Addison Road

I’m starting over.

I started one of my long, rambling, incoherent blog farts for you all, and I just can’t do it again. I want to tell you all about the things that I am thinking this week, the last week of my 20’s, but I just can’t. It’s too much. It’s too long. And I have had a hell of a long day. I just want to cut to it.

This idea struck me yesterday that I am racing through this week, allowing the necessities of my schedule run roughshod over the naval-gazing that should, in my mind, accompany an event of this magnitude.

And you know what? That’s for the best. I could work myself into a real existential lather over this, and I am pretty glad that I just simply don’t have the time. I have too much damn stuff to do.

Tomorrow morning, I need to print tracks for Stick. Then I need to email them. Then I need to pack a suitcase, because we are leaving with The Agape Singers at 2:30 in the afternoon. I will try not to think about the charts that I should have made for Curt and Dave who will be joining us on a gig on July 9th for our friends at Calvary. I will also not think about the fact that I am not quite done with the slideshow retrospective I am putting together for our party on the first. I will spend time reflecting on the experience of watching my little girl in her first dance recital earlier tonight. I will think about this as I help her mother pack a suitcase for her and her baby brother for their weeklong trip to San Diego their grandparents.

I will think about the week of August 14-19, and how we are going to El Dorado to make our record. I will try not to think about the huge amount of prep that needs to happen before then.

I will not think about how tired I am. I will not think about the fact that in the midst of all of this, I will be holding down a job and partnering in raising two very young children who need their parents around and in good moods.

I will think about Christ, who strengthens and encourages me.
I will run. I will eat well. I will continue to lose weight, because with every pound that comes off of me, a small reserve of personal drive and satisfaction is filled. I have lost sixty two pounds since January 14th, and I have never, ever felt better about myself. Let me repeat that. I have NEVER in my life believed in myself like I do at this very moment. Some of you who knew me back in the day are thinking, “Wow. Homeboy was a bit of an egomaniac! I bet he’s a grade-A prick now!” The reality is that I have never been more ruthless in self evaluation and critique on every level. My confidence is in who I am, not some projection of who I wish I was.

I will not freak out about the number of things left to do for our birthday party on July 1. I will not think about the slideshow that is still incomplete. I will not freak out that the party is less than 24 hours after we return from tour. I will get excited about having so many of my dear friends close to me.

I will miss my kids this week. I am glad they’re coming home to us for our birthday.

Wasn’t I supposed to go off and smoke peyote in the desert and have a vision quest or something? I thought in the final weeks of your 20s, you were supposed to go to Manhattan or Vegas or somewhere exotic and dangerous and meet exotic and dangerous people.

I’m going to Ventura, and eventually to the sexy town of Sacramento.
Everything’s mundane and yet immediate. Irrelavant and critical. I’m changing diapers and trying to write lyrics that will shift people’s perspectives. I’m taking teenagers to be a witness for Jesus Christ, Savior of mankind and King of the universe. We’re also going to play frisbee football.

I’m so tired. I’m completely alert. It’s all happening too fast and not fast enough. I am a mess. I am powerful, and in charge.

I am recklessly alive.