Blind Pilot, Orlando.

blind pilot @ the social in orlando, 2/24/12.

Love Is Making Its Way Back Home — Josh Ritter.

Josh Ritter - Love Is Making Its Way Back Home from Josh Ritter on Vimeo.

Blind Pilot shows off their Half Moon.

I've liked Blind Pilot since I learned they used to tour using bicycles instead of a van (that's a fast fact). And, truthfully, that sort of thing just wouldn't matter if they didn't have the unique ability to make everything they created so damn listenable and likeable and repeatable (and maybe some more -ables I can't quite muster up). I wore out my copy of 3 Rounds and a Sound and, while I wanted there to be more to their story and discography, I wasn't sure they could repeat what they'd already had done so ineffably well. Still, this little Portland Band That Could has proven me wrong by doing it all over again on We Are The Tide. This is me being grateful. By simply sticking to that tried-and-true formula of good, comfortable songs that you could wake up to in the morning or borrow as singalong lullabies in the night, they're keeping the friends they made that last time around and are bound to attract even more when they tour for three years in a row on the strength of this one (or, you know, however long it takes). 

If you live in Florida, go check them out this weekend in Orlando or Tampa or even St. Augustine (dates and times are here) and you're bound to grin like a buffoon. I might even end up at all three shows, simply because I can.

Yourstru.ly Presents: Blind Pilot "Half Moon" from Blind Pilot on Vimeo.

This is my fear.

I hear friends and others talk of being stressed out for a laundry list of concerns and I genuinely wonder what that’s like, as it’s not something I’m very accustomed to feeling or experiencing. Others talk of being sad and uninterested about the direction of their lives and I feel a tinge of sadness for what they describe, though I don’t share the same sadness.

The plight I do seem to run into (however personal it may very well be) has everything to do with the way I see the world and how it appears to be changing as time marches on. My age seems to be wreaking havoc on my habits. When I move from writing a barrage of poetry inside a month, churning out one every couple of days, then move to looking at my last month and seeing just two, I end up a little afraid for whether or not I’m seeing less than I have in the past. It’s a telling thing. Are my thoughts waning? Am I a little less prone to wrapping myself up in silence, slipping away from the world a bit and trying to make some sense (or nonsense) of it with words? Am I too wrapped up in what others are experiencing (I’m looking at you, Facebook) to grasp at my new discoveries? Writing is how I most choose to communicate my thoughts. I want to always be seeing more and feeling more and describing more than I have in my past. I want to push myself to new limits, as often as I can, as constant as the desire resides within me to do so.

So my fear isn’t one of the dark or of things that go bump in the night, but it’s alarming. It’s something I choose to kick against, all the same. I won’t accept the fact that I may be losing some of the curiosity I have for life; I will grasp at whatever leads me in that new writing direction. It’s the one thing I really want to accomplish this year … to do more with the talents I’ve been given. It might not mean I blog more, but it might. It might not mean I publish a book of poetry, for once and for all, but it might. I want to take this thing I like to do in all possible directions. There aren’t really limits to it, anyway. There’s no reason not to think beyond what you ever thought they were.

In the thicket of things.

while wandering in gainesville, florida.

You don't come here much anymore, do you?

If you do, though, say so ... in the comments. It'll be a little experiment. I just wonder who happens by this spot and how often ... or if it's fast morphing into some kind of a ghost town. Don't be shy ... leave an anonymous post if you'd like ... I'd just like to know if you're out there, or if it's just me and the tumbleweeds. Humor me? I'd like that. Maybe we're becoming the sorts who don't comment on anything anymore, maybe that's it? I guess it just feels different to me than it once did.

As an aside, I know I am not focusing on this space as much as I once did and, for that, I do apologize a bit for that. Some projects have taken my mind and abilities (and maybe a couple other things) elsewhere for the past year or so. Still, I like to share music, poetry, quotes and some occasional insights. That's me.

Wordless Wednesday.

Kathleen Edwards in Atlanta, 1/29/12.

I don't know that people much care to hear exactly how a concert went anymore. Perhaps the days of blathering on and on about our favorite shows are fast becoming one of those things of the past. Add them to the pile or continue on in that blank face of apathy? I dunno. That said, I'll be fairly brief. It's been a few days and yet I'm a grateful sort that I was able to visit Atlanta last weekend, where Kathleen Edwards was just about as good a performer as I expected she might be. From missing her playing for all of $5 a few blocks from where I used to live maybe a decade ago now to hopping a plane, renting a car and shelling out, well, considerably more, it was an experience I won't soon forget. Having Justin Vernon (Bon Iver) along for that ride was a nice addition to the comfortable show it was, though he was wise enough to stick to the background and allow her her due. These are the sorts of things I can and will continue to travel for when and if I get that chance to. These are the sorts of things that, thinking back on them days later, still feel worth everything that went into it. For the record.

The First Time I Ran Away — M. Ward

Citizens of a Broken City.

She’s shuffling around the lake in flip-flops,

pregnant belly hanging

over the open strings of her sweat pants,

and she’s shouting into her cellphone:

“You just don’t get it!”

Indigo twilight streaked with horsetail clouds.

I’m dogging her discreetly, wondering:

What don’t they get? Everything, probably.

What it’s like to be lugging her particular load,

wanted or not, into the uncertain future

while above us the sky is doing its big art-instillation thing,

sunset’s last flush lighting up the west

like those pink neon thighs

on the sign swinging outside a saloon: enter here

for the time of your life.

We’re citizens of a broken city, yes,

in a dying time, yes,

amid the general din;

improbable that we’ll be saved,

but still we keep hoping,

which is to say shuffling, limping, or whizzing along —

kids on skateboards and bikes,

the woman with the pink hula hoop

swinging her hips in wide joyous circles,

Chinese elders practicing tai chi under a spreading oak,

all of us putting one

semi-discouraged foot in front of the other

while above us the absolute indifferent magnificence

abounds, abides;

from a certain perspective even our ignorance is dazzling.

— Alison Luterman

Be fearless.

"So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more dangerous to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun." — Chris McCandless

Esperanza Spalding & Gretchen Parlato — "Useless Landscape (Inutil Paisagem)"

Today's musical diversion is simple enough. It's this one. Right here. Not brand new by any means, but that doesn't much matter, does it? Esperanza Splalding has always flat out amazed me and this take on a Jobim tune is a welcome reminder of her talent. Thanks, Internet, for leading me in that proper direction.

Rest. — Richard Jones

It's so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I've done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers' breath.
But instead of resting, I'd smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the small, peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I'm not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything's fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I'm driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I've got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I'll be home by dawn. 

— Richard Jones

Wordless Wednesday.

Happy birthday, Elvis!