The Mooon and New York City

I woke up early this morning to the sound of a Labrador puppy yelping to use the frosty grass as a misting grounds. When I came down it was still dark. The last few weeks I have been able to beat the sunrise and create a theme for this moment to write. I know that this pattern will soon end. They always do. I make every effort to punctuate these moments of these particular seasons of life with a soundtrack to this emotion that gets wrapped into the dawn. I cannot help myself. My life’s stages are always anchored by a soundtrack.

But before I activate the playlist, the song “Moon and New York City” by Christopher Cross popped in my head. I listened and watched then allowed YouTube to guide me down the rabbit hole of suggested videos. This led to Air Supply, All Out Of Love and Nothing At All. Soon after I was on a Philippine American Idol clip and that was when I knew I had gone too deep. The Internet is making it far too easy to get distracted. I stood in front of the coffeemaker for one more cup and opened my iTunes playlist. I keep a playlist called “That Mood.” The Moon and New York City gets added but not Air supply. Why? Why does one song play the right chords in my heart and others only play a loop of pity for my soul and those of mankind? The place between melancholy and serendipity is a fragile place that must be curated carefully.

My morning ritual sets the pace for the day and the weather sets the tone. I am ready for the next phase of enlightenment to begin. The second my headphones play the sweet song I begin to move in a rhythm and an old feeling enters my body. An old memory is triggered of a time when I would move to a song as if there was a camera watching me and I was part of a music video. Has this ever happened to you? It’s a childish thought. Not that it is immature but that it is hopeful innocent. As a child I always imagined that the people watching my actions were somehow a part of making me famous. As I would ride my bike to the stop light I would feel that every car at the light was watching my every move as if it was poetic genius and that there was something special about this boy. My body rhythms performing in a synchronized and deliberate ballet dance of time and space.

Maybe I was dropped on my head but I am all better now. This feeling does not go away though. I can’t help but to feel as if there is still something inside of me like a volcanic eruption lying dormant or a tectonic plate building up for the big one. I think that I have not arrived because the journey would have to be long and the destination would mean death is near. Waiting for my real life to begin is a song. The wishful thinking that something big will happen remains a dream. I remain in this dream and I refuse to wake up. I have to make something big happen. The volcano is not the eruption. The volcano is the gradual rising heat below the surface. The quake is not the shaking it is the sand sitting patiently building with potential energy mounting a consistent pressure on its limits.

How long will this last?

I try to keep the voices in my head from arguing. Business and pleasure, bills and pay checks. Casting all worries aside I can allow the feeling to enter my body and allow freedom from my concerns over the trivial stuff that rattles my foundation for inner peace. I look to the experts for solace and when they don’t give me the answers I seek the wisdom of the invisible legends that existed before written accounts of their presence. I fall into the fairy tales and wonder if I should feel guilty for not paying a tithing to a powerful force that may or may not give a shit about my recent sins and regrets.

I know right from wrong and I let the moment guide me until I am ready to take the wheel. I know that although I may never be bigger than my potential I can always allow this subtle ambition to flex its biceps when I need them.

There was a time in my life when I walked along side that inner voice with a pen and a paper in hand to takes notes. It was a time that I recorded lots of poetry and revelations. I allow the wisdom of the unknown to manifest itself in the form of element from mental. Allowing the free flow of thoughts and emotion capture the moment forever immortalizing the moment in time. One that I can look back on a recall that day or wonder if I was even the one who felt this way. I keep a log if the day as if it will one day matter. I create in multiple mediums will little focus expecting that if anything one day the children will fight over dads shitty painting of the lake.

As long as this flame stays warm and the moment calls me just before the dawn to wake up and say something I will do just that. The ability to express the engagements of the flow state with a cup of coffee and a fireplace is a gift. I am happy to wake up to unwrap it. This is a fresh lottery ticket and the prize is $86,400. I must spend it all today with no taxes and I cannot take it with me. There is no guarantee that this is not as good as it gets and there is certainty that there is no alternative. This must be the best possible life and optimism prevails.

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