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My mind is touching the void, my brain, the consistency of three day old mashed potatoes.  Like smashing a square peg through a round hole I’m faced with the very likely reality that I will die having never done a relevant thing in my life.  I want to sing, I have so many words and tunes but they won’t come out, they can’t because I don’t know my name.

Ive worn many hats in my life but never the one that fit best.  What is it about simple words set to music that envoke such raw emotion.  Music makes us smile, it makes us laugh and can make us cry.  It makes us love and want so desperately to be loved.  They say it calms the savage beast but in me my words are lost in a sea of dispare because I can’t find the right ones to match my three cords played on four strings.

As often happens in the tedium of under employment I fell deep into the mire of Google spiraling down a rabbit hole of the inner-web and one thing let to another and then I met Amazing Grace, her words made tears well up in my eyes, they gave me everything I want to give and it was then and now that I realize I have never realized my true calling. I know it’s my true calling because I’ve had my 15 miunutes 15 times over.

I lived next door to a rockstar which wasn’t unusual as my day job was working with them, we met at a party, started talking about sailing and the next day I took him out for a sail on the bay.  I snapped a few pictures and wrote a poem about the day for his wife, yes some rock stars have wife’s.  He asked me if I would consider photographing a concert for him and I agreed.

They were doing a tribute concert for the late Jason Thirsk of Pennywise, it was going to be the biggest punk rock concert in history.  Punk rockers hate photographers were the last words he said before he walked back stage, the song was going to be one of Jason’s unrecorded songs and Ronnie was playing it on a grand piano, he mentied they would love it or kill him, either way I had my own battle to fight.  Back stage I snuck my trusty FM2 under my shirt till the last minute.  The manger wouldn’t let me on stage, I revealed my camera and tried  to pull rank, a shoving match ensued and then one of the punks saw my camera and punched me in the side of the head, I wasn’t going down without a fight but it was me against a sea of Doc Martens which was all I could see from the floor where I was now laying.  I staggered up threw a few punches and made a break for it just as they were rolling Ronnie out, with a pop, the blue stage lights came on and Ronnie kicked the chair away and started rocking the house.  The intense roar of the crowd filled my every sense with a heroin like rush I can only describe as feeling like a god.  I got three frames off before having my ass handed to me by the the whole security team but it didn’t matter, I got a few good ones in myself and I had made the perfect image for the show and found my true calling, I was born to be a musician.  It’s not the fame or glory I seek, its writing words that matter and giving them to the world.

Of corse those days seem over, I can’t find my song, there are no words to go with my unwritten music, not yet at least.  If I’ve learned anything in life; you try, you fail, and when they say you can’t you try again and find that you can.  Finding Grace was my gift in that reminds me if you just do what you love more than anything the rest will work out, even at times when more than anything it feels as if it’s not.  I find my way to the boat and pull out my song journal, a few words make the page about an island girl “and maybe she was meant to be alone like me” I pull out my uke and strum a few chords, find my voice; a new song is being written, don’t die with your song in you…

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