From The Top of Willamette Mountain

There's NO reason to be excited, EXCEPT!!! for the fact that we're all going to HELL.

[willamettemountain]

LIFE is ROSEY

I stepped outside the night of the day that the breeze hadn’t stopped whistlin’. The grass felt stiff, crackin under the weight of my heels, the sky looked violent, quickly movin black clouds kept the mountain tops hidden. We had been on a good routine, my lady and me, makin certain that the birds weren’t being prepared for the slaughter by another white toothed farm rodent. Every night the door to the tiny house where the chickens slept was latched closed, another small quarrel settled with a hungry beast. I pushed open the gate and slooped down near the feed bucket where there was a small dark animal laying motionless on the cedar shavings, but the light was dim, shrouded over by a snow cloud nestled around the celeste of the sleeping moon.  I inched closer into the dark figure. Surely it must be nothing, my brain having a shot at my eyes, age playing its merciless tricks. There she was, Rosey, not movin’, head pointed down. I wrapped my hands around her wings and picked her up, the coop smelled like death.  I felt her ribcage expanding and contracting, moving the air, she wasn’t dead, at least not yet. I hurried her back inside. Under the kitchen light I saw her beaten, bloody head split open from the top of her beak to just past the midpoint of her skull. She was breathing, but no eye movement, both shut, terrified (for certain). This red colored lady bird had been livin here for the past 5 years, born just before our baby girl, Millie. Rosey rarely took residence in the area where the chickens were living, instead she took refuge in the goat house, 30 yards north of the area where I had found her.

I found a cardboard box and laid bedding, water, and food down, before placing Rosey in the box. We put water and electrolytes for children in a syringe and pushed it down her throat, turned the light out and waited for morning.

Next day Rosey still seemed unresponsive. We repeated the process of pushing liquids down her throat and added a heat lamp to keep her body temperature up. By dinner time Rosey had started moving a bit, mostly her head and left eye. Her right eyelid had been crusted shut with the blood that had dripped down her head the previous night or day. By day 3 she began opening her left eye, blinking even, but not walking, her toes curled up under her heels. Hope in the house floated that Rosey would recover, even if it took some time. By day 8 Rosey was eating on her own, drinking on her own, both eyes blinking, but with no reaction to anything visual, her feeding was always a miss, she would peck down, looking for food or water, but completely missing the dishes. We would navigate her head toward the food, and she would eventually locate it after direction. For whatever reason it appeared that Rosey was blind, and her toes curled up (still) under her feet. No walking, though the intent to try was strong. She would push up off of her busted feet and try to balance, but with no luck of maintaining.

This system of feeding, inability of mobility and loss of vision continued on for three weeks, with no improvement to either faculty.

It was Christmas Eve, the excitement swirled through the stairwell and the blinds, enveloping all in the house, winding us into a magical top of stories, smells and music. The festivities of the day were filled with wonder, the children soon grew tired and were tucked in with promises of the man in red to visit via chimney to our humble home. Soon the sounds of the evening had hushed into whispers. There were still presents to be wrapped and dutiful closings of coops and animal feedings. As I passed Rosey’s small residence her head was turned inward toward her back and I couldn’t see any signs of movement. I hunched down to feel her chest, no breath, no life, she had gone.

Rosey stayed with us inside for her remaining days, and she brought us together in a different way than we had been in the past with other animals, she required our constant care, and concern, all in the home shared in the duties, and on Christmas we dug a grave and all shed tears as our Rosey left us, as magical and mysterious as the sleigh wielding magician they call Santa.

Missing you and grateful, old friend.

[willamettemountain]

THE POWER OF THE COLLECTIVE CONFERENCE (part dos)

Is it possible to discover one’s own conclusion of dilemma, conflict, situation when being bombarded with external observation, so freely given, and with such adamant voices, by those that the SEARCHER holds (in heart) with such regard?

Does such “advice” cause the said to misconstrue the experience they have “thought” that they had been feeling up until the point of the flying accusations and recommendations?

Could it be possible that such barbed conversations could change the course of the SEARCHERS proverbial trajectory through the brambles?

Safeness (sure, safety if you prefer, that the word causes me to think of American football) in our interactions must be upheld to the HIGHEST of the priorities, but alas, don’t we find that with any given interaction that there are so many factors that lead us to say the things we say, to do the things we do, to act this way or that way?

WELL SURE IT COULD.

This could be the lighting, the music, the clothing, the assembly, the chemicals, and the list goes on (into eternity), but how foolishly quick we can become to spout off course altering conclusions of the light seeking darknesses of others and their JOURNEY through what can only be described as fundamentally PERSONAL.

I am as guilty of this as Judah Prescribing remedy without education Muddying a mind of a proclaimed CONFIDANT. Believing my own archaic arrivals of OTHERS situations. And BY GOD! The land mines that get planted through such self-feeding vibrations, surely change the tundra. DANGER, my dearest, isn’t space to be held? Not to be altered?

A lady in fever Makes track for the party Chemically drunk from her lover Balance uncertain Intention in question Seeks comfort in voices familiar

Occasion is joyous Connective and porous Light breaking in without asking “It’s simple, quite really” Says one to the lady “Your lover has kept you from growing”

Now lady has reason To call out “THAT’S TREASON!” For whom but herself can interpret? The real complication That lead to the station Of swinging trapeze with no net

Now one simple query Who’s answer may vary Contingent upon whom you might owe. What’s sharper than fabric That was sewn in the static By those that you’re certain must know?

[willamettemountain]

SUCCESSFUL CAREER of LOVE (part UNO)

Is it the lack of informative discussion that may lead one to slight (if not full) misinterpretation of something? We are born and raised with certain expectations of what MANY MANY THINGS should be in our lives.

What a “WOMAN” should be What a “MAN” does What “MARRIAGE” consists of. What a “SUCCESSFUL CAREER” is

It is all passed down from one to another to the next to the next and ON.   The unspoken rules of engagement, the roles that we observe in society, in our parents, in the world and we silently apply it, whether in mimic, moderation or full contrast.

We were so young Babies. In love? Sure. Whatever that means.

Love is funny it’s all consuming nature without (truly) a common / mutual understanding of its effects, mystery, tones, power and the like.

We use LOVE when describing spouses, parents, siblings, friends, ice cream and each one carries a different tonal characteristic, and in discussion is expected to be mutually understood as such.

Mostly, at least from my view, in the world I have observed, the culturalist pursuit of binding one’s self to another through words spoken at an altar creates the illusion of security, safety, and (in some cases) eternity.

Dare I say DANGEROUSLY so?

The path that we walk back and forth on, often time daily, becomes engraved, then eventually a gulley from which we can barely see the sun, the stars, it all becomes covered by the walls that through our own doing are holding us in a bind of thought, action and expression.

Fear starts to nibble at our heavily callused feet, fear of change, fear of newness, of THE REAL, but isn’t the FANTASTICAL just FANTASTICK?

I still remember the moment I was informed that Santa Claus was all in my mind.

I still remember the first betrayal of my lover, as a young boy.

I still remember seeing cracks in my parents’ behaviors toward one another, after believing them to be (in all truth) the perfect EXAMPLES of what marriage, love, dedication was (GODS).

I still remember my first of many questions in my ABSOLUTION OF GOD, that was handed to me at birth, that eventually lead me to honest questioning and observations, when I before I had never had such tools to do so, ALL ANSWERS handed to me like a buffet of truth, without ever having to pick up a garden tool, it was A FREE SHOW, but NOBODY gets a free show, now do they?

I’m not entirely sure where I am heading with this ramble. I just know I am feeling it all quite heavily in the current moments. The weekend was filled with adventure, searching, discussion, honestly crushing honesty. We might think we want honesty. But then its either given or discovered, and then what? Then what do you do when it doesn’t line up with what you believed it to be? What you wanted it to be? What you “KNEW” it was.

Do you fight it? Do you swallow it?  Hide it? Face it? Can’t know till ya know it I suppose.

Funny, giving advice to ANYONE about THEIR situation, about THEIR life.

ONLY one who knows is HE/SHE/THEY that are in it. ONLY. I think I might have to come back to this. It’s much. So, let’s dub it part ONE.

JOSHUA

[willamettemountain]

. MAGICAL LEAVES RED WHITE BLACK HEAT This year I decided (possibly too last minute) to compile songs in regards to the above title. . Songs about country Songs about Christmas Songs about acceptance And solitude, commitment, and New Years. . Al of this On a disc Inside of a cardboard case that has hand carved stamps on it. I released this on dec 24th Although the digital streaming sites filed it under a different “Joshua James” .... But what I was really wanting to say is that the cds have still not arrived and I wanted to beg pardon to all of those who have purchased “MLRWBH” via: Joshuajamesmusic.bandcamp.com For the tardiness of the arrival in mailboxes. The cds should be here no later than Tuesday and I will have them out as soon as physically possible. . Happy holidays to all. . MAGICAL LEAVES RED WHITE BLACK HEAT In physical form available. Link to said album in bio. . Joshua . (at American Fork, Utah) https://www.instagram.com/p/B6rKwMEhLpd/?igshid=1m4wo6p6buzeu

[willamettemountain]

Dreams of Future / Moments of Capture

I float on a cloud wondering possible futures Falling asleep with the hope of a suture It isn’t the fear of another cut broken For a fool I would be to buy in the notion To put into words what the brightest tomorrow Idyllic would be, is confusingly simple.

A step in the forest, with two legs for the walking A sunset bright burning, with two eyes synced in locking A riddle of heaven A song from the jester A lover who’s skin cradles softly, my questions

A service of savior with a heart open always A stranger who offers the key to a locked gate A field of wild flower A child of power A way to discover the beauty of “sour”

A dance in the city, no care of the watcher A stream of believers turning into the authors A bicycle ride An absence from time A teaching surrendered from those who have died.

I wake on the cloud with more questions than answers I study the rungs, not the brink of the ladder Tomorrow unlikely to give me my omen Instead giving honor to only the moment I hope when the day has arrived for no breathing My body has given each blessing her season

-Slim Freddy

[willamettemountain]

Magical Leaves Red White Black Heat

“What do you do?” I sit and think about it for a moment, I don’t know if I should be honest of my doings and don’t’s but I will probably just conform to the general concept of “what one does” in meaning what one may do to create income for their living expenses and beyond, and thus I respond with a simple answer. “Music, I sing for people, and do recordings for myself and others.”

It seems to catch some off guard, the fact that I find some sibilance of success in the pursuit of what some may call a “fun job”. But I say, FUN JOB, my bum. I haven’t too much longer before I must return back to the preschool that my daughter is at to retrieve her and finish making her snow globe, and so I want to be brief (I think).

In 2007 I traded my pursuit to become a nurse for my desire to sing for people, to “change the world”, to travel and see, feel, hear, experience. I made records, I spent my life savings (monies) on making said records, in 2009-2012 it seemed as though this was all a possible way to continue. To continue making music, touring, singing, and producing bands records on the side. Sometime between 2012 and 2019 there came a shift, one that now, I can hardly put my finger on. I suppose it was a culmination of so many things.

My generation was CD driven when it came to music. In early 2000s iTunes started to dominate the market.

After 2012 (or whatever the year was) digital streaming QUICKLY took over the vast majority of how people consumed music.

Where once Emma and I were selling dozens of albums, both CD and VINYL per week on the online store, we are now selling 1, and maybe not even that. Streaming had taken the vast majority of not only royalties from musicians/artists proverbial pockets, but it was destroying other mediums through which artists are able to make money, enough to feed themselves/their families, but ALSO make the records that people that listen to their music want them to. Strange concept really.

I have always heavily believed in PHYSICAL MEDIA, at least how I consumed it. The large artwork with credits of who played, who produced, where it was recorded, who wrote the songs and the like, all these things got me so excited when purchasing an album. I don’t expect or even want everyone’s experience with music to be the same as mine, that would just be silly.

What does a singer do? Where have all the cowboys gone? And survival of the fittest is a proper insert here (I do believe).

The last record I pressed (to vinyl) was Discovering Responsibility Through Fatherhood

Which is an album that I wrote/recorded with a good friend, good man, good Father, Nate Pyfer. We had decided to do this album for our babies, before they grow and leave. The record is about becoming Fathers, finding responsibility through life and particularly parenthood.

WITHOUT going into EXACT numeros, we would need to have the record (in its entirety) streamed MILLIONS of times just to make back the monies that went into the making of it.

Where does that leave an eater artist?

I AM NOT CLAIMING impossibility.

I AM CLAIMING probability.

What is the likelihood of taking risk with a very improbable outcome of positive compensation? AT that point you are spinning financial wheels. I love riding bikes, I would ride bikes all day, but I don’t expect it to pay me money, and that is fine, music doesn’t need to pay me money, that was never the point, but real records were able to be made because of the fact that IT WAS making money and so that was reinvested back into the engine. Supply only comes from demand, I think?

I am NOT complaining, and I hope it isn’t received that way.

I have been lucky as a survivor from Noah’s flood in my life.

PERFECT it has been.

It is a mere observation and place in life in which I need to step back and look at it from afar.

Death is inevitable in all things.

I have HEAVILY diverted my direction with what I was trying to or at least going to say this morning. It is the theme that I WANTED to talk about that lead me to the one I DID talk about. SO, to quickly insert.

I made a small record of songs.

I am releasing it Christmas Eve day.

It is called:

MAGICAL LEAVES RED WHITE BLACK HEAT

Thematically chameleonic.

Covers of CHANGE/Christmas/Country/Death in LOVE.

As much as I would love to have the record pressed, it wouldn’t be prudent.

AND SO, I am doing a small run of hand printed CD’s only.

I am carving a linoleum stamp to hand press each CD cover.

There are still some that do like to have physical media, and I do understand the disdain for it as well, what a dichotomy, really.

FOR THOSE that do want one of these Hand Printed Cd’s there is a pre-order here.

FOR ANY AND ALL who have helped ANY ARTIST (no just me) by going to a show, buying a T-shirt, a record, a button THANK YOU. It means much more than WE say. Gratitude is heavy in me.

It will also be on DIGITIZATION sites.

GO FIGUH.

Joshua

[willamettemountain]

MERRY FISHMAS / THE VOX / TO FOLLOW THE SPIRIT

MERRY FISHMAS

Seasonal heat comes in waves.

For this boy it starts right before Thanksgiving. My mind starts to stockpile a boat of ideas, of names / faces / who’s and who not’s. Quickly after that it begins to sort each and every one into general baskets with labeled questions and statements cleanly placed on the front.

“Hand written letter and Hot Sauce”

“Framed print of Lino Cut”

“Soap and Scarf”

I then pass through the Thanksgiving hoopla with a mild form of anxiousness, all deriving from self-imposed obligations / deadlines & death dates. December steps in like a dictator, pointing to the carving tools, the band saw, the bottle of fermenting sauces and demands action. Throughout the other 11 months of the year there is this voice and persona that speaks into my ear, albeit sporadic, telling me what “he” thinks and what it is “he” would like to see me doing. I have most recently named this person THE VOX. He is of grand stature, he has big eyes, he is mean, he is kind, he is angry, he is wild, he is free. HE MOVES ME, but I cover his mouth from time to time, I tell him “That is enough, I have had all I can stand for the moment”

I find that during the season of gift giving and receiving he is more uppity than others [seasons].

Once mid-December hits I become a conductor of ferocious devotion to the trade. I put all effort into the completion, whatever that may be. I shirk works of other nature, I become maliciously focused and THE VOX won’t stop his jabber. He barks out orders, demands that I obey, and I, like the jester, dance to the tune, atleast, until this year. I can’t quite put my finger on the EXACT threads that wove me into feeling such desperation about the “holidays”. I started to become disgusted with myself, with my own self-serving craftual / gift giving behaviors. I wanted it to stop, just cease to be. Is this ba-humbug? I don’t “think” so, it’s a balloon that’s been over filled with helium.

Even as I write this I feel like a clod of a fella.

But it IS how I am SEEING IT, and I have duct taped the mouth of THE VOX, for a moment of pause, reflection. BUT NO, I am not reflecting,

I am staring, straight into the white wall.

Two days ago, I decided I would release musics for the holiday. I wasn’t even sure what I was going to do for it.

I still don’t.

Over the last two years I have recorded a multitude of songs. Some are terrible. Some are Ok. Some are not mine. Some are. Some are about this. Some are about that.

The concept of the whole thing made me feel, after not feeling so much.

(BUT WHAT DID THE VOX HAVE TO SAY ABOUT THIS??)

I wasn’t sure WHAT THE VOX had to say about it, he was still taped shut. I landed on a collection of 9 songs that I have recorded over the course of the last 2-3 years.  I initially started with the Holiday theme, but that only got me so far. I then, shortly after, peppered in sentiments that have become tangled in regard to self, to love, to country, to life.

Shape was becoming semi-visible.

I heard a tearing.

I looked behind me.

THE VOX was angry.

Joshua

[willamettemountain]

FALLACY OF TRUTH / BIKE TO DEATH

Circumstantial Collision. Fated Future. Hazardous Happenstance. All give sharp edge to the shovel, an upper hand to the gambler, a euphoric vision for the searcher / the lost / the addict. One hundred and eighty two days. And I have grown one hundred years older.

Without getting nit-picky, half of a (mutually understood) year has Sent me spiraling, and YES, I do give it TRUE intention in keeping clung to the swimming pool’s wall. Those 182 days have facilitated a series of ethical (both personal and cultural) disassembling that are daunting on the lightest of days / yes, yes, sure, questions. The projections that we conjure, buy, choose, are given by friends, society, parents, for whatever and whomever are how we begin to create the illusion of knowledge in (maybe) everything.

Who do you KNOW? What entails the knowing of someone? Would it be asinine to say that NO one knows NO ONE? (probably)

NO! This isn’t’ drab, its contemplation in an auto-mechanical fashion. Digital distribution is too EZ (permission is a given)

I met Seth through a mutual friend. I had seen him, shaken his hand at shows, spotted him at a local swimming spot, but never truly had the time, or at least taken it, to dive into anything less surface than the air quality. Through the wild intertwists of human grape-vining I struck up a numeral conversation with him.

QUICKLY, it was made aware that the idea that bikes beat most everything in the rotating earth, sitting in the brain cake of both of us (opinions in the obvious) was a sentiment that we heavily agreed upon. It was a bright sunny day, we peddled and passed stories back and forth of current, past, and albeit seldom, future. Vivian Park was the destination spot for the afternoon. Provo canyon. God’s finest.

I quickly observed. That kindness became him.

I found a gentleness in Seth that I never, despite much effort, quite gathered through the years, something I envied about many of my comrades and acquaintances.

Everything quickly turned white as soon as Seth purchased a Salsa Mukluk Fat Bike.

Is it from the dynamic divine that we are granted such an experience? To sail, float, fly upon the waves of the frosted rain? High above the dirt clouds, the screaming hounds, all squabble of the day? Giving the rider a landscape of freedom and mental tranquility.

GOD SAVE THE BIKER from the squeal and squelch of steel.

SIDE NOTE / question: Is it common place to predict how one will die?

I REGRESS. 

Monday night was quickly approaching. Plans had been set. We settled on top of the bouncing, comically sized bicycles and made sure that all lights were working and ready for a journey into the potentially life ending seasonal swell of the American Fork Canyon. I have been up that canyon too many times to count, and despite that fact, I find it alarmingly heart sputtering whilst amongst the wild at night, with a small beam of light helping you navigate through the perils of snowy pot holes and mountain lion jaws.

“{Snap, Crackle, POP}” you might hear to the east or to the west.  (pardon the Rice Krispie reference)

The only option is to continue pedaling and with a bit more gusto.

When you feel you are at a place of complete submission with one that you care for, or something you care about, there is a binding element that sinks itself deeper. Without information exchange , or even realization, there is a union that sprouts, develops, matures between those involved. We bind ourselves to all that we claim true.

TRUE LOVE TRUE GOD TRUE CHURCH

And so often we (OR ATLEAST I) forget to question the electrical, the structure, MY HEAVENS THE PLUMBING!! We (just) assume it is all sound. “Father gave me this house. It is a good house”

The supports begin to give. The water bursts from the floorboards. The mold spreads. The children sicken.

Seth and I made it to the top of the canyon, we shot down Salamander Flat with bar lights, a hoot and a holler. As we rolled up to the canyon road, just off of pine hollow I looked over. Through the dark I could see his smile.

“WE made it” he said.

“I don’t think you can make it. You travel. You search. You don’t arrive. We will BIKE TO DEATH”

Joshua

[willamettemountain]

TERRIFIED of TRY TRY TRY AGAIN // DESTINED to DEATH

It seemed to TERRIFY me.

The whole notion and its floating companions of doubt, demise, digital death, all deriving from the history of pattern that I had hidden under for such a long time.

For many seasons, years, moments of my life I found it easy to continue in the digital journaling of my life, documenting the lighter moments with scattered wrecking balls between the beams of the burning sun.  Writing in a journal, and or diary had been a common practice from an early age. As I grew and developed it became a mechanism of coping with BEING ALIVE. Being sputtered and spit out in song form was often time the method in which I would cling to oft. I then found it truly enjoyable to write out in non song form experiences of life that I deemed “OF FUTURE INTEREST”. Over the course of the last falling years I just stopped. I retreated into my head. It caused me TERROR visions, leaving it all inside to paint the insides of my head as they saw fit. Death is inevitable, but change is optional.  Again,   I used to write a lot (a little).

RECOLLECTIONS OF DIARIES NOW GONE

“..I am going into sixth grade. I like Mandy Campbell, her family has a garden store”

“..Jeff was over at my house, it was fun. Abbie came over and Kelly was with her. We played on the park in the backyard for a long time. Jeff heard Abbie telling Kelly that she has a crush on me, so Jeff announced out loud that ABBIE HAS A CRUSH ON JOSH!??? Abbie ran home, and fast, I think she was embarrassed. So I did what I had to do. Jeff and I went over to Abbie’s house and she was in the bathroom and she was crying. In her front room there is a piano and its next to the bathroom. I love that song by Bryan Adams “Everything I do I do it for you” and I had been learning it from Mom. So I started playing that song on the piano, by the bathroom. After a little minute Abbie came out and rested her hands on the piano. I think that helped. We are going out now. I love her.”

These were common themes in my journaling as a kid. While living in Venezuela in 2002 I would write letters every week, religiously (QUITE LITERAL), to my family, who were still living in Nebraska at the time. I don’t know what it is about the documenting of one’s ponderings, positions, parallels, perils and the like through the years of living in the wilderness of the breathing that makes me feel like it is important. But I think that the sentiment is returning to me. I am a father of two babies. Hardly babies anymore.

I try and show color and contrast through activity and talkings with my littles, but am afraid that it will all fade into the blur of the years that “were so long ago” even though they are the current, at the moment. I want to RECORD, in some way, a spotty, patchy documentation of experiences that I believe may be of some sort of SPARK for the future minds of those wonderful critters that are giving so much to me through their eyes. There are selfish parts of the entire NOVEL idea of continuing a digital monologue, for THIS BOY ain’t no saint. CERTAINLY NOT.

Commitments are like prisons

I am going to return as often as I am able and see fit. GOODNESS knows that I won’t trade Friday Donut Bike Rides to type out my mind’s ramblings for a quick fix of endorphin disease on the accomplishment of typing buffoonery on a screen, spitting it all out into a NON-WORLD.

GOD SAVE THE THINGS! (I have never met the queen)

Its 2019. I am fadingly fiery I am dying But so are we all.

Joshua 

[willamettemountain]

Day 2, I think.

[willamettemountain]

DEATH Air / Californian KINGS

*************

A month and a half. 45 days. The anticipation is almost more than i can bear.

*************

17 days ago i contracted pneumonia. The air in Utah has been toxic and EVEN with that being a fact floating around inside of my head i still found some (slightly) intense anxiety when thinking about not being outside, running and or biking. The using of my legs has become somewhat of a daily routine and I find myself becoming a thumb twiddler without it’s action in MI VIDA. AND SO, I ran, I ran in air that i shouldn’t have, I ran in air that I shouldn’t have and it turned into pneumonia, and pneumonia has been a real deadening sickness.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep and feeling tired when not engaging in the prior. . A month or so ago I was invited by my good friend, David, to ride in a bike caravan that would take me from the top of California (Sausalito) to the bottom (La Jolla) in the span of 7 days. Overjoyed with the notion I responded with an enthusiastic “YES!” Two weeks later pneumonia hit. I am not crying “WOE IS ME”, on the contrary, I am indescribably grateful for the health of a working body. GOOD HEAVENS, good you imagine?

Once we (Evan and I) left Utah I gave myself a goal of biking 150 miles a week whilst on the road, in preparation for a MUCH heavier “work” load while on the bike route that David and his wiley group of Californian Kings drag plan on taking me. Petaluma California was a quaint and welcoming town and crowd. The venue (Mystic Theatre) was absolutely stunning and solidifed my prior knowledge of the power of an old theatre. GOODNESS. We, as we often do, slept in the back of the van, with the bustling streets of a Friday night and her oddities. The sun broke through the backseat window and my mind had already been stirring. Laying there atop a wooden platform I got the urge to get on my bike. I didn’t resist. I mounted the slowly decaying Bianchi 21 speed that has been my lady for so much of my biking days and started down the road, heading south. Soon after mile 10 I realized that I was to bike to San Francisco. Evan, being the angel that he is, humored me in my endeavour and met me in the city. WE MADE IT SAFE.

The last minute San Franciscan house show went off without a hiccup. The attendants, host and promoter could NOT have been kinder and more open to the connection that Evan and I were looking for. FRESH AIR OF CONTACT. You forget it in people (BSS), trust ain’t so scary, it ain’t so hard, confiding in the care of one’s vulnerable state doesn’t have to be impossible. Forever a sucker (me), but I’d die without it (anyhow).

Day off today, after a beautiful visit to Sacramento and her river that has 32 miles of road biking trails. AMEN and AMEN (i say).

Ever living, Ever dying, One foot fickle, One foot pining,

Joshua

[willamettemountain]

Cottage Grove // Magic Man // Into the Mystic

Impossibility weaves it’s poetic tongue through the blankets, confusing the sleeper, driving doubt into the gray matter. Confusion.

“I get lost inside the sheets” isn’t an uncommon phrase. “I’m still running in the morning.” is the triumph.

I am not sure when i decided, along the rails, that it should stay the same, that the driver and the rider were immortals and immune to the changing pace of the impossible society.

OH, but it’s more fun this way isn’t it, Joshua?

Musical businesses and individualistic (dare i say artistic?) endeavours feel almost like strangers, unlikely friends that refuse to take the call of the other. Navigational confusion can lead to lack of communication with the other, or atleast for me.

I will find myself inside of one den, focused, obsessive, lost, hoping that the other was left with enough fuel to continue on, even if the light goes dim. It isn’t the lowly lit rooms that scare me, it’s the death.

Day four arrived of traveling, safe and happy inside of my rolling, gasoline fed home. The two shows in Seattle and Portland had been wonderful and fulfilling. Seeing Susie, George (who are responsible for my wandering abouts) and meeting Sara (with or with no “H” i am still unsure) in Portland was electrifying. Conversational theology felt thematicallly new and refreshingly welcomed as we sat at the hungry tiger, I in animalistic behaviour, consuming fat fried tubers dipped in corn syrup.

***Mother don’t be alarmed***

Lines were blurred, crossed and checked off. Learning about his/her roots of thought. Taught and raised, each one of us, from the stalk that each procreator saw fit. Time twisting each of us into a slightly crooked fruit, different than our predecessors, sweeter than before, chasing the dream, searching for sanctity. Like a ghost we arrived in the night, like a phantom we were never even there. POOF and we’re gone.

The following morning we headed down I-5 South. It was a day off, nervous for the inevitable onslaught of self doubting nervousness that accompanies such moments. The familiar names of towns appeared and disappeared on the road signs

Salem Corvallis Eugene Cottage Grove

Without saying anything I pulled off of the once familiar exit. I pulled into the parking lot of the town’s Walmart and parked. Strangely or not I didn’t make any mention to Evan of my seemingly pre-meditated plan of pulling into the magical town where in 2011 Evan and I would make From The Top of Willamette Mountain. I put on my running and shoes and invited Evan to follow me atop bicycle on the route that every morning I would run whilst making the aforementioned recordings with the magical man, Richard Swift.

We plotted along the route, reminiscing on the experiences and excitements that we felt in that small Oregon town. The blackberries were in full bloom and didn’t take much bother to our frequent stops to dine on their blossoms. We passed by Swift’s house with flooding emotion and memory, eventually making our way back to the van, handfuls of blackberries in tote.

Before leaving Cottage Grove we decided to stop by Rally’s Coffee shop that at one time held our caffeinated bodies, every morning before spending the remainder of the day at National Freedom (Swift’s recording studio). The barrista made small talk as we relished in the feeling of returning to the place.

“So what brings you two to town?” she asked kindly.

“We’re just passing through. We left Portland this morning and are on our way to Petaluma...Caflifornia. It’s a long drive and needed to break it up. (pause) We stayed here, years ago, it’s been such a long time… (pause) We we’re… (pause) Making music here.” (pause)

“With Richard?” she asked.

“Yeah, with Swift. (pause) He was a magical man.” (longer pause)

“You know Shea, his wife, and their kid, Adrian worked here.” she said with kindness. “I used to see him come in here, visiting them, he seemed nice. I never did get past the sunglasses though.”  She laughed. We laughed.

“We miss him here, in this town.” I sat there. 

“Yeah.” I didn’t know what to say. We finished our coffee and got up to leave.

“It was nice meeting you two boys.” She said.

“Yes, you as well. Thank you for being so kind to us.”

We made our way back out to the van.

“That was a trip, eh?” I said to Evan.

“Yeah man, time...wild. It doesn’t feel like yesterday, but it doesn’t feel like 7 years ago either.

Nah..”

I put the van in drive, looked left, looked right, back at Rally’s. In the drive through window somebody was waivin their arms in our direction. I quickly realized they were waving at us.

“HEY, You know my dad!”

Adrian and Madison, two of Richard and Shea’s children, had arrived the moment that we had stepped out. We went back in and talked briefly about our time in that small and magical town.

It never left, the magic, the mystic. It’s all still there. Just how i remember it.

Joshua

[willamettemountain]

Richard Swift // Heart of the Country.

Last month (early June) I was having a conversation with Evan In regard to the changing musical world and where to take refuge while the overhead dimming light  is swaying back and forth. The last record was recorded and mixed at my studio and took imaginary years out of my imaginary future. Surely, it felt this way. Emotional upheaval having to be monitored by the sap of saddening feelings.

“I can’t do that again, not this next time, no way” I stated to Evan.

“What about making another record with Swift?” He quickly replied.

“ YES. YES. YES. I would LOVE nothing more.”

The plan had been (in our brains) set and we were determined to return to the land of Richard Swift to have him show us, yet again, his otherworldly hands of creative power.

June 19th - An announcement to “Friends of Swift” had been posted on his social medias that Swift had been admitted into the ICU in Tacoma, WA due to a life threatening illness and monies were being raised to help him and his family pay for the medical bills. I called Swift to see what was going on, to see if there was anything directly or indirectly I could do to help his family while he was in the hospital.

No answer.

The subsequent days I waited to hear back, to hear news, to know that everything was ok. Nothing.

No seeable progress. I hoped. I waited.

July 3rd - I woke up with a slue of text messages and emails asking if I had heard the news about Richard. As i read / re read / re read / re read them I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t believe them. They’re wrong. It’s wrong.  It’s true.

Dead.

At 41 years old Richard Swift had died. Shock isn’t the word. Sad isn’t either. Not sure how to properly put it into terms. I felt it (what a loss). I felt it largely (such a loss). The impact of his death just HIT.

It really hit.

Richard Swift and I didn’t have all too much contact after making From The Top of Willamette Mountain in 2011. I would see him when he came through town with different projects that he was involved with and would eat Thai food with him in Cottage Grove when passing through Oregon, always feeling emotionally close to him in those moments, albeit infrequent.  

And even though I didn’t talk to him on a very regular basis, this man, this wonderful person had the influential power of a comet crashing on me. His death not only came as unprecedented but as a catastrophic darkness. What a true loss. RIP Swift.

Rewind to summer of 2011.

Evan and I headed to Cottage Grove to start on “From The Top Of Willamette Mountain” being produced and made with Richard Swift. At this point I had made two other records and had a pretty good idea of how it would all go, at least that is what I thought.

The process of making a record with Richard Swift was nothing like making a record with anyone else. The way he approached music, creativity, people, life was something that I would forever try and emulate. During those 10 days of being in his studio, with him and his mind I was transformed, musically and creatively speaking. I have since those days looked at Swift as a role model of how to approach record making (amongst other things).

There was one morning where we were in National Freedom (Swift’s studio) and we were thumbing through his collection of LPs. I stumbled upon a record that appeared to have been made by someone using a collection of crayons or magic markers, drawing on a picture of Paul McCartney holding the horns of a ram. I picked up the record and asked what it was. Swift looked up at it and with amazement asked, “You haven’t heard RAM?”

He proceeded to take the record and put on “Heart of the Country”.

Every time I hear this song I think of the magic of Mr. Richard Swift, of his magical place and his wonderful energy.

I will miss the man.

Love you, Swift.

On you go, on we go.

The day Swift died I was reminded of all of the memories i had with him. The Heart of the Country experience stuck out and it led me to want to dedicate a version to him.  Amigo, Nate Pyfer joined me at my house and how i would think Swift would do it we set up one ribbon microphone and played the song live into the mic. Matt Eastin filmed it and put the whole idea together. 

This is to you, amigo.

[willamettemountain]

Dreams of Karen / Take it Like the SPIRIT.

The impossible task of keeping my future self up to date with my current self by ways of writing down and posting todays/yesterdays events has seemed to slip away from my stronghold and dissipated with the winter chill. Yes, spring has so much as whacked me on the side of the head, reminding me that there is life past the glove laden mush and muck.   My slowness, or infrequent inspirations to write down my lives living events is out of respect (TRULY) for those with whom I live.  Babies, yes. Lovers, sure. Animals, maybe, but the TRUEST of all is the respect of the moments holiness. The magic of the present, the 21st centuries IMPOSSIBILITY (AH, but I beg to differ). I receive, from time to time, small hints, prodding to inspire me to “stay more connected” with those / anyone that may give a rat’s behind for what it is I am currently aiming to achieve and or do, lest I get “left in the age of cyberdom”. 

And it ain’t out of care for those that have supported me in my journey both musical and non that I don’t often “ENGAGE ONLINE” oh oh oh, on the contrary it is out of care that I continue to set a flame the arrow upon which I surf and maintain a sense of erratic balance.

One month ago I was in the throes of the MTN’s magical spell, microphoning and capturing sounds for a good friend who resides in New York City, the intent was to finish a record. It was late afternoon and we had hit what I might sometimes call a “block”, we weren’t sure what the song was asking for, despite our best efforts it seemed that we were destined to finish said song on another occasion. We sat on the couch and began discussing musical influences from our Childhood. He began to mention the heavy influence that Bruce Springsteen had on their New Jersey home, THE BOSS was the heaviest of hitters when describing the permeating effects of music in the home on children and their future selfs (at least for Anthony it was this). I took the conversation captive and started describing how seemingly obsessed my mother was, while growing up in Lincoln, with the brother sister duo, The Carpenters.  It seemed as though there wasn’t hardly a memory of my mother whilst being raised that didn’t carry some sort of side-note, inside which was a Carpenters song, it was in our walls, prayers, dreams.

We both decided that the night would be best spent listening to Bruce Springsteen and Karen Carpenter sing their songs from the turntable and sat listening to the emotive quality of both The Boss and Karen. That night after climbing under the covers I laid their, in bed, thinking of Karen, Richard (Carpenter) and the little that I knew about both their lives and her (Karen) death.

Sometime between the moment my eyes closed and the sun peaked over the eastern mountain range I had three separate run-ins with Karen throughout my dream cycle.  Now, as I type this out, re-running it in my head, I DO UNDERSTAND the assumptions that OFTEN accompany such things like “dream visitations” or “visions”, I truly do, and even with that being known inside of me I feel the need (with out really knowing why) to share the dream.

From my recollection of that night Karen first appeared sitting, in the rain, across from the Central Park hotel, that I am assuming I was coming from when happening upon her.  She didn’t look at me as I walked by, I don’t recall feeling any type of wonder in regards to the appearance of such a power in my dream (though I suppose in my dream, I didn’t know I was dreaming), and continued on.  Something of (I am sure) very little importance happened that I can’t remember but then I was back in the park and again, for the second time I happened upon Karen Carpenter as a street performer clown, she waved at me, I stood, mesmerized, her eyes didn’t leave mine until she turned and disappeared, leaving a bearded man with yellow teeth barking out street names. This time I do remember feeling a bit (albeit in my dream) strange that Karen had shown up yet again inside of this sequence. I left the street performer and walked to the other side of the park, and again, there she was, almost floating above what I would call a small congregation of people. I could see from afar that she was saying something and I walked toward her, I could hear her then, she was singing. She was swaying and singing. The audience was mesmerized, seated, reverent. As I joined the congregation I saw around me people laughing, some crying, some staring, it was all so absurd. I sat by an elderly woman and listened to Karen Carpenter sing a verse and chorus of “Rainy Days and Mondays”. As she ended the song the crowd went wild with applause, hooting / hollering / “Karen, we love you” some woman shouted and then she (THE KAREN CARPENTER) started coming around to the audience with a mid- sized wicker basket.  She motioned to each member of the congregation to take something from the basket. The first guy she approached reached into the basket and pulled out a snake, apparently unphased by the quick movements of the slithery serpent he sat down and stared at the snake. There was a handful of other people grabbing items from the basket, but the one (apart from the item I took) that I remember from the dream was the guy who grabbed the snake. The girl next to me tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear “ Go ahead, its your turn”. I reached into the basket and pulled out a small leather bound book, I didn’t dare open it in front of Karen for whatever reason, and as she moved on with her basket to the remaining people that had gathered, I opened up to the first page of the book and it read:

Songs of Karen Carpenter

(My childhood)

The next page had a listing of so many of the song from my childhood musical memory;

-Rainy Days and Mondays

-Superstar

-Goodbye To Love

-Top of the World

-We’ve Only Just Begun

-Close to You

And the list went on.

I didn’t quite know what to think of it when I woke up to start my day. I couldn’t seem to shake the foggy storyline of what had gone on in my brain during the night. The day passed, as they all do, with such speed and it was time to sleep. During that day after the first dream I had obsessively researched Karen Carpenter, her life, her death, her songs, all of it feeling emotionally overwhelming. I went to sleep and again had a repeating of the same dream that I had had the night before only this time Karen was slightly hovered over the congregation when she passed around the basket, but again the man at the beginning received the snake and I, like the dream previous received the leather bound book.

After the same dream happened for the third time I felt a bit strange and without sounding silly, slightly off put. I have not ever been a person to “look into” or be “moved to take action” in regards to dreams. My feeling had always been that dreams were just strange regurgitations of our days sub conscious, and had rarely experienced recurring dreams. This dream felt different, it felt…telling..or communicative. Am I saying that Karen Carpenter is talking to me from the grave? No. But I am not NOT saying that either.

I was perplexed, slightly off put and surprisingly anxious about what I was supposed to be doing about the dreams I was having, that is, if I was to do be doing ANYTHING AT ALL.

After Anthony left I started learning how to play some of Karen’s favorite songs.

I didn’t really know what else to do.

Enspirited by the UNKNOWN of the world(s)

Joshua

[willamettemountain]

Should I Make Mine Like Yours / Dead Dog Don’t Come Around Here.

Midnight Ramble through the horse fields / REAL SNOW FALL / Anthony Rides.

The last day of Anthony’s stay had arrived, quicker than I had anticipated.
My mind couldn’t help but run to the intense conclusion(s) that when the recording process (of Mr. D’Amato) stopped I would start to slip into my seemingly (albeit slow) uncontrollable process of ping-ponging from dark to light, light to dark. I did my best to push said thoughts/predictions from my mind, knowing very well that nothing good comes from running to an indeterminable point that has yet to even be birthed, ESPECIALLY one of such dire constrains. 
By 7pm we had finished with the first round of mixes of what may (or may not) become Anthony’s future record. 

We broke. Anthony to dinner with blood brother. I, having had very little time with my darlings, ran to the living room dance floor and shook my tail with the resident munchkins of a much smaller grandeur than I am accustomed to inside of the confines of the recording studio. By 8:30pm the two that I hold the dearest had been swept up into the arms of the dream land and I had been paid a visit by a good amigo. 
Soft words, good musics, small talks, big talks, blended Scottishes, Finnish chocolates and the night started to swirl into a close. 
I bid those in my presence adieu and crept into a small corner of the house. I carved away at a block of linoleum until the clock read 1:22 A.M. 
 Time to sleep, or try. Something was stirring. 
I shook in my sheets. I felt uneasy. No witchdoctor. No witch.

I fell asleep a little before 2 A.M.

“Screaming” is the only word I can find to try and describe the sound that was coming from the furthest corner of our backyard. This awful sound meant danger, death, and immediate action. I  scrambled to put clothes on and ran out back to find a massive golden labradoodle inside of the chicken’s area. The destruction that he had already accrued and that which he would have brought to pass was absolutely frightening. 
Feathers, Blood, Claws, Bodies, torn and mutilated. I chased the dog out of the back and quickly returned back to the awful scene that I had no desire in re-seeing. Two of the chickens were still breathing. Blinking / staring up at me, asking for something.
 Help? A quicker death? An explanation? More time to say goodbye?

Isn’t that how it all goes? 
One moment we are complaining to the barista about the amount of whip cream in our frap-machiato-latte and the next moment we are stuck behind the wheel of a burning, upside down 1982 Dodge Ram and there ain’t no time, you never had it (time), to correct that which you left unsettled, distraught, and or desolate. and that “TIME” which you did have, the wild current of the moment in which we are all found, is as good as the fluidity of kindness, love, acceptance, correction, and unity that you are willing to feed into it. All those that choose to live in the moments of destruction, desolation and CLOSING (be it mind, body, thought, acceptance and the like) I can say from my extremely small corner to FUGG OFF. Yes. 
I ain’t being too polite. 
Hell, I ain’t being polite at all, but then again, I ain’t trying to be.

“A man turns his back on his family, he ain’t no good”

Family is found in many different circles. 
 It ain’t gotta be blood
. It ain’t gotta be human. 
I see that dog again on my property I’ll shoot its head clean off.
 You defend your family how you see fit. I ain’t trying to make yours like mine.


 Another day 
Floating through.,

Joshua (a sceptic at his best)

[willamettemountain]

I Travel / I Travel in Time / I Travel in Time Until I Don’t.

Sand in hair / Millie girl / Laguna Beach, CA.

Time THOUGHT, warping back to the year 2012. Touring / traveling at that time in my life felt completely logical / normal / sustainable . Regularly scheduled departures and arrivals to and from my home in Utah were the ways of what I truly believed were the “artist’s path”. The lady who had been sharing living space with me, seemingly ok with my erratic choice of “career," granted me freedom to explore the ins and outs of my constantly swelling and shrinking views on life, via musical endeavor. My direction / life, felt balanced, or at least a semblance of “balance”. All of this changed when the forces of life brought the strands of makeup from both me and my lover together in a beautiful array of cellular fusion. Our boy Oliver was to be birthed and like that life shifted.

Fast forward to November 28th-2017. I packed my car with a guitar, two bikes, microphones, papers, a typewriter and an urgent desire to create songs from nothingness. I drove myself to Las Vegas where I picked up Mr. Jordan Clark from the airport and we headed South-West to the land of the LAGOON. Mr. David Helfrich welcomed us with the warmest heart that I ever did experience, as we pulled into the gated community, located somewhere in Laguna Beach, California, we saw the sun set and felt fearless for the task. At first there was little talk of song-writing, the conversation was safe and bounced from theme to theme until dinner was over. As the dishes got loaded into the washer we talked of intention and locational purpose. The goal, as explained by David, who had initially dreamt up the idea of traveling to California for the SOLE purpose of song writing, was to try and write 2-3 songs during our 6 day stint of “surf-style” living. The schedule was easy, simple, freeing;

Rise when you rise

Write when you feel inspired

Explore the city

Enjoy your moment

Write when you feel anything

Sleep when you are tired

And like that we started our journey into the ethereal quest of creating something from nothing.

I have been writing songs for 12 years, but never had I set out with such a retreat to the land of writing, and solely that. With the directions laid before us of how we were to go about the day, albeit loosely, we began writing. I can’t pretend that the songs fell in our laps, and that there was not hard work, long moments of brain squeezing struggle for lyric, or melodic structure, but as the sixth day came to a close we put a nail in the 16th song of the inspiringly productive week. I had never written that many songs in that short of time, and felt elated, grounded and tired. 

Helfrich Homestead / Retreat To Write / Songs.

Hello, Old Friend / Song.

Light In The Darkness / Song

The next day both Jordan and I’s families flew in to spend three days in the sun lit sky of Laguna beach. The sand castles were built and destroyed, the street tacos and hotel room service-delivered pizzas were consumed, and I felt rejuvenated.  

Babes in BeachLand, CA.

Afternoon Street Tacos / Millie Girl.

Jordan / FAT bikes / Working Wonderfully.

Saturday morning came crashing through the windshield of our car as we headed north toward our home state. We stopped in Las Vegas to see my parents. As we sat in the decadently decorated living room of my parents “new” abode (Since retirement in 2016) we quickly realized that we were too tired OR too unwilling to continue our journey north to Willamette MTN. We conversed with the two statutes of my existence until my Mother had to be off for the sake of her students, she is a piano teacher. I suggested, to Emma, that we take bikes to the foot of the Red Rock loop and cycle it together. She, being the supportive and adventurous woman that she is, obliged. We parked our car at 3:42 pm at the base of the loop and started to pedal our way in. The air was brisk on our skin but the golden rays of the sun warmed us and kept us at a comfortable temperature. We reached the peak of the loop at 4:23 pm, I took a quick photo of Emma as I noticed that the sun was already beginning her crouch, sinking behind the Nevadian Mountains.

My Bird / Red Rock Canyon / Bird Flipper

“Well, no more photos, your phone just died. I hope ya won’t need to take any more on the way down.” I laughed quietly as I packed the battery-less mini computer into the back pocket of my backpack. The ride down the loop was approximately 9 miles and the air had already dropped since we started our biking, I expressed concern to Emma about the temperature, and told her we better get going. At about a mile into our return down the loop my hands were feeling the strain of the frigid air, feeling in my extremities was quickly disappearing. The sun was dropping quicker than I had anticipated, I turned to Emma,

“Once that sun drops behind the ridge it is going to get really cold…

 I am happy to race up ahead, get the car, park the car at the bottom of the loop (it was about 2 miles from the exit), grab your coat and gloves and race back up the loop to bring you some warmth.”

She agreed to the proposition and I raced up ahead, as quickly as my legs would carry me, to the bottom of the loop.  As I was exiting onto the main drag that would lead me to the car I couldn’t feel my hands, a realization quickly followed that Emma too was feeling the temperature drop and that time was of the essence. I got to the car and fumbled for my keys, my hands were not working in conjunction with my brain’s demands, I couldn’t get my fingers to properly grasp the key to insert it into the key slot. I blew on my hands and then persuaded them to play nicely, and I was in. I was chattering when I parked the car at the bottom of the loop. Quickly as my body could muster I grabbed a coat for Emma, gloves and started up the Red Rock loop, backwards. The loop is a one way and I was NOT traveling with traffic, my lack of bike light was causing drivers to swerve around me, barely keeping me in the game of the living. At this point there was next to no sunlight left, just a soft glow, fading quickly behind the eastern ridge.

“EMMA!   EMMA!” I screamed up ahead of me, hoping there would be some sort of distant response. By this point I was losing my calm and panic was seizing my composure. I had biked back up the loop 3 miles and there was no sign of her. My options, at this point, were few, either continue up the loop looking for her with next to no light, and eventually NO LIGHT, or… turn around, and race up and around the loop with the car, in hopes that she is somewhere off the shoulder. Neither of these options were of much comfort, but I opted for the first. I raced back down the road and pulled the car back onto the main drag toward the entrance of the Red Rock park, near the place where we had parked initially. As I passed the area where we had parked I noticed a white CRV, lights on, stationary. The car began to honk. Could it be? Had Emma found a ride, with her bike, down the loop? I pulled to the shoulder, and like an angel from the heavens Emma came racing around to the passenger side of the car, teeth chattering and face frozen, but relieved. I haven’t felt fear like that in a long time.

With the whip of the wind our reality can escape, distort, dissolve.

I am grateful for this wicked ride, this weird turnpike, this insane existence,

Surely to disappear,

Joshua F. James

[willamettemountain]

I Turn Into a Pumpkin / Big Man and his Bigger Shadow.

The hours of the sun, at least those by which we gauge our tireless, quickly passing, list riddled days, change. Shorter, colder, and frost tickled moments of sunlight trickle into the end of yet another year by which I measure my trajectory as a person. 
It’s one o clock and the last of the pine shavings have been swept up and tossed into the rubbish bin.  Two babies lost in the depths of the slowly fading mystical world of dreams, well after their regularly scheduled 8pm curtain call. 
I stop outside of my boy’s door, peering through the crack of light that shows voicings well into the entry way, I stare. He’s curled into a tight knit, ball-like form, knees underneath his chest, arms sprawled out like spider limbs.
The whole scene appears cumbersome, a serious task to maintain.  Such a position to keep whilst holding tightly to the position in which you lay safely inside the arms of morpheus. I was completely taxed by the mere thought.

Craft Night was in full pursuit.

5 hours prior to the storm of water color stroked gourd embalming and the kitchen floor’s shower of pine shavings, stripped off of a garage floor’s bin of scraps, I was being kept captive in the upper atrium of the MTN. 
The inexhaustible audiophillc pursuit that crept in at a time that would be impossible to pinpoint has ceased to degrade in it’s manifest -destiny-esque fury. 
I hole myself up inside the upper rooms, caught between a singer and a screen, making able the conversion of sound into computer chat (namely 1’s and 0’s).  
“…Six…t.w..e..n..t….y……..t…….w…..o…..” I mumble to my muted senses, aware but completely unamused at the fact that there was someone else in the room, someone who might be, should be, confused as to why I was speaking to a screen. 



This screen sees me.
 This screen watches me age. 
 She teaches me. She is my captor.


“…Ahead of schedule..That’s a good thing. “ I state to the man staring back at me, a trustee in my position to turn song into sound.

“I am going to call it for the night, let’s plan on starting again early tomorrow….”

I walked his to the door, turned to face the belly of my creation and then turned into a pumpkin.

The night prior to this my younger brother (no other type in my [personal] situation) called me around ten o clock at night. To see his name show up on my digital device was / is a rarity and I no sooner stepped outside to answer the call. “Amigo amigo! Como estas?   Common themes of parental interactions, adventures in children, bodily workings, Utah, Nevada all took a part while we passed our words back and forth through the telephone.  
The conversation steered into a parking lot of self realizing, momentary trepidations of each others lives; 
“What will you do when your spouse dies?” “How might I handle the loss of a child?” “What kind of tree will eat me when I die?” Which quickly turned into; “…But I will NEVER die!…..” light chuckles were followed by a small silence in the conversation. As quickly as a bone break the themes were turned into talks of monetary momentum and the financial plans of the other. I found myself annoyed at the fact that such things could consume so much of our mental real estate. In the back of my brain I told myself that “ I am not focused on such silly things ….I am ALL ABOUT the memory and moment of the current state..” Inside my brain, there, front lawn sprawled boy, I caught a flicker of the life that was so quickly passing me by, knowing all too well that much of my focus, albeit to my dismay, revolves around fraudulent claims of gold leading to gladness. Working extra hours to “get ahead” in my rapidly fading time. 
I have tried to pinpoint, since the talk with my brother, what it was about the conversation that lead me to such a stifling self realization and discomfort. I think that the common rope that runs through all of my siblings and me (and so many others) has threads of fear that come from the king of the western world’s castle. MONEY. If he ain’t no king, then I must ask myself why it is that I will trade almost anything for it, including family parties, children’s activities, park visits, lover outings, friend helpings, moments that are irreplaceable, never to be relived or re-seen. (Stopping to re-read what I wrote) “DON’T BE DAFT, JOSHUA” (I am talking to myself again) “Money is a necessary pursuit for every day life” Yes, I understand that to have money is a thing of life, but it is that it can become “THE FOCUS OF YOUR LIFE”.
This fact I find appalling. Like a leech it takes from the giver, having it’s victim unaware of his / her sleuth / secretive companion.

(I am still a pumpkin)

Change comes from seeing misfires and correcting the course. 
Tonight felt like that. 
A dozen beautiful people, children, friends gathered round, listened to old country records and spent an evening of reconnection, reinvention, and love. 
The task was taken seriously by everyone in the room. From the gal with the birdhouse gourd to the fella with the whittling knife, turning scrap into spoon. As crafts were getting finished and the hour was growing late I suggested that we all head upstairs for an evening dirge before all parties drove back to their respective homes.  I was obliged and we all marched upstairs. Landing around the piano, we all sang familiar Christmas songs and hymns, casting in the SPIRIT of the living, forcing her presence.

Could’nuh asked for a better moment.
After all… These nights / Craft nights are what I envision heaven TRULY looking like. 


(revisitation permitted to a memory of sound below)

SOUNDS FROM ABOVE (last night)

I get caught up in my own story.

I take it easy. (Working on) I will. (Future Me)

SLOWLY make THESE cookies. 
absolutely.

PUMPKIN CHOCO CHIP COOKIES (the best)

* 1.5  C Canned Pumpkin Puree not pumpkin pie filling * 1 C Sugar * 1/2 C Melted Coconut Oil * 1/2 C Unsweetened Apple Sauce * 3 C All-Purpose Flour * 3 tsp Baking Powder * 1.5  tsp Baking Soda * 3 Dashes of Salt optional * 3 tsp Cinnamon * 1/2 tsp Cloves * 1/2 tsp Ginger * 1/2 tsp AllSpice * 1.5 Tbl Vanilla * 2 C Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. 2. Combine the pumpkin, sugar, oil (make sure to melt the coconut oil first), applesauce and vanilla in the bowl of an electric mixer. 3. In a separate bowl, combine all of the remaining ingredients, except chips. 4. Mix just to combine. 5. Fold in chocolate chips. 6. Let the dough sit for 10 minutes. The baking powder helps the batter rise and the finished cookies are a bit smoother. 7. Using an ice cream scoop (or a spoon), drop onto a lined cookie sheet. 8. Bake for 10-12 minutes depending on size. You want the bottom and edges to have a slight golden brown and cook all of the way through. 
 Surely forgetting
 Surely maintaining.

 Joshua Fred James