Tuesday, October 27, 2015

“When your mother sends back all your invitations.”


My friend says he fears death.
I believe he fears life.
Creativity can brand you.
Make you its little bitch and before you know it you’re breathing fire and rolling two hundred miles per hour through the decades like a dervish or horse whisperer.

What happens when forty nine years later the words are not flowing like they once did?
What happens when “how does it feel” no longer resonates and the Shadows In The Dark are making you question what you once believed was written in “Rocks And Gravel?”
What happens when "The Dark End of the Street" and a dark night of the soul unite and no one is able to reach you?
What happens when the bubble you’ve existed in for so long appears ready to burst and you’re afraid to seek heavenly aid because you don’t want to be that poor little boy who cried wolf?

My friend says you fear death.
I believe you fear life and all the simple contradictions going along with it.
You turned music and the culture inside out then you got out of Dodge and almost died seeking shelter beneath a Nashville Skyline New Morning.
There’s Blood On The Tracks as you paint Another Self Portrait of a man you once met in a crowded room of faceless strangers. He wasn’t Mr. Jones or Dr. Filth. No, he was actually you in a different kind of guise and no one was the wiser when you pulled the plug and a “Brave New World” went completely dark.

Charles Cicirella

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