We made it to Savannah after a late check out from Beverly Beach and headed off for another short drive north of a few hundred miles or less. The lump in my throat from the initiation night was well gone, and we were feeling good and ready to keep moving. But while gone, my thoughts meandered repeatedly to WHY that lump and tears kept pushing themselves up into my head that whole first day?
And I think it was this: We listened to my entire catalogue of recorded music throughout the ride - which is several hours of music - and I was blasted through all those lyrics and every friend and every girl I ever loved and every weird poetic post-teenage angst moment that got chrystalized into a "song." At some points these "moments" got bronzed and burned into my history and identity over catchy melodies and groovy riffs and had compiled themselves into literally hundreds of well crafted songs that are my story. Pretty cool.
But why the tears? Was it double mixing probably with other heroic, nostalgic road memories of long months gone by when I had catapulted myself into the great American, European or South American void for a mind blowing adventure and an old fashioned brain deuche? Yes - this is just my Jack Kerouac/Jim Morrison wanna-be ego trip @ its best.
And why @ the brink of 42 am I still so wrapped up in these silly rock-n-roll daydreams like an abandoned Pink Floyd character trapped in pubescent craving and wonder? Why? Because rock-n-roll is the modern day manifestation of enlightenment. The Bonos the Stings and Jimmy Pages are all great Buddhas & Christs of the modern day heart. Leaving us clues about how to be happy and how to be free. How to feel our true selves. Listen to the lyrics. Even the most arcane Kiss song is laying it down like a haiku. Saviors and liberators of our souls they are...
And yes, they are all just semi-real cartoon characters but, frankly, isn't it all a cartoon in the end? Rock-n-roll offers the great wisdom of ancient Eastern thought and being with the tits and balls of all that is Westernly delicious and fabulous and joyous and hopeful.
And maybe this road is just MY church. Where I reconnect with all that is sacred and real. It happens here. Maybe that's what that lump is: A sadness about the prospect of that innocent wonder fading away and then an ecstatic reminder that that power is far from gone. That atomic bomb in my gut is alive and well so I should keep playing music and writing songs and bothering you with my silly childish antics.
I need to find musicians down there on the beach in Florida and start a local music legacy. Or at least a sanga. I need to invest some effort in that. That's the take-away item here...