Killing me softly

The soft drink industry gets rich delivering recipes like this to your blood: carbonated water, caramel color, natural & artificial flavors, phosphoric acid, aspartame, potassium benzoate, citric acid, potassium citrate, caffeine, acesulfame potassium, calcium disodium edta.

The American Heart Association tells us this about you:

The human heart is one powerful pump, propelling six quarts of blood through the 60,000 miles of blood vessels in your body -- twice the distance around the world.

How does Big Cola get you to contaminate your insides with its brew? Ask me. I just quit.

My addiction started when I worked night shift in the ER. Cola tasted better than the oil slick they called coffee. I took my first swig and never looked back.

For a few years now, my doctor's had this annoying habit of suggesting I lose the caffeine-aspertame dependence. Better for the bones, the brain, the heart, the kidneys -- there's no part of the body it's not better for, according to the doc. But my friendly neighborhood addiction told me otherwise. Denial ruled.

Until the first day of Spring. Finally, something clicked. I read about Fosamax, a drug you take if your bones begin to waste away. The side-effects of Fosamax broke through my denial. A split second of mental clarity said, if you take a powerful chemical with potentially gruesome side-effects to counteract other powerful chemicals that erode your bones, you are insane.

This reminds me of our national Big Oil fixation. We love our SUV! Of all the vices, how could this one kill us? Our survival instincts have been bullied by habits we picked up like a can of pop on the midnight special. We don't like the voice of rationality -- the eco nut with his wishbone shaped stethoscope -- asking us to breath deep.

Until this fine Spring day, a feeling in our bones, a shot of innocence, an inkling of self-determination.

Much obliged

It comes out of nowhere, and it feels like you've stepped out of yourself. Oh man! That's the best part about singing!
Mary J. Blige, Rolling Stone 1018

I probably think too much. I can be slow to act, relentless with perfection. I'm frivolous with smiles, though, and lavish with ink. I gravitate toward kindness and admire the humble soul. I'm patient with old people and charmed by certain felines. Integrity holds me in her trance; I value her suggestions.

Every now and then in song, like Mary Jane explains, 'I'm gone. I've lost myself.'

And found myself in every creature living.


photo by N Gallagher

Pricey habits

Luckily, I've always thought of myself as a musician more than a guitar player. Since I'm always changing as a person and my tastes are always changing, that is reflected in the ways I approach my instrument. I never feel like I'm running out of ideas, because it is clear to me -- music is infinite.
-- John Frusciante (The Red Hot Chili Peppers), Rolling Stone

If music is as infinite as the inventive mind, the same could be said of the lyric edge of song: poetry defies boundary.

When songwriters say they've hit a dry spell, there's an air of longing in their words. They miss the keen aphrodisiac, the fire, as they putter about the house, keeping up appearances. Originality feels so good on. Rehash tastes like dust.

I spoke with a former fan of mind expanding drugs, a holy father of the sixties, who reassured me it was OK I'd never done any. Never have I sought absolution for my cognitive extravagances: listening, waiting, watching, risking.

These indulgences cost nothing but time. And patience.

Their side effect is art.