baggage's Diaryland Diary

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Baking the Reels

So there I was leaning over the second floor guardrail, reclining rebelliously in a spot typically reserved for the smoking elite, waiting for one of those epiphanies that tickle my thoughts when I'm alone.

And, despite the soundtrack of the moment (supplied by the traffic below and the lights flickering from city hall), despite the perfect rhythm of stars, neon lighs, tall buildings and carbon monoxide-epiphany did not call.

The mind was blank and I was on pause.

2001, perhaps fueled by the dichotomy of a successful career, the betrayal of my tendons and a dying Mom, was one huge creative peak that summed itself up in 18 songs which are now nothing more than ones and zeroes on a DAT tape down the street.

The promotion came, my mom is in Vegas for the weekend, my fingers are chilled but comfortable and me, well, I'm standing on the second floor balcony in the middle of Los Angeles looking for someway to understand it all.

Why?

In a time where many folks fear for their jobs, my career is going way better than expected. A recent promotion, accolades from the new boss (not the same as the old boss, but interesting nonetheless) and a cool new group of talent to share my pod with-all point to an average person of average means (ahem-that would be me).

In a time when I'm finally beginning to understand Mom in all her contradictions-her stories, her reasons, her words-God decides to take her back. And as clear and obvious her impending departure has become, He seems to be taking his time-benevolent enough to allow everyone time to tie whatever loose ends are swaying in the breeze.

In a time when I considered putting the music to rest-right after the crash and burn of so many hopes, and right after my hands begun to cringe at the touch of a guitar, I dive impatiently into the deep end of the creative pool and bring to life 18 songs that have been wandering aimlessly in my mind, some for many years, looking for an excuse to exist outside of my imagination.

I want to fast forward the moment to 2004, perhaps 2005, or even 2010. I'm impatient to know what follows. The contradictions of the year has left me confused and unsatisfied; the epitome of fog.

But, fast forward has never really been an option.

And the pause button is still warm.

11:21 a.m. - 2002-01-26

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