Three colours green, or what I seen.

I'm on the road again. Behind me storm clouds obscure the Emerald City and ahead the sky leans close to the earth for a kiss drenched with longing. If I reach my hand out the window I can trace my fingers through the scoops and cottons of cloud, the breath of the sky, it's a tender moment between the now and forever and I'm racing between the two, an insect, an atom, a tiny nothing relected in the dark still waters of eternity. 

The horizon is a sensual hallucination of a lover's curves, blushed verdant and alive after the return of a love thought lonely and lost, the tears of remorse having doused the dry cracked wrinkles of drought and doubt while delight dances in delicious delirium, the trees, the grass, the flowers, even the scattered granite monuments of a prehistoric orgasm seem to have awakened, such is the explosion of sensation and life. 

 This place populated in a blink, untouched for millions of years beforehand, paradise neither lost nor regained, but simply created, it waited and I take it all in, everything, three hundred and sixty degrees of breathtaking insanity, and within the whirlpool my senses are freed and my ego shed and every thought floats and dances, a single, clear butterfly, dancing a scatter in pockets of memory and wonderment. 

 On the highway I find what always seems to elude me, one path, laid out in front, and all you need to do is drive toward tomorrow, through valleys and towns decorated in gold, nature's mourning pennant as the earth prepares to sleep in post-coital bliss, its back turned to the father, the sun, the holy three months before the resurrection of the land. 

And in the meantime we continue to scurry and scamp, little lives with big troubles, alive on the back of a sleeping dragon. A cave where I have chosen to come to meditate rabid demons of thought and reflection. To let go of everything - to understand - to step back from the painting - to hold my thumb up to my life and see what works and what does not - and the painting bleeds colours and moods and random patterns flipper and scat and laughter is mixed with sadness and love with loss but under the mix, the palette retains a finish of hope and excitement, for an unknown future is a creation waiting to happen.

Where the road takes me...

3.

Of course it was always a Hope that I would find a family. Truth is I stayed out of sight all year, because I knew I didn't belong anymore. That somewhere out in the world were my tribe, and I needed to transmogrify myself in order to find them. So I waited, watching the stars from time to time, choosing my actions carefully. Well, most of the time.

Here in Portland the first moment happens. I sit outside a diner with a musician from NYC who lives in Oslo and a Norwegian film maker and we talk as brothers. They talk about my songs. They say, people like you and I, and the oak leaves tumble and spin around us and my heart flips and shudders and I phoenix, right there on the street. I am now people like You. I have made a complete reality swap. I am an International Gypsy, and I am Home, and it all hits me until I struggle to hold myself down. I feel as though I am lifted beyond all that I ever was. Everything that is said is right.

Later that night I am in a bar, in a photo booth, and I am drunk on champagne. Mark and Jessy whisper to each other, and begin to tell me of other family members. In Paris, in New York, in Berlin, in in in...and everyone is a part of each other, and I can see the World I had only dreamed of finding, right here, sitting in my hands. They smile as we drink shots of whiskey, and they say - welcome to the family.

We sit up singing songs in the apartment until 5, 6am. There are no barriers. Every story is open to everyone. We sing. We plan. And I know, that these plans will come true. I know honesty now that I have found it.

I am stretched across this world into a new Universe.
And I am Home.
The Road is Home.

2.

Seems like the ghosts are still close. I wake up in a Bear House and make my way outside to the back balcony, and there is a call in my head and I don't know why. I'm distant from that in so many ways, but here it is cobwebbed in the corner and dancing ethereal when the first light hits me. I take a slug of warm Coke and try to wait it out. There are smoke signals as I light my first one. Seductive silver plumes rise from my fingers. My face is still numb from the cocaine. I want to wince at what I'm thinking, but I'm frozen stiff and stuffed so I walk to the edge and lean out. 

I'm on the side of a valley. Below me I can see the houses of the rich, barely visible beneath the thick verdant canopy of the forest. This is the richest county in California, and I'm here with ghosts and I don't know why. Last night's mess contains over sized pizza slices. I take a cold one in the mouth for luck. It helps. It seems like I've been here forever. This city of ten cities, each so different, black world, blue world, rich world, tourist world. None of them are my world. I need to sit down. This is just a week catching up, this startled maudlin, out of place in an adventurer's kit. I realise how lucky I am to have a brother in the city. He's waiting for me now, I'm supposed to play to his class, a song of ghosts and monkeys, but I won't make it back. He'll understand. I forgot how much we understand. That's a good man, right there. Strange in the all the right ways. Right in all the strange ones too.

For a moment I'd forgotten why I was here. At the bar of the Utah Saloon, with the Giants running 9-0 in the second game, and free Tequila shots for everyone when they won, and two girls I couldn't escape, yelling at me how it was fine that I talked to the other one, "cause she's obviously prettier than me..." - What the Hell are you on about? I need to find a corner while I wait for my friends to get here. I didn't come here to chase. I want the real thing now, I want an out to this forever fleeting fancy.  I want my girl. The one that's waiting for me. The one that's going to understand. Not the one in the bar who doesn't even know who the Hell she's talking to. I've got three more days here. I want to remember them. I need my guitar. I need my guitar like I've needed it all year. The tequila keeps coming. I don't know what I say, or why, or how I look. Like I care anymore. Like I've cared ever since I was first not worth caring about.

Yeah, that coke sure was strong.

Later we drive across the GBB. And we're all laughing again, talking baseball, and I turn to the left and see the hungry fog edging toward the city, descending upon its prey. I lean back in the seat and close my eyes and the bone tired in me just says, bring it on, swallow it, swallow me, for this one night, let's all sink together and see where we turn up. Then I turn to the right, and there's the Pacific, clawing desperately at the cliffs and crashing in sickened revolt up, up, up, impatient to be done with these eons of erosion. Starving to just finally come on in and drown us all.

And far out to see, a sprig of lightning, to garnish the whole scene.
A storm slowly approaching.
One dark Halloween.

1.

I ain't running no more. I think that as we land. I look out the window and I see the South Bay, I see a Land of Strangers, and I know I'm not escaping something. I'm arriving. That's important fact number one. Important fact number two is that I've travelled light. I haven't brought baggage this time, like I took to Paris. My heart does not feel heavy. My heart feels clean. My heart feels nothing at all, if I had to tell the truth. That's that. My heart feels nothing at all, though my eyes are wide open.

I play my first show then I stand at a crossroads. Dusted signs which point to differing nights. I choose a glass of red in a home, with my shoes off, no jungle, no animal, no exploring, no wanting, needing, hoping. Those people who died, they killed that lifestyle for me. They used to tell me things, what they knew about everything, what they were going to become. They'd talk, all people fucking do is talk - then they'd fall apart on a cocaine hurdle, throw misguided missiles of fuck, suck, and shit out of luck.

I used to to do the same.

I drink a wine, and keep it close, keep it internal, and that's when the year's work really kicks in. That I've travelled all this way in a huge metal fish, over an ocean infested with sharks that shoot spiders out of their mouth - and I didn't change. I didn't blend. I just smiled and stayed safe. And waited for the right thing, not the Old Thing. The Old Thing is dead. I know that now. It's dead and it's getting deader.

Similar things happen to last time. I walk a lot. I don't make friends with strangers like I could. I keep my head down and I try to use the streets as currency, to buy another piece with which to build a greater understanding. Everything looks like it should. The painted ladies, 2 story, 3 story, a static pirate station where no one knows any longer, just what they're tuned in to. Like anywhere. Like home. It's all shirts and shops and safety zones.

I can sense the death of this place. This once great pioneer flailing into the New Age.
I think about Space.
I think about China.
I think,

America will tumble, slowly. It won't die. Instead it will remain a place of ideas, of invention, of wild theories and outsider glory. America will become the wild, grey haired loon, and it will remain valuable for that. But China will be the one to take us out into space. China has the numbers, the discipline, the ability to dispose of whoever or whatever does not serve the greater good. America failed there. It placed too much value on the individual. Saving three astronauts, saving democracy, saving face, all of these things are holding us back. We need to cut things loose. Keep our eyes on the furthest galaxy. If we are to conquer Space, if we are to shift focus, we need to value the Ant Kingdom over the Me. I don't think America can do that.

That's what I think.
I light another cigarette. I'll always do that.
I don't order a whiskey.
I don't chase a girl or a guy who can help me be more than I already am.

I am dying. So I die with dignity. I pour a wine, and remove my shoes, and think about the show I played, and look forward to the next one. I live each day in this dying world as though it were my last, and I frighten myself with the knowledge that right now, if I had a choice, my last day would be spent alone, in comfort, rather than burning in a gutter beneath the stars which we as a race are forever pretending we have already reached.

I don't need to see the stars.

Though there is one, ahead, that may just be an angel.

Back, Begin Again, Rebirth.

It's the feeling you get in your stomach just before she undresses you and you undress her. The feeling you get when the passionate kiss begins to mean more. When the hands first slide down and the first button is undone. When the hair gets messy and the kiss gets wet and nothing else matters.

That's the feeling in the stomach.

It's the feeling you get when you hear THAT song and you turn it up and you get in the shower, together or alone, and as the water beads on your shoulder and drip tickles over your lips you scream what words you know and make up the rest. And when you get out, it's not cold. When you get out, you're still dancing and naked and bouncing bouncey you stare in the mirror and laugh.

It's the feeling you get when for the first time that year you step out in t-shirt and shorts and old battered converse and the sun rewards you and so do the girls on the street. That first short skirt, that first flimsy flighty shoulder showing dress. And your stomach works with your sex and they both tell the corners of your mouth to turn it up baby, turn it up...smile that fucking spring fever smile. And you do. And the twinkle and the cheek returns.

And you remember how to skateboard.

And you remember how to play guitar.

And you remember that Beer Gardens are always welcoming.

And you remember what she tastes like outside in the sunshine.

And the fucking grass, the air even the grey suit concrete smells good.

And so do you.

And you see it stretching out in front of you.

It's coming, it's so fucking coming and it's not going to end.

And you're too young to die.

And summer, spring, any fucking thing, injects you with passion and youth and sex and drive and creativity and spunk and cheek and humour and fun fun motherfucking fun here it comes...

Hi.

Dateline.

When the fog hangs thick it's difficult to make out what's going on around me. Best to just sit still and wait. Wait for the noise to subside. Wait for the chills to fade. These days, The Fog is only ever a temporary setback. An intermission, a moment between Moments. Almost a blessing. Crawl into The Pod TM, focus on breathing, remember the future, now that I've forgotten to forget forgetting. Everything is coming, I know that now, whether it comes as Reality, Fantasy or simply as Hope - it's coming regardless, and I've walked blind and tripped trippity trip too often in The Past, so what's to do but sit peaceful in The Fog and wait for the path to show itself.

I write a ballad, a Love Song Dedication, a ballad of Two Ghosts, and I don't even wonder what they would say if they heard it. I just smile at the knowledge that The Past is a quaint holiday destination, but my ambition lies dead ahead. The song is a gentle goodbye, a better way to walk into Tomorrow. That's enough to bury the dead, isn't it? With soft water colours, a picture they will never know I painted of them,  but which I will hang proud from my heart now that I'm finally ready to play - to face the self imposed intimidation of being surrounded for so long by people I put on pedestals, people, that through no fault of their own, held me back, frightened me into thinking I had nothing to give. But I have my own Soul to give, and that's the one thing I've always stood by, though perhaps, have never lived up to. So...Matty James, I think, I'll play under the name Matty James. It's two sides of me, the known and the unknown, and the blanket of enigmatic contradiction feels warm around my shoulders. I think it fits. Ego or no.

Her and I - we write, as it's all we have, but it's all we've ever had, so that fits too. And time bends and stretches in circles and oblongs and I slide into it now, comfortable, clear...and well...I'm restless as Hell, but that energy sure beats Anger. Or worse, Shame. Besides - nothing beats this Hard Fought Freedom. And I am reborn, as is my sister, as are my friends, reborn from all those bloody tears and yesterdays. Young again, naive again, built of dreams yet holding the power to create reality in a single word.

Yes.

Yes,

I can do this.

We can all do this.

Salute.

Inspiration.

Thumbnail.

Peace is out there somewhere.
Under a tree, by a river.
In a room, on a bed, blinds open, watching the white drifts dance by.
In a car - driving away from
every thing, to find The Silence
in which to place
each thing in Context.
The Void Canvas which so easily
transforms a man's blood
into a new vision...
My Painting.
My Heart.

Volcanic.

Something has to give. Back behind bars. A reality less real than The Dream. The sort of life that people nod knowingly at, and give a little understanding tap on the bicep as they "understand". We're all in this together, right? Got to do what we got to do. No such thing as Freedom anymore. No room in This Modern Age for Beat movement. Walkabout. No more Freight riding, sunset chasing, everything comes with a plan, a set pattern that if you stare at for too long, can feed your grunting nightmares with shapes so familiar it's almost as if you've been Dead, dreaming for eternity. That's where you are, Man. It's just that stubborn child that thinks otherwise, that believes there is still an underground, an alternative, a tunnel, carved and focused, straight through the Grey and into The Black and Light. So, Coward, what are you prepared to do?

What are you prepared to do?

Dream.

C'est fini.

That's all I have to say about that. The last week...the last week is mine and hers to cherish forever. A Dream Come True, a Fairytale. The single greatest week of my life. And I will take what The Universe so graciously gave and turn the Heat into a Fire to fuel the year ahead.

There is such joy, if you are True to yourself. Such Bliss in an open heart, an honest grin and a wonder filled gaze.

I sit in the heat, drinking a cold beer, and sharing my memories with True Friends. We talk about Important Things, and the need to stay True to The Path. And there is nothing but Honest Optimism, and we all feel it, we all take hold of it, we all silently, internally, vow to make the Necessary Changes. And this time, it is Real.

And as we walk back to the car, The Universe lays a punchline on me. Two people, so terrified, ashamed, or simply Vacant, who have to cross the street and hide their faces when they spy me dancing and giggling on the sidewalk. And I laugh and laugh and laugh, and call out to them, smiling, Wide Open, though cheeky, to be sure...and they scurry and crab sideways into their own shadow...and life lives on, as it does, and my friends and I drive back to our blissful Home, drinking in the music which pours melodic and inebriating from the speakers, high on the chorus, and sated by the warm key changes of 70s rock. Yeah, baby, yeah.

Oh man, Life can be so fucking amazing.

This Universe. This hilariously breathtaking Universe.

Au Revoir.

At night the snow melted
and left the streets
wet
as though the stones themselves
were mourning
beneath
the lascivicious diamonds
which glowed
rouge
in the
night.

This Heart Break
is
different,

not so much a Full Stop
 
as a

11.

How is it that everything can be going so right? That even when I think I may have burned all my luck, Angels appear to hold my hand, and help me continue along this Path. I cry as I walk toward Jaures, toward the Buttes Chaumont, because the sun is on me, in so many ways and I cannot remember The Universe and I being so in synch.

My cousin comes through for me at the last minute. Unapproached. She swings in from Left of Stage with that Dooley Psychic Know How and sets things right for me in ways that I won't go into here. Suffice to say, this is a lesson to be learned now. Early in the year. Part 2 of what was taught last year. That none of this would have happened without friends and family. And it's time for me to not be such a hermit when it comes to sharing the Love. It's time to Reach Out, as far as I can stretch, and never forget, just how far this Beautiful Family can go if we all step together.

I hook up with Nomi Fuz, my sister's ex and true friend from years ago, who is living in Paris, and as soon as I see her and she hugs me, huge waves of glee start washing over me. We talk and talk and talk over coffee, and I am a man dying of thirst who finds fresh water, I talk so fast I almost drown myself in enthusiasm. It feels like the first conversation I've had in years, not because I haven't spoken to anyone, but because we are both so in awe of where we are, how we are, who we are...this girl, this girl who I have loved for years purely for the True Friendship she always showed my sister, ends up becoming such an inspiration to me, and I to her, that I feel humbled by The Universe, again and again, for allowing me this New Friend. And I am able to actually express this to her, without sounding overly wet or cheesy.

I mean we lift each other up with our stories and we share positivity and Hope and say, YEAH! and WOO!, a lot...just like my friends at Home. My cheeks hurt with Awesome. Is this what it feels to be on the Right Path?

And all this, the day before Paris begins again.

Which is today...in 12 hours...

Um...

10.

This is a huge amount of faith to put in Fate. Things coming together, just at the right time. Resourcefulness, belief, strength of will - Good words for 2010. A confident way to mold the clay which this future will be made from. I won't say I'm not nervous, I am. Not so much of What We Are Doing, but more...that we can get home, that we can eat, that Life is gentle with us. Such a way to start a year, a lifelong dream come true. Can it be that things go right? Can it really be?

On the steps of Sacre Couer I sit and smoke and the whole of Paris stretches out beneath me. If I am to find a sign then this place is surely the delivery point. It's been snowing all morning. Not a heavy snow, more a breath, a light stir of butterflies which dance on the winds and land wet on my jacket. But as I sit down on the stairs of the ancient basillica, the clouds open and the sun shines through and all the rooftops of Paris turn from grey to gold. I light another smoke. What else to do in this city? I take it in, and take it in, the smoke, the vista, the sun, the dream. I leave my camera in my pocket and I just Am. Right here. This moment which will never be again. I smile at the busker who sets up two steps in front of me, and he leans into his microphone and asks the crowd, is everyone okay? And they cry, YES!

And he closes his eyes, and he plays

John Lennon, Imagine.

And the accent is atrocious, but the playing is strong, but I mean, who cares, the sun, the song, the crowd sings along, the cigarette burns, and my soul soars, and what else is there to think? Sign or not, this is a moment. And I would be fool not to drown in it.

You may say, I'm a dreamer....but I'm not the only one...

How did we engineer this? This extra time, this One Forever Dream?

I don't know. But there's a sign outside of Disney World, huge, across the entrance.

If you can dream it, you can do it.

Maybe that's all it takes.

So dream with me.

9.

 Dawn rises languid, and beneath a gentle snow drift the Romance of Paris is stripped bare, until all that remains is the bare humanity of Just Another Capital City. I listen to The Strokes, dance as I walk, air guitar and drums, just like home, I am at home. No longer a voyeur, but a bit part player, a tiny fish in a vast sea of Them.
Without Her, this is as lonely a city as ever was. Cruel, almost, in its Ignorant Grandeur. But I can still find Peace. I can still jump on a concrete ledge as the chorus hits. I can still startle the other pedestrians with a surprise grin, and a heart felt bonjour.
It's just another day.
As an Outsider, I can cry for the Paris that was. The centre of Bohemie, the heartbeat of a movement, when every man was a philosopher, and every woman a muse. Now...now every one is a survivor, stepping in time with the Universal Trudge. Here to there, my life, your life, a job to do, necessity over indulgence, the faces of the Parisiens carry no more or less of Now's Sad Truths, though the Ghosts here are closer, less...earthy, than those at Home. They are tangible, if you open your heart. The music helps that. A soundtrack always brings things to life.
I live the cliche, because I can, and because This Year, I aim to create. I fall in love with her as I read her texts, walking by the Seine, toward the Tower Eiffel. I stroll by the most famous Art Gallery in the world, and barely glance at it, because my eyes are heavenward, and my arms are stretched out to Her, as though I can feel her across the channel, Love's great reach, a psychic caress, close your eyes my darling and we are beside each other, inside each other, Time Travellers, explorers of all that has been between us these ten years, and all that is to come. This is what I create. This is what she creates. I can feel us both surrender, and nothing is more sensual, more Paris, than complete surrender to This.

I am standing up for this Great Chance.

Why would I not?

And Her, she is just so...


3 more days.