The Writing on the Wall

I’ve been working at “art” for long enough now, decades, to recognize there is a waxing and waning in the energy and inspiration of the activity. This is separate from daydreaming; my brain seems to always be ready to slip into that comfort zone. But if I want to hold a CD in my hands, or post a blog or write a novel, there comes a moment when it is time to stop thinking and start doing. Perhaps I could be more workmanlike in my approach to art, it would certainly help whittle down the list of projects I’ve dreamed up, but I’ve always felt it was best to just let inspiration push me over the edge into activity instead of taking a figurative lunch pail to work every day.

And so here I am, having successfully written a blog entry every day this week. There are a multitude of topics to explore, yet another list I’ve made, and the time and mental effort must be expended to bring a discussion out of my seething mind and into your eyes and thoughts. I admit I have a goal of publishing all of my recent blogs into a book at year’s end, my first non-poetry book. But more importantly, I feel like a doorway has opened and there are fewer barriers these days to putting pen to paper, if you will. In other words, the words seem to be flowing these days, and I’ve decided to jump into the water and go along for the ride.

One thought that has crossed my mind in recent days is “what is my set of values?” If I am to comment on a topic or event, I need this value set to compare and contrast the topic or event to in my writing. And, at least, outlining such a set of values would be worthy of a journal entry in itself. It would be something I could post on the bulletin board above my computer as I nightly type out these journal entries (I am henceforth refusing to call these writings “blogs” or “blog entries”, I hate these words!). But I also question how necessary this activity would be. I am not living in a value-less state, indeed I feel very strongly in an intuitive sense what wrong and right are in my perception of the world. You see, the thought also crosses my mind of taking the long view; this activity of journaling daily will amount to an exploration of my values over the span of a year. It seems to me this would be a much more organic approach to delineating my value set. And isn’t it more realistic to acknowledge that you live and learn and that you grow and change as a person over your lifetime, as opposed to setting out a concrete value system that you must never deviate from? Of course there are certain lines I, you, and society should never cross. And I will discuss over the future days situations related to this, such as humanity vs. capitalism, for one example. But as always, to me one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves as individuals is the mindful awareness of our unique mechanisms behind our beliefs and actions.

Lately I’ve been feeling like a monk, both in the religious sense as well as a sexual sense. Most people close to me know I’m going through a difficult period in my private life, and surely that’ll all work itself out one day. But also I feel like an observer to life, a solitary soul wandering the fields around his village, exploring and journaling his feelings and observations on all matter of things. Isn’t it a time-honored tradition for such individuals to ponder at length about spirituality, society, and the meaning of it all?

I have had the strangest and strongest sense lately since my sister’s passing, and that is I am fated to outlive all of my remaining family members; a voice tells me inside of my head that it is meant to be that I am to chronicle and report on my feelings and observations to the world. I am fated to be alone and I can only hope that these artistic and journalistic leavings of mine can be of benefit to someone else down the road. I honestly feel a sense of peace and of purpose about it all. No, I don’t plan on shaving my head. But I do plan on feeding my mind with much more than and anything else but this disposable celebrity culture we are surrounded by, this modern bread and circuses farce, these crumbling last days of an empire and a lifestyle gone by.

One of my favorite quotes is from H.G. Wells “The Time Machine”:

“This has ever been the fate of energy in security; it turns to art and to eroticism, and then comes languor and decay.”

If that’s the case, then I prefer to keep the energy that is my love for everyone and everything very insecure; it will keep me motivated to live my story to its fullest.

The Smells of Summer

Every once in a while Time has a tendency to show a facet it normally keeps hidden just below the surface of our perception. A moment when the passage of time, the passage of decades, seems irrelevant and experiences, actions, hopes and atmospheres all combine to give you, well, a timeless feeling. I had one tonight. I was driving home from a local bar that, due to its location, was much more convenient for me to take the back roads through the countryside to my home. And suddenly the summer smells, the hopes of the lamplight blacktop, the beers in my belly, they all combined to make me feel like I was 18 again, cruising towards some teenage destination filled with friends, brews and the potential pedestal of love. I hardly knew what love was back then, hardly had any experiences that could help me recall the softness of a young woman’s breasts, their amazing shape, delicate silhouettes in the moonlight hidden by sweet-scented hair and the barriers of youthful lack of opportunity. Guys, did you ever linger over the hairline of a female classmate, marveling at how it fell gracefully along the nape of her neck, not knowing how to but longing to devour all of her feminine promise? God, it makes me heady and even in memory there is a tangible reminder to enjoy the journey more than rush towards the destination.

Even as a lanky kid with big brown hair and over-sized eyeglasses I despised the guys who objectified women, bragging at how they’d “gotten some pussy” the weekend just past. Was I jealous? I suppose on some level I was, but yet I knew there was something inherently wrong in their approach.

But also, was I too much the artist, too ready to worship a divinity I hardly understood? I had to be, experience has since taught me that, while finding a muse is rare, finding a girl who understands, respects, is comfortable with and even welcomes the mechanism of the artist/muse relationship is even more rare. In other words, I drove a lot of potential girlfriends away with my intensity as a youth. In my defense, I knew there was something very special to be found, and with total impatience, I wanted it now! I’ve since begun to learn patience; it is one of the few areas in my life where I’ve been able to have willpower over my inclinations.

The only exercise I ever seem to get is academic. I can dance around the glory of Turkish women sporting floral tattoos, of Brazilian ladies with deep fathom eyes, of Canadian girls unknowingly kissing the world with old soul grace, of Arkansas (by way of New York and Michigan and point in-between) mothers who make me feel naked and confessional, of Wisconsin wonders who fill me with guilt over every decision I’ve made that has widened and lengthened our divide. I instantly smile recalling how a too-earnest 18-year old boy spent an evening reading poetry with a 17-year old blonde in her backyard by candle and moon light, and how my blood was poisoned for the rest of that summer. I can recall the beginning of Tony Pucci the musician, 15, innocent and with Fender guitar in hand, writing not only song after song, but cassette after cassette of songs for a Midwestern brunette with a Japanese name and a blue dress that still haunts my dreams. For years I believed it was absolutely impossible to find someone who could replace her in my pantheon; after all, we all only ever have one First Love.

And so I drove home thrilled at how my soul was exposed to the timeless tendrils of hope and need and youthful zeal. The radio started playing a song from the 1980s, and I smiled at the timing and appropriateness of it. As I pulled into my neighborhood, I saw two teenagers walking arm-in-arm in the near-midnight dark. The adult in me wondered at the time of night and what charmed spot were they hoping to find to feed their desires; the dreamer in me applauded this crazily-spinning world we cling to. The faces may change, but our passions will always boil from the same sacred, primordial pool. Her breasts are soft, young man, be mindful and respectful of her and take deep breaths, if you remember to breath at all. The smells of summer are strong tonight.

Forever in a Drop of BPM

I think all of us could come up with a multitude of reasons why each of us would love to live forever, or at least live much longer than we likely will. I’m no different from you in that regard. And of course that comes down to what and whom we love; we want to spend more time with them. Every once in a while, when listening to music, not using it as background music for other tasks, purely and simply listening to music, immersing myself in the atmospheres the sounds portray, the momentum a good song carries through all of the various sonic devices at a musician’s disposal, the sheer beauty of a good song performed by a truly talented artist…ah, a good song is glory itself, isn’t it?

I can’t put a lid on my acquisition of music. It’s one reason I do the Pollyanna Cowgirl Records Podcast, so I can have an excuse to listen to some new, good tunes, and by extension turn my friends on to what I’m listening to.

Tonight, as I’m typing this, I’m listening to an album that’s been a favorite of mine since I was a young teenager: The Moody Blues “Long Distance Voyager”. You might know the hits “Gemini Dream” or “The Voice” from this record. And I say “Record”, as it was one of the first long-playing vinyl records I owned as a fledgling music fan in the late 70s/early 80s. And beyond the hits, the entire LP is outstanding. Well, I have a great amount of respect and love for The Moody Blues throughout their career; when they hit the nail on the head with a good song, there is none better. I was lucky enough to see them perform live a few years ago, and that was a thrill. As I’ve discovered with the good bands, after I see them live I come away with an even greater amount of respect for the band and the musicians, for they are truly talented at their craft and at playing their instruments. I’d never considered Justin Hayward to be a “guitarist”, he was always a “singer/songwriter” to me, until after I saw the band live and realized, damn, Justin kicks ass on the guitar! I recently had a similar experience seeing Wilco, whom I discovered is a very talented group of musicians and thus it makes my listening experiences with Wilco CDs all that much greater.

But my point is there is never enough time to listen to all of the good music available to us. And with long-time favorites such as The Moody Blues “Long Distance Voyager”, a year can easily slip by without a listen, and that’s such a shame, isn’t it? But I’ve listened to plenty of great music since the last time I listened to this LP, so I’m not sure if I have regrets, but there is a small sense of melancholy about it. What if this is the last time I ever listen to this record?

My advice to you: find an hour in the next week or so, and pick out an old, favorite record. Put it on and don’t do anything else but just listen. Hear the sounds that envelope, comfort and soothe you like an old friend. More importantly, hear the musician sharing his or her soul with the world. They were naked and trusting when they made that record; it is the nature of the adventure.

From Music to Mantra

Aren't we blessed to live in this period when a favorite song or CD can easily be played within seconds of deciding you'd like to hear it? The technology of recording music is only some 100 years old, after all. Before that music was what it still is in its purest form, a live event, a live communication and bonding between musician and audience.

Music is an intrinsic part of every culture, be it ceremony, a historical vessel in the oral tradition, or even our own modern culture where so much music "falls" into the category of "entertainment". It is a great shame that music has become another commodity, and the music business in all of its facets is worth many discussions. Ideally, talent should be recognized and fostered. Perhaps I'm myopic due to my own artistic leanings, but I think music has a very natural ability to express emotions on multiple and deep levels simultaneously. There are those, for whom music is not just a form of expression, it is a survival tool. I find it amazing, glorious and shockingly sad to see so many "bands and artists" groveling for attention at websites like Myspace, hoping for a break, CD sales, ego strokes, and some phantom sense of glory that truly can only be found in the private moments of creation and performance, yet we falsely seek such joys in the kudos of our friends and fans. Our modern technology and media makes it easier for us to "put ourselves out there", and that's a trap, I believe.

Ten years ago you would have found me in my basement studio, writing songs and playing guitar, recording my little songs for me and myself alone. The sense of emotional unburdening and yes, accomplishment at finishing a new album, were all I got out of the exercise, all I knew to look for, and frankly, all I needed out of it all. And then along came the Internet, and while it was great to finally feel like I wasn't alone, that there were people out there just like me doing music very similar to what I was doing, the whole thing also became a weird digital universe where wallflowers check their emails and social accounts for attention, comments and sales. The inherently insecure, and yes, I include myself in that group, had found another realm to feed their desires. In other words, YOU have to learn to love yourself for who you are, and seeking that in others is a dead-end road no matter the scene. The Internet for musicians is yet another drug; it feels so good at first and then you realize you're hooked and you need another fix, you need another website that needs your time, you need more "friends" who love all you do and praise your ass up and down.

All of this does not mean I don't love and cherish the true friends I've made online. Don't shoot the messenger! The Internet can be a useful and powerful tool. How unique of an opportunity do we have to be alive at the beginnings of the instantaneous Global Village?!?! It has become easier for us to find more friends who share our interest. It's a shame we all can't get together in person more, because that's where the love really is at. But it's nice not to feel alone. All I'm saying is not all is as it seems; be aware of your motivations, future Rock Stars of the world.

Am I being cynical and jealous? Yes, I admit that is partially what I am doing here. I have put myself out there and received silence. I have grown to near-full blossoming as an artist and have only a handful of "fans". Hey, if you're reading this, don't take that personally; likely only my friends are reading this journal anyway! But the point is I have grown also as a person and it is the fool who assumes he has arrived at a destination, instead of continuously examining his motivations. I would rather love and be honest, both as a person and a musician, and never sell another CD in my life, than be a vacuous self-promoter who only cares that you line my pockets. I mean, c'mon, I've dedicated my musical career, such as it is, to trying to help, aid, assist and end human suffering through medical research. I know it seems like I walk a fine line between self-promotion and charity with my Internet presence, but trust me; I am discovering and embracing who I am. I guess what I'm trying to say is I know I may occasionally seem over-the-top with my Internet behavior, but I'm aware of it, and that behavior is simply NOT a matter of promotion, of being the lowest common denominator approach of an Indie musician online and striving for strokes. The truth is I believe in myself and my causes, I need to communicate and there is a limited arsenal of tools to work that communication. If you as a person at all have a clue, if you at all have kindness in your heart, I hope you think I'm doing something worthy, and not something smarmy! So if that's the case, then jump on my bandwagon and we'll try to and believe we truly can change the world, just like all good Idealists believe.

Yes, I worry about how I'm perceived. But then, who ever is universally loved? I tend to get trapped into thinking in absolute terms. I worry that there are people out there who think, "man, Pucci takes it all too far, I wish he'd shut up now and then." Not that I've gotten that attitude a lot from others, just a little bit. I need to develop a thicker skin in all aspects of my life, criticism has always been hard for me to take. But then again, maybe that's part of my charm, being so innocent and naïve.

But I can also sense the potential for miracles in our conversations. I'm only too happy to be the hippie, freak flag-waving leader of the Love Parade, baby, if you need it. And we all need it. But I only want your love if it's sincere. Wait, isn't love always sincere? If it seems like love but it obviously isn't sincere, then it automatically can't be love, it has to be something else. Ass kissing, maybe? I think those I consider my friends know that I consider them to be my friends, so am I preaching to the choir?

We have to have faith in something, and I place my faith in the hope that humans can rise above their limitations and learn to truly love and take care of one another, regardless of religion, political boundaries, economic standings and models, and class systems. Let's try to start cutting the bullshit out of our lives.

Live the new Pucci Mantra: Life is too short; love fiercely.

Yeah, that's what my web presence is, that's what all of those newsletters and CDs and poetry books and podcasts are; Me Loving Fiercely. I feel better now. Hugs all around!

INSTANT KARMA’S GONNA GET YA

It is a delicious feeling when lightning strikes you into foolish and confident behavior. Instant attraction is a blessing of focus. It is a lifetime’s work to describe; shall I endeavor to add a few more golden words to the pillow couching such absolute and perfect dreams? Instant attraction strikes this artist speechless, and that’s a fine accomplishment the fates can bestow in a heartbeat. In other words, it is an ultimate experience and achievement; I can only imagine how it strikes those not used to describing their emotions and experiences artistically. In other words, it is potent and strong, it is getting the wind knocked out of you, it is turning away from a brief conversation and you’re amazed that you remember how to walk at all.

I go to Barnes & Noble bookstore a lot. It’s open ‘til 10pm and a good place to kill an hour if need be. I’m growing quite the collection of unread “The DiVinci Code” type thrillers at the moment. I like the historical elements, the puzzles, the alternative history, even the cynicism, if it’s present. And I have far too many blank notebooks and journals; at least, far too many for the next year or so. But hey, I’ve always loved books and feel at home among them, so the store is a favorite haunt of mine. And let’s not forget the coffee! But my point is I seldom go into Barnes & Noble’s CD section. Books are books and are priced the same pretty much everywhere, but B & N’s CDs are way overpriced. You know, $16 to $20 for one CD, same sort of thing for their DVDs. So outside of browsing, and perhaps checking out a new title on the demo headphones that always seem to have one channel that always cuts out (tonight it was the right headphone speaker, I checked out Neil Diamond’s new CD, interesting), there is no reason for me to enter B & N’s music section. But tonight I felt like, “what the heck?!” and thus entered.

Immediately upon walking through the magnetic sensors that stop thieving hippies from stuffing CDs beneath their tie-dyes, I was greeted by the sales girl with the ubiquitous “can I help you find anything?”

I looked up and I think maintained a sense of chilling out, “nah, just looking around,” but inside I was screaming, “OH MY GOD!” This girl connected with my intuition on every level. She looked like Natalie Merchant in her college days, i.e. around 21-ish, but with the bobbed haircut Natalie sported once 10,000 Maniacs started hitting the big time. In other words, she was stunning. She was wearing some outrageous neo-preppie outfit: short denim skirt, a blouse with a sweater tied around her waist, and I noticed she had a small, black nose-piercing stud on the left side of her nose, and a black tattoo of unknown Chinese characters on the inside of her left wrist. Funny what the mind can catalog in a moment of heightened awareness.

I wandered around, checked out the aforementioned Neil Diamond CD, and finally decided to buy the 5-DVD set of THE KIDS IN THE HALL-Season One, a show I have always loved, which I thought was reasonably priced, even for B & N prices. Hell, I wanted an excuse to talk to her!
I took my items to the counter and as she was ringing up my purchase, I asked without hesitation, “Do you sing?”

“Sing?” she replied. “No, I wish I was able to sing,” she said with what seemed to be honest sincerity and perhaps some sort of artistic desire.

“I’m in a band,” I said, “and I’m not trying to come on to you, but you’re absolutely gorgeous! After you greeted me, I was looking at the CDs and thinking, ‘wow, I’d love to be in a band with someone who looked like you.’” I shrugged. There it was, my cards on the table. I’ve lost a great deal of my shyness. (And if I ever lose my extra pounds, I’ll be an absolute player, but in a sweet way, because I’m interested and really do care and I adore women).

“Oh, don’t worry about…thank you!” she exclaimed. “That’s cool you’re in a band. That would be fun.”

Since my wallet was open anyway, I reached in and grabbed one of my Pollyanna Cowgirl business cards and handed it to her. “I’m serious,” I said. “If you’re interested, let me know. And if you’d like any CDs, let me know and I’ll send them to you.”

“Wow, thanks!” she said, studying the card.

I smiled and walked out. The whole scenario seemed like a short, melodic pop song, no reason to add a long solo or other boring crap to the song. Leave it as a bit of a mystery. If it’s meant to be, I’d be hearing from her. I got into my truck and started driving home. About a mile down the road I remembered I had copies of my TP-“Reverie” and my RUBACUORI-“A Smile Worth Remembering” CDs in my laptop computer bag, so I pulled a quick U-turn and headed back to the bookstore. As I pulled into the parking lot, a great line came to mind, and I know it was the perfect ending to this song/situation.

I walked in and found her near the counter where I’d left her only minutes before. Handing her the CDs, I slowly and deliberately said, “I find that intuition is a sense too seldom taken seriously,” and looked at her while raising my eyebrows slightly, all to imply that I was taking my current intuition quite seriously. She was so beautiful I could barely stand looking at her. Despite my social confidence, I felt naked looking at her.

“Thank you so much!” she said, and started studying the cover art.

Just so she’d know, I quickly pointed out that “Reverie” had vocals while “A Smile Worth Remembering” was an instrumental CD, and walked out of the store as she continued to study the CDs.

I may never hear from her. I may never even see her again. But I’ll certainly check out the music section of B & N next time I’m in the store! I don’t even know what I’m trying to accomplish. She WOULD make a great-looking lead singer, and with rock music, there are numerous tales of non-singers doing it for art and growing into their abilities (David Bowie & Jim Morrison, anyone?). And I would love to just kick back and play guitar like a demon while someone else fronts the band.

And no, I’m not necessarily skirt chasing. I know such things grow naturally out of friendships. At least, they should. But what the fuck do I know about relationships? My life (and love life) has been one big fantasy for years. Besides, I have someone very wonderful in waiting.
And no, I’m not looking for anyone. But it also is true that I am occasionally blindsided by absolute attraction. I wish I could define it, but Aldous Huxley said it best: “After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.” If you could feel how I feel when I create my songs, you’d know this love. Maybe some of it gets through.

Who needs Brazil when there is Barnes & Noble?

Diamantes - Letter to Leïlah/Letter to You - May 18, 2008

Strange phantoms fill the mist tonight. The urge for me to Write drifts just below my consciousness, tickling me like an almost-forgotten memory; there is much I want to say, I don’t know how or when I’ll say it. Capitalism, Death, Jenny, Karma, Music, Love, Energy, Religion, the value of friendships, the cost of negative activities, the clouds of grief, the inspiration of strength, the glory of finding the sun, the guilt at forgetting, at being selfish, for yet another consecutive day, to write to my friends and let them know how I’m doing, what’s up, what’s new, how’s it hanging, and so on.

All of it conspires to swirling coffee, from delayed thoughts amongst the hours spent slaving on the clock for the big bucks, to tendrils of remembrance, and what was it she said in her last email?

And then I think, “it doesn’t matter, just write, she’s your friend, be there for her”. And yet the call of grandeur creeps in like a reptilian, delayed melody amongst the steel-string atmosphere of modern expressionism, and Book overtakes Simple and Write in my ever-grandiose mind, so I slip into the dusty files, those pixilated icons and find files with names like “Brazil Sept-2003”. Dear God, I know there’s something worthwhile in that Word file, some 150 pages long consisting of dozens of emails amongst some ancient Power of Three, but I can’t bring myself to read more than a few words, it still feels like living vicariously through others, like fantasies or the past can bring more satisfaction than merely trying your best to live a real life Now. And so it remains an archive. Whatever advice I received from the Kisses and Hugs of a Brazilian Autumn, whatever subtle artistic lines I might have uttered amongst my uncontained enthusiasm and un-channeled need for love--leave it buried, baby. Let it Be. Each event seemed so important and we always felt like life was just about to happen amongst our bastard lyrics.

How many diamonds have you left scattered in the rugs of yesterday’s apartments, baby?

Ah, that line seems poetic tonight. THAT is what I almost started looking for tonight amongst the yellowed pixels. Dear, I feel a renaissance inside of me. Better than all of our dreams of yesterdays; something real finally seems attainable after all of these years of darkness, grief, hiding, an ill marriage, lack of a band, striving for attention in a world blinded by all of our private narcissisms--ah, so many tepid pools and each of us nurturing a dying flower mirrored in sky-colored scum. I think Now who I am is not so much that I seek attention but more that I Believe In Myself.

I think my immediate writing, coming soon to a theatre near you, will take on the form of a “blog”, a modern word and platform I dance around with uneasiness, but I think the small bites of my beliefs will add up to a nice little “this is what Tony believes as of the end of 2008” journal book. I think all of those “this is what Tony believes” are really starting to solidify: issues recently with my job, so much I’ve learned from losing Jenny, growing older and becoming intolerant of the bullshit people put each other through, just to list a few examples. All of this I would write to you in an email.

And bless you dearest of friends, one of the keys for my soon-to-be-blog will be the “trick” of thinking I’m writing to You (oh yes, the fake Power of Three has become the Truth of Two, it’s an old story, we’ve discussed and buried it). I don’t exercise her anymore, the Muse that bears your softness (I’d rather be your friend), but that doesn’t mean that I’m not aware that if I opened that Querida’s Box, the contents inside would shine with the brilliance of a thousand suns. A thousand and one nights she sang to entertain the King, Scheherazade. In other words, it is a necessary and comforting writer’s trick to think I’m writing to someone. It makes sense that the audience might wear your face as I pause and collect my thoughts. After all, if there is ever anything important I want to say about anything, it is you I want to tell first.

So, this is my report. I’m prepared. For once I don’t feel like it will be the last gasp of a dying sun, but the dawning of a new day. Of skin and hearts of glass.

How many diamonds have you left scattered
in the rugs of yesterdays lost,
Windows streaming a worried light,
Windows framing a sick moon at night?

The call of grandeur leaves you tattered
in the dawn of yesterdays lost,
A melody modern among us floats,
Strings of steel, sharp and grandiose.