November 13, 2011. Amtrak

i love riding the train
taking hugo to see my parents in davis
we’re on the upper level of car two

things that give you permission to be lazy:
fishing
riding a train
waiting for a guy

passing ship yards, freight yards, junk yards, backyards

cows and calves by a little lake
beach ball that went over the back fence and was never retrieved
a totaled car under a canopy
trampolines in back yards with dead lawns
sofa tipped over by a bush on the side of the road
‘for rent’ sign leaned against a shed
rows of alfalfa surrounded by reservoirs
two ski-doos on a trailer covered with a clear plastic tarp
power lines continuing forever
the end of a dead-end street
2 television sets face down in a ditch
a windmill
goats feeding outside a drooping barn

this pen is running out of ink
train whistle as we near the station
“ladies and gentlemen, our next station stop is approaching”
“one, two, four and five are the exit cars”

1972. Davis, CA

i remember being told a dirty joke when i was twelve. i had no idea what it meant
but i laughed. later i told the joke to a friend, hoping he’d get it and from his getting it
somehow it would become clear to me.
he didn’t get it and told me so. then he asked me to explain it. i couldn’t, of course,
so i acted like it was beneath me to have to tell him what it meant.
i felt bad; i was just as in the dark as he was, but i made him feel alone in his
ignorance

in p.e. class in junior high jeff walker turned to me in the locker room one day and
said “sixty-nine”. he didn’t preface it with anything, he just said it in a way that
made it clear he was testing me.
he waited for my response.
i assumed it had something to do with sex, but i had no clue what. i nodded my
head and mumbled some sort of acknowledgement that indeed i was in on the
secret meaning of that number. he seemed satisfied, and that was the end of our
exchange.

being thought of as cool was so important that i’d often find myself doing things
that i didn’t want to be doing, pretending to know something i didn’t know, or acting
like i wasn’t scared when i was. it was a drag.
i’m glad it’s over.

October 20, 2003. Oakland, CA

class meets 1st & 3rd mondays. building 2, room C. 5:00 – 6:15

notes:

50% of stressful thoughts are unconscious (how can they be revealed?)
we believe 100% of anxious thoughts, and a very low % of neutral thoughts

top anxiety producers:
• embarrassing ourselves
• losing control

dreams: this is how our unconscious works things out. having bad dreams doesn’t mean something is wrong; they are code – they are an attempt to put images to thoughts. impressionistic.
dreams are deep unconscious – as you come out of them you pass through consciousness and pick up the daily specific bullshit.
write down whatever you can remember

retrain your nervous system; this is learned behavior that can be unlearned

what do i worry about? try to really determine the answer to this…
• being to blame for something bad

archetypes are in our dna – in our cells – it is not a choice to believe them

taking of internal inventory: “how am i feeling”, “what am i thinking”

get a jaw massage

1992. Guanajuato, Mexico

we stayed in guanajuato for two weeks – longer than we stayed in any other place on our ten week trip. it was a friendly town with good restaurants. the rooms were $6 a night.

i started a routine of getting up early, when the sun came up, and working on songs. it was quiet and peaceful. i’d write for several hours, then go out to get something to eat. i’d spend the rest of the day exploring the town.

songs took shape more effortlessly than they had in new york. i was finishing a new one every day – sometimes two. nothing like that had happened before, or has happened since. a lot of the songs i wrote there are on my first album.

it was such a simple existence; nothing to clutter my thoughts or distract me.
life seems much more complicated now. it’s hard to imagine getting back to a state like that again.

La%20Canzone.mp3

1995. Berkeley, CA

somehow i became aware of a whistling teacher that lived in oakland. he’s the one that whistled woodstock’s part on the peanut’s episode where peppermint patty performs at an ice skating competition. he was also on the tonight show.
taking a whistling lesson from a famous whistler seemed like a fun thing to try, so i called him.
he said: “when you arrive be prepared to be greeted with a hug”.

the lesson started with a demonstration. he described in detail the piece he would be whistling for me. i sat on the couch. he put a cassette tape in the stereo and left the room.

after a brief musical prelude he came bounding back in – literally flying through the air – and proceeded to give a full-blown operatic whistling performance; acting out the story, playing all the characters, dancing, gesturing, whistling like i’d never heard anyone whistle before.

when it was over i was stunned. i clapped – he seemed to expect it. it was strange being the only audience member.

he quickly commenced with the lesson, which felt like a big letdown after such a dramatic performance.

i didn’t have a whistling breakthrough. i didn’t take any more lessons. i sensed that he would have liked to have a student that took whistling as seriously as he did.

now when i whistle i feel self-conscious, thinking i should be better than i am since i’ve studied with the master.

October 1988. New York City

the first time i performed solo in new york was at open mic night at the speakeasy
on macdougal street. sign-ups were at 7:00. i was staying in the bronx, so that
meant leaving around 5:00.
i got there early and got a good spot in line, which i mistakenly thought would get
me a good time slot performing. when i reached the sign-up table i drew a number
from a hat – number forty-four.

the open mic i was used to, at the fox and goose in sacramento, got ten people on
a busy night. forty-four? i asked what that meant.
“you’ll go on around 12:30 or 1:00. after midnight you get one song”
“so i should come back in” – i had to count on my fingers – “5 hours?”
“yeah. that sounds right”

first i got a falafel. then i watched a guy escape from chains in washington square
park. i went back and heard a few performers. i walked around the village.
“wings of desire” was playing at the bleecker street cinema. i bought a ticket.
it was the first time i took my guitar to a movie.

when i got back to the club it was 11:30. another hour to go. when i finally went on
there were 5 people left. 2 of them were performing after me. one was passed out.

i played my one song
i got back to the bronx at 2:00
nine hours to play for three minutes in front of five people
welcome to new york

August 13, 2009. Journal Excerpt. Berkeley, CA

what would a perfect day look like?
perfect doesn’t mean no mistakes. it can be lots of mistakes

some things it might include:
gratitude and appreciation
being cheerful. lifting people’s spirits
doing something i’ve been avoiding
spending time with my family doing whatever they want to do
singing songs
being generous. helping others
challenging myself. being bold
expressing myself deeply

it seems like it shouldn’t be that hard. so what gets in the way?

August 2010; Journal Excerpt. Sacramento, CA

when i first saw my mom in the recovery room she looked better than i had braced
myself for. i was so relieved. her color was good, but it was hard for her to talk.
she hadn’t been allowed water since she first entered the emergency room the day
before, and her mouth was dried out

her hip and collar-bone were broken from the fall. the hip required surgery; they put
a rod through the ball and down the length of the femur, with a screw holding it in
place at each end. the surgeon described the bone as “crumbly”

the room she was in was very small. too small to comfortably fit the four of us (me,
erica, dad, rob). with no space for even one chair we all stood. looking. looking
away. trying to think of what to say or ask.

a nurse came in and we made way for her to approach the bed. she was cheerful
and efficient in her movements. she checked off some things on a chart and left

we stayed for a few hours. mom slept off and on. when she was awake she was
groggy, but she smiled.
erica fed her ice chips with a spoon from a styrofoam cup
then held the straw to her lips
she said drinking the water was just about the best thing ever

December 3, 2007. San Francisco, CA

for 10 years i impersonated a jazz musician for a living
at least that’s what it felt like half the time
it started when a friend asked if my band could play at a corporate party she
was planning. she thought we’d be a good fit – we sounded “jazzy”.
my band consisted of me on acoustic guitar and vocals, playing my originals,
backed up by really good jazz musicians.
nick drake, van morrison, rickie lee jones all played and recorded with jazz
musicians – it was part of their sound: upright bass, saxophone, a drummer that
knows what subtle means.

i accepted the gig and spent the next month learning a bunch of standards. the
party went well and soon after the caterer called wanting to book us for another
event. before long i was able to quit my desk job.

the guys in my band were all serious players who were dedicated to being the
best musicians they could be.
then there was me
my strategy was to play as little as possible; “first do no harm”
i sang a few standards, but mostly made sure everything ran smoothly.

performing background music at events takes some getting used to. for the most
part no one pays any attention to you. often we’d be set up in a corner next to the
large rented fern. like the fern, our job was to add ambience to the proceedings.