So you’re told that your father has cancer and you find yourself sliding into a funk. Deep. Slipping. Then you’re irritated by the funk because it - the cancer that is - isn’t necessarily an irrevocable death sentence. In fact the outlook, or ‘prognosis’ as the professionals call it, is good to very good. But the funk lingers. And maybe it should. Maybe you are human after all. Maybe life is finite. Maybe that is something, despite all of your intellectualism, which you never really cared to believe.

So you start to think a bit about your dad. Your old man. You think about how you might not have always agreed with him. You think about how you might have been harder on yourself because he was so hard on you. You think about the stamp he’s left on you - in you - and all around you. And you’re confused because it isn’t all bad or it isn’t all good but you probably wouldn’t change any of it because life would be hollow. And all that happens is that damn blue cloud just gets thicker and thicker.
So you turn to the things that you feel you can control. So you sit down to write something. You sit. You wait. You sit some more. So you pluck at the keys - sjdjfivoaoejvfjoeju88kidncjc - wondering why you can’t even think. Wondering if you might never write again. So you start to think ‘who the fuck cares if I ever write again’. And then you agree with yourself. So you look at the keyboard and the letters fade away. Then you look at the screen and the only thing colder and emptier is your mind.

So you type some small words. Hello you. And you think it might help you go somewhere. But you get nowhere. So you glance up at the clock. “Shit, it’s 7:45 already.” So you realize that you’ve been sitting and sitting and sitting, and now an hour and a half have passed and you don’t know where the fuck it went. You don’t even know what you were thinking about or how time slipped away. And you start to think about the Willie Nelson song and you think it isn’t so funny how it slips away. Not now. Then you get mad at yourself for even thinking about that song.
So you look up to the clock like it’s just lied to you and now it says 8:03. And now you know it’s lying. So you try and shake yourself out of this haze and you get up and figure “fuck it” to writing anything right now - and maybe ever again. So you start to think maybe you’ll just stop. Maybe you’ll just never write anything again. Maybe, if you never wrote another feeble word, just maybe, nobody would even notice.

So then you move around a little bit, trying to convince yourself that it’s just “things”. And you are as confused by this vague lie to yourself as you are about everything else. “Things.” So you try and think with more clarity, you struggle to put some sense together. So you think that you’re just feeling shitty and that you really love to write but circumstances have kidnapped your mind for now and you can’t get going and that maybeyouneedtojustgobacktothosethingsthatgotyoualljackeduptowriteinthefirstplace.
So you take a deep breath and try to slow your mind down. Your chest heaves as it fills and collapses as you exhale and when you come around you realize that you’ve been standing in front of a window with your hands in your pockets and you are staring out into the gray dusk of winter while your fingers massage some soft piece of lint that feels like it might just be the most significant thing in your life right NOW.
And now you feel so pathetic. You feel like some sort of overly dramatic skunk that you’d always used to think so little of.

Those things. The one that always get you going. The reasons for your writing. The reasons for living. Those are the things that you need to turn to.

So you grab a book and you put on some music. You turn to the tried and true, or something new. Hunter Thompson’s brown Gatsby, Dave Brubeck’s Time Out. Thompson damn near makes you cry - and leaves you feeling woefully inadequate. Brubeck makes you wretch. Too much thinking. Far too much thinking.
But you know that you dig this Brubeck but that he ain’t gonna help right now. So you toss the Thompson book onto a pile of others and you slip the Brubeck back into its sleeve and you just stand there. And you stand. And you stand.

And you curse your old man, or rather the cancer that, as you’ve been told, isn’t really such a big deal. But you never believe.

So you start to wonder if music really is it. You start to think you’ve duped yourself for too many seasons. So you think you need to find this out now. So you start tearing through your records, tapes, compact discs, whatever...

And you still hate the way that sounds: compact disc. And you start to hate the way that you think so arrogantly about things like compact discs.

So you pick out some music that you think will pick you up. You try some sounds that seem spiritual to you because you think that maybe that is what you have lost along the way. “I’m Alone in the Wilderness”. So you play it, hoping that a little nascent reggae religiosity will do what you’ve thought it has done before. And you just stand there. And stare. So you take the disc out and put it back into its case. And you stare some more at the cover with its soft Afro-pastels and a man raising his fist to the heaven’s. A gesture of defiant optimism you think. One that you cannot share. One that, perhaps, you’ve never, ever really shared.

So you turn to other songs, other sounds. Sounds that had always saved you before. “Snowstorm” “Another Day” and they sound like a funeral. Your funeral. And your mind leaves you for awhile. And nothing feels better.

So you grab some drink and you start ripping through your music. You slide black vinyl from sleeves, silver plastic from cases, white cassettes from oblivion, and then you do it some more. Records pile onto records. Sleeves litter the floors. CD’s pile up on bookshelves, books, and stereo components. Cassettes get hurled into the box from whence they came. And you do it over, and over, and over. And you start to sweat, you’re moving so fast. And nothing works. And you get manic. And you start to wonder what you can do…who you can be without your music. And you sweat some more. And you pant. And you start to feel like crying.

So you stop and stand amongst your sounds strewn about your feet. And you realize that you are drenched. So you think to yourself that this is what its like to go crazy. This is what it’s like to lose your mind. But you think that you can’t be losing your mind because you wouldn’t think about losing your mind. Would you? Would you? Would you?

So you grab some more beer and try some more music. And you tear your shirt off because you feel so hot. So goddamn hot. And that doesn’t help. And you are convinced that you are on fire. It’s so damn hot. And you see the drops drip from your chin. And you taste them as they stream from your forehead into your mouth. And the salty drink tastes good. And you wash it away with more beer.

And you dig for something. You dig deep. And you hope for something, anything, to come along and make it all feel all right. Something that’ll cool you down. That’ll bring you back. And you keep going through your records. And you hold them. And you feel them. And you adore them.

And you are on your knees putting another record on the turntable and you think about how this is the way your mom taught you to pray when you were so small. On your knees, beside your bed, at night, for your soul. And you think that is exactly what you are doing right now - praying. And you are.

And then it happens. Communion. An old record, one you hardly noticed was playing, starts to burn through the clouds surrounding you. And it’s something you’d never have picked out, anything that you’d have ever thought to lean on for solace.
So you find yourself listening to this obscure pop record from your teens. The Peter Emmett Story. And you think about how it was wrapped in so much mystery when you were young. And how it was some unknown cat playing some semi-know tunes written and performed by a well-known regional band called the Cruisers who’d been the band behind a local star named Donnie Iris who you’d always dug as a kid. And then you recall someone telling you that the record was actually a one-off stab at contemporary stardom by ex-local star of a generation ago Sonny Geraci. You remember how that record got you digging through garage sale and thrift store bins for Geraci’s former band The Outsiders and how when you found one how fucking ecstatic you were and how you were even more thrilled when you spun it and dug it.
So you start to remember what the music held for you and what it still holds. And you find yourself playing the Emmett record twice and smiling. And you think about how it sounds so good right now. Almost as good as back then. And then you start to feel like it is “back then” all over again. And you grab another beer and drink it. And you sing with the songs. And you remember every last word to every last song. And for some reason that makes you smile. And that’s something you hadn’t done in awhile.

So you start to think ‘fuck cancer’. Even if it isn’t “serious”, or what if it is? And you realize that it doesn’t matter. And you think about how your old man loved music too. And how he turned you onto it whether he knows it or not. Not overtly but rather through some mystery like osmosis. And you hate using that word…osmosis…but it works. And you think about listening to Loretta Lynn, Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, Dave Brubeck, Ahmad Jamaal, and even the Harmonicats while driving in the car. And you remember getting lost in those songs. And you smile.

So you’re thankful now for your music and your beer and your books and your writing and the brown Jay Gatsby and even your funk that brought you back around to understanding - for now. And you’re thankful for your old man. And you hate that damn cancer but it doesn’t seem so daunting anymore. And you smile. And you swig from your tin can and sing along to another song. And you’re still surprised that you know all of the words. And you feel saved once again. And you don’t know if it was the sweat or the beer or the music. And you don’t really care. And you turn up the volume.

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