkes upon your futile lawn; gathering the dew as the dusk falls hush 'aneath the azure hues; Try not to think upon the strings of the fiddle...instead; try to find what silently plays inside only but your own mind, before what the strings actually play.

"...I'm sorry.."


"Have you any way to turn my perspective around? Deep down, I...ugh...I'm sorry..."

- No!.. Go on...

"Well... alright well,...some of my closest aquaintances have possibly convinced me to question and consider more than I am used to..

Yes...go on..

"I....I can't."

My son; Men and women you've shared times among; saw the new millenium and laughed underneath the burning stars. Sure; your hue is yet bright; and so is your surfboard!

"I surf only in the summer, and though some have talked highly of my skill....I have talked with those who have seen far more thrilling waves in the winter..."


"I'd agree all three of us share the same, distant feeling about this whole...experienti-ial conversa-tion, I guess..."

Enter through the next door you see, and that is all.

"(Looking estranged and bewildered)...What?"

When the next door opens, you shall succumb and move forward.



"What if the door leads to...."




This darkness you speak of...

"(listening intentively)" a lame, and animated invention of human imagination?

".......(still listening intentively)....but you ask with a...question?"

Yes!....go on.


Go on, sire...



"I forget..."

.............It is easy to forget when things at hand require your upmost attention due to their unorganzied, messiness.

"(Reflecting, silently)..."

I might add,....

"(Still reflecting and listening silently)"

.....That when you forget something...


.....It probably means it's unimportant to your destiny.....


..........For your destiny is the result of what you do with what you remember.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Azure Lunar Moon (An Ode to New England)

Gashes and scrapes, hot water, duct tape
The Northern Air falls upon
the bustling townies with their New England outer shell,
who soon may walk on a pond

The mammals retire, and so does my bliss
My hands are chill-wind-kissed;
The winged go to Hell but New England they'll miss
Keep an eye on the time on yer wrist

Soon a bright blanket cast over the land
Frozen under the sun and over the sand
Reminds a good New England man
of things he does not understand

Pour me 'cup a' potato
Cook me a plate a' tea
A winter in New England hills
will chill you to your knee

The cubs are in their cardigans,
And the mother licks her wounds
Crescent shows the dark side
of the azure lunar moon

Monday, November 29, 2010

A Theory on Memory

What are memories?

The first instinct is to say, "well, they're memories." But are these physical stitches in time? Or are these merely just the past? Alternatively, they could be building blocks to our future.

The first facet to grasp I suppose, is the fact that our memories exist only in our minds. What has happened in the external world, has been stored and documented in our personal internal world. Memories live in the past but remain vapor in our minds, giving us only a mere smudge of what we once saw clear as day, sound as night, high as the sky.

But why do our memories only give us a taste? Why have some aspects of our memories stuck to our minds and not others?

The answer may lie in what our future holds. What has happened and what WILL happen may share a common biological thread. What you DO remember may constitute what you eventually will do, for we base all of our actions on decisions on what we have decided or have done before.

For instance: I have a memory, a deep, visual memory, in which my friends and I are walking through the town powerlines, in the woods, at night, in the dead cold of winter. The sky was clear and cold, and we were clear and cold as well. I can probably remember where we ended up, or something we did after, but visually, there are only mere frames; frames of my shortest friend bundled up with a smile in a long, long jacket; a frame of the clear sky; a frame of roasting marijuana in a bowl, surrounded by the steam of our cold breath, maybe four or five of us. When I look back, sometimes there's snow, and sometimes there isn't.

So why only mere frames? Are we only SUPPOSED to remember certain things, certain things of value to our eventual future? Is there a filter, within the mind that filters out memories that are not valuable? And outside of this filter, is all we've ever seen, heard, thought, and felt stored somewhere deep within the mind, with a small possibility of resurfacing? It could be so.

Music. We hear it everywhere, every day. As a musician, it's safe to say that I probably listen to music differently than people who are not musicians. When I play my instrument, rather, when I IMPROVISE on my instrument, where, are my ideas coming from? Well, from things I've learned, of course. But am I consciously digging up these techniques I've picked up? Not at all. Am I thinking of a sentence I learned when I was a child, when I am talking to you now? Not at all. This raises a different set of questions.

So memories may stagger in intermittently, whenever they see fit? Might they have lives, souls, and universes of their own? It could be so, it could be so.

However it seems in the present that it's only important to MAKE memories. For in the present, memories don't exist. So it seems to be the only way to live; to make more memories. But when we look back, consciously, do they matter?

Perhaps we should let memories enter the present, at their own will, for they may be universes of their own.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Individualism in 2010

Who are you?

Have you any idea?

Where will you go?

Have you given it any thought?

Whatever the case, it all will come from within. I find as I grow older that this is something most people do not understand. They're under the illusion that knowledge, twists of fate, and life progression come from the outside world, the world we see, when in reality it should come from within.

So how does one purify themselves, straighten themselves out, from within? How does one initiate a life focus, or develop a drive and ambition for their existence, from within? In a world with billions of people, it all starts with being alone; solitude.

Take a three-hour block out of your day, and go for a walk, by yourself. If possible, try to steer yourself away from the roads and into rural settings, like farmland, woodland and near bodies of water. An important facet of this exercise is to NOT know where you're going, to construct your route as you go along. This will keep you in the now, and not in the future or the past.

Your attitude must change. The Art of Walking does not begin with counting your steps, or scanning through your cell phone, which should really stay at home. It begins with an open mind. The more you open up yourself to each and every one of your surroundings, the more you will learn and appreciate it. Any object, idea, or natural phenomena can leave a drastic impression on you if your mind is open to its influence.

What you're essentially practicing is a form of mobile-meditation of sorts. It's not a heavy meditation that involves a deep trance, but rather a mild form that keeps you focused and easily influenced by your surroundings. The important thing is to forget about yourself and your life, and return to man's natural need to walk, live, and learn. In order to do this you must open your mind.

Opening your mind may be hard for you to understand, let alone do. What I mean by this is to focus on the NOW and ONLY the now. You may find that when you leave your abode and set out for your walk, your mind is far from open; that is normal. After walking for about an hour or two, your mind should start to deter from what was occupying it before. Many individuals take walks just to clear their head. Once it is clear, you may begin to learn.

Time spent alone is more valuable than time spent with others. Some people are comfortable by themselves, and some people are not. Those that are uncomfortable with themselves must walk to clear their minds. Those that ARE somewhat comfortable being alone are one step ahead of those who aren't, and will be closer to learning.

I've found, though, that most people who are by themselves are surrounding themselves with "things to do by themselves", i.e. television, Blackberries, food, internet, video games, reading books, or even sleeping. Solitude usually involves much self-retrospect, an analyzing and organizing of the brain-files. With that said, it's important to not really do much of ANYTHING when you are alone. It causes you to think and analyze your current existence, which makes many people feel uncomfortable. The thought of being alone and not doing anything, the thought alone, makes people uncomfortable.

So with no destination, and no obvious distractions, become a walking observer, and nothing more. Notice everything, and I mean everything. Notice the hues and colors of the trees, the buildings, and the sky above. Notice human behavior. Watch wild animals scamper around. Go out of your way to notice everything. Don't just take the sunset for what it is. Sure, the sunset is beautiful. However, the best artist/painter/sculpter of all is the human eye, of which we all have, and which we must learn to see with in a more artistic light. Nothing will ever change for you if you continue to take the sunset, and things like it, for granted.

So, let's roll with the sunset concept for a minute. When you're driving down the road, headed somewhere, and you drive towards the sunset or catch a glimpse of the sunset, you'll silently remark at its beauty, and drive on. But when you're on foot, and you have the choice to stop and examine it in the elements, you should start to observe, and actually ALLOW it to have an impression on you. If you're having trouble, just imagine it being more beautiful than usually, and after a few minutes, it should become that beautiful.

Notice how as the sun gets lower, the hues and clouds in the sky become more vibrant and deep. Realize that two minutes ago, the colors were very different. Now, examine the structure of the clouds. Notice their softness, their grace. Now consider the creator, the designer of this wonderful art. We will never know who or what it is, so don't get religious on me and bother trying; it's no use. It's philosophy at that point.

But a common philosophy unfolds, one that the Greeks believed as well. The Greeks believed that the seer, as well as the thing seen, is One. Having been alone, you will have experienced it differently than if you have been with someone else. It would look the same to both of you, and would probably affect the both of you in similar ways. However each of you looking at the same sunset by yourself would yield very different results.

Therefore, it can be believed that in fact WE are the artists of sunsets. WE are the artists of rain and snow. WE are the creators of heaven and earth. Because without the brain, without our existence, nothing else is there. Everything is here because we are currently percieving it. When you are dead and gone, how do people remember you? The answer is that they remember you in their minds, and nothing more. No one knows where you actually "go", but they remember that you were once here, and that now you are not.

Confusing, indeed. But this strays from the individualist point-of-view we started this discussion with. When you die, the world shuts off. Again, we don't know where you "go", but it's safe to say everything you knew, saw, smelled, and touched, is no more. Why? Because it's all perception, conception, and deception; everything came from your mind. So it's led many philosophers to believe that without the mind, not only you but the whole world you perceive would cease to exist. Sure, you're friends and family are still alive....but are they? In your mind, ARE THEY?

These explanations only go so far, that's what philosophy is. But the purpose of this article was to illustrate the power of the individual mind, the power to shape your view of the world into anything you want. Your world is seen by you, and you only. It may seem like your contemporaries view the same world, but your contemporaries are also facets of your mind. The deeper you think about these concepts (and everything in this world may just be a concept), the more in touch with yourself you will become, and you will determine a path for yourself, either as you go along, or in advance when thinking deeply to yourself.

But the catch, for those of you who hate being alone, is solitude. You will never notice the shape of things when you are with others, you will only notice the things themselves. Being alone and discovering yourself is the key to discovering your life's purpose and the Art of Walking is an exercise for beginning and master thinkers alike.

When you walk, do not return home until you've taken something from the experience. It may not seem like it, but you've got all the time in the world. All knowledge to be known is right out in the air, you don't even need to be taught; all you need to do is reach out for it, from within. From my experience (and, upon reading, many others'), this may very well be the truth. You need not be a scholar to become suddenly affected by yourself. You will know.

Friday, November 12, 2010

A Mid-Day Walk

In the middle hours one Friday afternoon, I chanced to take a short walk through my neck of the woods, with eyes set on the woods themselves.

I was partially inspired by one William Wordsworth who I stumbled upon while reading a biography about Thoreau. I then purchased a biography of Wordsworth and came to learn that he too, like Thoreau, was keen to the Art of Walking.

It wasn't a particularly long walk, and it was not planned out with any reservation. On this particular Thursday in mid-November, it was vibrant blue skies, and a steady and still 65-degree temperature. One of those gifts the morning sun brings, once every blue moon.


I wore jeans, hand-me-down Merrells, boot socks and a three-season jacket, Hanna hat on top. My pockets housed a shitty and neglected cell phone, a pipe, a lighter, a cigarette pack containing two cigarettes, my wallet, and an Aleve canister with a gram of cannabis inside. Why I brought my wallet and not a pocketknife instead, I am not sure. I wasn't planning on buying anything or particularly visiting anywhere.

The sun was still almost completely above the trees when I zipped up my jacket and crossed my street. The air was the epitome of fall, with the added treat of warm temperature. With the sun still beaming, I remember feeling like I could take my jacket off, and unzipped it as I walked down the road's hill and into the sun rays.

At the foot of the hill I passed an older fellow walking his small, toy doggie that probably really "belonged" to his wife. From a distance still, I watched them up ahead of me, the man letting the dog snoop around someone's yard amongst the leaves. As quiet as my step generally is, the dog noticed me and from a distance still, he began barking. The man did not take action, he just tugged on the leash, and basically dragged the dog as it continued to bark at me as I approached. As I passed, I glanced at the dog and widened my eyes at him; he then turned away and begin barking at something else.


After passing the entrance to the supermarket I came to the intersection of Route 9 and Lake Street. I thumbed the walk button and tapped my foot as I waited for the light. Where are all of these people going, I remember thinking; green light, yellow light, read light, all underneath the autumn sun. Curse these mongloid transit hounds. They've got you all by the balls - oops - pedestrian light.

I ran across Route 9 to avoid an ambulance screaming toward me. I started walking up the hill with Border's Book Store to my right, and I can remember already growing tired of walking on the road. Passing a small yard sale on my right, I took a gander as I passed by and saw nothing except a forest green mountain bike that interested me. I remember saying to myself, "Fancy that; a walker who buys a bike at a yard sale."

I continued walking on and eventually approached Ed PaQuette's acre or two, where corn grows in the summer. It had all been pulled and there was nothing but tilled dirt and leaveless plants and trees, so I decided to get off the road and saunter the perimeter.


I dunked my hands into the ground and examined the soil. To my surprise it looked very meek. I walked on and observed the woods to the left of me, the back line of the plantation. I wanted to relax under the trees, "where I am more well-known", and have myself a smoke. I thought I noticed some open area with some large rocks and fallen timber through the trees, so I disappeared off the farmland into the woods.

Immediately I was overcome by the loud annoyance of walking on the dead leaves. A hunter would be absolutely disgruntled, I remember thinking. It was a beautiful sound, and one I've always loved, but I wasn't trying to draw attention to myself, so I walked swiftly through some brush and the terrain dropped down to this "rock spot" I had seen.

Someone had been here before. As soon as I arrived, I peered up to examine the impressive oaks, and immediately noticed what looked to be a hunter's ladder-and-seat system fastened to one of the trees. I looked up higher and noticed the tree's thick, slender, and curvy branches that are easy to reach with the aid of the ladder-and-seat. I began wondering if it was a hunter's tool, or rather just a child's means of reaching the tops of trees?

I took out a small cannabis blossom and relaxed on the pipe for about ten, fifteen minutes. I seated myself on the rocks, and with nearly all the leaves off the trees, I was able to observe the distant, surrounding landscape through the trees. What a marvelous gem of land, and I remember thinking. My thoughts drifted toward farming, and how plentiful agriculture was in Shrewsbury back in the 19th and 20th centuries. It must have been pleasant living here; quiet and not far from the nearby and up-and-coming city of Worcester. Lake Quinsigamond was probably clean and clear, and tradesman of all kinds probably walked these hills as I have today, though not on roads of asphalt and fallen trash but on nothing but dead leaves and the dirty ground, the Mother Earth below the human foot.


I wanted to beat the sun. I pocketed my pipe and retraced my steps back onto the farmland, coming back out on Lake Street. Passing by the Hillside Cemetary, I remember running around through there as a younger boy. Even back then I was able to remark at its beauty, and as I walked by the sign and was reminded of the images in my mind, I thought about having my own gravestone there someday, which would read:



I dodged traffic as Lake Street started going downhill. I was going to cut right into the powerlines and come out on Oak Street, which was just over half-a-mile ahead. When I approached the lines and found my first opportunity in, a small footpath that lead to a dirt walking path.

The powerlines, seem to run North and South, through all of these surrounding Worcester suburbs. The lines crackle and hiss, and the towers that support them are impressive clunks of metal that look like they're right out of Star Wars. Friends and I have joked about radiation and being "exposed" when you're out there, but I've never noticed anything.


As I walked through the Radiation Towers and the sun began to get low, walking by myself, I heard a noise. It sounded at first like a motor, like a leafblower or a dirtbike...As a walked on, the dirt path was taking zig-zags up and down the terrain, and the motor-like noise was getting more intense, louder, and more powerfully driven. At this moment it began to sound like a chainsaw, getting closer and closer to me each minute.

I pressed on, a bit anxiously, and was stopped in my tracks by a piece of white paper posted to one of the wooden Radiation Towers. I approached the sign, and even found a few more copies posted later on in my walk. It read:



As I finished reading, the mechanical engine noise from behind me began to grow very loud and intense. "Man," I said to myself. "It's the felon, I'm about to be mugged and murdered." I hastened my pace forward and even thought about running. I again began wishing the bulging wallet in my backpocket was a blade instead.

Suddenly, I glanced behind me and saw the outline of a biker top the hill, riding what looked to be at least a 200cc dirt bike. I stepped off the trail and onto the grass, pumping my fist in the air as he whizzed by. No chainsaw. I was relieved and felt like a child at my fear of being mugged. However, I was still keeping my eyes peeled for hunters.

I passed on my left a small, dilapidated red building with evidence of fires, break-ins and other human activity. I was tempted to check the place out and approached the building, but soon stopped and listened silently for any noise or movement. There were strange vibrations all around me; I felt like I was being watched. I knew it wasn't quite the time to investigate the building, so I backed off and resumed my walk on the trail.


I eventually spotted a cross of power wires in the sky and Oak Street popped up ahead as I topped the hill. I heard the dirtbike rider in the distance and followed his tracks out onto the road. It would only be a fifteen minute walk to Route 9, passing by Beverly Hill Drive on my right and staying clear of the abrupt traffic on this narrow road.

As I topped the hill, I began approaching Dennis Molinari Insurance. I called Dennis, and he confirmed that he was there, at the office. The sun was just heading over the horizon, so I figured I'd take a ride home from there if Dennis was willing.

It turned out he was just about to leave, so we prepared to head out. I showed him the letter I had found and he was quite amazed. Driving up Route 9 we passed by some of the areas I'd walked in.

As we topped the hill on Route 9 to take the left on Lake Street, I told Dennis about the yard sale I had seen the forest green bike at. I remarked to him that I'd wished I had bought it.

"Ha, that's funny; a walker buys a bike. Classic." He replied.

Sure it's funny. But I couldn't buy that bike. There is no Art of Biking. There is only the Art of Walking, and never shall it end!

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

No More Greedy Pigs: A Guide to Revolting Against Modern America

New England in the new millennium is falling short of its rich tradition, history, organic nature, and overall aura of its hospitality, in the interest of sociology and economy. One may think it necessary to prop up new foundations which in turn are new houses for new families seeking shelter for their new phase in their lives, when in reality a man who does not build his own home is no man at all. In the midst of the hectic, staggering, evil society in which we live perhaps it is hard for a man to drop everything and devote 4 months of his season to constructing a dwelling of sorts for his lady and/or however many children he may have, but in what way is this “new”, current-day society more convenient, than the horse-and-buggy days of yore?

The motorized carriages we drive around in day and night are not only responsible for thousands of deaths per year but also exploit the true beauty of the planet and turn humans into agitated, nasty people. The burning of fossil fuels is undoubtedly damaging our atmosphere, and fear that one day it will become too harsh for us to live makes me believe there is much to be done about the condition of our society. The need for so much, is unneeded. The modern man recognizes and learns his human history and the first instinct is to move forward, and build up and up. Not only does he need a car, but he also needs it to have navigation system, mp3 accessibility, foglights, moonroof, sunroof, touch-screen technology, heated seats, A.C., motorized seats, telephone, not to mention all the things needed for safety: lights, brakes, blinkers, washer fluid, windshield wipers. Why does he need all this? Because of our economy, government, and workforce system.

If the man didn’t have to pay money to have a plot of land, he wouldn’t need a job. The only reason he really has the car, is to get to work, because only an odd couple of individuals have the convenience of walking to work. But work isn’t what it used to be. Work used to be as much as keeping up your home, building something you need, or hunting. Basic modes of survival. Now work is something entirely new and different; it is now only a means to accumulate money/currency/credit.

Money for food! You fool; you can grow and prepare your own food! You don’t need to go to a broker to get food, my god it is an absolute no-brainer. Does it not seem sensible to raise your child to know how to plant, maintain, and harvest fruits and vegetables? Or to skin an animal and drain it of its fluids? It is the nature of life, to eat other life, with the additional resources that come from the earth. If the food will be priced, price it with generosity and care, so everyone can buy it. And if they cannot, and it is merely a fruit or vegetable, then they should be given it, because it’s nor mine nor yours, nor his, nor hers, it is Earth’s.

The food that we require can be found in all places around us. And if there are no resources there, you can put them there, given the soil and climate are forgiving. This is all not to say I want to abolish food markets and merchants (I am grateful for the merchants who provide the freshest citrus fruits and hearty vegetables available, but are small and humble enough not to put a name and lengthy price on natural organics). Oh, would it not be so bad to trade a man something for his fruit? Perhaps a stopwatch, or a gram of herb? In exchange for 10 oranges, could I not give him a solid pair of shoes? I would rather us all pass along our possessions, aids, and collectables amongst each other rather than encounter a bump in the road and have to “pay” a certain amount of “money” to obtain it. It is all very senseless, disturbing, and degrading to our earth and ourselves.

And we have no sense of respect for each other or the environment. After 9/11, Carlin once said that he thought it disturbing that it took a national disaster for us to care about one another, and only for maybe that one month, maybe the one after. What I find most people lack in a social situation is the ability to appreciate another person’s existence. They do not just acknowledge the person’s existence, they appreciate it, like happy to see another person given the gift of life. With that perspective in tact, the person automatically cares for the other person. The problem with even trying this technique is that because our society and all our domestic images are built on higher standards of living, those who cannot get up to par become internally frustrated, angry, vulnerable, and sometimes very annoying or even dangerous. It’s hard to feel comfortable around these people I imagine.

If only there were more people impartial to everyone, not so much like a robot, but more like a devotee of peace; then maybe anyone feeling slighted and dismayed may find hope in the faith and confidence that they provide. The government, the game, the machine that we’re all part of is what makes you crazy. Even once we claim to step away or “take a vacation” from it, usually we’re still in the same reality with all the same “comforts” and attributes of our usual routines.

The only people that should annoy and bug you are the people who are behind the hoax they call a “nation” or a “country”. The people that think a dollar is needed to “even everything out”. The people that think they can tell you what to do, and what you can’t do. A man is capable of learning from his own mistakes and if he doesn’t, he is destined for a hard road, or death, so rules and regulations will only lead to rebellion.

I demand a revolt; I demand justice. Whatever happened to the hunter-gatherers? Too much work to gather your own food? In my eyes, you are not a man. You are still depending on “mommy” for food, in a way, by going to the grocery store and buying things you need. The fact is that you can grow a year’s supply of food for yourself on about three acres of land. So, why not organize a stepping-stone plan for buying some land? A person on Wall Street makes six figures a year; if they lowered their living demands and saved half of that for three years, they’d have enough money to buy a few acres and start that lifestyle. Alternatively, a normal everyday home owner with a “backyard” could very easily get over the idea of having a “fresh-cut lawn”, and convert it into a garden that could feed him adequately with proper care.

Next comes shelter. Recycled lumber and building materials are just around the corner from you if you just go out and look. Talk to the demolition companies, construction companies and contractors, and see if you can swoon some recycled wood from them. If you offer to come pick it up, they may not even charge you. With this step, you should start gathering wood to building your own house. This is not for most people. If you want to have a house built for you on your land, it’s going to cost money. If you choose to go my way and build your own, educate yourself with books and start with the living area first (wood stove, somewhere to sit and lay down), and then build the house around that.

As for energy, it’s easier to simplify our lives than to install fifty solar panels to accommodate our electronic dependency. As cool as these new phones, gizmos and gadgets seem nowadays, in the end they really don’t hold water to what truly matters: survival and independence. Don’t you want that? As an American, don’t you value your freedom, independence and privacy? Tapping into these vast networks of society doesn’t make you very independent. Turn off the television, get a contract phone, and simplify. And don’t even think about selling your energy back to the cable company. It’s a hidden bribe to keep you locked into the grid. Use batteries to store excess energy instead. And don’t forget about wind turbines, either.

Heat and water. Heat comes from the easiest concept possible: fire. Use fire for your heat if possible, by using a wood stove, with optional ventilation to disperse the heat through your home. Alternatively, you can build a shed with polycarbonate windows, that heats up a tank of water from the sun shine, and pipes it into your house under the floors, where your they will stay warm and emit rising heat into the rest of the house. The other alternative is to use extra clothes and blankets to keep warm, or to choose to live in a warmer, southern climate.

Water is another no-brainer. The majority of new water comes from the sky, in the form of rain. So, why not build a drainage system that pipes all this lovely rainwater into a storage tank, in which you can fully use every day? You can use this rainy “gray-water” to wash your clothes, flush your toilet, and other uses that don’t involve ingestion. You can also filter the rain water out with many new filtration systems available these days, so you can drink and cook with the water. Granted they’re expensive, but it will allow you independence with water and will keep you off of the grid.

Then there’s the garden, you’re means of survival. It’ll need to be a big garden if you’re going to sustain yourself. An acre alone can accommodate a few months worth of food, but you’re going to need to educate yourself on natural food preservation if you’re going to want to eat all of it. Educate yourself on the benefits of plants, herbs and food, and figure out what you’ll want to eat, so you can grow it. If you like meat, you may consider raising your own animals and then paying a butcher to slaughter them for you. Perhaps you may even sacrifice your meat diet to live a healthier, more sustainable lifestyle where you can grow all your own food and eat it, too. Do everything by hand. There is no need for tractors and farm machines if you’re just supporting yourself. I’m telling you, it’s all easier than it seems, but it will be a full-time job keeping your garden up, so you can enjoy a plentiful harvest and work on preserving them for the future months.

It’s a change in lifestyle, for sure. But this is what it’s going to take to slow things down in this country; it’s completely necessary. There’s no need to keep skyrocketing toward technological peak, coming out with all of these gadgets to keep us distracted from actually forming a revolution in America. Remember, America was founded on Revolution; there would be no country without it. Now more than ever, we need another American Revolution, where we say “no” to full-time jobs, “no” to transportation, “no” to 401K plans, “no” to primetime television, and “no” to credit cards. Say “yes” to freedom, “yes” to independence, and “yes” to sustainable farming.

But what will I do about money, you say? Don’t I need a job?
Get your mind off of money. In this lifestyle, all you’ve got to worry about is your farm.

Friday, August 13, 2010


I am tired of living with people. Even if it is the woman I love most, my mother, I cannot stand to live with other people. The next apartment I get will be a studio; a cave in which I can retreat from everyone and just enjoy silence with myself.

The silence comes from being an only child. The silence was there, so I decided to fill it with music. That was just how things came to be. And all of that isolation, all of that time alone in my bedroom - it really opened me up to the possibilities of becoming one with yourself, understanding yourself, and being confident in yourself.

For a person like me, it just does not seem fair. All I want is a spread of land about 20 acres. There is enough land in the world (in the county alone) to give to me. Why should I have to pay the government to squat on God's land? If they took the time to learn my intentions, they'd see that there is no harm aside from being completely independent from the grid, and they don't want that. The government, does NOT want that.

So what am I to do? Rise above it? Conform? In the worst way, I wish not to. I can get my solitude in the woods at any time, but I can't bring a laptop into the wilderness, 1) because there's no electricity, and 2) because it's a burning contradiction. I can take my laptop to the library, but even there I'll be tempted to peruse the classic literature of better days, and lose myself in that.

It's not about self-control; it's about me being suppressed of my freedom.

As a man of God, I should be able to choose my woods, excavate those woods, build a home, and grow my own food. It used to be so. Not anymore. Not in the 2000's.

I must have that cave; the cave where I can go and be by myself and still get my work done. The woods will always be there.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

The Most Inspiring Quote In My Life at This Moment is..........

"I'd put my money on the sun and solar energy.
What a source of power!
I hope we don't have to wait to oil and coal run out,
before we tackle that."

- Thomas Edison (1847 - 1931)

Burning Branches: Forced into Forcing the Creative Spark

So I'm starting to write once a day on this blog as an exercise that is designed to make me want to continue writing; a kind of, warm-up routine of sorts. After all, my mind is typically on other things; things other than getting done what I need to get done.

Where does this feeling come from, anyway? The drudging of having to do something, AKA your job? You know there's money in it for you, yet still you would favor doing nothing at all and enjoying time at your leisure. Money is a necessity to you, but when times arise where good friends combine and the fridge holds the wine - where the sun shines and the summer is sweet, and where the concept of having no plans is the plan at hand - it can be hard to get your work done.

So why is this, would you say? Would you say this is a subconscious feeling, suggesting a suppression of freedom, of, existential freedom? The need to relax, and step out of your life and view it from afar?

I would say so.

This is not my big editoral on Why We Shouldn't Work...I am merely stating the facts here: human beings are human beings; no more, no less. Because of our intelligence, we've been keen to make up these preassumptions, accusations and assumptions about "what is, and what should never be". This is a concept, and should not be confused with how things really are.

So Jon, what are things really like?

Things are the opposite of how they should be. Gone are the days of tending our homes, on our own land, providing a service of which we choose, and doing what we damn well please.

Instead there is always an entity to go through which will decide if you're weathered and experienced enough to, on top of that, pay taxes on your land and food (of which we buy at the store) - instead we hobble through meager, fractured school systems that force most young adults to choose a major that they're naturally indecisive about persuing, creating an unambitious view that leave many with jobs they either hate, leave, or stand stuck with.

And as you grow older, you gradually accept it. You change your lifestyle, and you persue something else; something you'll presumably like.

Buy a spread with with some wood by the road,
Grass gets mowed when the grass gets mowed,
Just worry 'bout the veggies and the raw sugar cane,
And live off the Sun and Rain.

Ten to twenty-acre square, hidden by trees
No more conventional yardwork, please
I can grow some good food, and I've got proof,
PV Solar, and rainwater from my roof.

I just need to get started working, and then I'm good. It's not that I'm lazy, I just don't care.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

You call This Music?

Upon turning your radio dial to the upmost mainstream station, you'll hear people like Lady Gaga, Mylie Cyrus, Drake, or even Kenny Chesney or Brad Paisley. What proceeds is a shredding of these artists:

Sure Lady Gaga does some wild things with fashion. But her voice is nothing special, she's not much of a dancer, and her piano playing is barely fundamental. So why does everyone love her? It's because of what she wears. This is a superficial society. It is a trick to distract you from the music.

Mylie Cyrus lucked out. Simple as that. And again, her voice is also cliche and nothing special. The songs are trash; embellished with pop guitar lines and digital harmonies, they are barely even considered creative.

Drake is just another rapper who built on the Juelz Santana style; a slow, drawn-out flow that respects the lyrics, but it's SOOO slow that it goes off beat. So you've got people in the crowd dancing either really slow with the beat, or in double-time basically hopping up and down like rabbits. There's no swing in this music. The auto-tune is just so disgusting.

As for Kenny Chesney, well...he may look like a cowboy, he may have that distinctive Nashville voice, and he may even sing about things that cowboys would sing about, but this guy is not a cowboy. Again, it's the image. Three-quarters of his fans are women who want to have sex with him. This worked for Def Leppard too, but at least they rocked the fuck out and had their own sound. This guy is just parody of his forefathers.

Brad Paisley is Kenny Chesney with guitar chops. Same voice, same image. Enough said.

So who ARE our musical kings and queens of today's music? As a lifelong musician, I can tell you that the Kings on top are people doing their own thing: Indie Bands. Kanye West and Jay-Z spend all their listening hours listening to these new Indie rock bands. Why? Because the hip-hop and club music is THAT BAD. They're musicians; so like me, they know good music. And what's on the radio as "pop" music is dead, horrible music.

The queens would be women who actually live and breathe music, and have something new to offer. The epitome of this woman is Alicia Keys. Enough of these club songs about love, enough of these synthesized beats. Either sample something old and funky, or get down with that old and funky sound again!


Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Weed 101 - 25 Things Dealers Should Know

1. You are a dealer, DEAL.
2. If you are indeed my friend who deals, I'm allowed to go smoke with someone else; especially if they're intending on paying for it.
3. Don't tell me fifteen minutes when you damn well know it takes a half hour from where you are to get here.
4. Consider upgrading your quality and downgrading your prices. I don't know how; figure it out. Lucas did.
6. If I receive any more "mass texts" from you about you having herb to sell, I will never give you business again. Anyone trained in English can tell when it's a mass text.
7. You have NO IDEA what you're doing.
8. This weed does not belong to you, and it doesn't belong to me. It doesn't belong to anyone.
9. How is it possible to be a pot-smoking weed dealer, and know exactly who Young Jeezy is, but NO IDEA who Louis Armstrong is?
10. There's a reason I've never been robbed before.
11. A business with a delivery service is a much more profitable business.
12. Okay, it's just me and you; why do we HAVE to roll a blunt?
13. Oh yeah; because you have no idea how to roll a joint.
14. It's important as a dealer to remember the position you signed up for.
15. You may want to consider simplifying the situation a bit.
16. If you get held up, pick up your phone and let your customer know that you'll be late.
17. If you advertise that you sell small bags (AKA that you 'nickel & dime'), then sell small bags, and don't cringe when people want one. Not everyone can afford an ounce of pot.
18. Here's a little advice: Keep your mouth shut.
19. As much as I'd love to hang out, I'm in a rush. Sue me.
20. $15 dollars is the worst price ever created. It's either $10, or it's $20. It doesn't matter how much you "got" for it; it's poor customer service.
21. Herb turns into money when you deal it.
22. Unless you're dealing to smoke for free, you're just like the retail salesman at the local appliance store. Money-hungry and oblivious.
23. A $30 bag should contain 30 seperate smoke sessions. 30 bowl packs. I'm not crazy, it just sounds like a nice round number.
24. It's a lot easier to do what you're doing than you think. Reevaluate your scenario.
25. The only reason that I don't do what you do is because I am too busy being a consumer. The difference between you and me is that if there was no money, money didn't exist, i'd still be a consumer, however you would be too. Money is a trick.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Drunken Banter: The Disappearance of Pathetic Individuals

So who cares if I got a problem? If it's my problem, then i guess that's just the way I am. I turned 21 in prison, doing life without parole. No one could steer me right, but Mama tried? Yea, mama tried.

In any case, the disturbances that erupt within me and my SOUL MATES regarding the emptiness of our contemporaries are just staggering in recent years. I night cap on a Wednesday night has turned into shooting heroin on the side of a street corner in Los Angeles; people just want no part of it.

What I don't get, is why people at the age of 22, 23 aren't living each day like the last? You think you take some little trip to a foreign country and you've "seen something". Take a trip inside your damn mind and hometown and find something to grasp onto. Think you gotta put some sort of work in to pay your dues for the future? Fuck the future my young brothers and sisters; the PRESENT is a gift.

The future is only a reflection of your ability to survive and leave a legacy. Other than that, as far as I'm concerned, your future means nothing and is completely out of your hands. We have control of our choices that may ultimately lead to our destiny, but by not being spontaneous you are shutting off the one beam of your consciousness that is the most potent; one that will open things up for you and challenge you at the most crucial aspects of your life.

I'm not hating on others. I am merely implying that what I intend to do and enjoy should not be experienced by myself, but shared with others, for what I intend to do is enjoy my prime years and see what nature is giving away. Futhermore, as far as people are concerned, we should all be getting together in huge groups more often. Why? Why not? Haha what the fuck are you so scared of?

Moreover, these people that claim to be a victim of a horrendous economic climate I am so sick and tired of, it's beginning to take a toll on my are a top-of-the-line species, a distinguished mammal capable of the most creative and innovative ideas in the entire universe. So, if you can't think of a means of extra income, you're just not being creative enough. Better yet, you're not DRIVEN enough. Not MAN enough.

You are a MAN. Fuck what others try to tell you about what's right and what is best for you; you must learn to trust you're intuition and learn from your experiences. The smartest man begins as the lone child. There must be other people out there who think that what we do on a daily basis is not nearly a fraction of what we're capable of, let alone what we SHOULD be doing, which is ENJOYING OURSELVES.

Who cares what this is, and who is writing these words...this is merely just drunken banter from someone who has no idea about this mysterious need to write. It comes from somewhere I don't recognize or understand, probably from your fairy tale memories and images of Lord of the Rings causing Davey to puke his mushrooms all over my living room carpet.

These types of gentlemen I speak of, know what I am talking about. What's with this disappearance of individuals that are all too often branded as "pathetic", but really have more to offer emotionally and from the heart? These are the folks I'm lookin' for!

I'm talking about strangers at the bar, sending fifty blank text messages to a friend you love just to laugh about it, "going out" on Mondays, recording anything you possibly can on tape, watching the Celtics lose the Finals and getting hammered in response, listening to Jim Morrison's solo album on the roof of a Boston College Peace Corps. with a homeless man and a Ferrari dealership owner, stepping headlong into I-290 traffic with intent to pitch a hemlock-bough tent on the other side, tripping on LSD in an environment that you really shouldn't, throwing your CDs against the wall and dusting off vinyl LPS, or hitchhiking with nothing but boxers on the corner of Beacon and Commonwealth with nothing but a dead camcorder and a condom. These people who have these experiences are not sad people; rather, sadly, they experience more than you do. What does this mean? I don't know; I'm just lookin' for em. And what has become of them, I don't know.

What is right and what is wrong is only what you will decide, but by drudging through your regular day of work, you're just digging yourself a goddamn grave. Why not test your luck? Take a little runaway trip without anything at all? Why not? Think you're gonna die?

well don't get me started.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Why Django Reinhardt is the Best Guitarist Who Ever Lived

The Romani gypsy people were a transient, lower-class folk who travelled around the land in caravans. To the French, Belgian and Hungarian upper-class, they seemed quite tawdry and bohemian, holding no real value and showing no potential in anything. The gypsies were content with their travelling lifestyle, seeing the countryside and leading a simple life with their family.

And a musical family they were. Fond of string instruments, the gypsies played their own brand of music, spawned from their hearings of American jazz from the West, and older, classical recordings from those in Europe. It is often called "classical jazz", but more commonly it is known as gypsy jazz. Django Reinhardt would be the first gyspy to bring the genre to prominence.

Falling in love with the violin, the banjo, and eventually the 6-string banjo-guitar at an early age, Django was surrounded by this music from the beginning. There is no sheet music in gypsy jazz; the gypsies had well-trained ears. Most of the methods and techniques you learned as a player were picked up from other travelers and family members. Django Reinhardt made his first banjo-guitar recording in 1928, when he was just 18 years old.

That same year, Reinhardt was severely injured in a caravan accident. A candle had been knocked over on his way to bed, and pretty soon the whole caravan was ablaze. He received both first and second-degree burns on one side of his body. In addition to his right leg becoming nearly paralyzed (and almost amputated), his left hand received serious burns. He could not even touch a guitar, and doctors predicted he would never play again.

While in recovery, Django received a gift from his brother Joseph; a brand-new guitar. For the next few years, Django would relearn his way on the instrument, utilizing his left-hand middle and index fingers, which had regained their strength. However, the other two fingers were permanently paralyzed, although he eventually learned to rest these fingers on the fretboard to use them for chord work. No one was ready for what was to become of this man.

In 1934, six years after his accident, Django got together with his brother Joseph, guitarist Roger Chaput, bassist Louis Vola, and a fellow violinist named Stephane Grappelli to form the Quintette du Hot Club de France. With three guitarists, a violinist and a bassist, it seemed a rather tawdry and odd group to those in pre-war Europe. Many were left wondering where the rhythm section was, and why none of these musicians could sing. Upon hearing the group for the first time however, one immediately recognizes the syncopation between the guitars: There is a downbeat ("boom"), and then an eighth note beat ("chick"), resulting in a boom-chick-boom-chick rhythm that would serve as the foundation of mountain and bluegrass music in America.

Django chose two guitarists for his accompaniment mainly because of how he functioned as a player. When it was just him and Joseph, he often complained how much space was lost in the overall sound when he switched from playing rhythm to playing lead. With an additional guitarist supplementing Joseph, Django could blend better into the rhythm mixture, while feeling more supported when taking solos. Django seemed to have a vision of where he wanted things to go.

The group wasn't as revolutionary as the man who sat in the middle. The reason that Django Reinhardt's skill has been unmatched since his heyday is not because of him overcoming his paralyzed condition. He possessed an uncanny harmonic ear, able to learn songs on the fly and distribute arrangements amongst the Quintette. With the ear came the enormous yearning to want to learn songs. With the learned-songs came the mutation of playing those songs in context to other songs. Eventually, Django developed a strength and precision in his right hand that would remain unmatched to this day. Here is a video (audio) clip showcasing the groups biggest hit, "Minor Swing":

Incorporating glissandos, crescendos, and devastating arpeggios into his solos, Django was a master of tension-and-release. Combined with the off-center, haunting sounds of the Romani, Gyspy and Jewish scales, the songs were full of energy, power and execution. Tempos of up to 150 BPM were often used; undancable rhythms that forced the audience into listening more attentively.

On the other hand, Reinhardt was able to caress slower, more sultry ballads with clever improvisation and emotion. The extra space in slower tempos allowed for more riffing and phrasing, which could amount to the vast array of tricks his fans love most about his ballads.

His legacy is also unmatched. His son Babik is still playing strong, and he has also influenced countless musicians, some of whom have no idea of him. His use of the acoustic guitar as a lead instrument helped guitarists like Eddie Lang find his place in America. The tremolo effect of rapidly picking one or more strings was essential in mandolin solos in bluegrass, and for many of the surf-rock riffs during the early 1960's music in America. His bell-like, crying tone has been revered by those like B.B. King, Willie Nelson, and Jerry Garcia, all of whom utilize a similar, soaring sound. His influence was carried far outside of jazz, his scales and fast runs eventually being recycled by heavy metal guitarists of the 1980's (such as Yngwie Malmseen). Jimi Hendrix named his Band of Gypsies after the late guitar master.

There was no one like him. He was known personally as a boarish, tardy, oblivious individual who would often show up late for gigs, or not show up at all. When confronted with a gig, he would sometimes be found in a pool hall on the other side of town, two minutes before showtime. Others recall times where they perused the countryside for him, only to find him snoozing under a tree ten minutes before he was scheduled to play a half-hour away.

He was one of the few big-time musicians who didn't have any demons fighting his will. He never used drugs, and often used gambling as a fix. He was aware of his power as a musician, but if it was nice outside or he received a call from a friend to shoot billiards, he would often forget the gig if it meant wisely spending his leisure time somewhere else.

By listening to him, he'll make you laugh, cry, and sing in a way that no one alive today can do. His rhythm and execution is seamless in every way, his ideas are fresh and from the divine, and he does it all with TWO FINGERS. Django Reinhardt is a legend; the best guitarist who ever lived.


Auto-tune (from Wikipedia) "uses a phase vocoder to correct pitch in vocal and instrumental performances."

It is the lamest, sorriest excuse for quality that has ever graced the recording world. I am so disappointed at the number of great musicians today who "utilize" (AKA stoop low) this technique, selling out and hopping on the short-comin' bandwagon.

Anyone who uses this technique is not only amateur, they are a dishonest, money-grubbing herb who knows not the divinity and celestial aspects of music, but rather the fame, potential; greed and lust. These types of people should be arrested and forced to seek professional therapy to help them with their lifelong dishonesty and identity problems. IT DOES NOT SOUND COOL. YOU, YOUR VOICE, HAS JUST BECOME A COMPUTER.

Thank you.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

The Scent of a Woman (Fresh Out the Tanning Booth)

I like women. My mother has three sisters, all of whom have been heavily involved in my life. So, even at an early age I was beginning to learn about the many different types of women.

I appreciate what the girls in my family have done for me; and from that I believe comes an all-around respect for women. However, what is not often talked-about, by guys, are the standards that come with a respect like that. Let's consider my idea of a good woman.

A good woman is one who breathes. She acknowledges she is alive and embraces her responsibilities as a woman. A good woman is aware of her talents. She respects her body as a temple and lives out her life in that body naturally. A good woman strives to see the universe in everyone's eyes and learns to radiate her postiveness unto others. In the early years of her life, she puts herself first, in her prime years it is her child, and in the later years it is her husband. Just like everything else, she dies naturally. Now let's consider the average woman that I come across every single day of the week.

Painted in some brown-orange substance, a woman walks into a club with her friends, all of them tapping on their cell phones. This is the only situation she knows how to be in on a Thursday night. She orders the most complex cocktail and sends it back because it's too strong, or there's not enough lime juice. You get to talking to her, and she shows no interest in hearing about you or your achievements; she almost asks about you because she feels like she has to. The only thing she does is play some lame sport in college, like field hockey or lacrosse, and doesn't even get excited when she talks about it. She has a plastic bulb in the middle of her tongue. A stroller goes by outside with a baby in it, and she goes buckwild. She eventually talks about little kids for a good amount of time, and returns to her standby self. When it's time for her and her friends to leave, she gives you a wave with no eye-contact, or perhaps a haphazardly half-hug that feels like it's coming from your sister. Yep...see ya later.

Not all girls are like this, but where I live, in Worcester, 8 out of 10 are like that.

I can't say it's all their fault. I have a tendency to make people feel uncomfortable. Not completely intentional, but I like to make it known where I want the conversation to go. With these girls, it's quite hard to stoop so low. Most of the time, I feel like I'm scaring them away because I'm somehow completely different from all the tasteless, beefed-up, jerkoff jocks that they know and have been with. It's funny; I know I'm a good person and quite the catch....but I'm not a bonehead or an asshole. Any of these halfway, hooliganettes would be lucky to have someone like me.

And then there are those cool gals that I meet every once in a while. I'm not suggesting all girls in the United States are bimbos. There are some that seem compatible with me. My standards are not high; I do talk to these clubrat girls. I also talk to fat girls. I also talk to girls of all different races. It's not about looks for me; it's more about what you bring to the table. If you are a hilarity, let's hang out. If you aren't done with your night after the bars close at 2 (better yet, if you've never said "I gotta go home and go to bed"), you are most definitely a keeper. A good woman ceases the day. A good woman has no shame or regrets.

Lord send me a good woman, for I haven't left Worcester yet, and we all need some good lovin'. So come on in my kitchen and I will cook for YOU.

Searching for Poetry in a World of Text Messages

We've reached an age where folks have returned to the written word for communication. Instead of simply calling up your friend like in the olden-days, you are more opt to use the text messaging on your phone. It's cheaper, faster, and any potential awkwardness in communication is seamlessly avoided. It's almost as if the phone itself will soon become obsolete.

As of 2007, over 74% of the world's cell phone owners use text messaging in conjunction with actual calls. I'm sure a quarter of this percentage belongs to those you don't even use their voice anymore.

But how tasteful is your writing?

I sure as hell have no interest in reading any text messages that don't have a punchline or a stack of wordplay that will raise my eyebrows; similar to how I do not approve of uninteresting voicemails ("Hey Jon, call me back. Thanks - Rob"). We are a poetic species, and we got to keep things interesting.

I meet folks everyday who I believe to be intellectuals; those who could probably write some profound poetry and do live a creative lifestyle. However, I'm not sure that these people believe others like them even exist. Even if upon meeting someone you feel you'd have much to talk about, it usually doesn't go very far into conversation. Conversation is not the same as it use to be.

Send me a text message like, "Did you know there are over 12 million battered women in the U.S.? And I've been eating them plain the whole time!" I will enjoy it, and I'll consider you a witty, laid-back individual who recognizes the short-comings of this technological society. Send me a text message like, "Hey man, what are you doing?", and you may receive a reply that reads something like this:

"Well, I'm reading your all-too-commonly-uninteresting text message. How about we go down to the dump and shoot some rats? I know a great brothel with a bunch of dumpsters in the back."