David Bronson

I’m trying to remember the feeling. It was so clear and it was only a few hours ago, but it might as well be a lifetime ago with everything that’s happened in between. Not that any of it was so monumental or particularly out of the ordinary, but the feeling is completely different.

I was just coming out of some kind of mental-emotional cocoon after a few solid days of being entrenched – wait, it’s starting to come back now – and it seems logical to me that a lot of it had to do with the fact that I haven’t gotten more than 3 hours of sleep for more than a few day’s at this point. 
So anyway, on the train this morning I decided to crack a new Bukowski book of short pieces, to kind of treat myself, take it easy. And man did it do the trick.

Within the first page of the first piece I was struck – no, a much better word would be caressed, by this unbelievably comforting feeling. Of connection, truly. I mean serious inhabitance, or, not sure how to convey this accurately, but it was a feeling like I was perfectly situated within a real state of human mutuality, a togetherness of some kind, of being here, safe and alive with all of the other living humans, but it wasn’t heavy at all. It was completely easy, natural, completely comfortable. (I laughed to myself when it occurred to me that the short story I was reading was called ‘Loneliness’). The only feeling I can compare it to was a memory I have of being about 7 or 8, having just come home from a trip to the comic book store with my father and brothers on a Saturday afternoon in the spring or summer, and not having anything to do for the next 2 days (I guess it couldn’t have been summer) but relax in my comfortable room, on my bed, with my bunch of new comics. Utter lack of stress, the opposite of anxiety. It was like coming home in the best possible way.

And then it became addressed in my own mind, this feeling I had been experiencing, and I thought about it, and it was over. I won’t tell you the thought that this just about perfect feeling was momentarily replaced with, it’s too depressing. But thankfully that didn’t last for more than a few seconds. And then things were just normal.

One year ago tonight, my amazing band The Long Lost and I played the Parkside Lounge, my first gig back from a long live performance hiatus. I wrote down some of my thoughts about the night..

Thoughts on the Parkside

9.09.11
The first gig back. There were many ideas, feelings, expectations, etc. leading up to the Parkside, but mainly I hoped to remain as relaxed as humanly possible so as to have as good a time (show) as humanly possible.

Overall, I’d say it ended up being just about halfway between the best and worst I could have imagined (these are quite extreme on both ends), with a slight but definite leaning towards better. This description, though, would not include the very few, but undeniable, fleeting moments of elation/surrender that took place, which definitely throw the experience as a whole fully over onto the ‘better’ part of the spectrum. (Maybe not surprisingly, this characterization seems to jibe pretty accurately with my experience of life in general).
(editor’s note – I was being dramatic. I love my life.)

As much as anything else, the night was defined by a room filled with close friends, family, and loved ones, both offstage and on. As Jordy said to me after the gig, “I knew that a lot of your people would come out,” and I’m heavily thankful, gratified, and warmed that they were all there for /with me and us. I think that cushion of good feeling was what allowed the band and I to navigate through a virgin set list despite the various minor or major pitfalls (technical, psychological, emotional, equipmental, etc.) that would probably accompany any first gig back after so long, but that were nevertheless thankfully dealt with and passed by in a manner appropriate to their deserving, i.e. not too much.

9.20.11
Listening back to the recording, I hear now what actually went down. Very happy that it sounds significantly better than I thought it would, and significantly better than it sounded from the stage (though still not nearly enough bass), just generally way too fast – by-product of nerves and excitement – Robbie warned me not to do this at the last rehearsal. You were right, man! Next time

photograph by Liz White

I’d like to be open
I’m on the subway
It’s cool in the air conditioning
What and why is this moment?
A man at the end of my row seems to be humming opera-type music
He is Asian
I can hear it clearly, in fact
it sounds like he’s right next to me humming right into my ear
Now a girl with a colorful flannel shirt sat down next to me
Oranges & reds
Multicolored checked backpack
Why am I having this experience?
I am not reminded of anything
I am not prompted in any other way to do anything other than I am doing
I type this with my thumbs into my new ‘smart’ phone.

Now I’m getting off to transfer to the local.
Old men, bald men, black men, yuppie-looking men
Some attractive women, everyone’s normal
Only sometimes does my life feel like this,
like not much
but fine.

And at the same time,
and even though I know I live in a statistically uncommon situation of luxury and ease,
mostly because of where and to whom I was born,
partially because of my choices, my actions,
I still feel want intensely
every single day
And assume, like it’s always said,
that this is the normal (and therefore, acceptable) way to be
But I wonder very often
if just maybe
it is not

Sardines at 5:45
The collection of humanity on the subway
One guy is narrating his thoughts
Like an asshole.
I can’t concentrate on my book
Earlier I watched someone pouring out what seemed to be the complete depths of her soul
without noticing that the other person was basically elsewhere
Holy shit, I’ve never heard a beggar quite like this groveling woman
as she makes her way down the aisle
weeping and drooling, asking for money
asking for what?
The day started well
I met an artist on the subway
It descended after that.
Women all around me talking, talking
about what?
A headache on the way to rehearsal
what is real fun, though?
I wonder again
on the train

I don’t know where it began. I couldn’t possibly.
Before college
before Exile on Main St.
before Boston
before high school
before songwriting
before Kubrick, and Bukowski
before Blade Runner
before comics
before Labyrinth
before VHS
before walks after school with my buddy Ev,
under the leaf shadows of suburban NJ
talking about it

they say a life without drama creates drama
It seems that all life has drama
I’ve witnessed the deepest, heaviest dramas of all
unfold without any actual cause, per se
Life is not blasé as long as we’re thankful
And what are we fortunate for?
The people in it? Any degree of predictability?
And what’s so good about appreciation anyway?

(I will pause momentarily, because,
serendipitously,
the Sticky Fingers version of Wild Horses just came on where I’m writing this.
Truly amazing.
One of the too many songs that strikes me with the painful realization
that there will only be a finite number of times I’ll ever hear it.

Which segues back nicely)

What’s so good about appreciation?
Is it mainly because it takes you out of yourself? Release?
Like how we say it’s actually selfish to give? Because you’re the one who receives the good feeling?
Personally, I think it goes a lot deeper.
But I can’t explain it logically.
I think it just is good. And good is good. So it feels good (but not the other way around).

And finally, appreciation is connection – the heart of the matter.
It’s reaching upwards, backwards, forwards, next to you – and acknowledging that connection,
And realizing, truly feeling, that your being the beneficiary of the many good things that existence gives us
(via people or via radio stations) is the natural way of things, is as it’s supposed to be.
It should be a foregone conclusion.
And yet the appreciation is still there, naturally.
And we don’t give to others only to make ourselves feel good, but also to make them feel good.
At the same time.

And maybe appreciation is also acknowledging that there is not, and never could be, a real end,
or a real separation
No cessation
of movement
of attempt
of love
of life

So, happily, I say
thank you.

(To all that’s good, but mainly to my loving parents)

Art’s primary role, in fact it’s only real role, is to connect us (or re-connect us) to all of the things that make us most human. And, if it’s truly art, it does this in a way that brings to us the realization, consciously or not, that we are an integral part of everything, that life is the only truly sacred thing (of which every other thing is a subset), and that, as such, it warrants celebration.

All that art is, at its deepest level, is a celebration of life. It is a reminder of the most fundamental parts of ourselves. Which is why it is unquestionably worth doing. This is also why we are instinctively drawn to it, and why it is among the most valuable and necessary elements of human society and culture.

Aren’t you acting in your best interests? Doesn’t everyone, always, think that they’re acting in their best interests? Obviously this isn’t the case, but shouldn’t it be? Doesn’t it make sense, and wouldn’t it be the only natural manner of existence, if this were true?

Do you think that you are acting in your best interests while you are in the middle of acting? (And isn’t it interesting how the meaning of that word shifts around when referring to the things that we do outside of our heads every day?) While we are in the middle of doing something, anything, don’t we think or feel on some level that what we are doing will in some way, ultimately, benefit us?

Well, here’s a question: do you feel that you are, right now as you read this, acting in your best interests? Am I? Do I think that sitting here, writing this is in my best interests? Yes, somewhere inside of myself I obviously believe that doing this is a good thing, that my resources, which are limited, are literally worth spending on this. But are all of our actions so logically governed? When we stay out all night drinking, or run back into the arms of a person who has repeatedly hurt us, or eat candy, or watch most of what’s on tv, are we really, honestly believing that somewhere, in some way these activities will ultimately pan out in our favor?

And if the answer is no, then why do we do them?

There’s plenty of distraction. No end to it, in fact.
Even this guy’s singing here in the subway is like candy;
a break between doing what you’re supposed to be doing,
which is living, I suppose
So in that regard, even engaging with him is as fine as anything else,
and even he is as well off as anyone else
since it’s all living.
But this completely conventional unconventional outlook doesn’t address how
if you’re any sort of normal person
you need much, much more than merely living
to be anywhere near appeased
Living is where it’s at though, isn’t it?
really living, I guess
What the hell is that, though?
Being with my girl?
Writing a song?
Family?
Laying in the grass?
Not caring?
Caring?

Are there too many people in this city or just enough?
Sometimes the proximity to so many others is basically intolerable.
Being in close quarters can breed disgust very quickly.
On the subway, or anywhere.
But then someone does something very human.
Which has become oddly, unfortunately, unexpected.
They give up their seat, talk to a stranger, talk to you.
And, after the momentary surprise, I suddenly feel kind of stupid.
And then hopeful.
To be reminded,
that while we are all walking around,
feeling disconnected and alone,
pretending, then thinking, then believing that we are alone,
we are all together,
and wanting to be reminded of it.

most of what I intend amounts to scribbles & flashes
most of what I think is a reaction
most of what I feel feels itself and has nothing to do with me
(though I bow to it nonetheless)
and most of what I know is worthless
unless
you believe that there are consequences
that meaning is real
and that intangibles such as mood,
presence, calm,
connection,
and existence
comprise the only actual value,
like I do