when the day of singularity comes,
the universe will cease its cold march
into nothing and retreat
to the warm hearth of its center.

on that day, we will not fear
the disconnect.

for the lights of Los Angeles
will bead together like the dew
to become a bright beacon
of unity;

famine and poverty and war
will effervesce and be cast out
from our lungs;

and no broken line,
no twist of a synapse, no
cruel, infinite distance
of time or space
will ever again
separate

me and you.

Life is a storm,
and I am not your life raft;

treat me like the land.

These poppies were growing in droves along the Pass Mountain Trail in Usery Mountain National Park near Mesa, AZ. This trail is ordinarily dominated by saguaro and teddy bear cactus, but after heavy rainfall in the past few weeks, the poppies, heliotropes, and scorpionweed were managing a breathtaking invasion.

A 7-mile hike in perfect weather. It was something beautiful.

I remember watching The Adventures of Pete & Pete and thinking, "I wish there was an Artie in my neighborhood." Then again, he probably would have been arrested, for no other reason than that a thirty-year-old stranger in skin-tight sweat pants who likes to have adventures with pre-adolescent boys is...well, a tad suspicious, actually.

Crying shame.

I was driving home from L.A. when I saw a banner over a Denny's, advertising endless pancakes. I thought to myself, what the hell would I do with endless pancakes? I can't even finish two pancakes, let alone an infinite onslaught of pancakes.

How many pancakes do you expect me to eat before I say to myself, "Oh, my God, I'm eating fried cake batter for breakfast, and I should probably stop sometime before my pancreas explodes"?

I'm only one man, Denny's. There's room for two pancakes. After that, close whatever blasphemous vortex from which pours your parallel dimension of endless pancakes, before you forever rend the fabric of time and space and drown the known universe in breakfast pastries.

And while you're at it, can you bring me some endless syrup?

strange window,
that it should reveal
nothing beyond,
and even less within.

I started writing a new album this week, with the hope of writing 12 songs total. The songs are going to center on the theme of connection: how we make connections, how we miss them; how we reach through time, and distance, and technology, and our personal differences, to make contact with each other in an age of isolation.

I'm writing this because of Los Angeles. Although it's a cliche to say that Los Angeles is an isolating place, it is. Your mid-20's can be an isolating time, too: you're no longer in college (thank God), but you're not quite in a career. Having left home years ago, you're not sure where you're supposed to set your roots. And what about romance? Are you supposed to just have your fun, or is it time to get serious?

Anyway, being someone who doesn't connect with people easily, I'm fascinated with how people do it. I think I'm writing this in order to discover for myself how people reach out and find community. Still, I'm not aiming for catharsis. My favorite songs are ones that embody a fictional (or not-so-fictional) character rather than preach a message or just spill shapeless emotions.

So, characters, if you care to be vulnerable, here's a question you might answer to inspire me: what's a connection you've missed in life—one that you still regret?

Until the fog clears,
I'll hang a lantern
from my tired arm,

hold it out against
the cold sting
of the waves,

and pray to God
I can steer beyond
the rocks,

until I find you.

After two hours of trying to find patterns in the Spackle on my ceiling, I realized this was insomnia and that I should probably just sit up in bed and blog.

I'm staring at a dry river bed right now. The freelance gigs were gushing for about three months, and now that stream is dessicated. I want to live in a world where my talents are always in demand. I don't live in such a world.

Still, I don't want to bitch, because I've made some good art in the past few months. For God's sake, I made a whole album of folk music. I wrote four episodes of a new sitcom, with lots more episodes on the way. That's something to smile about.

I thought I'd be further along than this, though. Sure, I'm only three years out of college, but still, you expect things to pick up faster than this. You keep asking yourself: am I not marketing myself the right way? Do I not have the right skill set? Should I quit, should I give up, should I stop dreaming?

But the answer is no, no, no, no. You can't stop dreaming, because then you're dead. Even if you're alive for another fifty years, you might as well be dead, because you gave up what made life worth living. You're an artist; deal with it. You have to make art, because you love it, and damn it, you're not good at anything else. To hell with the critics and the nay sayers. Long live skipped meals, looming bills, and brazen uncertainty, because that is The Path, and even if you've made mistakes along the way, there's no turning back from it. Make the necessary sacrifices.

My dream is to write and act stories, to draw and paint worlds, to play and sing songs. That's not going to change, ever, not for a lifetime. So I'll work the night shifts at the lackluster jobs and spend my daylight hours devoted to my calling. I'm not afraid to do that.

los angeles, he thinks.

she hasn't cared about
my stupid dream since
the gold rush.

don't forget
to compliment
her make-up.

© 2008 by Stephen Bobbett. All rights reserved.