Heaven and the apocalypse.

By the 3rd day I got what I wanted from my cross country train ride, some good conversation with folks on a train that I wouldn't have met anywhere else. Maybe it took 2 days to wear down my walls which are thick and the judge in my head, I just couldn't hear him any more.

When we switched trains in Chicago the whole staff changed for the better, well, kinda better. They were nicer than those folks out west. The train itself was cobbled together from random train cars and us coach folks with the cheap tickets were put into a business class car. Chicago like most of the country was hit with the blizzard and sub zero temperatures. Outside in the switching yard it looked like the apocalypse. Fires blazing to keep the tracks from freezing. I started to feel alive. This was no longer a dull trip. And yeah, people were still crazy and the sub zero chill made them crazier. The staff was serving free cheap booze maybe to calm the nerves of the riders who were being delivered late in a cold and cramped coach.

The passengers varied from all walks of life. Some very 'normal' folks, an older Amish couple in the seat in front of me making out like high school kids all night, a couple young hip hoppers with some bling and tacky jackets with dollar signs and other symbols of male territorial prowess on them, some college type girls getting loaded (heck, most of the train was getting loaded!), a gunky on vacation from jail telling his boring stories about being arrested for bullshit and how unfair the world was (he was telling his tales to a couple young girls, maybe 16-20 years old. They were impressed.), a huge church dude who kept muttering scripture as he passed out.

The young hip hoppers had the most calming and beautiful voices, this deep baritone going in counterpoint to the gunkys' tenor and increasingly drunk teenage girls' soprano who told one poor woman who was trying to sleep to shut the fuck up mixed with the sounds of tongue and whispers from the older Amish couple. The 'shut the fuck up bitch' was one of those startling moments in the symphony, a moment where you knew everything could change. An uneasy major chord to a chaotic minor. As I passed out I could here the huge church man muttering scriptures in his sleep. A large bald dude in a pea coat joined me in  my row, we picked him up in Godknowswhereville Indiana. He was cool, tired and just wanted to sleep. I felt okay with him next to me. The last thought I had before passing out was 'someone is going to die on this train tonight'. I think that was inspired by scripture man. The bible always makes me think about mortality. That's one gloomy ass book.

I woke up to a scream, the peak of the 3rd movement in this rolling symphony of stupidity. The tension in the air warmed the cold room up. We were slowing down. Commotion. I could here the Amish couple whispering. I could here the hip hoppers saying in that bassoon like voice 'yeah, we gonna kill that motherfucker'. Someone was going to die tonight. We stopped in the middle of a field somewhere in Ohio. Pitch black, -12 degrees outside.

One of the now very drunk teenage girls passed out sharing the gunkys' blanket and woke up with his hand down here pants. The hip hoppers were out to do what young men are trained to do and avenge the trespass with death, or maybe just beat the stupid old boring man up. The gunky was trying desperately to get off the train which if he succeeded he would have died. There were no lights outside at all, just a frozen Ohio. No man could survive too long out there with a jean jacket and a johnny cake. Fortunately for him the staff bagged him and cuffed his skinny ass before the hip hoppers could prove they were men now. He was removed by the cops when the sun came up.

Before that my mysterious bald passenger vanished and was replaced by a young scared college boy who was dull as dishwater. He seemed bent on proving to me that he was not gay by repeating his side of the story. A girl in distress asked him to go into the bathroom with her and she's telling him about the assault and all that is going in his mind is "is this a girl or a fag standing in the bathroom cause I ain't gay blah blah blah." Oh fear. Make a mind stupid. Of fearful boy, why the fuck are you talking to me? At this point it's no longer a symphony, just another stupid noise band responding to a mediocre world.

When the sun rose my bald pea coat wearing passenger returned and another cat boarded the train. He was a black Muslim Vietnam Vet jazz drummer named Kazem. We rode together for the next leg. Finally 2 intelligent beings that were mature and interesting. The bald guy drove freight trains for a living, I think his name was Jim and he played harmonica while doing his job. He was a native Pittsburgh resident going home. Kazem drove a truck and was from Philly and was headed home as well. We talked music and life stuff, lots of laughs. At one point separated cause the car was no longer packed and we needed to sleep. As we passed out the hip hoppers had their music cranked on the ear goggles to the point where Kazem growled "TURN THE MUSIC DOWN PLEASE!" The complied right away. He had this calm authority to him. He turned to me and said "that music has everything, good beat, good sounds, but those lyrics man, it's killing us."

After breakfast we resumed talking. I told them a story about my great grandfather Charles who was a Pullman Porter back during World War 2 on the troop transport trains. He had all kinds of stories riding through the south navigating racist bullshit, hustling people, and stealing apples in Washington State and not getting arrested cause the orchard owner had a South Carolina accent and so did one of the Porters. Stories of picking up Bing Crosby in the middle of a field in Montana as he rode up on a horse cause he needed a ride to Chicago. Stuff that would never happen on the rails today cause that world is gone. Even his hard luck stories he told with the greatest smiles. He knew that world is gone and he was just glad to have been there.

 My favorite story he told I shared with my friends. Charles had a stop in Los Angeles. He was walking through the station when a man approached him and said "Hey man, you look like am man who is down on your luck. Let's step into this bar over here, I got a job for you". Charles told me in those days he almost always had $400 in his pocket but he stepped in anyway to hear the mans offer. The man ordered a couple whiskeys and they sat across each other at a table. He handed my Great Grandfather a brown paper bag with $500 in cash, a pistol and a hotel room key and told him "take care of this guy and meet me here tomorrow at noon and I'll settle up the other half". Charles said "okay", took the bag, waited till he felt it was safe, caught the next train out of there and never went back to Los Angeles again.

Kazem asked me "man, could you ever do that?" I said "what? Kill someone? Take that money? Hell no, that's just not in me. Could you?" Kazem replied "well, I was in the air force during Vietnam so yeah I killed, it was my job though I'm not happy about it. I almost killed a kid who mugged me. I could have done it but I stopped. Couldn't have been more than 14." Kazem turned to Jim, our freight driver and says "You awful quiet over there, what about it?"

Jim replied rather calmly "well, I'd never do it on purpose, but I've killed lots of people." We both said "oh yeah?" as we nervously moved away from him slightly. "Yeah, I drive a freight train through Akron Ohio. There's almost always a sad sack who wants to die. Can't stop something that is a mile long when it's in motion." I asked him "man, what is that like?" Ed replied, "well the worst part is they like to make eye contact with you, that fucks you up the first few times, like it's your fault. Then after we stop the train an investigation happens, it's a Union job so I get as much time off as I need and therapy though it's so routine now that I don't need all of that." I asked how many. "Oh man, I lost count after 30. The only time it messes me up now is when it's a kid."

Yeah, our ride was quiet after that. Not much else to say. We rode into western Pennsylvania and the world was frozen. The Ohio river completely still but the sun was shining. Somehow Pittsburgh looked like heaven that day. Jim hopped off and Kazem and I boarded a bus to Harrisburg for no fires could keep the tracks safe in Pennsylvania. Somehow on the highway the world looked like heaven and the apocalypse at the same time. Maybe they are the same?

Becoming Joey

I had a revelation the other day. I never really liked the term 'self sabotage'. It has too much 'self' in it. We are influenced by so much and when our behavior becomes compulsive it's perhaps our expression seeking too much approval from the outside. Ah, the respectability trap.....

I stopped wearing hoodies this year. I realized that some how I wore them to fit in with hardened souls. I like the comfort, wear them at home or when I go jogging, but they've fallen out of fashion for me when I'm out and about. I realized this year I had some life long compulsive need to look 'poor', a word I don't really like to use for anyone let alone me. I had this need to fit in so I didn't get beaten by the boys. Where did this attitude come from? From the time I was a child I actually enjoyed dressing up. I like ties, nice shoes, like my grandmother says, look good you feel good. I've started wearing ties at work. I no longer have the need to care what others think, wearing a tie is an expression of my creativity and self respect. When I feel good I do my job better. I smile more, and I'm no longer that kid that needs approval thank god. If I got a nasty remark that is not my problem.

When I was oh maybe 11 and growing out of one toy phase into another, I hadn't quite stopped drawing cartoons. By this point though I never finished them. I learned the word 'Fail' and thought it was much funnier to hang a sign that said "Failed" on my cartoons. By this point I was frustrated at my ability to draw and deep into 'compare and despair'. So rather than keep trying I just creatively destroyed my own work. I built a dinosaur skeleton out of modeling clay one day and really liked it. There was an older kid named Joey in my neighborhood. He was a 'bad' kid. People talked about him. Wore a leather jacket or a jean jacket and a hoodie, liked a heavy metal, did this stuff called 'drugs'. For some reason he was at my house one day. We often had wayward kids at my house, my mother would invite them in though this time it wasn't the case. I don't know why Joey was in our house. All I do remember him was picking up my little skeleton and crumbling it then laughing. You know, inside I wanted to kill him for that, but couldn't and the alternative was cry, but couldn't do that either cause that would be 'weakness' and I'd lose respect. So that energy got stuck. I sucked up those bad feelings and tried to look like a 'man'.  That's what we do right? I smashed my own clay skeletons for the next 30 years before becoming aware of it. Smashing my spirit to look like Joey. Hard to believe I would ever do such a thing. Then again, it's hard to believe a bigger kid would ever do such a thing to a smaller one.

I don't really like talking about the past, I just thought I'd share this cause maybe it would be useful today. We live in a 'fit in' world. It can be cruel, shallow, petty and shoddy. To 'fit in' is ultimately a shoddy existence, second hand. To become 'respectable' is self destructive. When I'm around people that are complaining and miserable I don't smile, I either sink to that level of respectability or I do the smart thing and get away as quickly as possible. To do what feels good and own it is to be yourself, be 100% honest and release that old past. Joey may still walk the earth, he may have grown up and may be recovered, but for me he's dead like the past is. The past can't actually touch us, it's perhaps worthy of an autopsy but that's it. Find out what went wrong, grieve if necessary, get thatawareness and move on. Find yourself and be yourself for you are worthy of exploration!

Love, JB

More about money.

I love spending money, I ain't gonna lie.

I learned something valuable this week. I've slipped into my old survival ways being full of anxiety about what I don't have. That feeling can keep a life small. That anxiety warps the mind and dulls my days. I made a serious error. I love maple syrup. I bought corn syrup instead. Not nearly as tasty.

Buy what I really want and really need. Don't be cheap. Go for the good stuff, that's a key to an already unlocked door and that's what keeps it coming. It's faith.

How's my bank account? Infinite. There is no limit to what this world can provide. If I focus on the dollar amount and allow myself to Kirk out, I'll most likely lock the door. If I remember that line in The Wire where Omar says to Marlo as he's sticking up his poker game: "Son, nobody owns money, people just spend it!" it get's me out of my small thinking. All money is borrowed. So are my guitars, my clothes, my saxophone, my van, my time. Someday I'll get to die like everyone else and a blessed person will get my stuff and throw it on Ebay and some other blessed person will buy whatever it is and put it back into service.

That's the flow......

peace, jef

Trains, freedom and crying in a Starbucks

I had this amazing gig in the bay area about 6 years ago with a fellow named John Gruntfest. He assembled 45 musicians to play in an Elks lodge. On the way down from Portland I had a few passengers one of which was an older man who shared a lot of stories about his life, most of them filled with grief and resentment. It was the longest ride I had from Portland to San Francisco needless to say, he needed to talk and I didn't feel right telling him to zip it. When we arrived we were treated by Gruntfest to dinner at a Mexican joint and I shared a story about my train ride from Portland to Baltimore in about 2006.

I had this romantic idea about riding the rails, meeting lovely people and having rich conversations. There was a quote from from Truman on the menu: "you can tell a lot about a country and it's people by taking the train." 20 minutes out of the station the hooker and her john in the seat behind me had sex. That was the beginning of the trip. She was paying for her trip to Boston this way and the staff were in on it as far as I could tell. The story of this trip is too long for this little blog post so I'll just do a brief cap. I saw some of the most depressing and terrible behavior I've ever seen on this train ride, there was a sexual assault, the Amtrack staff was supplying booze to anyone regardless of them being already drunk or under age. I passed out to the thought 'someone is going to die on this train' to be woken up to the sound of a scream and 2 lovely young men talking about 'let's find that motherfucker and kill him.' The staff was resentful and nasty, treated the people in coach like dirt, you know, what has become typical American service. The B train or 'bitch and blame' train. There were some good points of course but by the 3rd day I was exhausted and saddened.

We had a stretch in Pennsylvania where we needed to take the bus, there had been a blizzard and the rails were no good. The snow and ice along the Ohio river may have been one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen, I was starting to let my guard down again. We stopped at a rest area with a Starbucks. I got in line to get some decent coffee and a muffin. "Welcome to Starbucks how can I help you?" said the young lady behind the counter. Her voice was kind. I know maybe she is trained to say this and this is her job but that didn't matter. I was bowled over by her kindness after the horror show that was my trip. I cried.

When I was telling this story my grumpy passenger/fellow musician says: "Uh thank you for telling us how fragile you are." I said "excuse me?" "Uh, thank you for telling us how fragile you are, I mean to cry in a Starbucks over nothing."

I replied: "Paul, it takes strength to cry in a Starbucks" and left it at that. John said "everyone needs love man."

It fascinates me when I say to someone that I used to cry when I was hurt as a child and their knee jerk reaction is "oh, so you were a sensitive child". No, I wasn't a sensitive child, I was a child. Nothing exceptional about that. I had my tears berated, belittled and beaten out of me like most other children. No, I wasn't a sensitive child, I was, free.

I'm working on being a free adult today. If I need to cry in a Starbucks or at my job, it's better than cancer or mental illness. Expressing feelings is health. Stuffing them is insanity. I like being sane.

xoj

Ask.

"Ask and ye shall recieve" says the bible.
It's true, one of those bits of that book I'm down with.

Don't demand, don't expect, don't fixate on a result but do ask for what you need. If you recieve a rejection after asking in that job interview, don't let it kill you, just keep looking. There is a reason you got that rejection. It's all good.

2 weeks ago I decided to stop taking 'hired gun' gigs tha didn't pay. Scary after 25 years of not asking for what I need. For the 1st time I'm recieving rejection, AND I FEEL GREAT ABOUT IT! My time is worth money, I have mad skills. I gots ta get paid!

3 days ago I recieved an offer to play for 1 hour, pay is $100. It's true. I'm asking the universe to compensate and I will give my love and service in return and boom, a nice paying gig lands in my lap.

Ask. I dig it.

Living in a capitalist way

Stuff. Stuff, stuff.... More stuff. I want I want I want! I need I need!

I wake up in the morning and get about 10 seconds of post dream bliss before all the stuff I want to buy enters my head and disturbs the peace. Then it's the bills I need to pay and the stuff I need to do to get more stuff. Strat body, mouthpiece, sax neck, other mouthpiece, medical bill, mouthpiece!!

This is what addiction looks and feels like. Every day. More more more. Living in a capitalist way.

No, I don't actually blame capitalism. I don't really need to be on the B train (Blame Train) since that does me no good at all. I live here and am powerless over much of this world, but I do have choices.

What does this mean to me? I have all I actually need. I've manifested great stuff. Before I started to become aware of the tyranny of stuff and my compliance I'd find the dent in the Rolls Royce and obsess over that, this horn will make me sound more like Trane etc. Ebay, the ultimate pusherman. The ultimate weapon of mass distraction.

Yeah, okay, it's true. We live in a society of compare and despair, hence the knee jerk Coltrane comment. I don't actually want to sound like anyone but my best self but my mind always compares and freaks out. Little peace, a fragile daily truce is all I can do most days.

So what does all this stuff mean? I mean, the desire for more stuff? I've determined in my heart it's the simple fear of intimacy. Not allowing myself to get intimate with even my own stuff or process let alone with people. You never get close if you are always changing your stuff up and always seeking more. Intimacy, there maybe is no seeking. It's maybe more just about accepting and being. I like that.

So no, I don't have an antidote yet but I figured this out. I can sit for ever looking at stuff to buy. Now I look at places I want to go instead. Barcelona, Berlin, Oaxaca. I brought a lot of great items to my life, now I only crave experiences, richer relationships, richer music. It is possible to take the focus off the distraction and put it on something else. More gigs, more records, more friends. Attention is like the sun. What you focus it on grows. I've grown the possession part of my life, now to grow the profession part. And I like the sound of that!

Peace, JB

Decision

One of Hitlers staff said "the worst thing anyone has to do in life is make a decision". Look at the result of letting other people decide for us. Never that delicious. Sometimes disastrous results.

I understand this sentence. It's the heart of procrastination. It opens up the door to "what if?" What if it's the wrong decision? God I hate this torture, let someone else decide!

Torture lies in non commitment. In my experience when I make a decision and commit to it something lines up in the ether and the resources have a way of showing up to support that decision. I don't know how this works, neither do I need to know, I just have seen it work enough times to know that it does.

Probably the most difficult decision I chose was to either stay in Baltimore in '95, move to Portland or move to New York. I chose Portland. I think that was ultimately a poor choice for me but I followed through and don't regret it at all. See, the toughest decisions are the ones where they all look like good choices, and in fact at least 2 of those choices were potentially great. Staying in Baltimore was not an option. My deepest fear is in standing still. It was probably better to go to New York in '95, that was the scariest choice but I am glad I had my west coast experience. I still did a lot of growing there.

At the heart of indecision lies fear. Fear of the unknown. Or is it unknown? If I don't know the result, why would I be fearful? Fear is always old right? "Don't let that happen again!" is the tape loop in my brain that keeps me in a state of indecision and agony. It's what keeps me in a state of putting off what must be done. And it's old. Dead like all those awful fascist leaders I opened this post with. Why be afraid of the dead? We are alive after all, and capable of creating something better.

One of the beauties of being an improvising musician is I need to make decisions every second. I make tons of wrong choices every minute. If I can apply this to my life the same way I apply it to music, decisions will become as easy as breathing. No telling what can be accomplished if I treat life as an experiment. Life is an experiment and ever changing, that is a fact. Fear is old and stagnant, that is a fact. Forks in the road are just that, forks. I never get hung up on the type of fork I use when eating, I just eat when I'm hungry. Simple.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-6xHI7FFhs

It's tricky to do.....

I had a conversation about mastering idle time tonight with my love. I said something I don't remember about mastering time and the next phrase loaded on my tongue was "It's tricky to do". I stopped myself. Thank God.

It's a knee jerk reaction for me to say this about life change, after all we have these tenacious habits always demanding our attention. I know I do anyway. But that phrase "It's difficult to do", there is no real truth in it when it comes to change. What's difficult about it? What's difficult about mastering time, getting up earlier, maximizing our innate talents and sharing them effectively? What's difficult about letting love rule, letting light into the heart? What is difficult about changing our habits? Is it at all possible to radically shift from mediocre to excellent? Is it possible to shift without 34 1/2 years of therapy from a negative outlook to a positive outlook? The older I get the more the answer is a resounding "Yes, it is possible!"

So why this phrase following every thing I say about change? I think if I choose to lose the phrase, my life may radically change for the better only because my outlook will have radically shifted. Yes, I can. Those words serve as defense. Blocks. And they are easily removed.

JB

The Millennium Falcon and the power of denial.

In the late 80's up until about 1991 I had my dads '79 Ford Fairmont wagon, a silver car he used daily in his commute to work to northern Virginia. By the time I received it the "Millennium Falcon" already had 200,000 miles on it. My car received this name from one of the many bands I was in, she was silver and it was difficult to hyper speed just like in the Star Wars saga. I was no Hans Solo even though I may have wished I was.

There was a point crossing the Chesapeake Bay Chunnel that I heard a sound. I looked down and there in the middle of the night was the freeway right under my feet. I could see it in a hole big enough to put a ham sandwich through. I was on tour with a reggae band called Jamallad at the time, we played from Delaware to Virginia, you know, beach towns. This car served me well, I am grateful for this jalopy.

I used to get into traffic on the highway and punch the gas, she'd sputter and I'd go from 0 to 60 in about 21 3/4 seconds. I would imagine myself justifying my sad car to other drivers zooming past me by scowling and saying "you drive my car for a day and see what it's like to be me!" Wow. The phrases of an insane man.

One morning I was picking up my friend Barry in Baltimore to go to Funkyard practice. I parked in front of his house and heard a new sound while parking (whenever I heard a new sound in my car I would also hear a game show host announcing "A NEW SOUND!!!!"). I went upstairs to Barrys apartment, he was on the 4th floor and while I waited for him to get ready I looked out the window. I could see this exhaust system behind my car. In my mind I said "hmmm, that must have been the new sound. I must have run over someone Else's exhaust system. Fucking slobs for not picking their own trash up!" So I went about my business.

About 6 months later I needed an emissions test. They stuck that piptic up my tailpipe and said "sir, you are aware that you have nothing connecting from your tailpipe to your engine right?" I stepped out and looked. Of course! That entire exhaust system was mine, all mine! My car was so noisy at this point I didn't even notice it being noisier without the muffler! Ah, the power of denial!

When I hear people complain about the state vehicle inspection I think of this story. It's to keep dangerous vehicles like the Millennium Falcon off the road. It was a rust bucket, couldn't go any faster than 55mph and had large parts falling off. I buried it at 275,000 miles.

I used to complain loudly in my mind every time I would see an rickety old pick up truck with junk all bundled up in the back, you know the type, the junk collector. I would get angry. I would be screaming "you're going to cause an accident!" But there was something so much deeper going on. When I lost my apartment in Los Angeles and was putting my boxes into storage for the 3rd time, I looked at those boxes and wondered what was in them. Some of these I hadn't opened in 20 years. I had carted them around Maryland, to Portland, to Los Angeles. I could feel my own insanity. In that moment I realized I am that guy in the rickety old pick up truck hauling crap around! The moment I realized that the hatred for those fellows vanished and I could love myself a little more, for a piece of my own self hatred vanished because I could no longer deny it it was a problem.  I became the problem and treated it like my own child, giving it attention and sending the physical manifestation of it (the boxes) to the Goodwill. I don't even know what I gave away that day. It was 2 1/2 years ago and I don't miss any of it whatever it was!

It's not like I don't struggle with putting up with crap, I need to fix a head light and a tail light on my van, but I don't deny it's a problem any longer. Denial is a colossal waste of energy. Own it, heal it and move on. Denial was a peculiar way for me to be right when I was so clearly wrong! A great way to stay in conflict. It's madness.

Now I have a car to fix, best get to it! And a car to fix may be so much more than that! I love it!

Burning Bridges

I'm in a phase of my recovery that involves deep cleaning. Cleaning of my heart, mind, car, bedroom and apparently, my bank account as well. Naturally, I'm scared about the last part. My lifestyle has improved tremendously in the last few months, but I haven't earned enough yet to keep up with it. What I do know is I can't go back to the old lifestyle. I've burned the bridge behind me and this last bit of clutter is me not accepting that 100%. I perhaps haven't gotten to the other side of that bridge and I'm holding on to a branch to climb up and continue down the road to the promised land. If a branch is all I have to hold on to, that will just have to do!

Last week I sold a microphone to a guy in Sweden on Ebay. Got $300 for it and it turns out that something is wrong with it. I could get all egoed out about it and fight the case he opened but this guy? I think he's telling the truth. Some things are just out of my control. I could really use that money but decided to issue a refund. Leap of faith. I may not get that mic back. I don't care. I bought it from a pawnshop 20 years ago for $20 back before people went insane with paying high prices for old goods. They sell for up to $600 today. But why don't I care? Well, I do care. Like I said I can use the money but today I have faith that I will get that money another way. I needn't worry about it. I started a new job teaching kids how to play music better, just that spiritual victory alone says I am going in a healthy direction. A busted mic is just that, the past. Gone. Finito Mussolini. Teaching kids? That feels like heaven to me. A job that doesn't feel like a job. That's my present, not my past. I'm in love with my present.

So this month has been a month of financial setbacks. A test of faith is what it feels like. I'm watching my savings decrease. I don't like that. But then again, money is a tool, nothing more, nothing less. It has nothing to do with my actual self worth. I am glad I have savings in this challenging moment. A few years ago I didn't even have the concept of savings. I just borrowed to keep myself fed. That sucked. Truly. Don't do it kids, there is always a way.

So why did I title this Burning Bridges? I've learned that many successful people burned a lot of bridges behind them which enabled them to not entertain the idea of going back. I haven't burned too many bridges, some but not a lot, the difference is those that have succeeded had an idea of where they were going. A powerful vision. Faith. Without that what do you have? Today I know exactly what I want to do. It has never changed really, I was just too scared to admit that I want to be successful in music and am willing to do whatever it takes to live that dream. The last of my clutter lies in my other blog, the one about fixing tube amps. I have some tubes to sell, and my tube tester, and my bias meter. This stuff has to go. It merely represents my fear of totally letting go of my past. It represents my "back up plan" in case things go totally wrong or simply just don't work out. I've been there before when I moved to Los Angeles. I had no job for the first 4 months there and was the happiest I had ever been. Oh, I was scared, but rather than look for work I wrote music all day. By the end of that summer that music was pulling me in a direction like a magnet. Trouble was, I had burned through my savings and I was scared to death. So I got a job doing the same thing I did for 20 years, fixing tube amps. I lied to get that job saying I was excited to build this division in the company to my new employer when truth was I was burned out and wanted nothing to do with it. After 5 months that lie got me a nervous break. Lying takes a tremendous amount of energy you see. Yeah, it was a smart choice in one way, perhaps the best I had at that time. Fix amps or lose my apartment and wind up on the street in the City of Lost Angels. At least that's what it looked like. I hated letting my employer down. Hated it. Felt awful. It's a burnt bridge I'm not proud of. But on the other hand, I can't go back to that job. That in itself is a blessing in an odd way.

So today I earned doing something I truly love. I'm hooked. I'm hungry for sharing and being of service. I'm hungry to become a better teacher, musician, writer, producer, composer. I'm hungry for a better life. I'm no longer starving, it's just the right amount of hunger. And I love it.

JB

Cluttered room, cluttered mind

Clutter. Oof. A sore subject for me. I lived in a house in Portland Oregon for 9 years and had my own shop for 5 years. I am a recovering Luddite. Luddites always seem to be a magnet for old broken stuff.

It took me 2 years to move out of that house and shop. Just the task of ridding myself of the stuff on Ebay, the Goodwill or throwing stuff away took that long. And most of it was little things but also for some reason I always had at least 5 tenor saxophones at a time as well.

When I moved from Portland it took me 2 days to pack my van.

When I moved from Los Angeles 9 months later it took me 2 1/2 hours to pack my van.

Clutter was my way of being right. I could sit in jealousy of my friends who had a few possessions and travelled while I was weighed down by my stuff. How messed up is that?

This week I may have let go of my last piece of clutter though I may sell my tube tester as well. Why the hell not? I won't be getting back into the amp fixing business ever again, why is this still around?

I'm pretty strict about it these days. What I have is what I actually use. If it sits around for a 6 months it needs to find a new home. I can't make a real living with a house full of blocks. Clutter for me is a wall. It's defense pure and simple. I wanted my room to be a disaster zone so I wouldn't need to invite anyone into it. A friend said, put love into your space and love will want to hang out there. Very true. I look at my room right now, my desk is cluttered but my room is organized and tidy for the first time in my life. I cannot believe I lived any other way before!

What I'm finding now that I'm changing these old bad habits is my mind is full of clutter and it's screaming. It will not shut up. Blah blah blah. So i pray to be relieved of this. To be addicted is to be enslaved. I was a slave to my possessions. No longer. I am a slave to my mind and yet have a solution though whatever noise my mind puts out doesn't actually dictate my actions. So it's okay. I've learned to say no to clutter. I'm learning to say no to cluttered opportunities as well. I don't take gigs any longer that don't serve the greater good, don't pay, don't help. No more Wednesday nights at crap bars with 17 bands no one wants to hear. Self respect runs the show. I've learned to let threadbare clothes go, threadbare relationships and threadbare thoughts go. This takes daily practice.

Corners are where clutter still shows up. It feels like those dark areas of my mind or like that dark area of the park where all the distressed people gather in that weird communal fuck the world way. I spent 2 hours shining a light on those corners in my room yesterday. Shine a light and the darkness can't hang out there. That's just science. For my mind? I just need to sit and watch it. See how those threadbare survival patterns behave and say "hey, thanks for helping me out but I will not act on your 36 year old distress!"

I'm starting to see the truth. How I do anything is how I do everything. I hate that sentence. But if I can make my bed everyday, I can make my mind as well. If I can clean the sink thoroughly, I can do anything thoroughly. It's true. If I can learn to like that sentence, I can be superman. I like being able to fly.

JB

Addiction to...

Some days I wish my addictions were to concrete things so I could simply quit them, do my 12 steps and move on with my life. For me they aren't so obvious. Being addicted to negative feelings, it took me 40 years to become aware that I could even be addicted to the actual feelings themselves. If I were doing heroin I would have to avoid the pusher man. Me, I have to avoid negative leaning people, hard to do because the pusher man who sells negative vibes is on every corner. The Internet is the negative vibe super highway. Easy to fall ff the wagon if I join a forum, or even look at my Facebook feed or scroll down to see Youtube comments. The Internet has given so much voice to those who aren't willing to actually make any changes, and would rather wallow in self hatred and self pity while trying to tear people down who are in the world making a difference. Why is this the way?

I've experienced that with compulsive disease you can go from one addiction to the next. You don't even see the next one coming. Some time after 9/11 I became a news junkie. No joke. I couldn't walk past a news box without looking at a headline. I used to park myself at the Burgerville restaurant on MLK in Portland just so I could read the ribbon of lies on CNN. When I got honest about it I quit cold turkey with little support. The strangest thing happened. I went through physical withdrawals much like my friends going cold turkey from heroin. Wake up screaming, night sweats, fevers, the runs. So much emotion uncorked I didn't know what to do. They subsided then whenever I would see a headline I would get nauseous. I would have to remove myself right away. The news. That's messed up.

I slid into debting. This was around the time I started my own business. I would look at the gross and never the net so it seemed like I could handle spending beyond my means and paying up later. There were days when I'd be sitting in my little shop on Mississippi Avenue in Portland and the handsome Fedex or UPS guy would bring me a large box with a saxophone in it I didn't remember buying. Needless to say this system crashed. I had a nervous break in Los Angeles and had to come home and re-boot my engine. I could no longer debt and threw myself into a support program. I had to admit I was a money drunk. Then.....

In Los Angeles I was paying $800 a month to maintain my debt. I learned to manage $30. I ate well, learned to cook and live on very little. And, I slipped into deprivation. The total opposite of debting. Deprivation is the worst I've experienced I think. But I'm finding my balance. With deprivation the low is the high. I suppose all along with my negative attitude the low has always been the high though. It's great to not have to do anything cause I was always right, inferior, superior, pious, worthless. Blame was king!  It's awesome now to know that none of this is the truth at all. We are all equal. We are all capable. We are all lovable. That includes me.

Deprivation, the core of my addiction is right there, that feeling of worthlessness, that feeling of not deserving. I don't know that it will ever go away, that madness, I do know I can counter it by enjoying my life, dressing better, combing my hair, going out to eat at nice places, buying furniture and ridding myself of clutter be it stuff, relationships that no longer serve me or ideas that no longer serve me. A cluttered room is a cluttered mind. A tidy room with a nice desk, bed and comfy chair is heaven on earth. Being able to appreciate what I do have is heaven on earth. Being present, alive and in the moment is heaven on earth. That's the groove I'm working hard to stay with.

There is no point to any of this if I don't decide to enjoy this wonderful life. I decided to have fun for the rest of my temporary Earthly experience. Some days I struggle with that, but more days than not I'm getting better at enjoying life. One day at a time.

JB

In Between

Hello my name is Jef and I am a gratefully recovering racist. I need help. A lot of it.

Yes, the opening lines are meant to be provocative. Those who know me would never think I have these horrible feelings. But I was born in raised in the United States of America. How can one grow up here and not have that awful sense of 'otherness'. This week a sick man was acquitted of murdering a young unarmed black man. I'm having feelings on this subject. I feel terribly sad for that young life and terribly angry that this very sick man gets a pass and terribly frightened by all of what I have seen on Facebook. Trayvon, I get it. I've been followed and harassed myself. Maybe you came to this Earth this time around to die so we can have the opportunity to discuss and heal. But, why look for reasons in a world where there is no reason.

I grew up in Columbia, Maryland, the first integrated town in the USA. My parents were married in 1966. It was illegal to be 'black' and 'white' and married at the same time. That wasn't even half a century ago. I consider myself lucky to have grown up there for Baltimore along with many other US cities was burning after Martin Luther King was shot.

My skin was fair but my hair was kinky, I had a bright red Afro growing up. This confused the other kids and there wasn't a day that went by where I wasn't informed that I was different. Most of the black kids didn't approve of me and some of the white kids let me know my mother was left in an oven too long. It's not possible to kick 5 other kids asses so I withdrew. The only household I really felt safe in besides my own was a family called the Livingston family. They were truly open and it was a mixed household, or, they had one adapted child who was black. "Undoubtedly there were other mixed kids around right? What about them?" The boys, I didn't get along with. They wanted me to choose between my mother and my father, or specifically, they wanted me to hate my father who was white. Truth is I love and more importantly, like both of my parents. So I chose to lead a quiet existence in between and not mess with those kids.

Kids do what their parents teach them. They think it's normal to say such things if that is what they are taught. This stuff doesn't just come from nowhere.

I read recently a book called "The Zone" by Colson Whitehead. It's a zombie saga that takes place in lower Manhattan. I was expecting a fun book with lots of gore and bones crunching but instead found myself crying a few times. The protagonist, Mark Spitz survived the new terrifying world the same way he survived the old dull world, by just being invisible. Mediocre. And now that the world became more mediocre than himself, he is now excellent. This is what racism does. It keeps us in a perpetual state of mediocrity. Maybe better yet, this is what violence does, keeps us invisible. I learned to survive by being invisible. I had friends who were white and didn't know my background. Every once in a while I'd hear some horrible stuff about black people. I seldom reacted cause I was already so isolated and sometimes these situations spelled possible harm to me. So I learned to be quiet and not say anything. My next door neighbor Tommy Tucker who was black called me Nigger one day and we wound up on the ground in a senseless fight. See, that was a word that would get me in serious trouble in my house. I could not understand a black kid using it. It hurt more than when a white kid called me that. It hurts to hear it today in popular culture. Why focus on that word? The low is the high I suppose.

Confusion and safety. See, the house I grew up in was a row house. Stage left was the Tucker family, black, single mom. Stage right were the Conovers, white, parents still together. At night you could hear the horrible beatings through the walls from both sides. Both families were abusing the children. In between was my home, relatively stable. I thought the world was insane. I could hide out in between but couldn't drown out the suffering these families dished out. I was disturbed by all of this.

In 1977 my family moved to Germany. I was fascinating to the German kids but I recall no racist jive from any of them. When I was transferred to a US school on the grounds of a military base, that old racist bs showed up. My mother hid the terrible stuff she and dad faced from me, like going to one party with the other parents and when they walked in the room went silent. Then a few of them start talking about how they used to string up coons from trees back in the states. What is it about this country that has this peculiar brand of racism? Why do we still need to check the race box on forms here? Is that necessary? In Germany if you are born there you are German. Here you are "White box, Black box, Asian box, other box". This needs to end if we are really to move forward.

I could go on through the history of my childhood but will save that for my support groups. Let me talk now about the absurd stuff I've heard as an adult.

"Oh, so you're half black, at least you have some soul" said a musician friend of mine who is 'white'. "Is that how you feel about yourself?" is what I thought. I don't think I said anything cause I was waiting for the punchline. A joke right? No punchline. Man, everyone has soul. We just believe this silly idea so we don't learn to access it. And this guy can play his ass off. He played in a soul band for years and killed it! I have half a soul? Piss off. Sad to say this put a barrier between my friend and I. I don't appreciate being an image, i just want to be a human.

"So you are the son of a slave owner and a slave?! What's that like?" said one young African American kid on the bus to me one morning in Portland Oregon. "I don't know what that is like, my dad doesn't own my mom". Was my reply. Piss off kid, you don't know me. You formed an image so you will never know me. Your loss.

"So what side do you identify with more?" Neither. Culture and society are inherently fucked up to me. I like some things about culture, but society is monstrous and feels largely away from the truth. Music? I have more music by black artist than white, but I listen mostly to music from all over the world. Middle Eastern music is the bomb for me. And okay, I'm not down with the Beachboys. Does that make me racist?

So what is it like living in between? There is a brilliant book called 'One Drop' by Bliss Broyard. Her father was Anatole Broyard. He was a writer who could never finish his biography and died without telling her that he was a black man who passed for white. She tells one story about getting a job at some office. Her dad had connections there. She was required to do a personality test to get the job, she got it and over the years had to take more personality test every time she moved up in the company. One day a woman in human resources told her, "you know, if it weren't for your father, you would never have gotten this far in the company". She was hurt by this and the lady said to her "here, let me show you something." She showed her the results of her personality test and year after year the results were exactly the same. "Impostor". I cried when I read that. That's exactly what it can be like. You don't ever feel like you belong. It creates a nasty compulsion to prove when you crave company and acceptance.


So for me, I never could allow myself to be angry. I understand Obama. If he showed anger he'll become "the angry black man" in this stupid media culture and lose ground. Hell, if he smoked Newport Lights instead of Marlboros he would never have been elected. Even to this day though, I hear people say "well, he's not completely black anyway." What does that even mean? So tired of hearing stupid comments like this. It's hearing noise like this for 45 years that has at times created an equal opportunity hater in this body. It's my soul sickness that needs healing.

 A week after 9-11 I was subbing on bass at a poetry reading in Portland. A black dude got up and talked about the top 10 terrorist acts the United States committed, which I agreed with, we have serious atoning to do for our sins as a nation. But then this guy starts on this Holocaust denial trip. The room got so agitated. One Jewish rapper said "if that shit didn't happen, what is that tattoo on my grandfathers arm?" The stupid reader said "I have the books to prove it!" So this kid has some books and that proves it? I wanted to beat this guy in the head with my bass and in that moment I also realized in my experience I could hate EVERYONE but, I don't actually hate anyone and that is the truth. I decided I just wanted to listen to this fellows pain and try to understand where it comes from. Maybe even pray for his pain to be lifted. At this point the guy starts comparing the Holocaust to the Middle Passage with numbers and stats. The Jewish rapper said "man, why are you comparing pain to pain? Pain is just pain, mine is mine and yours is yours. It's personal, there is no comparison. Why can't we talk about healing our pain instead?"

mmm hmm. Why can't we talk about healing our pain instead of comparing?

Maybe that is the root of the problem. We are always insisting on division when we can be insisting on intergration. Humans.......

xoj

Putting yourself out there

So, I've written about my fear of visibility. It's a subject I'll keep sharing about until it's no longer a problem. I noticed the other day that I resist all that is good coming my way be it a hug or a musical opportunity. I'm glad I've noticed this cause once I notice a pattern it's only because it's losing its grip and is fighting for survival.

I may have been an overwhelmed child and this explains alot now. The fear of confrontation, the hiding and biting. To finish a project and put it out there is confrontational. I have a lot of projects that are 90% done and in the last few laps I tend to lose interest in the race. But again, now that I can see it, it's only because the pattern is losing its steam. My Higher Power is taking care of me. I'm getting stuff done now, following through. I like it, my patterns hate it.

Screw those patterns! (I'm practicing not swearing! Need to give a lecture to kids soon!)

The other day I had a confrontation with a friend. I withdrew and got angry, felt small. Then I contradicted this bt getting help, took good care of myself. I went to Central Park and played guitar for the lovers and children walking by. At one point I just felt like nature itself. I knew this moment was the right moment to call a place I want to work. My patterns don't like me to try and change my life, but with this kind of peace, they didn't have a voice.

I may have a new job. I need to get a lecture idea together and present it tomorrow morning. That will get me in the door. By the fall I may be earning a lot more than I am now for doing service, using my talent as a musician. I haven't been this excited in a long time.

I'm practicing my hugs. If I can give a good hug, or better yet, if I can recieve a good hug, I can recieve anything! I'm practicing recieving. I love practicing!

Thoughts on Under Earning

What is under earning? It's defined by me as refusing to earn enough money to fulfill my wishes and desires, to refuse to earn enough money to even take care of myself and my possessions. My life is a blessing and part of the under earning is the refusal to share that blessing.

I've been told the larger part of the problem is a fear of visibility. When I was living in Los Angeles hitting my bottom (apartment loss, nervous break) I was moving my stuff into a nice clean storage facility for the 3rd time. The gentleman behind the desk said something to me about keeping his head at water level cause if he should rise too high above that someone will beat him down, so he merely treads water. I thanked him and moved on. I couldn't have put it in better words myself. God speaks through folks like him, I identified wholeheartedly. Tied to that is a deep sense of shame. Question for me is, who am I afraid of? Who is going to 'beat me down'? I'm an adult, that doesn't happen. And for the record it didn't happen in my home, my folks were very supportive of me choosing to become a musician. I distinctly remember many times in school where I truly shined only to be put down by teachers, students and in one nasty instance a teacher incited the students to remind me of my stupidity.

But that is the past. These people are no longer in my life. I learned to beat myself down. I learned that is useful. It's not. Being hard on oneself is not useful in the least. I would never talk to a child the way I talk to myself.

One of the ways this under earning shows up is in my clutter problem. I lived in a house in Portland, Oregon for 9 years. I was a technician that fixed tube amps and guitars. I used to go to Ham Fest, electronic surplus shops, junk stores, thrift shops, wherever I could find parts. My room was always a mess, my shop a mess, my mind a mess. I would compulsively buy little things and wonder where my money would go. I was in a band with people that had very little and seemed to make time to travel and enjoy themselves. I grew resentful of these friends and continued to buy more parts, instruments, books, records, old clothes. Part of it seemed like I was saving the world by recycling but it just got out of hand. If took me 2 years to move out of that house, just getting rid of things through Ebay, or just giving stuff away or throwing things out. Prosperity doesn't like to show up where crap hangs out! When I moved to LA it took me 2 days to pack my stuff, when I moved from LA it took me roughly 2 and a half hours. That was over 2 years ago and now I am almost done getting rid of the excess. It's hard to part with things. "What if I need that someday?" I need to burn the bridge to my former life, get rid of my tube tester so I cannot look back.

And what about that music career? Well, I've never actually tried. I've played guitar for 31 years now and am quite good at it. I just never took it seriously. I've always had the passion and the desire but a career in music? That's not an hourly wage. That's a job where I need to be visible. I don't even know what my earning potential is. I do know it's way more than I have earned before, but there is no security, no guarantee. It was a great day when I turned 39 and said "Oh my God, where did that last decade go?" and decide I cannot mess around any longer. I live in NYC and am allowing myself for the 1st time to really go for what I know I came to planet Earth to do. It requires a tremendous amount of work just to get started. I've needed to clean my spirit. My friends sometimes don't get it but I've had a way of simply pushing the good things in my life away. Why would I do that? The good things want me to commit to them. Good people, good opportunities, love, talent, bands. The mediocre likes to keep my options open, cruise along and never be seen.

I had this revelation yesterday. 22 years ago I was working at Kinkos in Baltimore. I had lost my super cool newspaper job and went through a series of awful temp jobs before I joined the Kinkos team. I was resentful of that job loss. I saw it as the end of another great American stream of revenue, computers were taking over. I stewed in hatred. But I had a great band and we were in the recording studio. For some reason the technician there liked me and saw some kind of quality I could not see myself. They hired me even though I had no skills as an amplifier technician saying "you'll learn". I went from $7 an hour to $25 and hour, difference being I had to hustle up clients. If I didn't hand out cards, I didn't eat. But really, the moral of this story is I was hired just for showing up and being visible. Hired for shining. No skills, just a likable guy who showed something. This became my career for 20 years.

So, Under Earning. The funny thing is I do like to work. I like to work hard. I've earned lots of money for other people and little for myself. Where did this come from? This negative thinking is baffling. I realized last year I modeled my life after 'poor' people. I mimicked the ways of poverty. I liked the way homeless people looked. Poor people were sufferers and were always right. This of course is my projection. I didn't grow up poor, I only method acted the role as I saw fit. It was my excuse to substitute negative thinking for positive thinking. I used to be a compulsive complainer. It's taken me years of hard work and support from other people to overcome this. Complaining, swearing, this pushes the support nature provides away. Trust me on this. If I am around complainers, I run. That's a great way to drag me down. It's addiction. Being around complainers is like being in a bar and you are a recovering alcoholic. It's getting easier every day to not be around this kind of energy, making proper boundaries. But it's also very easy to slip into an old way. I need support around this every day. Complaining to me is not owning up to my side of the street. Placing blame on someone else for my lack rather than just taking care of my actual needs. You don't see me hanging around free improv sessions these days cause they are like a bar for compulsive complainers! Imagine if the vibe was positive. There may be an audience!

So this will be an ongoing piece. I need to go earn now to pay for this blessed vision. For now:

Never stop trying!
Get help!
Support other people, don't say "well, good luck with that", just say "thank you for sharing your idea and vision."
Never let anyone tell you you can't, that's jive.
Always choose love over cynicism, jealousy, hate, fear. Those old negative thoughts will keep you small. If you like living small, great if you are happy. If you aren't happy, do something about it. There is help.

Love, JB

2 kinds of people in this world

I once heard this statement years ago: "Basically, you gots 2 kinda people in this world, uptight and hip." up until recently this made total sense to me. We have this peculiar need to divide everything up thus causing conflict. Black and white or yellow or brown, Muslim and Christian or Jewish or Buddhist or.... American, German, Brazilian, Japanese etc. etc. Straight, gay, bi.

It's less interesting to me today what one chooses to identify themselves as.

So what's up with the 2 kinds of people? Well, either you can choose to live and let live or waste your energy trying to change other people and living in fear. Hip or uptight. I've known hip people who identify as white or black or asian etc, and plenty of uptight people who identify as white or black or asin etc. I've met hip people who identify as gay or straight or uptight people who identify as straight or gay.

Except something in this no longer resonates with me. See, I identify as hip, but I certainly have my hangups, or things I am uptight about. I don't identify myself as my name, race, gender or nationality, these are just agreements.


And maybe those I think are uptight have something hip to offer. I'll never know by having the hangup of putting a label on them. Once I've chosen to label someone, all communications with that person cease to be. I've created an image. Images aren't people.

I heard a joke once. Satan and his best friend were walking up the street when they spot someone acros the road who just came upon a discovery. The person showed utter delight upon this discovery and she picked it up off the ground and started to dance as if she had no burden, no weight. The devils friend asked "Satan, what did she just find?" Satan replied "The Truth, that's what!" Satans' friend then ask "Well, isn't that going to be bad for business?" The Devil replies: "No, not at all, in fact let's cross the street so we can help her organize it!"

So at the end of the day what do we really have? Just people I suppose, just people. It's a struggle to accept that sometimes but when I do, life stays light.

Jef

Clair

A lifetime ago I had a terrific band in Baltimore called Q, we were kinda Baltimores supergroup. It formed around 1991 so I was 23 years old.

We formed out of at least 3 bands, Warren Boes (All mighty Senators, False Face Society), Landis McCord (All Mighty Senators), Jack Denning (Golden Sound Axis), Barry Hampton and myself (Funkyard). We got together one monday night in Sowebo and played the next night in front of 100 people on Halloween. Instant hit. For the next 3 years or so we pleased an awful lot of people.

I was young and full of myself, an ego disaster waiting to happen. I can't quite say why I did this but in those days it was normal for me to drink a bottle of red wine before I played. I wanted to be as drunk as I could possibly be, and I always had this awareness of how phony that was. I wished I could black out, I'd remember everything I did and I did some pretty stupid things.

I think maybe my drinking, and I'm not alcoholic, I can enjoy a drink every now and then, maybe it was like this. Some indigenous cultures have a ritual for young men that they may not come back from. We don't have that. Perhaps we need that. To be pushed to the brink of death. I don't get it. That age is such a macho time, proving your worth etc. We don't have a ritual welcoming us to 'manhood' so perhaps we invent one. For me it was drinking excessively. 

I am blessed with a rather weak system. I can't take chemicals. After a couple of years of this my body was shutting down. Yes, partly because of the booze but also because I was being a MAN, which for some stupid reason means not showing emotion, I would stuff those tears down. I learned how to never grieve. It's a problem this stupid society creates. See for yourself, inward and external violence. It starts with the nasty question 'is it a boy or a girl?'

We showed up to our favorite spot in Nags Head North Carolina, the MexEcono. Great venue, good times. I went to their nasty rock n' roll bathroom and spat blood. I knew I was in poor shape. I don't remember if I drank that night. I do remember playing that gig, we did Hendrix' Manic Depression and I remember seeing a wall of grunge muscles, tattoos and long hair spinning around WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH. I wanted out. The music was so loud and I was in a lot of pain down to my spirit.

https://soundcloud.com/q-104/boil

But, after the gig this woman approached me. She was everything I thought was beautiful at that time. Kinda dark, a little gypsy chic. She appeared out of nowhere it seemed. She said "Jef, can I speak to you outside?" I said "Yeah" then turned to my band and said to them "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

Now in those days I was a mess. A pretty lady would save my life and I could forget all my troubles for a bit. She saved my life for real, but not in any way I could have expected.

We stepped into a dark area in front of the club. I was ready for some action. She says to me "Jef, what the fuck are you doing?" I'm stunned, silent. "Um, huh?" "I asked what     the     fuck     are    you       Doing?" 

I had no answer. I couldn't figure out how she knew my name as we had never met before. Next thing she said blew my mind. "Look Jef, I've been watching you for a long time and you are killing yourself with this bullshit life you're leading. You aren't happy. You aren't happy with this band, your life, your music, your SELF soooo WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THIS FOR JEF?" 

I didn't feel threatened, insulted, violated, manipulated. I just felt relieved. I didn't say anything except "Thank You" at the end of what she said. Wierdest thing was she said she had been watching me for a long time. I would have noticed her, she was striking, gorgeous and dressed so odd for that scene.

I went back into the club and never saw her again. I do remember her name, Clair.

About 2 months later the band broke up while Island Records was trying to sign us. The breakup was heartbreaking but I never look upon it with regret. That time was exactly what it needed to be. And I was a scared kid who needed to hear the truth. And best thing is, I chose to live.

I also choose to think that she was my guardian angel. Maybe that's what happened. A messenger came to tell me what time it is. 

Thank you Clair.

JB

Rain

Today I was sitting with friends in a Starbucks on 35th near Madison. It was a lovely warm day. We got into this discussion about intuition. The sky turned black. BAM. East coast thunder shower.

When I left the air felt crisp. I could notice people better than before, like I could see their souls.
Everyone was beautiful.

Mushrooms, Meter Maids, Change and Anarchist

I had a real turning point in this life about 7 years ago. I was living in this big old blue house in a recently gentrified neighborhood called the Mississippi District in North Portland Oregon. I had been there for some years, it was the old Jackie O house aka The Michigan Avenue Social Club.

I had my shop one block away on Mississippi Avenue, a killer commute through the Re-Building Center in my back yard. Life was so easy, my rent was $225 a month, rent in my shop another $300.

I had fallen into this routine of getting up at the last minute and racing to the coffee shop (The Fresh Pot) and having some crazy coffee drink and a croissant, buzzing faster back home and then flying through the Re-Building Center to work. My adrenal glands depleted from caffeine and sugar, I wouldn't get anything done for the first 2 or 3 hours.

The Mississippi neighborhood was one that was flipped in record speed. It was once the center of black Portland, still is, and much like most of these United States, that harsh history of racism and red-lining caused it to be economically depressed. As an artist, well, this is where we choose to live. The rent is cheaper. When I first moved to Portland I moved to North East Alberta Street, that took about 4 years to flip. I know that just the presence of myself and my friends was a part of that change. We got priced out. This is just what happens. It hurts to see it happen again and again.

We moved to the Mississippi neighborhood because it seemed safe from all of that. Don't get me wrong, I like a good coffee shop. I like balance. What happens is balance doesn't happen. But we got about 4 years of peace in the Mississippi hood before the developers found us. Then, BAM! Whole new scene. Very hard to not get bitter and resentful about it. But bitterness and resentment kill and dying for change simply isn't helpful.

So back to my story. As I was walking back from The Fresh Pot I noticed a tow warning on my lovely '69 Ford Falcon. My ego at the time couldn't imagine it was real so the first thought that flashed through my little brain was "Ha! I wonder which of my friends put that on my car? What a great practical joke!"

I grabbed it off the windshield and read it about 5 times. It was a tow warning, a real tow warning. I was picked for having an abandoned vehicle. Me? Abandoned vehicle? Nonsense! I drive this baby daily! At the bottom of the tow warning said in all caps "MUSHROOM GROWING ON THE FLOOR!"

Go on, laugh. It was true. My car had a leak in rainy Portland and yes, there was a mushroom growing on my floor.

But rather than do anything sane I chose to become temporarily insane. I went into a 3 day rage. Couldn't sleep, called the city and screamed at some unfortunate but very patient employee. "I AM A BUSINESS LEADER IN THE COMMUNITY!!!" Yuck. I wrote to the local Cascade Community paper about this injustice. (Man, talk about 1st world problems!) Thankfully that letter never made it. It read something like "I go this tow warning and I WAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!"

I remember the person on the phone sounding like he doubted my story, I mean the part about I drive this car daily. This made me furious! I even called the meter maid and left her some venom.

3 days, I couldn't work, couldn't sleep, couldn't eat cause I NEEDED to be right. I never felt more horrible. Over a little tow warning.

Then one of my friends who identifies himself as an anarchist said "It's the war on the poor man!"

Szzzctnnejxmklflmnwq scratch!

Say what? "Who the @$#^ are you calling poor????" said a small part of my small brain. Aw hell no.

I don't like this word poor to describe people. Poor to me means poor quality, second hand, made in China under forced labor and usable one time. I don't like the idea of calling people poor because of simple economic status. Some of the richest people I know have no money and some of the poorest I've met have millions.

But I went along still angry. Got out of bed the next day and went to the car wash. Vacuumed out my car, cleaned it, burned a little sage in it and was driving home still fuming saying in my mind "Man, @4&* this city, my car's all clean now, and it smells nice, and I like driving it, and my car is shiny and looks sharp, and my car is happy cause it's all clean and $*(# all this change and WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME???"

I had to admit I felt good driving my shiny '69 Falcon and maybe that meter maid was an angel who was saying to me "YO, GET YOSELF TOGETHER!"

I cried. I knew I had a serious problem with my ego. I needed help, fast. If I were willing to get this stretched out over a little car problem, god help me if I have a real issue to deal with.

I went to my shop and called the Meter Maid. I didn't get her on the phone so I left a message saying, "hey this is Jef with the Ford Falcon on Michigan Avenue. I need to say I'm really sorry about my behavior, that was terrible of me. And i also want to say thank you for pointing out a real problem I was refusing to see, take care." She left me a message saying "Hey don't worry about it, I removed your name from the tow list. And thank you for the call, I really appreciate that. I understand, sometimes I let myself go and don't take care of myself too."


That was a lot better. All it took was to put myself in the shoes of a Meter Maid. She has a job where she gets lied to all day by people who don't want to take a little responsibility for themselves and say things like "but I'm a business leader etc." Why should she believe me? Especially with all that hostility? And frankly, my car looked like it had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.

I can't associate with folks that don't embrace change any more after this experience. If I am to make a difference in this world, I can't accept truth as a static idea, I can't accept my neighborhood as a static idea, I can't accept my life as a static idea. Truth, neighborhoods, life, these are alive. None of this makes any sense without taking care of myself and that includes washing a dirty old car.

Love, JB

New space

I just moved to a new space today. The process of moving is exhausting. I enjoy getting rid of posessions that no longer serve me.

Today I felt this rage and sadness over my posessions. I wanted to just be rid of them. They felt so sad and old, really ugly and worn out. Once I moved them into my new room, which is quite large and beautiful, they cheered right up. In an instant they became beautiful again.

My old room was sad and ugly. My old life was sad and worn out. Welcome to the new. I'm excited to set up my new space. I have someone to help me, I learned to ask those better than I for help.

It's already peaceful.


JB

MONEY!

Money!

  I am in a phase where I love to talk about money so I figured I'd spend the next 10 minutes writing about some thoughts I have around the subject?

What do I think money is? It's a tool, no more, no less. At this moment in history the majority of us in these United States have access to more of it than we ever did. I think it's made us all crazy. Why is this?

If you are to build a house you need a hammer. You also need money. What is the difference? Why do we place so much of our self worth on how much money we have? I've never placed my self worth on what kind or how many hammers I have?

A hammer can be used to build, it can be used to destroy. Money can be used to build, it can be used to destroy.

I don't think there is a human who hasn't struggled with money. Is that CEO we love to hate any happier when he buys his 8th Maybach? Really? I don't think so. I've rolled with some rich folks before, I won't generalize but some of those folks are happy, some are miserable. Some of the poorest folks I know are rich and some of the richest are poor.

My life started getting much better last summer when I decided 2 things: Money has nothing to do with my self worth and secondly, there is no point to me making any money unles I am to enjoy this life thoroughly. Before making these choices I struggled struggled struggled. I was in the hole financially and lived hand to mouth since I was 18. Since I decided these 2 things I always have enough, more than enough actually and am planning my first proper vacation in many years. It's not rocket science, it's not majic, it's simply a change of attitude.

I've always been a hard worker, have earned well and helped many folks achieve their dreams in life doing so. When I worked my hardest my rent was a staggering $200 a month in a raggedy blue house in Portland Oregon. I became resentful of those around me who worked less hard and could take a nice vacation. I was earning more than ever and struggled to make the rent. Now I live in NYC, amd earning less than I have in years, am paying more for less space than I ever have and somehow I'm building an awesome life. My needs are being met and I have a decent savings and investment account going. My life is enjoyable and fullfilling. I've learned to use money as I would a hammer or screwdriver, it's just a tool.  Nothing more, nothing less. I'm watching my life grow and expand and realizing I need to share my story on whatever scale possible cause it this is possible for a fellow like me, it is possible for anyone. I used to love to wallow in my own despair then one day I realized that was a concious choice, that I could choose joy so why would I choose the former?

No, I'm not rich financially, but my spirit is richer than ever. This I am grateful for.

The universe or whatever you wish to call the force that keeps us alive wants us to be happy. Does a tree ever question that? No. It grows and just does its service providing food, oxygen, shelter, beauty. Life need not be more complicated than that.

JB