tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46046616190615862812024-03-05T16:04:14.538-08:00Grievances of an Otherwise Jolly Fellow, and The Real World Seen and HeardA topical journal of sorts; No specifics, however travelling and the outdoors should be well covered, as well as music.Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-37010789376487290442015-01-13T05:47:00.005-08:002015-01-13T05:47:54.034-08:00Daily Grievances - December 13, 2015Seems like the older I get, things just seem to be getting worse. Someone once told me it would happen, but I thought they meant things like responsibilities and financial troubles. I didn't know that it would end up coming down to just straight-up stupid people.<br />
<br /><br />
1. Why do Massachusetts drivers drive so slow in the winter? You'd think by now, they'd be used to the season and how to drive in it. But no, a little white on the ground (or none at all), and it becomes cautionary. Just today I even saw someone with their HAZARD lights on. If you don't trust yourself or your vehicle in this weather, move somewhere else, or purchase a vehicle with All-Wheel-Drive.<br />
<br /><br />
2. Having to pay $600 for a new phone that won't die in one hour. I cannot afford this, nor would I ever spend that money on such a stupid little item. So, I chose to buy a used and discontinued phone, the battery of which does not last more than an hour or two. On top of that, the phone does not charge unless turned off. So not only am I missing calls, texts, and notifications, but I'm also not able to get back to people for hours on end because I can't turn my phone on.<br />
<br /><br />
3. Facebook. The narcissistic age is upon us, full of selfies, memes, posting pictures of accomplishments, and the like. If we are ever to become a humble race, then this invention needs to cease operating immediately. <br />
<br /><br />
4. The word "maybe". It is probably my least favorite word in the world, and I am all for boycotting it out of the dictionary and out of the human language. The range of indecisiveness in this country is staggering, especially with women. If I ask a woman to meet me out for a drink, and she says "maybe", I take it as a no, and I also never speak to her again. People need to learn to just say yes or no, regardless of the outcome. Maybe is a stupid word, a dumb word, and it's reserved for stupid and dumb people. People that I would rather not have crowding my life.<br />
<br /><br />
5. Homeless people who have NO PURPOSE in their lives. After reading Kerouac's "Dharma Bums", I have no sympathy for homeless people who stay in one city their whole lives, eating hand-to-mouth and washing every dollar and coin away on alcoholic and narcotic perishables, never once spending a whole day in the library reading books of wisdom, grit and fulfillment. The Dharma Bum travels, he makes friends and connections, he climbs mountains, and he prays for everyone in the world. The homeless folks I see are almost like a different race altogether. They are a tumor, and those who feel bad for them have been suckered in. <br />
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6. Lastly, I am developing a real problem with people and their phones. Everywhere I look now, people have their heads down. This is the "Heads Down Generation", for sure. Zipping their fingers across a tiny touch-screen for minutes and minutes, which turn into hours and hours. Or going to a concert or event, and documenting the whole thing with their phone; 500 audience members with their screens in the air, as if the human memory has ceased on a global scale. But it's not so they can keep a pleasant memory on their phone. It's so they can post it on Facebook and try to convince people that they are living better lives than them. The only people I approach, or even talk to, or those who have not produced their phone since I've started noticing them. They take the world in as they should, sensitive to the many fruits and delicacies of this great planet. <br />
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Wise up, Head-Downers!Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-56153846044853548002013-11-24T11:15:00.000-08:002013-11-24T11:15:10.332-08:00The Therapy of Jerome Pabst - Session 93<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>February 5<sup>th</sup>, 2012<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:51 PM<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Dr. Martin P. Stevens Psychiatrics<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Brighton, MA<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Session 93</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Martin S</b>: How are you today, Jerome? I
trust your weekend was well. And here we are today, Monday, amid a new storm of
events and precautions, measures to take, urges to do well, and face the grim
colorfulness of life…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Jerome P: </b>Today was better to me than
most.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Martin S: </b>Well, let’s hear about it! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Jerome P: </b>It wasn’t more eventful, or
meaningful; it just had less bullshit in it than other days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Martin S: </b>So, we shall hear about it!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Jerome P: </b>Martin, just because you’re
my psychiatrist does not mean I need to indulge you in everything, does it? I
mean, talking about how my day went is something I can do with a friend, or a
colleague, or my mother. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Martin S: </b>Some interesting swings of
emotion there, old buddy. I like how your voice when up when you said, my <i>mother.</i> Let’s talk about your mother.
How is she?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>………</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>I take it, she’s still under
treatment?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>She’s been taking everything very
well, but I don’t see her coming out of this one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>Well we can only assume that the
radiation treatment did not help her, so this is the alternative, Jerry. Don’t
be so negative about it. I know it’s hard watching her go through this every
two weeks, but if you just –</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>I don’t want to talk about this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>Alright, well, how’s work? Did you
meet halfway about that racial stuff with your boss?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>Work is ahhhhh bitch. I cannot talk
to these brokers any longer, I’m losing my mind. A black man like me needs some
time to chill out and boogie once in a while. And I apologized to my boss ,
yes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate him for what he did to me; he
humiliated me in front of the whole faculty and expected me to take it calmly…I
flipped out, got suspended from work, and I apologized. That’s it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>But you’re still angry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>Yes I am still angry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>Need I remind you of this fragile,
shaky economy we mingle in, Jerome? Of all the freaks and geeks taking over
this country and making it a living hell for the middle-class and makes
failures and heroes out of the lower class and poor? How you should appreciate
the fact that you <i>have </i>a job? A job
that pays you enough money to eat well and g-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>I appreciate being alive, Martin.
But I do not appreciate my job.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>Your depression stems from this
perspective, Jerry. Don’t you see? You’re not valuing the merits of hard work
enough. You’re nearing 40 and you still want to party.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>Well what about you,
Marty-The-Party? Arrested seven times on disorderly conduct, possession of
class D substances with intent to distribute, at least half-a-dozen times in
jail, where you sang Waylon Jennings tunes until they ripped you out to appear
before a bewildered judge? All of this within a period of four measly years at
UMass? It’s a miracle you even have patients. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>Yeah, I partied. But I went to
medical school and straightened myself out, Jerome. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>You still do all the same things
you used to do though, Marty. Do any of your patients know what you do on the
weekends? How much money you spend? At the strip club <i>alone?</i> How much blow you snort? Has anyone ever seen you out and
about?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS:</b> There was this one time, I was out
and about, down on Sewall Street somewhere having drinks with Paul, maybe it
was Rafferty’s or McGuinness’s Pub or some place…But we’re in there getting
hammered with the hot, 18-year-old bartenders after they had closed the doors
at 2 AM on Friday night, Me and Pauly just getting cocked for free. So we’re
sitting there, getting real close with these two hot smokin’ barkeeps right?
The one that I was talking to, Renee, jumps over the side of the bar, and walks
past me. On her way to the jukebox, she pats my bum alarmingly. She puts on
“Pour Some Sugar On Me” and immediately takes her clothes off, the other girl
following. Now they’re both naked, coming on to us, and suddenly Renee pulls my
jimmy out and starts sucking on it, and the other girl Nina starts sucking on
Pauly. And we’re just looking over at each other occasionally, on the brink of
maniacal laughter, like two heartless piece-of-shitfaced guys would do. Pauly’s
girl Nina is sprawled out on the bar sucking on Pauly’s dick, while Renee is on
her knees sucking mine, and Nina’s ass is just right next to me, in my face, so
I stick my face into her ass and start making a raspberry, jolting my head from
side-to-side, as Renee continues to suck my dick, and just at that moment –
someone walks in the bar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>Oh, boy…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>It was Peggy Keenan, man. The Peggy
Keenan who had been in therapy with me for five years, knew nothing about me,
just like most of ‘em don’t. She walked into the bar to the four of us going at
it like this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP: </b>Yeah? <i>And?!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>She froze up when she saw me. She
looked like a wreck. She looked seven times drunk from the last seven bars she
walked into. I knew this woman very well. Manic alcoholism-driven depression
and insomnia. She got down on herself because she drank so much, which made her
depressed, which in turn made her want to drink more; a vicious cycle of which
I was well aware of through our weekly sessions together. And after she
realized it was me, she began to break down crying, painful crying shrieks
before basically falling out the door she came in, backwards. I immediately
clamored when I saw her, but she was out the door, running hysteric down the
street before I could even get Renee’s lips off of my slowly submerging penis.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>JP:</b> Goodness gracious, Marty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>MS: </b>I know. Pretty terrible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>JP: </b>So I’m guessing that
was the end of your professional relationship with her?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>MS: </b>Yep. She never called,
and neither did I. But that’s probably the only time any one of my patients has
ever seen me shitface-house-drunk and off of my rocker. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>JP:</b> I cannot believe you’re
my psychiatrist.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>MS: </b>I’m your <i>friend</i> Jerry. First and foremost. I’ve
known you for almost 15 years now. The only thing that makes me your therapist
is that you pay me 120 dollars an hour to do so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>JP: </b>- which also depresses
me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>MS: </b>How so?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>JP: </b>Well, you basically get
paid 120 dollars an hour to attentively listen to what someone has to say,
before or after asking questions involving variables in their life that they’re
struggling with. Then you employ various ways for the patient to deal, or
manage these tough variables when confronted with them in their daily routines.
My point is I COULD DO THAT. I’m not insulting your medical knowledge, but I
get paid 15 dollars an hour, plus commission for hunting, scouring and perusing
this land for abandoned properties, pouring over credit records and potential
mortgage applicants, trying to get a hold on how to hold an offer but also what
to do with an offer, and accounts and receivables, and cleaning the desks at
night, running errands for an otherwise ungenerous and racist boss, coming in
late so I don’t have to be part of the cattle-like, schoolboy-like faculty
entry to the dungeonous building, amidst a swell of panning “hellos”
“heyhowareyas” “howyadoins” “mornings” “what’sgoinons” “what’supmans”, passing
from ear-to-ear….But I didn’t want to put up with those three extra years and
become something like a doctor, or a lawyer, because I guess I figured it was
copping out. But I have mixed feelings toward you, because I envy your success
and stability, but I look at you, and know you close enough to know what your
workload consists of, and I KNOW THAT I COULD DO IT. All the notes you take,
that you basically just read and decipher, and refer to books and medical
reference for guidance on a matter, all the while never having to talk to
anybody except for what must be your 13<sup>th</sup> receptionist, each one
more tawdry and sluttier than the last. So I envy you, yes. But it pisses me
off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>MS: </b>Fuck you, Jerome. Go
home. Our time is up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>JP: </b>Our time is not up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>MS: </b>Fuck you, bro. I got Sandy Welker
waiting outside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>JP: </b>There’s five minutes
left on the clock.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>MS: </b>Boy, oh, boy, Jerry.
You finally have something you want to say five minutes before the session
ends. Great. What is it, old buddy. For once, tell me something that’s really
bugging you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>JP: </b>I guess I just want to
say, that I admire what you do, Martin. The way you’ve managed to create a
successful career for yourself, while also remaining single, solid, stupid and
senseless, putting your body through hell on the weekends and returning to
earth 7 AM Monday morning. You’re 39 years old, Dr. Stevens; don’t you think
you ought to slow down already? Maybe, <i>marry</i>
one of these receptionists of yours?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>MS: </b>You know what Martin?
It’s like this: When I was in high school, my best friend Craig’s older brother
John was the shit. He was tail-back at St. John, straight-A student and the
biggest wild party animal you’ve ever seen. This kid could consume a quarter
keg solo, blow half-an 8-ball off a skinny hooker’s ass all in one line, with
nothing to eat and nothing clear to drink, and get up the next morning to ace
two quantum physics tests and win a regional championship football game. He’s
now nearing 50, living in Stow with his old lady and two daughters, and I asked
him once; seen him at the lake fishing not too long ago; I asked him, “Hey,
Johnny, do anyone of the old hometown folks ever still ask you about the
‘secret to success’ or ‘what it means to be a man’ or whatever?” He laughed and
then said yes. And I asked him, “Well what do you tell them?” and he said, “Well,
Marty I had a physics teacher who put it all in perspective when he said
‘Flowing water never goes bad’. And to me, that means that no matter what the
consequence, just do it. There is no impossible. I always said, there has to be
way where I can be totally professional one minute and then do and live exactly
the way I want the next minute. And have these two different streams flow in
and out of each other smoothly. I didn’t plan for it. I just <i>did it</i>. Hangover, not hung over, high on
acid, or in high-heels, I always got up for work the next day, and I always
drank consistently, keeping the tolerance up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>JP: </b>Ha. I see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>MS:</b>……Oh! And drink water
and stretch. The two secrets of life right there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>JP: </b>I’ll see you next week,
old buddy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b>MS: </b>Keep smokin’ that weed,
Jerry, it’s good for that depression.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-7617434253640788652012-04-30T16:09:00.001-07:002012-04-30T16:09:15.078-07:00Destiny Calls<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQZ74LPb0ZQRXiNmCpSooCpqDkcb-HwPk2opsLn742vNaS3el27XmNSX1-gssMzJ-dJdqRJcewpaCFt4rSgSA1J29gKWjnK4VHRIVsrWyOU5nLTfqWHnMosiKZpcrMEmtxIZ7CJwAPtWs/s1600/IMG_3248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQZ74LPb0ZQRXiNmCpSooCpqDkcb-HwPk2opsLn742vNaS3el27XmNSX1-gssMzJ-dJdqRJcewpaCFt4rSgSA1J29gKWjnK4VHRIVsrWyOU5nLTfqWHnMosiKZpcrMEmtxIZ7CJwAPtWs/s320/IMG_3248.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bob Dylan once said that “Destiny is a feeling you have that
you know something about yourself nobody else does. The picture you have in
your own mind of what you're about WILL COME TRUE. It's a kind of a thing you
kind of have to keep to your own self, because it's a fragile feeling, and you
put it out there, then someone will kill it. It's best to keep that all
inside.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In an age of technological rubbish and social control, child
manipulation and political turmoil, it becomes more and more apparent to me how
that old Kerouac trip seems more necessary now than when it actually happened.
In the Beat era though, it was still the blooming of a nation, a government
still trying to figure out how to control citizens. Unfortunately, now they’ve
figured it out after 60 years: give everyone really nifty, intuitive cell
phones. Not just a cell phone, though…but a tracking device, a statistic calculator,
a heap of distractions, bright colors, and seemingly convenient and
groundbreaking functionality.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From a personal point of view, I am at an age of 25, an age
that becomes more important and crucial as you approach 26. What have I done?
Well, I went to high school, formed some deep musical and personal friendships,
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>moved up to the mountains with a girl
for 2 years, came back to my home town, played gigs, moved to Nashville for a
year, got in with a band, played some gigs, and then I lost my job. And where
do you go from there? Do you stick around Nashville? Do you head home? Do you
curl up and die?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My idea of my destiny never comes out of my head. Like Bob
Dylan says, as soon as you open up to someone else about it, your perception of
it can change with negative judgment, so it’s best just to shut up about it and
keep people on their toes and guessing. It isn’t worth your insecurities. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So what have I decided? Well, as much as I love the city of
Nashville and the southern pace, I might be heading home soon. One thing I do
know for sure: from now on, I’m never signing a lease <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">with somebody else</i>. Sorry; will never happen again. I always feel
guilty when I want to up and leave, which is one thing a human is always able
to do, no matter what anyone says. This is the second time I’ve found myself in
such a predicament. When I told him about my yearning to get home, a wise
friend told me, “Never sign a lease. The word sounds too much like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">leash</i>. They’ll have you by the balls.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And he’s right. But in the long run, a lease holds no candle
to what your heart desires. My heart desires the company of close friends,
family, my homeland, and a little bit of ambition and perseverance. I just
cannot get that down here. I have Drew, and I’ve made some friends, but there’s
no family, and your ambition and perseverance get severed by the competition
and standards of Downtown Nashville and Music Row (the latter being virtually
extinct due to consumer recording innovations). It’s a wasteland. It’s an
established standard and formula. There’s no room for innovation. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Culturally, it’s a fine city. Nashville is one of the best
nightlife scenes I’ve ever experienced, anywhere. But once you get outside the
city, where do you go? There’s only a 10 square-mile radius of city offshoots,
and then you’re headed into the sticks. That can be great for an established
band. But for a band that’s settling there and starting from the ground up, you’re
going to run out of gigs. You’ll need to go on tour, paying out of your
asshole. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My thoughts drift to Henry David Thoreau, a true hero of
mine and a historical symbol of New England independence. He said that you
never really had to go too far from your hometown to discover the secrets and
wonders of life, in his case, being the thousands of species of flora and
animals in the area. Sometimes it’s not so good to think outside the box.
Sometimes it’s better to look at the Big Picture. Outside the Box and The Big
Picture are two completely different things. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe sometimes, you’re better off where you’re comfortable,
because if you’re comfortable there, why seek to be comfortable elsewhere? A
lot of people aren’t comfortable with where they came from; either they grow
bored of the geography because to them it seems there’s “nowhere to go”, “no
one to see” and “nothing to do”, so they take off and pursue their endeavors
elsewhere. And that’s fine; that’s genius. But for me, it takes getting away
from New England to realize that I belong there, that I’m comfortable there,
and that I have the best chances of making a career there.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My destiny points to the North. I’ve always heard it’s all
about who you know, and I know more folks than I can count up there. This isn’t
the 60’s; I can’t just move somewhere and expect to be somebody else,
especially when living with a lifelong friend. By somebody else, I just mean
rebooting your drive and focusing on being ambitious and making things happen.
It’s so much harder when you start from scratch. Whereas up in New England, I’m
connected; it’ll happen faster. At this point in my life, at the crucial and
breaking-point age of 25, this is the option I’m taking, because it’s
realistic, it intrigues me, and it makes me feel good.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Destiny isn’t about pushing it to the limit. Destiny is tied
into your instincts. You are in control of your destiny, but little things pop
up that you can’t really explain that have a tendency to stop you in your
tracks and make you think; these pop-ups are incredibly important. I find that
usually, it’s best to just roll with whatever. You can decide to turn around
later. You always have a choice, and you can always walk away. You might get in
trouble, you might get hurt, you might lose some money, but at least you went
with the flow. You’re not sitting on a shitty couch in a shitty apartment
thinking, “Man, I should’ve gone with that deal”, and instead you’re thinking, “I
did the best I could. I wonder what’s next.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s all how you look at it. I think Forrest Gump was right
when he said life is a little bit of both; it’s a mixture of having a destiny
written for you, and having the ability to control that destiny. You have to
trust your feelings; they’re given to you by God (or whoever runs this place).
If you don’t trust your feelings, you’re flipping God the bird.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whatever happens, happens, through the natural course of
time. You are a variable in this string of time. You decide what happens next,
but there will be those feelings. And there will be times when your heart tugs
harder on your soul than the rationale of the mind, and although it may seem
far-fetched, you must trust your heart. For instance, I would rather be
surrounded by 200 friends and family, than three band members who have no idea
where I’m from. I would rather sit by a murky pond in May when I can still see
my breath, rather than a stifling, humid river among sweaty southerners. The
early summer is beautiful, but it doesn’t mean it taps into who I really am,
and where I came from.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I like the southern vibe; I like sitting outside and getting
sweaty and tired from just sitting there; I like the music; but I don’t like
the attitude. I was brought up in a fast-thinking, fast-moving society, and I
can’t help but feel out of place here. Everyone down here is in no hurry to get
anywhere. And when I look at myself, I’m in a hurry to do things and get things
done! IT WILL NOT GET DONE DOWN HERE. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, still in Tennessee, amongst feelings of angst and
yearning to hit the road up the East coast, I’ll say my goodbyes with a lump in
my throat and head out just like Stosh would’ve done. We all have ticking
clocks, just like he did. My clock is reaching the stroke of midnight. And
after midnight, we’re gonna let it all hang out.</span></div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-49452298226025748482012-04-07T12:02:00.002-07:002012-04-07T12:26:37.347-07:00Learnings About Guitar Rhythm<a href="http://www.thebestofwebsite.com/Photos/Music/Garcia_Jerry/Pure_Jerry/jerrygarcia_leonard_th.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 432px; height: 290px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.thebestofwebsite.com/Photos/Music/Garcia_Jerry/Pure_Jerry/jerrygarcia_leonard_th.jpg" /></a><br /><div> </div><div> </div><div>I have loved the playing of Jerry Garcia for years. I encountered albums of the Dead when I was probably about 13 or 14, but never really became immersed in them until after high school. I have personal belief that I have loved Garcia's playing subconsciously since I was a little boy, maybe as early as 5 or 6 years old, hearing him play on the radio or amongst my family.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I suppose it was the way he "sang" with the guitar that really drew me in initially. However, as a musician myself, although I've studied some of his leads and listened to his phrasing rather closely, I find that he has influenced me as a rhythm player just as much.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>A lot of really far-out folks that I've talked to about this will agree with me when I say that he plays off of the reverb. I have heard Jerry's playing on records without any reverb, and it's drastically different. It is still always recognizable, but it's different. His acoustic playing plays off the sympathetic overtones. He's very aware of a "field" of sound.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>So when he plays off the reverb, he can make staccato chord strikes, yet induce their sustaining properties through reverb. It's genius, and although many players before him utilized this same sound, it was he who made it beautiful, and a true trait of his sound. The upstrokes involved in his rhythm playing are so natural. He is a true example of how much of the best rhythm playing isn't all in the strumming hand; so much is in the <em>fretting hand</em>.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Watch any talented rhythm player, and unless it's jazz or classical, it's likely that it's just a continuous strumming motion. It's their fretting hand that syncopates the chordal phrasing. Leaving the chord position there but merely lifting the fretting hand stops the chord immediately, leaving only a noteless, percussive, raking rhythm from the strumming hand. There are many possibilities, especially once you start altering the right hand.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>The Famous Chuck Berry Rhythm. The all holy "da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da". Many players learned to take this same rhythm, same chord, same notes, same position, and make a slightly different sound out of it by deadening the notes with their fretting hand. Keith Richards, enough said.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I guess what I like about Jerry is that he knew that he sounded like nobody else. He knew that he sounded best with a rather clean, powerful signal from his Fender Twins, and I'm not sure anyone can use a Fender Twin without using the reverb! Fender reverb is the most beautiful spring reverb I've ever heard, and Jerry knew that too. Once you start to break down Garcia's lead playing, you'll find it's rather simple; just innovative. You can learn his licks pretty quickly. What isn't so easy, is getting that punchy, driving Garcia rhythm tone. </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Once I learned it, I knew that I could use it for many different things, in many different ways. </div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-70438111527577558242011-12-29T09:44:00.000-08:002011-12-29T10:11:57.761-08:00Thoughts Provoked by Celtic Music<strong></strong><a href="http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs18/i/2007/153/d/e/Irish_Countryside_by_Andarist.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 600px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 399px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs18/i/2007/153/d/e/Irish_Countryside_by_Andarist.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><strong>Song: The Dingle Berries by Lunasa</strong><br /><br /></div><br /><div>The joyous clash of the double fiddling against a recurring tin whistle melody brings me to a pebble-strewn shore under smoke-gray skies of rain. The beachcombers are heard and the woman strikes a match upon her cigarette. The westerly winds blow the sands o're the dunes and bring them back to friends lost. </div><br /><br /><div>To the town of Cork; among men of bravery and drunkery. It is a Sunday and all are done at mass and seated on a revolving stool inside a small building, where spirits flow as well as stout, and where a quartet of smiling troubadours string reels together for the dancers as the sun goes to bed through the stained glass window.<br /></div><br /><div><strong>Song: Lots of Drops of Brandy by The Chieftains</strong><br /><br /></div><br /><div>I see her standing in her garden, along the shores of the Atty Ocean, praising the salts that cure her wounds. As I approach the village in shoes of brown and pants of gray, I keep my hand on my scally as the wind howls ever-brisk around the corner of the emerald hill.<br /></div><br /><div>I pass through winding paths of well-made dwellings of dirt and sand, grass and moss, rock and stone. A distance waltz draws me to Gilly's Pub where the ale is always cold. And once again the sun goes down and I find myself in the cot of a generous lad who stay up all night letting the porter stain his lips.</div><br /><br /><div><strong>Song: Bridget Flynn by the Irish Rovers</strong><br /><br /></div><br /><div>We must cross rivers to get to our Bridget Flynn. It will be through storms and sorrow, and many a tomorrow, but surely our love will take us far in this life. The singing of an Irishman can thrust pride into any man of any origin<br /></div><br /><div><strong>Song: The Whistling Theif by Tommy Makem and Liam Clancy</strong><br /><br /></div><br /><div>I don't mind being poor, because there is always something to steal from people who do wrong. It's enjoyable having no one place to lay my head, as I may drop my feet wherever there is coverage from the Donegal rains. The evil ones dismiss me for my whistling but when the suited man's back is turned, I'm quick to reach into his trousers. I once found a gold claddagh and walked four miles to me Ma, only to have her scorn and throw her boy out her cherry door.</div><br /><br /><div><strong>Song: Cotati Nights by Lunasa</strong><br /><br /></div><br /><div>When the sun goes down during my stay with you, I shall walk to the grand gazebo and count the stars. I am told that one is easily led to the moss swamps under bright moonlight, where the echoes ring strong. I will bring Paddy's lute and sit myself on the mossy rock and play the hornpipe to dancing ghosts. It draws deer and wolves and while I am surrounded by predators, I am never taken away from the beauty of the moonlight through the gnarled pines atop the hungry hill. </div><br /><br /><div>A light rain will force the lute back in the sack, and I find myself tramping through the swamp towards a fire-lit light, where I will eventually sit down amongst strangers and accept a strong cup of Barry's and Jameson.</div><br /><br /><div><strong>Song: The Trip to Sligo by The Cheiftains</strong></div><br /><br /><div>The trip to Sligo was one of trouble, scouring lands of herb and water, fuel for a man in dire need of sleep. The storms came in unexpected, with a chill and a force unsuited for travel, though we travelled more. We had a flute, a tin whistle, and two fiddles. When the storms became too much to bear, we all stood on the Black Mountain Side and played our tune towards the ocean, in hopes that the Great Spirit would hear our prideful tune and turn merciless on our travels.</div><br /><br /><div>After two or three or reels, the storm erupted into a hurricane and we stood by our instruments. You fell off the mountain with your whistle. Paddy slipped and followed with his fiddle, dragging his wife and her fiddle with him. I played my whistle as long as I could, but the last image in my mind is free-falling through trees into the blue deep, and my whistle was the last to join us.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>SLAINTE!</div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-37442924906593262042011-04-28T07:31:00.000-07:002011-04-28T08:01:29.772-07:00Social Criticism: Depression and the Insanity of Government Drug Dealers<a href="http://www.depression-guide.com/antidepressant.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 314px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.depression-guide.com/antidepressant.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>I hear a lot of talk nowadays about depression. I actually hear more about antidepressants than the actual depression. I keep hearing about how depression is a "disease", and that it "hurts". Not that these things aren't true, but in the grand scheme of existence and our alignment with mother nature, is depression <strong>real</strong>?</div><br /><br /><div>Travel back in time to the year 1860. Abe Lincoln is elected president, and the Civil War hasn't even started yet. Things are good. Things are simple. People build their own houses. People grow their own food. People hand wash their own clothes. People <em>make</em> their own clothes. Aside from the war, what could people back then possibly be depressed about? Losing at love? A death in the family? Well, yes, definitely. It pretty much ends there, though.</div><br /><br /><div>Now, it's the year 2011. Now let's consider what there is to be depressed about nowadays: war? Money? Health care? Nope; none of these things. I have a firm idea, that most of the people suffering from depression nowadays are the victims of decaying self-image brought on by the media. It's all about TV now, and it's all about <em>other people</em>. Every person on television is either happy and living the dream, or handsome/beautiful and on top of the world. </div><br /><br /><div>Alternatively, most of the shows on television focus on the pathetic folk; people we can look down on and point our fingers at. Nowadays, folks get depressed because they can't have love/sex right away, or they can't find it within them selves to contribute to society, or because they look at the TV and even in the world around them and find themselves in a "lower place", or "worse off" than others.</div><br /><br /><div>Advertisements for antidepressants claim that "you don't know why you feel down, but you just do, and it hurts", and that these "victims" should take their medication to help them live a happy life.</div><br /><br /><div>What, and not deal with life at hand? Take drugs? </div><br /><br /><div>I can count on two hands the people in my small, close circle of family/friends that take antidepressants. And you know what? They're completely different people. It's the worst when they first go on the meds; a permanent smile stuck on their face, their eyes glossed over and laughing at the stupidest things. It's sickening to me, because I'm aware that these people have more than enough power to look their depression in the face, and <strong>see what it can teach them</strong>.</div><br /><br /><div>That's all depression is in my eyes; <em>a learning experience</em>. Acknowledging your depression is better than suppressing it with drugs (drugs synthesized by the government, mind you), and I just think a lot of people don't even think to do simple things because they're either so distracted by their depression, or they're already suppressed under medication. Go for a walk; draw a picture; <em>write down your thoughts</em>; smoke marijuana; clean your room, organize your files, etc, etc... Most people with depression don't even give these activities the time of day.</div><br /><br /><div>We all get depressed. However, I think it's important not to give in to what the government says is "serious", or "a disease", and just sit around in a corner like people used to, and cry it out. Your mind has enough ability to sort things out for you, even if it takes months upon months. </div><br /><br /><div>Take your depression to the face. Because otherwise, your just letting the government turn you into a drug addict. Depression can be a good thing and eventually, for some people, what you were once depressed about, actually gets suppressed or "blocked-out" by the depression. Depression is not a disease, but it does hurt. No pain, no gain, though; and this is definitely something that people of today have largely forgotten.</div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-65877724890876661362011-04-17T09:59:00.000-07:002011-04-17T10:40:42.719-07:00Driving in Massachusetts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglyf3I-7RJ6hDrc8sf1M4N1RLh3QJafK90fOHuAkYm80K7fJCKFJ4ZLGBqreGkXhJNV4MuPflPWtaNxTDkVsZJJySIMUBFQ9sFwzjAa2XpGU_vLqhiaFbe-Q3Jp9yEBznuRUXB3gMDnj8i/s1600/roadrage72_7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglyf3I-7RJ6hDrc8sf1M4N1RLh3QJafK90fOHuAkYm80K7fJCKFJ4ZLGBqreGkXhJNV4MuPflPWtaNxTDkVsZJJySIMUBFQ9sFwzjAa2XpGU_vLqhiaFbe-Q3Jp9yEBznuRUXB3gMDnj8i/s320/roadrage72_7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596606402064988706" border="0" /></a><br />Anytime I get into my car, I'm trying to get to where I'm going. Makes sense, right?<br /><br />So I drive a little fast. It's not a dangerous fast, barely even an illegal fast; maybe five to seven MPH over the speed limit. I comply to the speed limit for city/town driving when someone is in front of me, but if no one is in front of me, I'm cruising.<br /><br />Highway traveling, is a different issue altogether. The highway has multiple lanes, so fast drivers can pass the slow drivers. But when the slow driver is in the left lane, driving neck and neck with the car in front of you in the <span style="font-style: italic;">right</span> lane, and you're trying to pass, it evokes anger and madness. Why won't they just pull ahead of the car and get back in the right lane like a good driver does? Some people are late for work. Some people are in a rush to get somewhere, and these horrible drivers just get in the way.<br /><br />If you see a car in your rearview coming up fast on you in your lane, GET OVER TO THE OTHER LANE. Is this so terribly hard to understand? When there are other cars on the highway traveling faster than you, make way for the fast drivers.<br /><br />Another facet that really bugs me about Mass drivers is the inability to stop before taking a turn off of a street. They think, "Oh, maybe this time no cars will be coming, so I can just pull out onto the main road without stopping!" So they get caught up when they see me coming, and they're halfway out onto the main road, so I have to put on my brakes and let them go, because they're in my way. This is totally unacceptable, and completely dangerous. I may be a fast driver, but I don't just pull out onto a main road without stopping; that's absurd.<br /><br />And the real clincher out there on the road, is that OLD PEOPLE SHOULD NOT DRIVE. There should be an age, say 70, where it's illegal to drive. Just like it's illegal for you to drive at age 15, I think there should be a cut off when you get to be elderly. Between depleted motor skills, tired vision and hearing, and caution bringing speeds down to 10 in the city and 45 on the highway, they just shouldn't be driving. If it were illegal for them to drive, and they needed to get somewhere, a taxi is just one phone call away, and it's not like old people have no money; they're assisted by the government; they can afford a taxi. It's basically old people not willing to accept their dependence on others, and it just brings danger to the road.<br /><br />Next, let me just elaborate on how many pickup trucks I see out there driving <span style="font-style: italic;">everyday</span>. NOTE TO THE PEOPLE: YOU ARE WASTING SO MUCH MONEY. I don't care if you're a brain surgeon and you make $250,000 per year; you're wasting money. Doesn't it make you sick that a gallon of gas gets you 13 miles? Did it ever occur to you to buy a hybrid or, gee let's see, a regular automobile? A lot of these truck drivers aren't even hauling stuff around; they simply enjoy being up high on the highway and having bullshit to talk about with the other truck guys (how big the engine is, how much gas it eats, useless aftermarket additions, and so forth). It's so uneconomical, and it's going to drive these people personally into the ground, along with the United States. So, it just makes me cringe to watch these people waste so much money on unnecessary forms of transportation.<br /><br />Driving in Massachusetts is not a privilege in the least sense. I think that driving <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> be a privilege and not just a means of getting us to work, or to the market. I mean, when you really think about it, why would you work somewhere that's an hour-and-a-half away from where you live? Just because you <span style="font-style: italic;">got the job</span>, now you're going to commute and blow your salary away on gas? Use your fucking head.<br /><br />Stop driving automobiles and walk the countryside.Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-44077052517983802522011-04-15T22:48:00.000-07:002011-04-15T23:11:50.274-07:00TypewriterToday I sat atop a mountain top with my typewriter and I thought of you I thought of you, and times of blue and a hazy, crimson hue Yesterday I walked from Oak St to Main with my typewriter I was reminded of you I was reminded of what you said to me Leave Leave Leave Tonight I'm going to the top of Stony Hill with my typewriter Try to spew out wordly words Try to spew out wordly words and listen to my Northern birds go Cya, cya, cya Tomorrow I'll write you a letter with my typewriter And I'll spew you a stanza I'll spew you a stanza of heartache and pain Analog gain, gain, gain Right now I wish I was with my typewriterJon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-25685594225159802552011-04-15T22:43:00.000-07:002011-04-15T22:48:19.421-07:00When there is nothing you can do, just writeToday there is nothing; there is nothing because every time i hit the D key, I have to realllly hit the D key which doesn't lead itself to the spontaneous writer; nor does this entire keyboard, actually. Typewriter. Oh, typewriter...Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-70966637456948521832011-03-03T22:01:00.000-08:002011-03-03T22:22:20.333-08:00Social Criticism: Unappreciation for the Fellow Performing Artist<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/cosmomod/Rz5cjr-dyKI/AAAAAAAACj8/hDe42Lt3oRc/LAFrog+TrippinMurakami2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 640px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 427px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/cosmomod/Rz5cjr-dyKI/AAAAAAAACj8/hDe42Lt3oRc/LAFrog+TrippinMurakami2.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div>I find it somewhat strange that people don't look at the performers anymore.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I walk into this bar, converted from a car garage, to come see my lady friend play her geetar and howl over the African drum; 'twas a nice even mix, although my friend's voice should've been mixed louder.</div><br /><div></div><div>I've sat down in a booth with aquaintances, sipping my S. Adams and keeping a keen eye on the lady singer, who sang so well I kept thinking about how her microphone should be louder. I look to my left, and there's a man, a young man, head stooped over in a beanie on his seat, face illuminated by a Blackberry; I look to my right, and a woman is smiling at me; I turn around, and I see my lady-friend-guitar-player; and I ask myself, and others not aloud, "Are you not anamored with the music? This woman singing? This djembe rumbling the floor?"</div><br /><div></div><div>Has music just become a background noise to you? A mere pulse in your juvenile pursuits? Where have days gone, when music held water to your emotions? Has music become mere riffs, or crescendos into compressed bass drops and vocal <em>samples</em>? To you? Has it?</div><br /><div></div><div>She sang a song so sweet, and had but two on their feet; but the hum of the jock is too hard to beat; nobody listens, might as well repeat; slip a little sauce in these guys with their peats; bring a little more smile to the street...a little more smile to the street...</div><br /><div></div><div>Next time you are entertained, shake your ass and have no shame; appreciate the troubadour who lit your flame, and dance the stars 'till light; it is he with the bamboo flute that shake you out yo' suit, so come on in and close the door behind ya</div><br /><div></div><div>Evening for my star</div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-39523097550907837662011-02-09T23:27:00.000-08:002011-02-09T23:48:21.737-08:00The Future of Music<a href="http://www.coolest-gadgets.com/wp-content/uploads/musenote.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 380px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 253px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.coolest-gadgets.com/wp-content/uploads/musenote.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Pretty Lights is the future of music!"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>...says one of my Facebook friends.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>As far as Pretty Lights goes, it's damn fine music if I'm on a long car drive, or if I have to get some work done; it's <em>ambient</em> music to me, and as a musician, I can't agree with my half-there buddy who thinks this lame recycled-hoo-lah is the "future of music"; that's not possible.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Why? Because there will always be <em>real </em>musicians; people who speak through an instrument. People like this <em>in large groups, of maybe 4 or even 28</em>, will affect human beings more than a 4-bit version of a James Brown rhythm-section break; samples make <em>sample-based music</em>.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Even if it's not sample-based music, Pretty Lights is catering to a state of mind. The Grateful Dead used to do that fifty years ago, during a time similar to this where it needed consciousness-change the most. But what pisses me off about today, is that these Pretty Lights cats are catering to Mollyed-out disco biscuits; knuckleheads just floating on Ecstacy and following a trancy and acidicly poisonous beat; it's not music; it's <em>instant gratification</em>.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>You know the beat, so you want to hear it; you know the stupid spacey, trancy sounds and the cheese-factory-sounding vocals; you've heard it before, and what you find familiar is the foundation of what you seek. However: human beings have since forgetten that upon hearing something completely unique <em>for the first</em> <em>time</em> (The Beatles, Nirvana, Eminem, Phish, The White Stripes), our state-of-being <em>moves forward a step</em>, and reconnects with things we <em>do</em> know, but things we <em>didn't think we knew</em>.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Lost you yet? </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>All you have to remember, is that if you're going to be a golden and appreciative listener, you should be looking for the <strong><em>new rhythm</em></strong>. All the rhythms on today's mainstream radio are all from House music and has sort of a Latin flavor; these aren't new ideas. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Realize that<em> reggae</em> was created out of thin air, just by taking the conventional downbeat out; <em>one beat.</em> Just <em>one beat, </em>and reggae was born. The drummer stopped hitting the kick-drum on the "one", and started playing it with the snare on the "two". By filling the empty spaces with <em>chicka, chicka</em>s, reggae was born.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Music begins with rhythm, and in more complex terms, <em>vibrations</em>. This is <em>all</em> music. <em>All</em> music is vibration. Rhythm is the basis of everything. If a drummer to a rock n' roll band doesn't realize that it is <strong><em>HE</em></strong> who drives the band; he is at the foot of a long and steep path to finding out that truth for himself. New types of music will derive from new rhythms.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Just like new change will be brought on by social movement, music will take a new direction, and in an organic, <strong><em>real</em></strong> fashion, just as it always has. Because there are some artists out there, some of whom you've never heard, who know how to create something new and fresh that will crush and crumble anything you ever thought about Pretty Lights. Pretty Lights is nothing but a bunch of pretty lights; they're a crazy poster to look at when your on drugs; an enhancement to your detachment from reality.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Reality is here, and it's now, and it kind of sucks. What are you doing about it? Getting high on Molly?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Figure it out.</div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-33277098170714151952011-01-25T11:16:00.000-08:002011-01-25T12:11:09.784-08:00The "Lone" Musician<a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/229/475940697_6543826476.jpg?v=0"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 247px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 314px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/229/475940697_6543826476.jpg?v=0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://www.cultureinside.com/ciWeb/UserFiles/Image/vicpeled/0d479aa2b26e40ca9609dfa667776b2a_resized_thumb.jpg"></a></div><div>I find it interesting that two musical parts can be less intimate than one, but more uninhibiting also. With two musical parts, things become relaxed and festive. A man's voice and his guitar: festive. Two horn players: festive. Guitar and banjo: festive.<br /><br />The lone musical part however, the solitary expression, is the purest, and shares the most intimacy with it's listeners, for there are only listeners. A lone alto sax blower, running scales over some band in his head: intimate. The deep and rhythmic throngs of the lone African djembe: intimate. A person reading poetry among silence: intimate.</div><div> </div><div></div><div>How then, does the solitary musician keep our interest?</div><div> </div><div></div><div>The lone sax player's note selection suggests at an imaginary (yet, existing) underlying part, that not only he hears, but he who listens hears. After a while, it appears that something else <em>is</em> there.</div><br /><div>The rhythmic throngs of the djembe are polyrhythms, found on and utilized by multiple parts of the drum; an orchestra of rhythmic tones needing nothing except organization; again, suggestive to space, and <em>filling</em> space.</div><br /><div>The poet is not just speaking for himself; he speaks for nature and for the imagination; for when the poet speaks, we listen, but when he rests, we examine mental images and internal feeling based on words he has said.</div><br /><div>The verdict here, is that "lone" musicians are never <em>alone</em>. There's something there anchoring the function and inspiration of the single instrument, whether we see it our not. Whether it be something we see like the sax player's foot tapping along, or something we don't see like the sax player's thoughts of clouds as he plays the Reinhardt classic, "Nuages"; humans still understand it, and it's very different from the group configuration.</div><br /><div>In a group configuaration, many things change. You have to assume that while he plays, the lone musican must be filling as much space as possible, even if using silence. An acoustic guitar player does not play a single-note, single-string melody <em>by himself</em>, but rather he strums a three, four, five, or even six-string/note <em>chord</em>; a chord with <em>six parts </em>ringing through at once. Some acoustic guitarists that combine rhythm and lead parts, and an example of that kind of player is Joe Pass.</div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 306px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.guitarimpressions.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/Joe_Pass_JPG.jpg" /> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div>What Pass did was play all the basic parts of a jazz ensemble band <em>on the guitar</em>. That means, his thumb often caught the bass line (as well as high-string melodies), while his index and ring fingers provided chordal accents, as well as some brilliant "in-between" lead lines. He often did this entirely by himself with no accompaniment, and produced a whole album of songs in this manner.</div><br /><div>Joe Pass's thumbed basslines held everything together (even when not playing), and he provided eighth-note, triplet-chord accents in between his chromatic lead playing; a simple, yet delicious recipe. It's the pulse and walk of the bassline, the harmony of the piano, the volume accents and syncopation of the drums, and the dramatic, improvised soloing of a horn, <strong>all on electric guitar.</strong></div><br /><div>These are dramatic shifts of rhythm on his part, and it's all suggestive. That's what the solo, lone musician ultimately is: suggestive. This involves more solitary imagination than the mutual imagination of a musical <em>group. </em>Solitary imagination is a deeper, more potent form of imagination, and it affects people more powerfully.</div><br /><div>The lone musician teaches us that power and deep emotion doesn't have to involve hundreds in unison chanting, a multilayered orchestra, a harmonized chorus, or a rock & roll band, but that it also exists on the solitary end, where there is space to be taken up by it's listeners.</div><br /><div>Henry David Thoreau favored the sound of a solitary music, flute specifically, and that was much like how he felt about life. But perhaps this is when we ask: Music, Life, what <strong><em>is </em></strong>the difference?</div><div></div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-20327443267236620792011-01-02T21:01:00.000-08:002011-01-25T12:21:28.290-08:00Man, Oh man<a href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1256/938102889_8c41393211.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 351px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 238px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1256/938102889_8c41393211.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div>So we're sitting here drunk now are we? Where have all the cowboys gone? Not Paula Cole but a distant fellow, among folk like john wayne and james dean<br />"Yeah, we've seen this scene"<br />But how propelling into a metallic age of gadget junkies,<br />strung out on how it all may be improving<br />Can steal your gut right from your hip<br />It's a trip<br /><br />Drinkin with my buddy's only good with creativity<br />In a mellow bar steeped in good times, longevity<br />Isn't that like a chameleon;<br />To change rods so I can better reel ya in<br />The green gods took my back,<br />And I let em stack<br />Upon my head<br />The golden thread<br />of Wisdom<br />In my mind, of something strange<br />Although I feel not all alone,<br />Where are these<br /><br />Are you deep inside her or murking about her?<br />Keep your wits about you*<br />I'm not sure how you see,<br />but I see nothing but humility<br />amongst my peers<br />(although some with the strangest of ears)<br />My only fears,<br />are that this cat<br />and that cat<br />won't seal the rap,<br />and that cat<br />ignores the tree sap<br />any longer<br />time to get stronger<br />Shut up, shut up, shut up<br /><br />Endless sprouting blossoms of the cascading rains, fall over my head in bed.<br /><br />She is there<br />But<br />Who is there<br />And<br />Why is she there<br />If<br />and When<br />I stare, or glare<br />Leave it not for the powers that be<br />but with the power that is in me<br />The power of love was given to us;<br />From a sprouting, vegetating, blossoming, enduring, proudly noble Tree<br />and there which it came from.<br /><br />Jappers in the mornin'<br />Snappers in the evenin'<br />Tripping on nothin' but lemonade and Wallace Stevens<br />Tryin' to teach<br />without tryin' to teach<br />And if it seems like I know something you don't know<br />then maybe it does<br /><br />Sleep oh sleep<br />This only ode of mine<br />is for you<br />To fall asleep without a thought in the head<br />Except "Wow my comfy bed"<br />And we'll bid you goodnight,<br />when we're ready,<br />And until then,<br />Goodnight</div></div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-26863149098095630852010-12-29T01:08:00.000-08:002010-12-29T02:27:43.936-08:00A CONVERSATION with A-Priori-minded Teacher and a Kin-like Student Violinist<strong>.Sitting in liquid
<br />
<br />Drained from obscure, intensely painful reality, I struggle to get out and catch something worth salvaging in my </strong>
<br /><p><strong></strong></p><p></p>
<br />
<br /><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;">.<span style="font-size:130%;">..</span><span style="font-size:85%;">.</span><span style="font-size:78%;">.</span><span style="font-size:85%;">.</span><span style="font-size:100%;">.</span><span style="font-size:130%;">..</span><span style="font-size:180%;">.......catch yourself a fish,</span></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"><span style="font-size:180%;">and ya gotta throw it back</span></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"><span style="font-size:180%;">unless your gunna eat </span></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"><span style="font-size:180%;">and poop it back out...</span></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"><span style="font-size:180%;">"</span></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc33cc;"></span></p></strong>
<br />
<br />"....Ew....Oh man, this guy's depressing..."
<br />
<br /><strong><span style="color:#33ff33;"><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Ha. I ain't over-analizin'.</span>
<br /></span>
<br />"So, what's your problem then, brah?"
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Problems start in the mind, sire.
<br /></span>
<br />"Wha.. (turns to posse and smirks dumbfoundedly)"
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">What's the matter, padre...</span>
<br />
<br />"(Anger builds)"
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">..The colors ain't what they used to be??
<br /></span>
<br />"....."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Haha...You play your violin, but you don't play yourself.</span>
<br />
<br />"What...?
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">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.
<br /></span>
<br />"...I'm sorry.."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">.....
<br /></span>
<br />"Have you any way to turn my perspective around? Deep down, I...ugh...I'm sorry..."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">- No!.. Go on...
<br /></span>
<br />"Well... alright well,...some of my closest aquaintances have possibly convinced me to question and consider more than I am used to..
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Yes...go on..</span>
<br />
<br />"I....I can't."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">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!</span>
<br />
<br />"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..."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">.....
<br /></span>
<br />"I'd agree all three of us share the same, distant feeling about this whole...experienti-ial conversa-tion, I guess..."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Enter through the next door you see, and that is all.
<br /></span>
<br />"(Looking estranged and bewildered)...What?"
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">When the next door opens, you shall succumb and move forward.</span>
<br />
<br />"...Well..."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">........</span>
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#000000;">"What if the door leads to...."</span></strong>
<br /><strong>
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">What......Darkness?</span> </strong>
<br />
<br /><strong>"......................................" </strong>
<br />
<br /><strong>****************************************** </strong>
<br />
<br /><strong><span style="color:#cc33cc;">This darkness you speak of...</span></strong>
<br /><strong><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span>
<br />"(listening intentively)"
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">...is a lame, and animated invention of human imagination?</span>
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span>
<br />".......(still listening intentively)....but you ask with a...question?"
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Yes!....go on.</span>
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">
<br /></span>"........"
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Go on, sire...</span>
<br />
<br />".....Well..."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">......</span>
<br />
<br />"I forget..."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">.............It is easy to forget when things at hand require your upmost attention due to their unorganzied, messiness.</span>
<br />
<br />"(Reflecting, silently)..."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">I might add,....</span>
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">
<br /></span>"(Still reflecting and listening silently)"
<br /></span>
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">.....That when you forget something...</span>
<br />
<br />"...."
<br />
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">.....It probably means it's unimportant to your destiny..... </span>
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">
<br /></span>"....?...."
<br /></span>
<br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;"><em>..........For your destiny is the result of what you do with what you remember</em></span>.</strong>
<br />
<br />
<br /></strong></strong>
<br />Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-28224863507822176662010-12-09T09:14:00.000-08:002010-12-09T09:19:56.019-08:00Azure Lunar Moon (An Ode to New England)<div align="left"><a href="http://johnberg.net/newengland.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 528px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 350px" alt="" src="http://johnberg.net/newengland.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Gashes and scrapes, hot water, duct tape<br />The Northern Air falls upon<br />the bustling townies with their New England outer shell,<br />who soon may walk on a pond<br /><br />The mammals retire, and so does my bliss<br />My hands are chill-wind-kissed;<br />The winged go to Hell but New England they'll miss<br />Keep an eye on the time on yer wrist<br /><br />Soon a bright blanket cast over the land<br />Frozen under the sun and over the sand<br />Reminds a good New England man<br />of things he does not understand<br /><br />Pour me 'cup a' potato<br />Cook me a plate a' tea<br />A winter in New England hills<br />will chill you to your knee<br /><br />The cubs are in their cardigans,<br />And the mother licks her wounds<br />Crescent shows the dark side<br />of the azure lunar moon</div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-52752875962874018182010-11-29T16:19:00.001-08:002010-11-29T16:35:52.831-08:00A Theory on MemoryWhat are memories?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />But why do our memories only give us a taste? Why have some aspects of our memories stuck to our minds and not others?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />Perhaps we should let memories enter the present, at their own will, for they may be universes of their own.Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-14599320549468514892010-11-16T06:25:00.000-08:002010-11-16T07:32:51.247-08:00Individualism in 2010Who are you?<br /><br />Have you any idea?<br /><br />Where will you go?<br /><br />Have you given it any thought?<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> So with no destination, and no obvious distractions, become a walking observer, and nothing more. Notice everything, and I mean <em>everything</em>. 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 <em>everything</em>. 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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 <em>here</em> 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.<br /><br /> 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?<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> But the catch, for those of you who hate being alone, is <em>solitude</em>. 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.<br /><br />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.Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-63508782617417927402010-11-12T12:46:00.000-08:002010-11-12T14:18:02.051-08:00A Mid-Day Walk<a href="http://image61.webshots.com/61/9/61/67/502996167JzILGM_fs.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 1048px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 536px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://image61.webshots.com/61/9/61/67/502996167JzILGM_fs.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>DEPARTING</strong><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>THE ROAR OF ROUTE 9 AND THE FOREST-GREEN BICYCLE</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>OFF-ROAD AT LAST</strong><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>LAST STRETCH ON LAKE STREET</strong><br /><br />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:<br /><br />JON BONNER<br />MUSICIAN/NATURALIST<br /><br />"WALK WHAT'S LEFT OF THE<br />SHREWSBURY WOODS, MY<br />FRIENDS; THEY ARE AS<br />PRETTY AS ANYWHERE ELSE."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>THE POWERLINES (RADIATION TOWERS)</strong><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />HELP!<br />I AM A FELLOW BOWHUNTER. I'VE HUNTED THESE<br />WOODS FOR MANY YEARS. THIS YEAR, FOR THE<br />FIRST TIME, SOMEONE STOLE NOT ONLY MY NEW<br />TREE STAND BUT ALSO MY $300 TRAIL CAMERA.<br />LIKE YOU, I CAN'T AFFORD THIS LOSS. WORSE,<br />I FEEL DISPIRITED THAT MY HUNTING HAS BEEN<br />RUINED BY SOMEONE BOTH THOUGHTLESS AND<br />GREEDY. HE OBVIOUSLY KNOWS THESE WOODS AND<br />HAS NO SENSE OF HONESTY OR RESPECT FOR HIS<br />FELLOW HUNTERS. EVERYONE ELSE IN THESE WOODS<br />IS IN JEOPARDY, AS WELL, FROM THIS FELON. I<br />HOPE HE HAS A CONSCIENCE AND PUTS WHAT HE<br />STOLE BACK, NO QUESTIONS ASKED. NO ONE HAS<br />GOOD LUCK IN LIFE STEALING FROM OTHERS.<br /><br />WE FELLOW BOW HUNTERS NEED TO STICK BY AND UP<br />FOR EACH OTHER. WE DON'T NEED OR WANT<br />UNETHICAL THIEVES IN OUR RANKS. THEY DIMINISH<br />US ALL. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT<br />THIS THIEF, PLEASE CALL ME CONFIDENTIALLY AT<br />XXX-XXX-XXXX. GOOD LUCK TO YOU ALL AND GOOD<br />HUNTING.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>OAK STREET AND A FRIENDLY LIFT</strong><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Ha, that's funny; a walker buys a bike. Classic." He replied.<br /><br />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!</div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-82093938792484205152010-09-07T11:58:00.001-07:002010-09-07T12:04:15.267-07:00No More Greedy Pigs: A Guide to Revolting Against Modern America<div><a href="http://api.ning.com/files/tDDJWWmz*e3gn4b79*JAJWVPgATxBWH*uBO52nG3mxNCj-4Rn-NJM7LtWKgyprb18RUPj2nvVwbx6shZnpTRgm*Wj4qsdnbv/thomasongardenpic.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 425px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 383px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://api.ning.com/files/tDDJWWmz*e3gn4b79*JAJWVPgATxBWH*uBO52nG3mxNCj-4Rn-NJM7LtWKgyprb18RUPj2nvVwbx6shZnpTRgm*Wj4qsdnbv/thomasongardenpic.jpg" /></a> 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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a href="http://sunenergyfacts.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/02/solar-energy-storage.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 387px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://sunenergyfacts.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/02/solar-energy-storage.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />But what will I do about money, you say? Don’t I need a job?<br />Get your mind off of money. In this lifestyle, all you’ve got to worry about is your farm.<br /></div><br /><br /><div></div></div>Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-84582253021344698482010-08-13T09:20:00.000-07:002011-01-18T21:48:19.799-08:00SolitudeI 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />It's not about self-control; it's about me being suppressed of my freedom.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-71551961371846690692010-08-11T16:45:00.001-07:002010-08-11T16:47:34.586-07:00The Most Inspiring Quote In My Life at This Moment is.........."I'd put my money on the sun and solar energy.<br /> What a source of power!<br /> I hope we don't have to wait to oil and coal run out,<br /> before we tackle that."<br /><br /> - <strong>Thomas Edison </strong>(1847 - 1931)Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-78026394630411683242010-08-11T16:05:00.000-07:002010-08-11T16:38:34.738-07:00Burning Branches: Forced into Forcing the Creative Spark<a href="http://www.girlopinion.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/motivation2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 545px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 436px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.girlopinion.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/motivation2.jpg" /></a> 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.<br /><br />Where does this feeling come from, anyway? The drudging of having to do something, AKA <u>your job? </u>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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />I would say so.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />So Jon, what are things <em>really</em> like?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <strong>taxes </strong>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.<br /><br />And as you grow older, you gradually accept it. You change your lifestyle, and you persue something else; something you'll presumably like.<br /><br />Buy a spread with with some wood by the road,<br />Grass gets mowed when the grass gets mowed,<br />Just worry 'bout the veggies and the raw sugar cane,<br />And live off the Sun and Rain.<br /><br />Ten to twenty-acre square, hidden by trees<br />No more conventional yardwork, please<br />I can grow some good food, and I've got proof,<br />PV Solar, and rainwater from my roof.<br /><br />I just need to get started working, and then I'm good. It's not that I'm lazy, I just don't care.Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-39822332504796987962010-08-03T11:14:00.000-07:002010-08-07T09:57:44.788-07:00You 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:<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <strong>swing</strong> in this music. The auto-tune is just so disgusting.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Brad Paisley is Kenny Chesney with guitar chops. Same voice, same image. Enough said.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />MUSIC IS DEAD. WHO WILL SAVE THE PURITY OF MUSIC?Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-53981510453242287812010-06-29T11:20:00.000-07:002010-06-29T11:51:38.245-07:00Weed 101 - 25 Things Dealers Should Know1. You are a dealer, DEAL.<br />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.<br />3. Don't tell me fifteen minutes when you damn well know it takes a half hour from where you are to get here.<br />4. Consider upgrading your quality and downgrading your prices. I don't know how; figure it out. Lucas did.<br />5. ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE.<br />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.<br />7. You have NO IDEA what you're doing.<br />8. This weed does not belong to you, and it doesn't belong to me. It doesn't belong to anyone.<br />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?<br />10. There's a reason I've never been robbed before.<br />11. A business with a delivery service is a much more profitable business.<br />12. Okay, it's just me and you; why do we HAVE to roll a blunt?<br />13. Oh yeah; because you have no idea how to roll a joint.<br />14. It's important as a dealer to remember the position you signed up for.<br />15. You may want to consider simplifying the situation a bit.<br />16. If you get held up, pick up your phone and let your customer know that you'll be late.<br />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.<br />18. Here's a little advice: Keep your mouth shut.<br />19. As much as I'd love to hang out, I'm in a rush. Sue me.<br />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.<br />21. Herb turns into money when you deal it.<br />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.<br />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.<br />24. It's a lot easier to do what you're doing than you think. Reevaluate your scenario.<br />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.Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604661619061586281.post-5446860490017801952010-05-26T23:55:00.000-07:002010-05-27T00:32:04.202-07:00Drunken Banter: The Disappearance of Pathetic IndividualsSo 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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?<br /><br />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 tolerance...you 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />well don't get me started.Jon Bonnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13765879328879021697noreply@blogger.com0