Ends

We talked, briefly. Then the realities we'd finally come to grips with and uttered with shaky conviction strangled the air from our lungs and left us to dry heave yet again. Regardless of how little was said, each word still reverberates in the air like the echoes of a lonely voice from a mountaintop.

Her face contorted into nervous smiles and I suppressed not only my anger but my love for her, wilted as it may be. I tried to reconcile with myself to find some hidden jewel of resolution in all this angst and disharmony, only to find myself once again locking horns in a war of attrition between my slowly bleeding heart, the distance my thoughts have already travelled from this place and my own inability to find the mouth of this maze.

Words spun around the two of us and were left suspended in the air as blank and half-hearted statements of the stagnant status quo. A frozen prison we're both the manufacturers and prisoners of, wholly aware of these facts to boot, yet hopelessly lost on how to escape this predicament. Other than, well, abandoning everything. But after nearly six years, how can you let go without your flesh tearing off?

Perhaps there is still love here, but it's been cut into small, unrecognizable pieces and torn asunder, locked away in little boxes that litter our shared corner of the world. They are lost in a sea of similar boxes, hiding unspoken truths, slowly growing frustration, questions silenced by fear, words of endearment never uttered... So many things locked away and left to clutter the space around us. Between us. There is a very real wall here, a very substantial construct; one that stifles any attempt to speak freely and discourages the very thought of overcoming it by its sheer height. Make no mistake - all of this has been in the making for longer than I care to admit, but it's nearly impossible not to be crushed by the memory of how beautiful it all was somewhere in the annals of yesterday, no matter how sour and lifeless our gardens of stone have become.

Now I find myself living in an even quieter home with words drowning in sand before they pass through our lips, the only exception being that we've now established, vocally, that the breaking point has been reached and neither of us can draw the rabbit of salvation out of the hat. The heartbreaking feeling of warmth disappearing from our shared life is only emphasised by our civil and cordial behavior towards one another. It seems so contrived my spine twists like a headless snake.

Once, we were perfectly matched and beautifully aligned, more so than just about anyone else I've ever met, but no matter how many bonds we tied between us over the years, they are all crackling and snapping apart under the freezing cold. I doubt neither of us could truly pinpoint the whys and whynots, but it doesn't really matter at this point. We've come to a crossroads we simply cannot pass without pain and trial by fire. As hard as I've tried I can't see a way out of this.

The singular realization of how alone I truly am washes over me like an angry flow of mud while I sink under the surface by the weight of my own inability to find clarity. I feel numb, almost paralyzed. Writing these words down seems to mend my condition in some strange momentary way, as if I were applying a quickly dissolving bandage over an open wound. It's a remedy no matter how hollow, but one that is constantly overshadowed by an crushing sense of loneliness. That all this hurt disappears into a gaping black void of indifference and I'm simply a sucker for wanting to find something more. What I'm providing here by pouring my heart out, no matter how profound and heartfelt from my perspective, is nothing more than social pornography and a secure, distant window into my suffering. Reality TV down a notch (no moving pictures). I have no friends to call and there is no one to offer me any kind of sanctuary or comfort. That is not a call for sympathy, merely a statement of fact. I'm so tired of being strong in silence, strong on my own. Tired of being so completely fucking helpless to mend the situation in any way.

I have to gag myself so I won't start spreading discomfort by wallowing in my woes via whatever social channels are available and around me. I dread the notion of voicing what I'm going through, as I fear it would be nothing more than an invitation for ridicule and apathy to slam the door in the face of my silent search for compassion. Then again, would I deserve more? I find myself fighting a losing battle against an unbelievably idiotic yet frightfully strong sense of my self image. I don't want to come off as a whiny little bitch, so what do I do? Shut off. Clamp down. But then again, who would I open up to? It's a rusty merry-go-round rife with irony and jetblack humor.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

It's pathetic, isn't it? I can't even muster up the strength or conviction to open my mouth anywhere but surrounded by this blank space, groaning bitterly at the great unknown like a teethless alpha male shaking his fist at the mirror. As the prospect of isolation looms in the not-so-far distance, I find myself growing so angry at myself and how I've left so many of my better angels to wither at the wayside. Just about every relationship I've been able to build and maintain feels like little more than a fair-weather friendship and I'm locked in a complete standstill between my inability to trust and my quest for companionship. I suppose it's not all entirely my fault, but I can only speak on my own behalf.

Perhaps I'll continue the dreamtale one day. Perhaps not. Inspiration eludes me and I it. For now, it's for the best, as drawing even a breath of imagination comes at a high cost as every emotion I strip bare is instantly surrounded by shadows and thorns. All I seem to be able to do is let my conscious self fly away while trying to dig myself a little hiding place in oblivion. I feel like a complete coward. Perhaps I am nothing more.

The strangest dream, part I

I looked up. The sky was as blue as the Mediterranean sea, as soft as the softest pluck of the string in the most soothing love song. In the horizon, far beyond any length of distance I could imagine, a slowly moving torn blanket of clouds lined the edge of the world. As I watched it flow gently from one reach of my view to the other, I imagined an endless stream of formless nomads walking towards a land undiscovered. One they would never reach, eternally thankful of the everlong journey.

I peered down. I stood in black water that seemed to stretch beyond the furthest floor of the deepest point, flowing up into the sky on the other side of the world. It looked like a sleeping sea bathed in moonlight, quiet and calm yet so unyielding and impenetrable. So close you could reach down and pick the stars from its surface, yet so vast and mysterious you could never find its hidden treasures. An invisible enigma hidden in a glass jar. Your heart could freeze in awe as its immeasurable ends whispered silent truths about how small you truly are.

Yet I hadn't sunk beneath its waves.

The waters began to twirl and writhe as if trying to hide some ancient unquelled turmoil beneath a masque of slumber. Trickles of water flowed over my feet and between my toes like little serpents, silky and playful. I let out a shy, muffled laugh, yet grew quiet quickly as I realized no echo came to meet my voice. As I looked around for land to no avail, the dead wind swept to life, carrying a greeting.

"So you found your way."

A disjointed, furiously reverberating voice spoke with soft words from afar and close by, yet I saw no one. It was as if the voice stemmed from the sea, from the sky and from my own body, resonating wildly around me like a jolt of light shot into a room of mirrors. My head swung with fast, curious thrusts as I peered in every direction, then again, then once more for good measure. Only the still skyline was gazing down upon me.

"Yes," I replied with a trembling voice, "I believe it was the jackal that guided me here."

"Ah, that playful wretch," said the voice. "A hard one to tame, yet never a hair's length less than exactly what it is. Perhaps that is the lesson you seek here."

I looked around again, searching for my hidden companion. Then I suddenly realized something: the sky was as bright as a summer afternoon, yet the water was as black as midnight. Locking eyes with my reflection upon the water's surface I shuddered with shock and shouted: "Why is my hair gray? And my skin, why is my skin so pale?"

"We do not understand your 'colors' or 'time' here," the voice replied. "These things are alien to us. What we make here is what you make here. You guide us and we deliver as best we can."

"Perhaps this day finds you feeling gray and pale."

I rubbed my cheek and shook my head in confusion. Looking down to see if I had truly seen what I thought I had, it occurred to me that my right eye seemed to be glimmering. I crouched down and opened my eyes as wide as I could while exchanging bewildered looks with my reflection. As the faint sparkle grew and grew, I realized it was something rising from beneath the waves.

"He will help you," the voice said. "Have faith."

I stumbled backwards as a small human body flew from the splashing water and took to the sky with a trail of spatter in its wake. It tossed around and shook aimlessly like a leaf caught by strong wind, like a bird escaping from a lifelong cage. Then it suddenly stopped, turned and began descending towards me. Dripping wet, the being was white as ivory and stood no higher than the length of my arm, crowned with hair so golden it looked like fire in slow motion. It had no eyes or lips, no curves to carve or fill its body, no lines or wrinkles decorating its frail little shell. But in the strangest way... it seemed familliar.

A low, tender voice crept from where its mouth should have been: "Skin. Call me Skin."

I tried to reply: "But..."

Silencing me with a swift gesture of his hand, Skin sunk back under the waves and said: "First and foremost... first things first."

A flash of burning pain slashed my back as my body began to twist and contort uncontrollably. I lunged forward as my head pulled back violently, then the other way around. Grasping at the emptiness around me, I could only hear my teeth grind as my sighs became groans, then screaming. A rush of warm blood spilled through my skin and onto my back as the sound of ripping flesh and crackling bones made my stomach turn. My cries turned into a bellowing howl as my spit and tears trickled down, creating small rivers of spiraling technicolor nightmares with the streams of blood running down my arms and shoulders. I fell to my knees whimpering. My hands sank under the surface and the cold water shocked my senses.

I forced my eyes open and saw the silhouette of giant red wings pertruding from my body. Skin appeared again, twirling his hand like a magician at the apex of his most prized illusion.

"There. That's better."

Steeling myself, I lifted my head and stared at him. In his faceless face devoid of expression I saw a mirror for my own determination, spiriting me onward. My mouth widened into a ferocious snarl and a final tear ran down my cheek as I willed the wings to move. First a small wave, then longer strokes, then smaller sways again. My heavy breathing grew like a crescendo of white noise, so thick in my ears it sounded like the murmur of angry thunder.

Each motion whipped my shivering body with sharp agony, yet the pain was slowly becoming bearable. I clenched my fists so tight my nails broke the skin. I arose from my knees and then, ever so slowly, off my feet.

Skin signaled me to follow. Without hesitation, I did.

Ride free

My feet stomp wildly. Thoughts erupt, zigzag around and through each other, disintegrate into dust clouds of new creative life like jolts of electricity from a Tesla coil. I am Hansel and Gretel and every corner of this house is built with the sticky sweet sugar of inspiration. Perhaps the wicked witch is the bitter sting of failure and disappointment, perhaps she is merely time. For now, her kettle remains cold nonetheless.

This is the 4th official day of my sabbatical after deciding to leave my steady day job and handing in my resignation after months of deliberation. Having the time to focus nearly full-time on music, writing et al is a monstrous engine of limitless horsepower in perpetual motion, replenishing and strenghtening its energy with every move that drains it. I feel so charged and overpowered I fear for the endurance of my human shell. I could truly explode from joy.

While the amount of support and warmth my decision yielded caught me a bit off guard, I don't think anyone truly understood my motivation for cutting my ties with the ebb & flow of nine-to-five. Then again, how could they? I'm probably the worst person on the planet to keep others informed of my creative work and aspirations, not to mention the fact that even talking about my endeavors is more often than not a mountain I find ridiculously perilous to climb. Ridiculous because I'm fully aware of how warped I've allowed my perception to become.

Never mind the fact that creativity is in a very tangible, literal way the air I breathe and the sustenance that keeps me on this plane of existence - very, very few have been privy to even a gazillionth of how thoroughly art and the tempest of its creation embodies and entangles my being. Substantial and etherial alike. For this, I stand ready to take the blame, though I would like to point out that there are alleviating factors.

I have a very thick yet elastic game face - one that I've had time to craft and re-craft over nearly five years - and there are a handful, nay, a thimbleful of people who've ever even had a glimpse of me in my most naked shape. That of the freerider upon inspiration's wave.

It's an existence upon incredibly liberating, fulfilling and rewarding waters, not to mention something I'd gladly share with the world if given the chance. Unfortunately unchained and undiluted passion can also be an overwhelming force, something many are ill-equipped to handle. Thus it can sometimes be met with surprisingly vigorous countering forces, albeit they manifest in many different forms.

There is simply a myriad of people around us who never want to be reminded of the fact that their heart carries a beat. Its rhythm is counter-productive, because the cog in the wheel has no place for the free flow of blood or inspiration.

After 31 years I'm pretty confident in saying my wavelength is on a completely different frequency than just about every person I've ever met. I can make people go into emergency shutdown mode by offering just a sliver of a view into the fire inside, so for the most part, I tend to keep it away from prying eyes as modus operandi. Perhaps the language barrier has grown so tall and wide that even the thought of traversing through it is too foreboding to entertain, or perhaps I've never been skillful in that art in the first place.

As said, finding one's self separated by untouchable glass from the rest of humanity is fruitful ground for both mirror-gazing and fingerpointing. I'm extremely wary of opening myself to people who've been exposed to some facet of my outward self (indeed, I'm probably talking about you as well), because even though opening that door would probably feel like a new licence to breathe, it's also a state in which I feel most vulnerable. It requires a degree of mutual trust I'm almost pathologically unable to award to anyone.

Seeing another's eyes glaze over as they rummage their brain trying to reroute the converstaion back to the safe haven of banality is a hand that's been dealt to me times aplenty. Perhaps I've given up on trying to find a common language with the rest of my species or perhaps I've allowed others to see only a small piece of my puzzle for so long it's become habit. Perhaps you see me as a senseless dreamer while you valiantly carry the crushing weight of routine like a sparkling badge of honor. Perhaps I need to buy some paper mache and build people who don't drain their souls daily by awarding more time for apathy than ambition.

If your sarcasm alarm is blinking at this point, congratulations - we're one step closer to having found a shared language.

I'm sure there are subconcious efforts to give the faceless crowds a glimpse into my world through this journal for example, so I guess I'm trying at least. The ironic thing is how much mere words scribbled down on weightless pages in an online journal can shake & stir things up, for better or worse. That's one treasure chest I can mark on this endlessly expanding map - how destructive a force perceived reality can be when poured out unfiltered through one mouth.

Riding freely on the train of thought - yours or another's - is like velvet quicksand. Miraculous and horrifying at the same time. Perhaps that is why so many of us are content to tiptoe around the deeper regions and settle for the oases scattered around the wilderness. Places that offer safety and stability, yet are significantly lacking in awe and wonders. That is a sin I believe we are all guilty of, though certainly not in equal measure.

Strange as it is, this little creative hole in the ground I've dug for myself has made me ponder about both ongoing and possible future collaborations with others and I'm happy to report I am awash with surprising optimism. As work progresses on my private, personal artistic endeavors (The Stranger currently in the forefront), it's hard to look past the prospects of working with other wild stallions on a larger scale again. The inevitable disappointments and dissolutions will have significantly less impact as I now have an immeasurable amount of time to work on anything and everything without the constant need to micromanage and delegate the hours I have to distribute on any given day. If things fall through, I won't have to look back on all the other things I had to put on indefinite hold while trudging up the hill to meet a brick wall. My spiritual well-being will benefit from this immensely.

Oh, and if you spotted the Bill & Ted reference, chalk down another landmark on the road towards mutual understanding.

Broken compass

The sharp tip of irony's spear has pricked my tender tissue yet again. Indeed, consider me thoroughly pricked.

Just as I got done howling from the rooftop about how the band dynamic had been steadily losing its appeal in my eyes, I find myself at an apex of new possibilities of just such persuasion. Ones with not only plentiful musical potential, but a veritable house of mysteries as far as social relations are concerned. A group of gents, yours truly among them, who know one another only vaguely and on face value, yet play together as a well-oiled machine nearly effortlessly with half a handful of rehearsals. Very few ensembles can match our instinctual compatibility as a unit of resonance and harmony; certainly none that I've ever been a part of. I would be stone cold mad not to at least consider the possibilities such a gathering of minds might come upon in the short or long run.

But then we come to the mother of question marks and one Jason Doyle Ward begins to backtrack on his hind legs instinctively and at once: are we socially compatible? Is there enough musical common ground? Will personalities clash and matters of taste become beachheads? Will my love it or hate it vocal sound cause some sort of rift as it has done before? Will people tame their egos in favor of a healthier atmosphere yet to the detriment of the music? Having had little personal interaction with the rest of the quintet makes these questions echo and resonate even more wildly in my top knob. My faith in the human blueprint has been shattered more than once and, truthfully, my estimate of who is and isn't trustworthy has been proven little more than a broken compass, a complete hit-or-miss endeavor, on many an occasion.

My scepticism, well-founded as it may be, makes me cringe and want to rise against my own instincts. There's something here. It could work. It deserves the opportunity to come to fruition or fade to black without being nipped in the bud. It is certainly not my call alone, but I'd wager all of us feel the same way. But - and this is a very substantial, life-lesson but - if I allow optimism to creep in and find it yet again unwarranted as everything turns sour, it'll only serve to alienate and embitter me that one step further on my way to becoming a joyless recluse detached from the stream of humanity. But we'll have to see if this tree bears fruit before beginning construction of the garden. At this point I'm just pissing in the wind, though I must say it's been a delightfully enjoyable wee!

While the past weekend offered a rich reservoir of positivity with no more than a teaspoon of negative vibrations, I find myself musing on the petty nature of some people. People I've come to know through various experiences and instances to be extremely needy for attention yet having very little to justify why we should all stop and stare. I know the type all too well and I'm sure you do too. One or two tried to gnaw away at me because they wanted the spotlight that happened to shine down on me for a microt. Another tried to take pot shots at me because they wanted to be in charge of a certain situation and felt somehow threatened. I see through it, because I want what you have is a mindset not unlike albino eyes - you can't mask that, at least not with amateurish manipulation, paraphrasing and other schoolyard tactics. Not with me in the room. I'll find you in my crosshairs just as quickly.

All that aside, last weekend's adventures were the best time I've had in months. The ride ended too quickly, but isn't that how it always goes? Unfortunately I fear it was also merely a brief breather before I find myself trying to decipher the lay of a strange, increasingly alien landscape once again. The landscape of a relationship falling apart.

This is the first time I've openly admitted this to myself and I'll be brief about it, as wallowing in what-ifs will do more harm than good. I don't believe I'm doing anyone a favor by writing this down, but I have to at least attempt to shift some weight off my chest before I buckle under the pressure.

I feel more and more out of place and out of control as the silence amasses and builds up to a wall of white noise. At some point it will overpower me and something will break. Our home doesn't feel like a home, but a shelter for two people who don't share a life any longer. We find solace in temporary jolts of love and harmony before drifting apart again like two pieces of driftwood floating around a seemingly placid lake. What makes it even more heartbreaking is I don't have the slightest idea how we got here. It seems to have slipped from my fingers without me even noticing. The lights are broken yet if I attempt to find my way out of this black space, I'm greeted with hollow words in the darkness about how nothing as changed. But it has. Something is amiss. Something has disappeared.

She doesn't listen to me anymore. Her attention is elsewhere and her focus hasn't been further from our relationship in all the years we've endured together. The aspects of our shared life seem to be little more than a chore and a nuisance to her, which serves only to aggravate me to the point of combustion, pulling the rift wider. My voice, my presence, is merely a distraction from more inspiring and intriguing affairs. A distraction most often met with disdain and indifference if I try to acknowledge said fact. Whenever she vehemently denies it all, I find myself unable to ignore the emptiness I see in her eyes when she looks at me. I am a vessel to fill the empty seat on the left, someone to ring up for groceries and sleep next to. Someone to be there, because someone needs to be there.

My presence interferes with some sort of new-found existence I have no part to play in. When I try to open the door I'm shrugged off and assured everything is all right - with no attention paid to the fact that I don't agree. Everything is not fucking all right. Not by an inch or a mile.

A friend of mine told me we're nearing the "famous" seven year crisis, whatever that means. I refuse to be a statistic, yet I fear we are indeed on the brink of some unforeseen peril that may well tear us apart. My heart feels strained and punctured, yet I also feel increasingly aggravated by being constantly ignored. She is not here. She has better places to inhabit, whatever and wherever they may be. We break apart piece by little piece, yet her composure stays intact. All this under what I can only assume is the assumption that I'll be here no matter what. That my endurance in the face of growing distance will remain unyielding and everlong.

It won't.

The Stranger is coming

Yes, yes. I disappeared for a while. I do that.

On a somewhat uncharacteristic positive note, the downtime from being socially noteworthy has been spent sipping deeply from the creative pot. Well, I should say the creative pot with great enhancement by my technical aptitude (in terms of studio tech and the tools at my disposal) that's been growing with truly surprising leaps since the last time I took note.

Bear in mind that I've considered myself at the very least a reasonably skilled mixer and producer - the ever-expanding space for growth always factoring in, of course - yet by having delved deeper into the production side and poking my nose into unfamilliar territory as deep as my honker will allow, my triptych has grown in appearance, style and grandeur without me even noticing it but as an afterthought. It's been a spectacularly fruitful accidental re-enactment of one doctor Frankenstein at the office, with the fruits of my musical labor serving as willing guinea pigs for their own betterment.

I've gotten lost in the mix, bewildered by the balance and perplexed by the plug-ins - and come out twice the wiser and thrice more unbound on the other end. I've taken my sweet time twisting, squeezing and poking around with every single nook, cranny and rock's underside, finding myself both rejuvenated by new discoveries as well as validated on certain musical choices that survived scrutiny by my brand new eyes. It's certainly always the human hand that grips the strings of the heart and one should always remain mindful not to let the carousel of knob-turning take over the entire carnival, but having an expanded armory of tools as a support structure for one's artistic vision certainly has its comforting appeal. After all, this is construction of self-sufficient worlds, from song to song to song. The surrounding architecture and atmosphere are less impactful if the air tastes funny or the sound of the birds isn't in tune with the entire experience.

I feel like I'm finally coming into my own as far as a producer of my own material, not only as an over-experienced, underworked developer of Ward 13's signature soundscheme. I'm putting up flags where shortcomings are found and addressing them accordingly, rather than working around the holes in the canvas and trying to make them part of the piece. Shifting focus from polishing a collage of details to scuplting the big picture as a truly cohesive whole has been more of a technical excersise than an artistic accomplishment, and I believe my art will improve from it.

The recognition of my own progress is much akin to when I finished Ward 13's first demotape back when the new millenium was taking its first breaths. It was a first on many fronts and a feat I single-handedly pulled out of my ass without so much as a clue or treasure map to rely upon. As was the case then, I haven't felt this... educated in quite some time.

Much, if not all of this has to do with the fact that The Stranger has finally kicked into gear. It is time indeed. Time indeed.

I've placed my personal musical namesakes on the back burner countless times to accomodate other, less fulfilling projects undertaken with other individuals. Projects that, I might add, have crashed and burned mainly due to internal tension or lack of true enthusiasm - essentially, because of people. Ironic, because collaborations have never yielded the same spiritual rewards as musical journeys set forth and guided by none but my own hand. Honestly, why did I bother?

After all the band debacles and joint ventures gone awry in the last few years I've finally come to the rather joyful conclusion that I will have all other endeavors play second fiddle to my solo projects. They are now top priority. Ward 13 and The Stranger will take precedence over all collaborations I may take part in. Having sealed this deal with the man in the mirror I can say it's a pact long in the making, solidified in no small part by my growing expertise in the field of audio design. I feel more confident than ever as the holes in my game get plugged one after another and the need for others' involvement disappears deeper into the mist.

I am done with compromises and politics, musical halfways, dodging backstab attempts, ego soothing and the air hockey of manipulation. All of that has taken far too much time and energy away from what is and should always be most important - the creative work. The only partnership I have in the works is with one of my oldest friends and is a two-man operation, so I have faith it'll come to fruition without any drama whatsoever. That also means my plate is filled to the brim and I am gleefully unable to attach myself to any possible doomed voyages lurking in the annals of tomorrow.

As with Ward 13, I've come to realize The Stranger cannot exist in any other form than as a solo project. While it has clinged to life under many a name and with a myriad of people involved at any given time, the creative part has always rested almost solely upon my shoulders and the other members have disappeared no later than when they've realized this isn't just a fucking pastime hobby for me. One might muse that I've simply had bad luck or even worse taste in bandmates, but whatever the reasons, they are beside the point and off the radar from hereon.

Mixing and producing Ward 13 has always been an excursion all its own with a very different face forward than, say, any project I've been involved in that incorporates electric guitars on a heavier regimen. Whereas W13 is essentially very ascetic, bare and minimalistic, the metallic aspirations of the undersigned have always tended to strive for wallowing, surging proportions challenging even W13 on the schizophrenic front; forging the epic with the sparse and the massive with the low-key, not forgetting the hot/cold, stop/go interludes that always seem to make their way into whatever I write. As such, getting them to sound the way I've envisioned they deserve to sound has been like traversing an ocean of liquid fire surrounded by an acid moat atop a steep hill covered in ice. Yes - hard.

However, with the acceptance that The Stranger will never be a band in the traditional sense has come a new kind of confidence. From the songs and hatchlings now either finished or still gestating, I'd have to say The Stranger is some of the best material I've written. Every bit as unique as Ward 13, though I would never compare the two. Still, now re-envisioned as another kind of vessel for my vision, it has proven to be a primus motor of pure inspirational fire & lightning and an outlet I've been sorely missing. As an experimental subject in the studio lab it has offered a thorough, point-to-point learning experience equally rich in inspiration and enlightenment. If vision and technique are weapons, I'm arming myself to the teeth times two.

Understanding that I am another step toward being a truly self-reliant musician and producer is, in a word, liberating. As the appeal of being a member of the pack wanes in the face of having absolute - absolute - artistic freedom, I feel less and less melancholy about not being surrounded by a group dynamic. I feel better than in months, because I know with increasing certainty that I don't need anyone else to achieve what I'm striving for and my priorities are now fine-tuned to best serve the creative energy inside me begging to be released.

Joy in solitude. Welcome back, old friend.

Pollock-esque

There is a disconnect inside. A rift that upsets the balance, a stone in the stream disrupting the flow. Pieces of an endless puzzle, factory-installed with one piece always missing, scattered to the four winds. Eyeless, mouthless shapes wandering in a neverending blank space, desperately searching for one another by aimlessly clutching and grasping at the darkness around them.

Sometimes I feel like the voice inside me, the one that translates into creativity, is a very real, tangible being with its own visage and imprint, yet wholly ill-equipped to communicate through any other means but by using me as a medium. There is a current of energy inside me, one I funnel outward to the proverbial canvas through the eye of a needle. It is never exact, never precise, but never aimless. Ideally the exchange is instinctual, but I've grown into a bad habit of adding too much thought to the process. That's where it becomes complicated: the communication becomes muddled and distorted, like conversing over walkie-talkies and the signal keeps breaking. Over-simplifying it would be to say I don't always understand the man in the mirror, but it's more concrete than that. More... otherworldly.

We co-exist. He, she, it... is a shadow over my shoulder, a whisper in the wind, an ocean of faint sighs, a dream. It is something inside me, a home away from home, yet strange, unknown and formless. A wall between me and the world, yet an undepletable, bottomless well. My own construct, to which I'm always a visitor.

It is a strange essence to both nestle and inhabit, one I've often pondered upon. I can't deny that it hasn't made its way into my output. After all, Ward 13's phantomusiq is essentially a parable of purgatory, starring a man with a split personality wrestling with his demons while his better angels take shape only to be cut down by the darkness that consumes him. His Hyde, the co-inhabitor of his physical being, the shadow on his shoulder. The irony is rife with the pungent stench of poignancy, I know.

Where he and I differ is how that part of our being manifests itself. I can get lost in the murky waters of my soul if I choose to relinquish control. Otherwise it's frightfully easy for me to be conventional, blasé and mundane, even if I'm fully aware that it's nothing but a facade for the sake of others. It is a guise I wear for necessity's sake.

My creativity, though, has lately had to brush up against a stonewall of conformity and pre-programmed expectations, partly losing focus in the process. I feel like it's somewhat lost without its leash, no matter how joyful to be rid of it. I've found myself unnecessarily complicating the process by adding exuberant amounts of reasoning and motive to the flow of progression. I.e. trying to find the why in the what. It's probably due to being involved in collaborative rather than singular musical enterprises as of late, but the after-effect is unsettling and unwelcome nonetheless. It is a terrible, terrible mistake I've allowed myself to make, but luckily somewhat of a recent development. Lucky in the sense that something freshly learned can be done away with without it leaving a lasting mark.

You wouldn't believe how much I loathe and detest being questioned about subtext, underlying motives, hidden agendas. Surprisingly enough that tends come up quite a bit, supposedly because I can be a rather cryptic fellow. Still, having to explain myself - the ignition, process or outcome - would be like sticking needles into my eyes. So I decline, often in a very forceful manner. Or I simply sit and simmer, hoping the message gets across via the wavelength of silence. I resent the dissection, the breaking down, the afterbirth analysis of my creative endeavors. It's like trying to rate your orgasms on a scale based on obscure graphs and pie charts.

That's why working with others can be such a chore. Things get talked to death and everything has to have a purpose. Even the void must be decorated with a sign that says "This is a void". Chasing the dragon's tail only to strike it down and peer into the beast's jaw is to deny yourself the mystery of the journey itself. Trust me, dear friends and foes: we are all in much more dire need of mystery than illumination and exposition, even if we don't know it.

Aaanyways... Speaking of the three-fold elseworld that begins with phantomusiq, I'll give a little insight on the following two chapters next time around. Shadow'd and Deathwork, respectively. It was my intent to bring all that up in this entry, but look at me drift off again. As said: never exact, never precise, but never aimless. Pollock would be proud.

Eulogy

News of Paul Gray's passing hit me pretty hard. Slipknot made an unforgettable impact on me with their debut 12 years ago and I've been a fan ever since. Wow. Twelve years. Hard to wrap my brain around the fact that it's been so long. I'm listening to the aforementioned album while I'm writing this down and it doesn't sound a day old. The impact isn't colored by nostalgia one little bit. It still has force, momentum. Relevance. As do all the albums that followed it.

I got a chance to interview Corey Taylor back when Iowa was released and remember vividly how impressed and taken aback I was by his sincerity. I was just a twentysomething buck from some Finnish metal magazine with a busted tape recorder, but he had no reservations and spoke openly about anything and everything. Painful and comedic subjects alike, all was fair game. Aside from him only Kris Rygg has made a similarily resonant impact across the proverbial push-pull table. As I recall that's the way I've always viewed the band, both in terms of their output and their demeanor (as far as one can perceive that from a distance). Brutally honest. Candid 'til it hurts.

They're also a prime example of sincerity gone awry. I'm still amazed and bewildered how many people think of their music as childish or tied down to adolescence because of its raw, uncompromising and honest nature. Not because those people don't have the right to think so, but because they're under 50 and generally speaking in a mindframe that should be well distanced from that old Everything after The Beatles has sucked line of bullshit. Being a dismissive, disconnected and hogtied little lemming in line with the others is something that always gives me chills when come upon in people of my generation or younger.

It's easy to be sarcastic about the band. Slipknot always hit stage in their trademark masks and overalls, rarely touched upon subjects outside the far end of the negative spectrum, all the while exuding a level of threat and aggression rarely experienced, pulling everything off with zero irony. They inspired a following that must've been off-putting in its intensity to anyone on the sidelines. They were and are an easy target for those who aren't equipped to handle that level of intensity without diluting its effect by introducing levity. Being a 9-piece big band with masks, overalls and assigned numbers is a wealth of chinks in the armor for anyone willing to poke through. Let's be honest here: most fuckers simply can't process another's passion - never mind their quirks and obscurities - if it isn't followed by a wink and a nudge.

The fact also remains that they became a huge phenomenon and that, if anything, divides people easily. Opinions gravitate to either extreme to become alignments, points of assault, beachheads. Reactions and responses compete to topple one another and before you know it, you're spewing rhetoric and cheap shots in a pothole on either side of the barbed wire fence. We've all seen this story arc play out.

I speak of the band in past tense not because I believe they're done for but because this is the end of an era. I doubt their path is at an end, but certainly an unmistakable staple of the sound is now gone. It may tint my view of their future releases, as I'll no doubt pick up on something being amiss and potentially be unable to look past that. Gray was an essential part of the band's songwriting nucleus, more often than not the primus motor, and the imprint he left behind may be irreplaceable.

Rest in peace.