It was written mostly from August to October 2007, while tearing ass all up and down the East Coast of Awesomerica. It is the fictional truth about some life I've lived.
It's raw, it's good, and I am going to give it away for free like a mixtape...
Do you know who put the moon and the stars up there?
Well how did that come about?
I took one of your ladders and put it in the ocean. I climbed to the top with my paintbrush and some paint and I painted the whole sky black. Then I hung the moon and the stars up there for you.
I was three years old when I hung the moon and stars for my father. We were outside our home on Big Pine Key, me in his arms and us looking up at the eternal compass of the Milky Way.
He held me upright as we gazed at the stars gazing back from billions of years ago. If anything ever should have belonged to a man, this Big Pine Key sky should have been my father’s. So it was.
This story is about a boy who climbed a mountain. Not just any mountain mind you, he climbed Blood Mountain. The fourth highest peak in Georgia where the Cherokee and the Creek fought on Slaughter Ridge. That bloody history a testament to all of the South, like a harmonica blowing sad as though it knows it's been defeated.
This tale requires imagination to understand how people felt about certain trespasses, including the narrator. The reader can find as much in the things left unsaid as what is recorded.
This boy's name was... aw hell.. I'm having a Sam Elliott moment. Well his name ain't that important, the importance lies in knowing from whence he came. This was a bit peculiar itself because he was delivered by his father in his parent's home on Summerland Key and raised in North Florida. Nonetheless, he soaked up the horrors of Tate's Hell and the moccasins of the Chipola River; he knew that ghosts don't float around your house, they wait to whisper in your ear at night.
He began talking when he was a little boy, before being taken away from that
island and put inland with a fellow Conch refugee. Over the course of the story he travels every which way except down. Many times over, making his way to the ends of manic American depression and conversely, into the midst of its rhapsodic dreams.
So go to where you can hear 'Masters of War' through an open window just driftin' from down the street where there's a pretty stranger that you’re not gonna meet. There are limos riding around with windows tinted, wishin’ ta hell I'd run into Bob Dylan. Instead I saw chain smoking Keifer Sutherland puffing on a ciggie with a leggie blond walking beside him having her pants charmed off.
All balances are measured on the scale of eternity. Do not weigh yourself with that which isn't yours and do not worry about sinking or swimming, just accept exceptions.