Track 8

I was in a band for a couple months. I got really drunk one night, again, and Brian Glover told me to leave and never come back. Has anyone ever told you to leave and never come back? You get used to it. Most of that night is blacked out but there’s a fragment of memory that hangs somewhere in my mind like an old painting in an abandoned museum: outside, the amp was so fucking heavy; I was walking all lop-sided, holding it against my leg with my guitar in my other hand; snow bit my ankles like January snakes; I remember that alienated feeling once again that only the most selfish people can possibly know; but then I stopped, drunk and freezing, to stare at the moon; and it occurred to me that the hidden blessing of loneliness is a unique and singular relationship to things like the moon and being cold and the wildly vivid sensation of being alive against the backdrop of wishing you were dead.

It hurts like hell, sure, but you have to pay the price to shine in the dark.

All that to say I was in a band for only a couple months and yet I remember the ecstatic sensation of being submerged, losing myself, in the depths of a group effort. And sound. What calls us away into the truth of forgetting more intensely than music?


Though sometimes it’s a source of confusion and frustration, I’ve been recently fascinated by the slow deterioration of my memory. Intrigued, I imagine a kind of goop clogging up my neurons as I struggle to recall things that used to simply fire through my mind at will. I try to remember something from a few days ago and I feel neurotransmitters ramming into walls, clutching messages that get lost in the mail. Man, I used to be razor sharp—I remembered details like burdens—but I can’t remember what I had for dinner yesterday without pausing to stare, sort through a few thoughts, and wait.

Which infuses the things that still possess the power to scar themselves into memory with curious significance and magic. No longer everything, why just these things? My daughter skipping across the crosswalk. The collection of 3 people at the bus stop when I run by in the early morning. Gwen, in her closet, looking at dresses. I remember some things in the vivid way that things happen right now. Why?


And then there’s this guy I know, Kris, at the end of the last song of the set on the first night of Listener’s most recent tour. Beating—and I mean BEATING—his drums about every 5 seconds until the song faded into nothing and we all became people again. Here’s the thing. I remember loving the song but I couldn't remember the song. Let me invert that for emphasis. I couldn’t remember the song, but I loved it—the formal aspect of loving itself voided of content. Except for that final image of Kris. Beating his drums so hard that he was doing more than beating drums.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe some memories stick because they’re more than what they are: some archetypal something else that’s always happening and constantly searching for ways to be memorialized in the images that populate our everyday lives.


The hidden blessing of loneliness is the moon shining through you until the January cold is a guy beating on drums like he’s trying to break you out of prison. We are not us. There’s a way out. Just hold on. There’s a way out.

The song referred to above is Track 8 on the band's latest unreleased album, so you can't hear it yet. But here's this. And this is, yeah, just listen.


iPhone Plane Ramble

I'm writing this blog post on my iPhone on a 3 hour airplane voyage ripping through the clouds on my way to Chicago. I have no idea what I'm going to write about because isn't that enough? Posting on my iPhone 30,000 feet in the air? The world is so crazy. I remember acid dropping my skateboard off a park bench and my Suicidal Tendencies disc skipping in my Sony Discman. Back then, you could only carry 9 songs at a time in a bulky contraption clipped to your belt and continuous play was a fantasy. Now I've got 1000s of tunes on this little phone and I'm writing you a letter from the sky.

Hello down thereeeeee...

I've got no unified metaphors or universal truths to express. I'm just strangely content and I hope you are too. We're all going to die. Let's let the years unspool how they will, unburdened by our opinions of them. It's a weird amazing thing to just be a being who lives and perishes. Our lives only suck to the extent that they contradict our plans while we cling to our plans. A funny twist, no? I used to dwell a lot on how things never seemed to go my way while never even CONSIDERING the solution of taking a hatchet to "my way". Because why? What then?

I'll tell you what then. When you stop approaching the world with an agenda and let yourself get swept away by the world's agenda, the world does a pretty damn good job all on its own. And if you think it doesn't, guess what? You're still judging it from the perspective of your agenda. Let it drop. I mean REALLY let it drop. Forget your plans. Forget yourself.

Because then all of a sudden, or gradually, you discover that your agenda is precisely the thing that kept you small and that forgetting yourself cracks you open to a bigger self that includes and embraces all the otherness that used to be other. But it's not anymore. It never was. Because YOU are THAT. Seamlessly, without conflict, and with amazed joy at just how in you are in or how out you are out (indeed, what could these "opposites" even mean anymore after the distinctions have blurred and dissolved?).

My God I've been thinking about mending. Not just with people, mind you. But mending the divide also between me and the world via selfless forgetting.

I am so glad to be sober.

What else?

I told my ex-wife the whole truth about the end of our marriage, which is not a pretty story. And yet she soldiers on with her eye trained with focused discipline on being solid partners in the big job of raising our children. She's a great example of the things I tried to describe above and she doesn't even need to go to meetings to remind her how to be.

When you approach the world with that very subtle shift in perspective, which amounts to dropping your approach and letting the world approach you, you are suddenly stunned by mangoes. To eat a mango is enough, absolutely, to topple the foundations of western philosophy - yet there's so much more. The joy of making new friends. Thank you so much Mark, Rob, Kris, and Zac. There's indescribable joy in taking my designs off my kids and giving them space to unfold. To actually IMAGINE that I am them (imagining is the path to being otherwise), to really inhabit their perspectives, wonder what they want and need from their dad, and then take steps to be that dad - the dad THEY crave.

Imagine yourself other, because you are, and then be what that otherness calls for and needs. And the world will explode into something crazier than the wildest poems. It's so amazing when it's not about you. So amazing when all that's not you fills the void of the forgotten self. My God, the mango! Juice dripping down my chin.

I try to imagine Gwen in her house right now. Is she reading? Watching TV on the couch? Doing something, somewhere on the ground in Chicago, the city toward which this plane magically hurtles as I type this rambling letter to you, she waits. On any given day there's 2000 miles between us and yet she waits as I rip through the clouds. What is this thing we call separation? What is the process by which people mend? And how is it that, in this crazy world of fruit and friends and children, that Gwen and I will soon find ourselves in a tangle of limbs and kisses?

We were not our plans and designs. We were what remained after all our plans evaporated, slipping through our clenched fists during those terrible lessons about how to unclench. What we thought we wanted was suddenly overshadowed by the undeniable fact of the world gifting us to each other. In this way, Gwen is the world. The amazing big world that rushed in to replace and surpass my best ideas. Constantly more than I could ever imagine, she outshines the limits of my paltry vision. The way the sun rises is the way her face emerges into view. Her hair is all lilacs. She's the other in my mirror.

And this plane is descending through the clouds now into a future that wants me.

My life is so good. I hope yours is too. I pray that you're able to find and smash through the edge of everything you think you are. The world - it's just beyond, waiting for you, hungry for you, aching and ready to kiss you hard on the mouth.


Gone Is Always Coming

“Gone is always coming?” She read it off a post-it note stuck to my wall.

“Yeah,” I replied. “That line came to me in 2004 when I was a methadone counselor. A client missed her appointment because she was dead. So yeah. Gone. It’s coming. Always. In all kinds of ways.”

“That’s so cheerful,” she said and tilted her head. Smiled. Gwen is my kind of sarcastic. 

“It is, in its own way.” I explained. “It creates a kind of pressure to be present. Being aware of gone coming infuses the here with a heightened sense of urgency as it goes.”

So we kissed like crazy because gone was coming; her plane would soon leave.


“So of course he’s just devastated,” my dad explained. My mind came unspooled, trying to fathom.


The trick is to genuinely know that gone is indeed coming while still throwing down and going all in. A year ago tonight I was planning a wedding: Kate and I were picking out rings and white dresses and discussing who would perform the ceremony. By mid-August she was gone; it was always coming because that’s what gone does: comes.

But we are human casualties to the extent that we permit the awareness of the way gone comes to prevent us from showing up to the here before the gone with the mad tenacious intention of staying.

And so I clutch Gwen tightly with hands that know she might always maybe turn to smoke while holding her as if I’ll never let her go. Because I believe in love. I believe in a love that breaks all the rules in a world whose only promise is the (sometimes slow, sometimes fast) dismantling of all that dares to stand fast against the gone that so ceaselessly and relentlessly comes.

“I’m calling to tell you your grandma died. She was 98.”

I bit my lip. “And grandpa? How’s he holding up?”

“Well. He’s a 97-year-old man who lost his wife of 65 years. So of course he’s just devastated.”


And who could possibly sense the coming of gone more than he? Yet he’s devastated and the reason he’s devastated is because he loved with absolute and complete abandon. He pushed all his chips to the center of the table and he went all in.

Risk it all. Hurl yourselves off cliffs. Jump! Devastation is the price of admission for a triumphant here that rages in love against the coming of gone.

Rest, Grandma Conover. Peace be with you, Grandpa. I love you, Gwen—the more impossible the better.



Elle Bee. You are 9 today and everything is smiling. The fear that trembles at the heart of all things has turned to faith and confetti and a gentle song that everyone is humming. No one is lonely. Sadness is ruined. It’s your birthday!


Piaget and Erickson have a bunch of sophisticated ideas about where 9-year-old girls are supposed to be on the spectrum of childhood development, but I’ve forgotten all that college stuff. And who cares? You’re so much more than a child in a predictable stage. You’re infinitely more mystery than can ever be known. You’re a vast expanse of yellow flowers howling in the rain. You’re the wind blasting through the trees and the weeds. You’re a pearl.

But I want to share with you what 9 was for me in my personal mythology with the hope that you too will be so blessed. When I was 9, my 3rd grade teacher told me I was creative and that I would one day be a writer and these messages took root in the core of my selfiest self to form the seeds of my identity and the way I understood my place in the world. These ideas were the rock thrown in the center of my pond; the rest is just ripples. Everything I am rings out from being 9.

Who will you be?

I’ve wondered it since the day you were born: Who are you? Who will you be, little girl? But don’t worry. You don’t have to know. You will always be more than what you are.


As you turn 9, my favorite memories of you are seeing you come off the school bus—when you grab my hand and we walk home. You burst with stories. The sun bounces through your hair and all the trees lean toward you. I tell myself to listen to you. I tell myself to remember you. I love you so much that I imagine the whole world was designed just for you to move through, live in, and tell stories about. You are a guitar. You’re the very best song.


9 years ago, your mother and I started a little fire and you have burned my forest down. I don’t remember being a man who wasn’t your daddy. Alone, by myself, left to my own devices, I am not a very good man but you make me better. I want to teach you things. I want to tell you about the things I have read in books and show you the paintings that change what seeing means. I want to be an umbrella. I want to be glue. I want to crack your head open and let the sky flood in.


An artist. An accountant. A drug addict. A nurse like your mom. A used bookstore owner. A ward of the state with a rap sheet of felonies and mental health disorders. A journalist. A cashier. A mother. I will love whoever you become, however you unfold. There is no possible way you will ever appear in the world and not breathe in the atmosphere of me loving you. That will sometimes mean a lot and sometimes not at all, but it will nonetheless be constant and sure like the ground beneath our feet. There’s a sky filled with clouds and birds. There are mountains and rivers and ageless stones. Water assumes the shape of its container. Two plus two is four. You will laugh and cry. Your dad loves you.


It’s your birthday. Cake. Candles. Presents. Presence. Yes, I love all the past and future yous but none like the you right now, today, the one turning 9. The whole world and all its processes rush and converge into the explosion of you, a fountain, a thunderstorm, a fire, awe, wonder, a precious little girl. Yes. It all adds up to you. So laugh. Dance and spin. Swirl your dress and rip the doors off the house. Because you’re 9! Throw your stone in the middle of the pond; let the water ripple where it will.


Happy birthday, little girl. And many more, and more, long after I’m gone and I’m only a memory. Smile. And that will be me, a ghost, haunting your face.


I Have Seen A Star

The moon tonight is a thorn in my side. Things are never what they are. That’s the best thing about everything. It’s always everything else. So the moon tonight is a teacher with a bunch of lesson plans about luminescence, receptivity, irrationality, and the wisdom of insanity. But you already knew all that. You did. I swear to God it’s already in there, swimming around inside you like a fish that loves to hide.

We could break all the rules, you know? Tell them all to get fucked and start a bunch of fires. Tip over cars. Take the city by storm. Do you ever feel like a storm? Sometimes I feel like I’m made of thunder and lightning. Never mind all those rumors about blood and muscles and bones. Those are metaphors. We could just as easily be made of thunder and lightning. Rain too. And fireflies that flicker in the dark like ideas.

We say things like I have an idea. But what’s that? A flurry of neurotransmission flashing through your brain, configured in a unique way that creates a new phenomenon that you call an idea. That you have? By what right do YOU claim ownership of involuntary neurotransmission? Aren’t you yourself, the idea of you, a product of this very same neurotransmission that creates the idea you supposedly have? Fireflies, man, flickering in the dark like stars.

See there? Ideas are stars. Thought is finally in the sky where it belongs. It’s not in your head. Never was. When we say things like I have an idea, what we really mean is I have seen a star. There’s so many stars, millions and millions, and none of them care about being right or wrong. A star’s only desire is to burn and shine with the hope of being seen. Did you know that fireflies ignite their flashes of light with the hope of attracting a mate?

Love, like everything, is always everything else. Sure, it might be an illusion created by an excess of dopamine flooding the pleasure pathway, the same thing that happens when you bowl a strike or boot heroin. But it’s also a fish that loves to hide in storms of thunder and lightning. Love can come and go in an instant when a firefly burns a hole in the dark. It shines, it’s seen, and it’s gone. But I think the best kind of love is looking at the stars all night with someone made of rain. So keep looking up. This is what the moon teaches like a thorn in your side. Thorns are found on the stems of roses and a rose is a rose is a kiss.


Irrational Happiness

Have you ever been so inexplicably happy that you want to write or yell or stop people on the street and tell them it’s going to be okay? For no reason you can discern? And I don’t mean I don’t have a helluva lot of things to be happy about. I do. It’s just that there’s not one particular stimulus to which I can currently point and say I am happy because… [happy stimulus].

As opposed to something making me happy, I feel rather that I am somehow happy on a subterranean psychic level that bestows happiness on everything it encounters. It’s hard to explain. Especially when being depressed seems to be the default for a whole lot of us. But I’m happy, I am, on some weird fundamental level and I want to smile at you.

The sky is a gob of blue cotton candy haunted by marshmallow ghosts. We could go to the graveyard, you and I, and I’d listen to you talk about your problems. What would they mean, all your problems, in that city of bones?

God, if we could—just for a bit—forget everything we think we know about all the things we think we know, we might maybe could then pluck fresh poems from the trees like outrageous ripe fruit and dance in the streets like philosopher clowns. Aren’t we about due, Dionysus, to at last free the convicts, lock up the police, and swap out the sound minds for the zaniness of craziness? I want to fuck like some starving to death thing that forgot the meaning of words. 

What’s a tomorrow without language? What’s a problem without opinions? What if we burned all the research and forgot all the theories? I’ll tell you what. Magic. Gods. Wonder. Awe. We might even learn to shut the fuck up, listen maybe, be stunned by the weird fact of our breath and the strangeness of having hands.

Pick something up. Eat a peach. Wash your hair. What the fuck?

I’m happy tonight, so completely, and I don’t know why. I mean. I took my kids out to dinner. I saw a picture of a very old friend. I’m sober. I listened to a wise old man tell stories. A woman loves me: purely, wide open, wholly. I could point at these things as causes but it feels a little off. Rather, happiness feels more like an atmosphere, an emotional climate, weather, perhaps a steady rain of candy and sapphires and neatly folded love letters that pour and splash into puddles of dollar bills around which crowds of joyous bums dance and rejoice.


Open Heart Surgery

for GK

Castles maybe. And thunder. Lemons and yellow dresses. Common sense isn’t. So books of poetry with folded pages. Lines underlined. Chicago. Crying in movie theaters. Acoustic guitars. The things you found in your pockets. Empty bottles. More lemons. Keep it yellow. Credit cards. Airports. Arguing with Rothko. She was in her closet, picking a dress. Figure eights. Rachael Yamagata. Nostalgia for complete sentences. Bones. Breath mints. Spider webs. The junk drawer. Fragments. A “J” over here. An “n” across the room. Oh, and don’t forget the stuff buried in the dirt. Things we can’t know. Calculus. Archetypal psychology. Infinity. Don’t ask what it means. Build bridges. Because mothers. Deserts. Rings. Not a stream of consciousness. Pieces. Cake. Cappuccino on the deck. A vase, sans flowers, shattered on the tile. Ask a bum. Mountains. Ruins. And her sorting through pieces. Jigsaw puzzles. I’d like to buy a vowel. An “o”. Putting me back together. Gaps in your memory. Trains. Trains. Trains. She swept up the mess. Swiss chocolate. Blackouts. A used copy of Murakami. This goes here. And that goes there. Glue. Duct tape. Open heart surgery. He’s going to make it. A collision. A collage. And her eye for asymmetrical harmony until I am messy and whole. Her long neck. The bone behind her face. My big hands. Her hungry waist.


The End Of My January Myth: Art Opening

Stare at endings. And I don’t mean look at them real hard because that’s too conscious and willful. Staring is a different kind of thing where you sort of disappear so the thing you’re staring at can relax and be what it is. So endings. All kinds. Stare at them. Stare at them long enough and something happens. They don’t stay put. They—I don’t know—jostle or something. It’s like they wiggle. You know? They do a little dance. And when endings start dancing, that’s when you begin to move into the quirky little understanding that the end is ending. Yes. Endings end. Everything ends and then? Well there’s only one thing left to do, silly. Begin again.

I’m not going to write about mourning and grief this January. This is the year when I let my dead friends die. No time for the past. No time to dream of spring. The January thaw is fertile.

Dan Parker was with Chris Delaney the night he was struck by a car and killed, January 16, 1986. Dan Parker is an artist.