One, a man murdered twenty years ago, was a thin, smallish scruffy character with long hair and a moustache. If I said I met him in a youth mental institution, I wouldn't be lying.
I have written about him before.
I live with his ghost.
These days, I live with a lot of ghosts.
The second Tragic Jason was a cousin that OD'd a couple of years ago. They told me, at first, that he died of cancer.
I didn't buy it, really. Must have come on awful sudden. Like the medieval pox.
Later, I found out he OD'd. Maybe it was heroin. I suppose it was. He cheated the dope money out of a relative. Quite a substantial amount, I was told.
Then he blew his consciousness into the afterlife.
A few weeks ago, I turned on my computer to find that I had outlived a kid I hadn't seen in twenty years.
But I can see her still.
Maybe if I were truly psychic I could have told her, in 1994, the very last day she would be alive. You don't look at a face like that, though, and see suicide.
I live with a lot of ghosts, as I've said.
Not the first OD I've encountered, nor the first suicide. I can still see all of these ghosts, shuffling along. I remember the empty moments when first we met, and the moments in between. I can still see so many of you in the rose-tinted bloom of human animation; wasting your precious minutes, not knowing that, not many years hence, I would still be here, and you would not.
I've known suicides.
Drug casualties.
Murder victims.
And those that gave out through cancer, heart disease, the infirmities of age.
And the pale shadow of yesterday hangs over me in the morning and evening. And I know my own death waits out there for me, some day,
somewhere, by some as-yet-unforseen set of circumstances. I'd never do anything to hasten it along; life is for the survivors, the intrepid and the death-defiant.
As I write this, I'm listening to singer Glenn Danzig tell me it's a long way back from Hell.
You better believe it.
2.
I won't pretend these recordings, the bulk of them, constitute actual "music." If you follow anything I do, I have been recording a lot of actual music lately, and you're sure to run across some of it either here or elsewhere online.
Actual music isn't what these particular projects are about.
3.
I found this anonymous, ancient poem in the book "Food for the Dead" by folklorist MIchael Bell.
She bloom'd, though the shroud was around her,
locks o'er her cold bosom wave,
As if the stern monarch had crowned her,
The fair speechless queen of the grave,
But what lends the grave such lustre?
O'er her cheeks what such beauty shed?
His life blood, who bent there, had nurs'd her,
The living was food for the dead!
--Author Unknown.
Published May 4, 1822
Hopefully, my various musics are ultimately like magic bullets that enter and impact at the base of the skull, ricochet
around the brain chamber, and then leave a gaping exit wound in the forehead. You may hate them
Since 2006!
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