so empty ... so estranged ...

First, Listen to Ray LaMontagne's "Empty".



This song moves me, and his story is fascinating. Ray was working at a shoe factory in Maine when one morning at 4 am his alarm clock played Stephen Stills' "Treetop Flyer". Something in him woke, and he decided to become a musician.

It's in every one of us, and reminds me of a Henry Miller quote (also written in an old blog post of mine): "Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of the creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there."

Ray discovered it suddenly in his late twenties, one day before getting out of bed.

It also reminds me of countless too-early mornings working jobs that are an even trade of weeks and months for rent and food. When work is Work, days are long-distance races; noon is a checkpoint, afternoons are willpower, and evenings are for hanging on. But mornings .... mornings are clear and quiet. Those, I remember.

The memories are tactile - of coffee in styrofoam with powdered creamer on a workbench while dawn is still sorting itself out. They're the first hard start of the diesel, or wiping chips off an oiled lathe and fastening the first tool while the subtle scent of mineral spirits flavors the still air and your head hangs meditative in a distant relative of sleep before the rest of the world catches up and spins with you.

It's no wonder that, in these moments, people like Ray find themselves.