Here, again. Might be the best of my bad habits. Or the worst. I suppose we’ll just have to keep finding ourselves here and figure it out. That, or fully commit to the delusion. Could be one in the same attempt, really.

I had a funny thought about sanity, earlier. About never questioning the point of view of my own mind and just disagreeing with what reality has come to offer from the outside. The parts that are the crueler offerings. Those types of truths we always aim to deny, or at the very least try.

It’s not that I actually question such stances in a definitive sort of way. I know what is- in my life, in this world, and so on. Painfully aware of the non-desired aspects of existence. Living into the future with the ghosts of decisions past, both my own and those made by those others around and impactful toward this singular sentience I call home.

But we have not gathered here, on this rainy evening, to discuss reality. No, here we dabble with theories both introspective and outwardly mad. To reflect upon the life lived and wonder about what is still left yet in store. To string words that hopefully weave some better being about in terms of the flesh and bone and electricity that make up your evening’s humble narrator.

Been thinking about beginnings. Trying to begin again and how to me it necessitates some end occurring first. Probably as a result of all the endings that have been hovering about my neurons lately. Rebirth, in the settling dust of death, etc.

We humans like that idea. Rebirth, Happens in so many of our stories and legends. So often perceived as some peaceful, mystical ideal, even when following a demise so painful and grim.

But peaceful isn’t exactly how the first birth goes, for us hairless apes. It is visceral and near-violent, all screaming and tears. And thus, from all that hurt, new realities are brought forth, in such inescapable ways.

So, with this idea of rebirth, I believe I’ll keep that in mind. That to bring something new forth, a certain pain must be brought to bear. Or at least that’s the angle we’ll be going with here and now.

Forgive me, I’m just getting over an existential hangover. A mostly positive one. From occurrences grand and fulfilling, for sure. That does not mean that they are not without their toll. Sometimes the wonderful things can cost near as much as the horrible, even if not in by the same means and methods.

But this house, this home of mine, now quiet aside the clatter of this keyboard and the rain dancing upon the roof, was not so long ago filled with life and sound. Brimming with the folks I’ve come to know in this life of mine, all sonically sharing what they had to give. I must confess, I am a junkie for people playing music around me. Seems impossible to believe, but it is true, I swear. Scout’s honor.

Though you probably know by now, that is an old trick of mine. The uplifting of others in order to distract myself from some perceived failure or folly. Or some damned circumstantial that I must invest a certain amount of willpower to not have to think about. The self-serving rising tide, all sloshed on a manic altruism. Help others to help yourself forget all the help you might need or want and yet refuse to ask. Siphon inspiration from outside to feed that monster of creative desire within.

All that, and yet, something else. Something purer. Something as close to divine as anything real can ever get. That there is a solace in witnessing the expression of being outside ourselves. In all shapes and genres and constructs and commitments. Well, maybe not commitments. If you cannot commit your heart to what it is you do, I tend to doubt very much that I will ever have my attention or intentions engage with or within such creations.

But when it has heart, that is the reality I choose to abide by.

I did it again tonight which is why this is so late, for all of you mega-fans who have been patiently waiting for the freshest bout of recycled word vomit.

Two people who played within the four walls that contain me now, they shared their music again. In another space, in another time. And with this instance, I was actually able to give my more or less undivided attention. Which happens to be my favorite kind of attention to give, even when I awkwardly squirm my way to acting otherwise.

Those self-made sonic expressions have a specific potency. The encapsulated moments recorded to tape and digital equivalent. And even more so when the soul of origin is bringing it forth in the physical present. Hearing a tune strung and sung by it’s writer right before you, and wondering about how it has traveled from its origin within some other heart and mind and through all this space and time to work its way through to your internal philosophical workings. Finding your own meaning in something someone else has made. Or finding new meaning is something you made yourself, despite origins that might have seemed as otherwise.

Anyway, the fuck if I know anything about any of this. Maybe this is part of that painful rebirth. Sitting here hoping for something profound and ending up with some non-nonchalantly genuineness that falls short of whatever it has been that I’ve been thinking all day.

Try again next week. Or somewhere else doing something else between now and then. But definitely, here again next week. The habit was formed over a decade ago, for all this.