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Do any of us really know who we are?

Because one would think that whomever it is, that person would be part of our creativity, right?

So if one person writes blues music and another writes hilariously adorable songs about rodents, you’d figure this was some kind of reflection — even if a tiny fractal in a forest of diverse reflections they may have — of themselves. You would think, “Something inside that guy needs to sing the blues.”  (I don’t know what to think about the rodents. I’m leaving that one alone.)

So let’s say you’re going through life minding your own business. Although things change over time as you mature and your skills and interests and influences change, still, any creativity you have is “you.” You recognize yourself, you might say. It’s the inner you that you’ve always known.

And then one day you walk away from a certain creative outlet for oh, let’s say 23 years. A long, long time.

And then one day you return to it, like the prodigal songwriter picking up the neglected guitar. And after a couple of days, just messing around on the instrument you can’t play worth crap anymore, singing with the voice that hasn’t had to bother doing anything well or right for decades never mind forgot the meaning of breath control, finally the creative-you pokes its head out of the window just a little and says:

“Really? You’re not just teasing-tormenting me right? You really want me again?”

And you say: “I’m home, babe. Please forgive me. I’ve missed you so.”

And the inner-creative-self leaps about squealing like a five year old on Easter candy.

Then it says, “I have something right now! I want to sing! Let’s go!”

And you figure that this is just warm up really, getting to know each other again. That’s fine.

And so, unsuspecting, you shrug and let it happen. Like a story that writes itself, it just comes through and, rusty but not having wholly forgotten how yet, you let it happen and there you go. A new song. And it’s fun.

And then you do an internal double-take. Wait a minute. What is that? Who is that? What is this song-child, some kind of changeling?

This is not my kind of music. My music is minor-key, ranging from gritty to angry to angsty to at least very jazzy with some humor. Those are my musical children. This baby looks like a blue-eyed easy listening pop song. I even wrote the lyrics about death of all things and still it sounds like it could be a sweet song about a friend or a pretty day. This can’t be my child! Someone else has been sleeping with my inner-creative self. I want a paternity test!

But wait. It’s just one song. What the hey, somewhere in about 500 songs there’s a couple with that feel. So no worries, it’s fine.

You’ve barely gotten that song done when another wants to force its way out. But it only takes two minutes to suddenly realize: It’s another changeling. The chord changes are slower, the sequences are more consistent, and you’re singing almost like a girl. It’s another that sounds nothing like ME.

Or does it?

Is it possible, if not probable with a doh!-factor, that after 23 years of life I am just not the person I used to be?



I have accepted that letting music be a catharsis is something I need to do for the love/heart work I’ve been having such trouble with.

I said to my best friend: well yes, but must the new person write music I find embarrassing?

And he pointed out that my “inner critic” was at least as active about music as it’s clearly been about my meditation life all these years.

It occurred to me that perhaps part of “allowing myself love” and “clearing out the heart chakra” and so on, might involve finding and allowing parts of myself that previously did not get much exposure. Including the ones who like major key songs.

What could it hurt? Maybe I’ll mutate into Jessica Andrews, I like that song linked. If I had written it I would hate it and find it predictable-pop and embarrassing. She wrote it and I adore it. Why is that I wonder?

Does it mean I just don’t like myself? At least, the part that dares to not be sufficiently miserable or complex?  Is being simple and fairly happy such a bad thing that it must be protected against?  You’d think so, to see how my inner critic goes on.

It’s hard not to notice the sort of parallel with my believing that meditation stuff has to be either very difficult or very surprising- weird- offbeat in order to ‘count’, that simple, obvious-symbol, fluid work was automatically ‘retarded’ and probably not real or worthy.


The ‘drive-by’ emotion is still recurring. Last night, I put my guitar down on the other half of my queen bed, and then I put my hand on the neck and thought at it: You’ve been with me longer than any friend I have. You saved me for years and years. And then I abandoned you for just over two decades. How lucky am I that you’re even still in good enough shape to play? My life and body and voice have changed but you’re my constant. Then I sobbed deeply for four seconds… and then it was past, as if nothing ever occurred.

It occurred to me that I should be looking at “whatever” happens with re-introducing myself to music as merely feedback, just like an archetype working. If someone shows up in an archmed and they are a normal looking person, I don’t say, “That’s not good enough. You need to look unhappy or grungy or something.” Whatever comes through me is simply informational — bio-feedback, literally — there is no point to judging it, it is really merely the message.

I guess all of reality is merely the message.


I wondered… if the point of this music is to be cathartic — and I’m trust IG et al. to work that out — and if with PTSD they say it’s important to share it, even anonymously or privately with one person, but to connect with another — if I should quit being neurotic about whatever comes out of it — because let’s be honest, nobody cares anyway, so what difference does it make if me or anybody else does or doesn’t like a given song? — and maybe I should be looking at the next few months as a sort of long-term meditation.

I decided I would intentionally model it that way, and then put whatever music came of it online, even if only for one person or anonymously, so that I would have shared it, recorded it like I do blogging, so maybe it would be collected for “retrospective insight” the way everything else documented is.

Then after I said that to my friend I started coming up with excuses in my head for why I shouldn’t have to do this and should just keep insulting it and keeping it all secret. Ok now THAT really IS retarded. But it made clear this is part of the whole messed-up-inside tangle and I should do whatever is most consistent and clarity-oriented. So after further discussion I agreed that around Easter I would post any music that came along into my life, no matter what I thought of it.



I had a worrisome experience this evening. “Flash-rage.” I don’t know if you know what that is, but it’s something I used to have sometimes much younger in life. It’s where some “trigger” seems to go off in you, and you just completely lose it, I mean LOSE IT. In tonight’s case it had to do with the 16 year old and although I could give a long list of pretty good reasons why I was finally at the trigger point, none of them are excuses, especially in the context.

It clicked in and at first, I don’t think I was even aware of what I was doing entirely. I remember it now I just don’t think I was fully aware then. Then, I became aware as if I were another person listening to myself yell and watching myself grab her by the shoulders, and the look of shock-awe-fear on her face seemed to sort of trigger more awareness, and I came “into” myself like finally was first-person then, just screaming my head off. I mean the kind of screaming nobody does short of murder or insanity, like your body is totally on level-10, just crazy.

I didn’t hurt her but I scared the hell out of her. Scared the hell out of me, too. Simply because it’s a completely out of control moment, like some kind of neuro-chemical issue. I don’t recall this happening in more years than I can recall. Even my most enraged moments have simply been situational ire — not this kind of mindless light-switch trigger.

I’m not sure why that happened. Maybe it’s some kind of fluke, but I tend to think that it relates to all this emotional drama I’ve been going through with the heart chakra and the PTSD stuff for awhile here.

I feel ghastly about it.