premiere: Guma - Forever Golden Light
T.J. Masters (whoâs work Iâve written about as far back as 2011â˛s Conveyor) sent me a much smaller bit of this story, but I told him Iâd love to hear more. His songs are simple and true, and as youâll see, this letter helped me better understand what drives his gorgeous work.Â
Winter on the northeast coast of the United States lasts a long time and is very cold. Â It is darker outside every day for longer than it is light. Â This is not especially different from winter anywhere else in the northern hemisphere that I know of, but in New York City those factors are amplified by the environs: gray/black snow sludge kicked off of the road by cars and piled up on curbs and intersections for months; treacherous sidewalks covered in ice, salt, and sand; a general air among citizens that suppresses the impulse to commune with each other, even if the desire is there. Â Itâs so hard just to get home at the end of the day that you might as well stay there, alone.
But in southwest Mexico, January is hot and sunny. Â Itâs dry. Â Greens and browns comingle against a backdrop of mostly blue sky. Â I think it rained once in the months that I was there. Â In Mexico, when somebody diesâ as my neighbor didâ Â there is a party that lasts for more than a week. Â The community gathers to pay their respects, and funeral music rebounds off of the side of the mountain continuously. Â For days, women and men trudge up the mountain in their best dress carrying food and flowers. Â I watched all of this happen from my porch, sipping black coffee and swaying in a hammock.
I had thought a lot about dying the previous winter, back in New York. Â In fact, I had thought so much about dying that people had gotten worried about me and intervened. Â I was upset, embarrassed, too proud, and depressed. Â I still donât know who called and left an anonymous tip to a mental health care center back in Florida, where Iâm from, but when I got a voicemail from a stranger who told me that someone was worried about me and urged me to call back and speak to a counselor it made me feel angry, not comforted, as I imagine it was intended to. Â But I got back into therapy, which I had left months ago. Â Slowly, as the winter warmed up into spring and summer, I defrosted along with the city, dug in, and put in the work.
Eventually I did not feel happy, but I also did not feel like dying anymore. Â I knew that winter was quick to return and so, convinced that the weather contributed immensely to my mood and affect, I rented a cabin in rural Mexico and booked a flight for January 1, 2015. Â On New Yearâs Eve, surrounded by friends, I quietly ducked out shortly after midnight to head for the airport. Â Stephen caught me leaving the building and ran outside. Â âHey, promise me that this wonât be the last time I see you,â he said, and I did. Â At the time I didnât know what I was going to do in Mexico, if I was going to fall back into my depression, or if I really did intend to return or not, but now at least I had made a promise.
My cabin was small, with a lofted bed and an outdoor kitchen. Â It had a dry toilet, simply a hole in the bathroom that was dug out underneath. Â Spiders frequented the corners, and after a week of cleaning webs and pouncing with a tissue only to have new ones replace the old, I gave them names and left them alone. Â It was on the side of a mountain, near the edge of a small town of about 3000 people. Â Every day I woke up, made coffee, sat for a few hours, and then walked into town for lunch. Â I would eat a large meal, bring something back for dinner, and then sit in the hammock again until the sun went down. Â I did a lot of writing, and I played a guitar that I had brought with me.
This went on for a few weeks, during which I hiked around and took trips into the closest major city, which was Oaxaca. Â In February I met some people who drove me five hours to the coast, camped with me on the beach for a few days, and then left me to find my way back whenever I decided Iâd had enough. Â I smoked ditch weed that you could buy by the handful for practically pennies; I climbed a small jetty every night to watch the sun set; I swam every morning and then laid on the beach, stoned and grinning, for hours. Â I did find my way back to my cabinâ I took a cab that brought me to a bus that drove me back over the mountains to Oaxacaâ but as soon as I was home I wished that I had stayed for longer.
During my last week in Mexico I met a family who made a living conducting small, private ayahuasca ceremonies in their home. Â I participated in a ceremony with seven other people. Â We sat awake through the night in a dark room, drinking the brown, earthy liquid and chanting and singing. Â We burned tobacco and incense, and we massaged perfume into our necks. Â I had visions; I vomited; I cried. Â At the end of the ceremony, after everyone had come down, the father put his hands on my shoulders. Â âTomorrow night, in the desert, a shaman is coming from the north to give a peyote ceremony. Â This will be good for you. Â You should come.â
The next day, I returned to their house and we piled into two cars and drove off the mountain, out into the flat desert. Â There were about forty people there; I recognized some from my small town, and they recognized me. Â As the sun went down we formed a large circle and lit a fire in the middle. Â The shaman, an old man from the Huichol tribe of northern Mexico, passed freshly sliced peyote around the circle. Â Again, overnight, we ate the medicine and chanted and sang. Â Some people vomited into the fire, and everyone cheered. Â We were encouraged to approach the fire and speak to it. Â Many prayed and cried. Â I watched from the side, mostly, and struggled to stay awake after the previous night. Â As the sun came up, the shaman performed a healing ceremony on two of the people there, sucking sicknesses from their bodies with his mouth and spitting black phlegm into the palm of his hand before showing us all and throwing it into the fire. Â I was sick once too, but I didnât feel sick now. Â A year ago, tears of frustration had streamed down my face as I listened to the voicemail from a stranger with a calm voice, telling me that someone who loved me was worried and wanted to help me. Â Now, I was crying again, the world around me shimmering in the dawn light, and strangers were approaching me to say âthank you, I love you,â and exchange hugs.
I came back to New York City at the end of winter 2015 and fell back into my life: jobs, friends, relationships. Â I started writing songs again for my band, but the band had mostly evaporated in my absence and so my demos were appreciated but ultimately unused. Â Finally, at the end of 2015, I met some kind people in upstate New York who offered to let me use the back of their recording studio and gave me access to all of the 2â magnetic tape that I needed. Â I recorded for a week in January 2016 and came back to mix for a week in February. Â It was cold again; this was not Mexico. Â I had borrowed my bandâs van and was sleeping in the back after working in the studio during the day. Â I remember that on the first night it dropped to nineteen or so degrees, I tossed around all night in my sleeping bag, and the next morning all the food I had brought with me was frozen. Â By the end of the first week, I was exhausted but happy.
None of the songs are really about my time in Mexico, and yet I donât know that I would have been able to write them without having been. Â Iâm still fascinated by the idea of my own death, and I write a lot about that space that is unique to us as humans, that is, the space wherein we can actually know our own mortality, and that knowledge can be as enjoyable or uplifting as it is scary or depressing. Â The album cover is a picture of a horse that I took while I was there. Â One of the songs, âYou Can Get Hungry,â was written in the cabin there. Â Guma is the name hand-painted on various green construction dumpsters around New York City; I donât know what it means. Â Next week Iâm moving to Texas with a woman to whom I am engaged. Â We met after I got back to New York. Â Iâm playing shows along the way and performing all of this material in public for the first time. Â Wish me luck.
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