So much sad shit, but the weather has refused to let me stay in a melancholy state. It’s weird. My friends back home suffered a big loss with the death of our friend, Harlin. The cause of death makes things so much worse. Dammit. And then Coda…I can’t imagine the trauma that one of my best friends went through when she saw her beloved puppy…her first child…get demolished by a car. Totally helpless. It’s all just fucking sad….and today would be my Grandmother’s birthday if she were still alive. To top it off, we still had to deal with other small stresses from daily wear and tear while we were really hoping for a nice Memorial Day weekend getaway. All the while, everyone is mourning around me…it’s no wonder my brain was not functioning yesterday. With the heat sucking the energy out of me, I just felt kind of…absent. Numb. Switched off.

I drove to Kalamazoo today and nothing felt right. My nostalgia and connection to the place had suddenly plummeted to a small speck in the gravel beneath my feet. I held so much love and respect for a city where I grew into myself. There, I learned what every 19-23 year old learns about her or himself…how to figure out life on your own. To figure out who you are and who you want to be; to figure out love, what it meant and how to manage the gain and loss of it. Kalamazoo used to be where I had once built a life…now it’s just a place that I have been. And holy shit, it’s true. When they shut down the State Hospital there, they just let everyone go. And if those patients are not still living, their offspring are carrying on their legacy: polluting the city’s street’s, running rampant, spewing nonsensical religious banter while wearing flower bikini tops and pissing in the gutters. This town looks exactly the same but appears so unfamiliar to me.

I guess this means I have finally closed a chapter.

I held on for a long time. Truth is, I hate to let go of my past. So many wonderful memories and lessons learned, I’m afraid to let go of those who were once a part of my life. Just like the line by La Dispute in Andria, “…if i do not miss a part of you, a part of me is dead,” I hold on to places and people like I hold onto my own flesh and blood. Although, I now realize that at some point, you don’t get to make the decision to move on or not, life decides for you.

And so it did.

This weekend will be the start of an uphill climb and I can feel it. So many summer shows for Fine Fine Titans are right around the bend, I need more than ever to make my dreams come alive. Death reminds us that we only have so many days ahead of us…so we either go big or go home.

I’m not going home. Not just yet.

I’ve been misplacing my anger. Instead of taking it out on my notebook, I’ve been battling in other ways. Instead of letting my boiling blood fuel my pen, I’ve been taking it out on everything else or trying to hold it in.

I can’t do that. I have to embrace my anger and utilize it. 

I don’t believe in “this too shall pass” because the only way to get through something is to push yourself. Perhaps if I believed in God, I would let the outside world guide me - but that’s a false sense of security. Because the world will only guide you to where you will end up naturally - six feet underground. I can’t just let the world lead me to death because as long as I’m breathing, I’m going to reach for something. Complacency and faith are one in the same and I refuse to live lifeless in my body before the earth claims me permanently. 

The only thing we can do is fight. Fight for justice, for freedom, for liberty, equality and for the fucking choice to fight.

I’m tired of sitting still while the wrong people fight the right battles. Or worse, the right people fight the wrong battles. My hands are going to eventually freeze up and all I will have left is my voice. When that is gone, I will be dead. Until then, I have to use every chance that I’ve got to fight the good fight.

that all these years, teetering on the idea of God, Christianity and religion, I’ve turned to churches and friends of mine who are believers to help me in my faith. For as long as I can remember, since I’ve known what The Bible was, I’ve turned towards religion to help me understand…to answer my questions and guide me to solid faith. However, if you would have asked me a few months ago what I believed, I would have said that I wasn’t sure. After 26 years of confusion and an actual will to accept the religion, my questions were never answered. No believer, no church, no person, no book, no band, no music, nothing could send me walking into faith. And now, 50 pages into the book “The Good Atheist” by Dan Barker and I can proclaim myself, with whole heart, an Atheist. I know now, 100%, that I do not believe in a God nor do I believe that religion is helpful in any circumstance.

I can’t even begin to illustrate how liberating my new enlightenment has made me feel. 

Because if God made Man to serve him and God made woman to support and serve her husband (who is busy serving God instead of his loving wife), then I get the short end of the stick.

Well I won’t have the short end of the stick. I’ll throw that shit back. I have ALL THE FUCKING STICKS I WANT. And seriously…how freeing is that?? 

We’d learn how to say “no.”

We’d embrace our needs. Whether those were purely our own or the need to fulfill another’s.

We’d kiss more. Hold hands more.

What we wouldn’t do is run out to buy the next fucking iPhone. We wouldn’t care about shoes, video games and definitely not about student loans. We wouldn’t waste our money on television sets or SUVs. We’d give it away-simply hand out hundred dollar bills to anyone living on the street. We’d drink our favorite beer or wine, gather around our friends and sing “Don’t Stop Believin’” at the top of our lungs. Maybe we’d graffiti the city. Maybe we would fill an empty pool with tapioca balls and toss ourselves in. Perhaps we’d run naked, straight into the ocean, Lake Michigan or the creek in your neighbor’s back yard and make love in the filthy water.

Maybe we would live like we were nineteen again and know that the only guarantee of permanency is death.

Lately, I’ve been entranced with the reality. I’ve never been afraid of death, but instead found peace in the idea that when one door closes, another must open. However, this last year or so, I’ve been absolutely terrified of it. I would like to say that it’s just the thought of losing others that keeps me awake at night, but even the idea of my own death leaves me trembling.

All I keep asking myself is: if I were to die tomorrow, have I accomplished everything that I’ve dreamt up? Have I showed my friends and family how much I truly love them? Have I inspired anyone to reach beyond their fears and dive into a life that they’ve always desired? Have I spoken enough about the things that I love and stood strongly enough for the changes that I believe the world needs to see? Have I done anything for humanity or had all of my endeavors been in vain?

But mostly, was I happy or did I spend my life in misery, trying to please everyone else?

And then, if that weren’t enough to send my heart into shock, there is a haunting vision of losing anyone close to me. I can’t even put into words how deeply horrified I am of this. Because, the fact is, death follows and stalks our every move. Everything could change in an instant.

Everything could change in an instant and one day, it will.

Tonight, I’m going to make the best black bean soup I’ve eve made. I’m going to hug my dogs longer. I’ll sing sweeter and scream louder at band practice and prepare for what could be our last show ever. I’m going to unplug my husband’s computer afterwards so he cannot spend one more minute slaving away at work instead of locking lips with me.

Because death is throwing a party and you never know when you’ll receive your invitation.

Really though, what is music’s purpose if not to be the one tangible thing that we can always rely on to invoke emotion, create energy and move the spirit? We all cling to a different religion or none at all. We each have a different approach to art or none at all, but who on earth can say that there is not one type of music that they embrace? One genre or sound - even the music that the ocean waves create when they crash to the shore - that doesn’t build feeling or whisper peacefulness to them? Even the hearing impaired have learned to feel music and that could possibly reach light years beyond what we feel.

As Dashboard Confessional came up on Shuffle today, my first thought was not that my tastes no longer care for the music, but instead, I was immediately brought back to that seventeen, eighteen, nineteen year old me. The one that desperately reached for any kind of belonging, stability and identity. I find it so odd how you can forget such feelings so rapidly and maybe even completely until that one song, that one album, that one voice or band can bring you back in two seconds flat. In that moment, you transcend time and those last six or seven years have meant nothing at all.

Hearing that song is like seeing your best friend after ten years of not speaking and starting up exactly where you left off, without a flinch or a second thought.

Sweet nostalgia; bittersweet nostalgia. Music is both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because nothing in the world is better than it and a curse because nothing in the world will ever be better than it.