Indeed, the idols I have lov’d so long
Have done my credit in men’s eyes much wrong;
have drown’d my glory in a Shallow Cup
And sold my reputation for a Song.
~Edward Fitzgerald’s “Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam" [PDF]
Where am I? Who am I? In this moment, this is actually a good time and space to answer that question.. . the good and the bad. Should I flip a coin? What side of the spectrum should I start on? Who defines the results anyway? Whatevz.
There was a poem written by a Persian almost a thousand years ago. This bastard drunkard was no ordinary wino. No, our good friend Omar counted the stars, created calendars, formatted lines of mathematics and held court with the sultan. Many people hated this madman, but his touch moved the very world as we know it. This was the Golden Age for Persia, during the time when the world of Europe had fallen into shadow. Omar’s poetry lived on, falling into shadow only when Great Persia, itself, fell and crumbled into the sands.
What are your dreams? Who are you? Yes, you! What are your hopes? Will they all end in dust? Because they will… all ends in dust. “This, too, shall pass.” No matter your actions, no matter your great love and your terrible pain, it will all fade and whither and fall from the tree of life, fading in its last colors as it falls into the void. Drink! For this is the madness that you find in the eyes of truth!
152 years ago, an Englishman exhumed the poetry of the fallen Omar. With a rather liberal hand, he transmogrified the quatrains into what is now known as Edward Fitzgerald’s “Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam”. Two years ago, I took five different versions of his writings and made my own remix. And today? Today I finished work on a musical version, working with a woman halfway across the country and composing the music myself, and working on a machine that creates magic that was not even dreamed of when these words were first given ink. The Persian lives on. Today is not the day for his words to end in dust. This Saturday, the mix will be sent out to hundreds of people from around the world… and the mad poet will live on and burn inside of their hearts. And this is the world I live in. This is the world you live in. Who are you?
Do you remember the touch of the wind?
Do you remember the taste of the rain?
The first person who heard the finished song was a woman who lives halfway around the world, one of my two true loves. Our minds and tongues do not even speak the same language, but our hearts and spirits have known each other for hundreds of years… and this poetry speaks the language of lovers. Soon, she will fly to me in Austin… a reunion that breaks my entire being apart at the very thought of it. When we wake up in the next life, we’re hoping that they’ve completed a working teleporter. The world has been changing incredibly quickly over the past few hundred years. It’s hard to find and keep track of those souls that are tied to your heart from one life to the next.
Despite the fact that I am a starving artist, and that I skip eating food in order to afford cigarettes, this is a pretty fucking awesome life. I started off 2011 with my mashup “Teardrop on Roads” [SoundCloud] at #8 in the world on Hype Machine’s Twitter Charts. In May, out of 891 remixes, I placed #11 in the world in Disney’s “Tron: Legacy” remix contest… and had never dreamed that I’d be remixing Daft Punk. I worked with my brother Zero to complete a very, very fun EP in January, and I’m finishing work on a full-length LP for July… with the opening track being used to create the song for Omar’s poetry. I am also (somewhat) secretly working on an LP of mashups, merging trip-hop with dubstep, for this coming August. I’m fucking excited as all hell about this LP, as it’s been in the works for eight years already and it’s seen many, many evolutions. It will open hearts. It’ll fucking break ‘em open and make ‘em feel. I know this, because I’ve seen it happen before, and I can’t fucking wait. I love messing with the world… and I hate this sterile, fake-bottled world of feelings where everything is a “tease” of the real thing… but never the reality. I’m a child of the desert… dust is in my skin and I love to bleed and burn with people… and I fucking love invading the sterile world of hairless monkeys and reminding them that they are still only animals.
Yes, I’m always broke. Yes, my computer literally has pieces falling off of it and it is constantly suffering hardware errors. Yes, I can’t even afford to replace my clothes or buy a camera or afford basic survival needs. But I am not dying, and I live off of my music and work from my patio and from coffee shops. I have many women who love me and accept my frakking crazy criminal ass. My mind drifts to the true love that I can not reach. We see each other very rarely, as her husband keeps us separate, and we will not be together completely until 2023. But no one can change that. And no one can stop our reunion.
In nine months, I will hitchhike out of Austin, Texas… and I will go home again. The road is my home, the horizon is my keeper… the wind is my lover. I have been homeless and under a roof for four years. A roof is a home to most people. To me, it is a cage. My spirit slowly dies when it can not follow the wind. But I made a handful of promises… and I will keep them. I raised a memorial for the fallen Mushuto, a fellow hobo and criminal, who taught me more about music than any school could ever teach me. When I finish writing my book on traveling, my last promise will be complete… and I will go home again. One day, yes, the road will kill me… but I will die having lived life to the fullest, and without regrets, and I will die living as I love to live.
One thing that really sucks about always being broke, is that I need to get my ass fixed. One mistake that Jack Kerouac made that I’ll not be repeating is leaving fatherless children scattered across multiple countries. I have no children of my own, and I plan on keeping it this way… no matter how much I love children. It’s a thorn in my side, because I’m addicted to women and “luck” will only get me so far… and so I fear it, because I can’t afford to fucking get the fear cut out of my body. India’s working on a much cheaper injection method, but it’s… whatever… fuck the genome. Memetics has already replaced genetics… and most of the world doesn’t even realize it yet.
I can almost hear my friend laughing at me. She took her own life on my official unbirthday in 2010. When no one would listen to her spirit, she came to me. It angers me that no one else would listen to her, but I love having her with me. This is the first time I’ve had a woman’s energy tied in with mine, and her emotions drive me crazy every once in a while. Fucking… men have no idea how many emotions and to what capacity a woman FUCKING FEELS!!!! Really FEELS! Despite the issues we have with communication, I know she has something she needs me to do for her in San Francisco. She’s patient enough to wait until I get there in 2012. I still have no idea what she needs me to do, but I remember her last words… and her wish of love for all aching hearts in the world. I love her. If I can help her say her goodbyes, then I’ll give her everything I’ve got.
Nine months. A lot can happen in nine months. When I finish my EP for next January, I will be free to leave then if I so desire. Before then, I have many goodbyes to say here in Austin. But I can hear the ocean calling to me. The wind is begging me to return… missing me… needing me.
Yes, love… I am coming. Wait for me.
I’m coming home.