It is my three-year near-death birthday. Three years since enlightenment. My enlightenment included little more than an awareness that haircuts are unnecessary, and therefore this three years has only yielded two haircuts.
The first signified the start of my second life, done hours after my near-death, done with vegetable scissors. We buried the hair in the garden.
The second was done inside of Primetime Bar directly after a Habs third-round loss. The hair was buried in post-lost beers.
Maybe I will wait until another significant life moment to rid myself of this ponytail mess. Maybe my graduation from a prestigious university, the birth of my first child, or legitimately publishing something deemed acceptable. But more likely, it will be here to stay until I get run over by a train riding my bicycle and paramedics cut it off in order to sew my face back on.
I sleep best with the rain upon this shed
Still counting miles but I’m not sure how many good ones I’ve got left
In some ways I know that I should settle down
But it ain’t in me right now
So I’ll keep it slow
And keep looking all around.
A mind don’t turn
With feet nailed to the floor
Keep a pounding heart full of love for all
Turn no one away but keep close what’s yours.
Man, life ain’t half bad here, but it sure as hell ain’t ideal.
Can’t sort what’s been gained, to what’s been stole
And how hours can add up to all these years.
Morning’s best when health’s leaning on my side,
Have some coffee, get on a walk for some air
Just to clear my mind
Come afternoon, although I’m tired and drained,
I get my work done without a sound and wonder if it’s even worth the pain
By nightfall when I’m alone and can’t hardly move,
I can’t call it common sense, but I fight to not drink, I fight to play my next move
I shouldn’t be this tired yet, I shouldn’t put so much into not knowing
If I should’ve stayed or gone
Or who I could’ve let down
Or what I did right
Or what I did wrong
Carry me on, let me get some rest
I know I said that I’d be alright when you left.
But carry me on, let me get some help.
It’s hard to admit now, but I can’t do this by myself.
–Tim Barry, Shed Song, 40 Miler
Balls of Rice 