"The past is never the past. It is always the present. And you better reckon with it in your life and your daily experiences, or it will get you really bad. It will come and it will devour you. It will remove you from the present. It will steal your future. Your past is your past. You carry it with you always. These are your sins. You better learn how to live with them, and learn the story they’re telling you. Because they’re whispering your future in your ear, and if you don’t listen, you will be contaminated by the sins of your past."
Bruce Springsteen – ( from a January 2009 interview)

Bob Dylan’s Chimes of Freedom is one of greatest and most inspiring songs ever written. The imagery of its poetry takes us into one of the most visual and sensual experieces commited to rhyme. This is the one song in which Dylan, the master of ambiguity, says exactly what he thinks about politics, war, poverty, injustice, and hope. It is a song for all times.

Bob Dylan wrote this song in 1964 at the age of 23. It appears on his album Another Side of Bob Dylan.

The definitive version was recorded live by Bruce Springsteen in 1988, and gives the song the energy it needs to give full power to its words and images.

                            Chimes of Freedom

Far between sundown's finish an' midnight's broken toll
We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing
Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
An' for each an' ev'ry underdog soldier in the night
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

In the city's melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched
With faces hidden as the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin' rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning
Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail
The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder
That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder
Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
An' the poet an the painter far behind his rightful time
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

In the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales
For the disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken-for granted situations
Tolling for the deaf an' blind, tolling for the mute
For the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chased an' cheated by pursuit
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Even though a clouds's white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An' the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An' for each unharmfull, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Starry-eyed an' laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an' we watched with one last look
Spellbound an' swallowed 'til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an' worse
An' for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

by Bob Dylan

Both Bruce Springsteen’s and Bob Dylan’s music can be purchased at iTunes, Rhapsody, and Amazon.

Bob Dylan's website is bobdylan.com
Bruce Springsteen's website is brucespringsteen.net

The Awakening and The Path, by Robert Taylor

by Kathryn Mann

In his incredible work of art, "The Awakening and The Path," Robert Taylor, a Native American painter, captures on canvas the journey of life. The scene depicts the full span of a life rather than a particular moment or point in time (note the overturned hourglass on the right, indicating the suspension of time). The protagonist, who is on the path of life, gazes forward stoically, not knowing what lies ahead of him. He carries with him various tools that may help him overcome obstacles (the doctor's bag and other instruments).

Butterflies throughout the scene dazzle us with their marvelous display of fragile beauty. The monarch butterfly is a symbol of transformation. It goes through three distinct stages in its life, caterpillar, pupae, and ultimately the beautiful winged creature depicted in this painting. The miraculous physical changes undergone in the life of a monarch remind us that we can make radical changes within ourselves, such as adopting a new habit that helps us become a better or healthier person.

The Gila monster glaring menacingly from the right is the danger we may encounter along the way. The kingfisher that stands guard against him represents our teachers, guides, and supportive spirits who protect us from harm. None of us knows when the Gila monster may try to hurt us. Some challenges come early in life, some late, and each with varying degrees of support from others. However, if we retain the strength and integrity of the man depicted in this painting, we can continue to grow and emerge from each transformative experience a little wiser and better prepared for the next stage of our journey.

In these times of economic turmoil and personal uncertainty, it is particularly important to take a bird's eye view our life as a whole, evaluating what is important and focusing on that which is within our control. If we approach this journey with a sense of wonder and adventure, and embrace the challenges we face with determination, we will continue to learn and grow, moving, step by step, a little closer to our personal potential, much like a monarch butterfly that reaches its full potential of perfection and beauty.

I’ve been in the business side of the music industry for almost forty years, and have received thousands of demo recordings by aspiring artists. Only a handful, had any merit, and all but one of those acts went on to have successful careers. The following is a brilliant essay by the leader of the one group I was sure was destined for stardom that did not make it (yet). It is about the song that first drew my attention to them, and the peculiarities of being an especially creative artist in the music business.

Charly Mann

Through the wonders of the Internet, Charly found me recently to tell me one his favorite songs was "World Eat Dog," a song I hastily wrote for a film never released that my band at the time, 4 Who Dared threw together in a local studio. As with any artist, songwriters are often confused at how their audience perceives their work. This song is particularly curious to me, as I consider it to be as disposable as it is unmemorable to me. It was one of the few pieces I've ever written with a specific and externally defined purpose in mind. In this case, the song was part of a two-song submission for the soundtrack of a movie about ambition and insecurity in the context of Hollywood. Although the filmmakers loved it and its accompanying submission "California," the film, "Pitch," not surprisingly met the fate of many films by aspiring filmmakers - no doubt sitting in someone's attic as a sad testimony to the very subject matter it sought to depict.

The song reflected a brief fascination with 12/8 time signatures. In layman's terms, that a song with 4 major beats per measure, each of which is subdivided into three minor beats. Every other chord in the verses is "pushed," meaning they tend to anticipate the beat by a half count, giving the song a sense of impending urgency. The chorus was intended to offer a light relief to the relentless motion of the verses. It's sung in a falsetto, to further distance its mood from the verses, then the chorus transitions back into the verse groove with a keyboard line that devolves into triplets.

The lyrics (and song title, for that matter) are obviously constructed on turning common hackneyed phrases of hope and encouragement inside out. This was an attempt to show the breakdown of conventional wisdom as it can apply to a ruthless world of cutthroat ambition and backstabbing. The chorus lyrics continue this theme, and then speak of the puppet masters who make decisions.

The song was recorded in a kind of rambling fashion, alternating verses and choruses ad nauseum, then spliced together into a coherent form. The band wasn't sure what was going on with the song until the final product was displayed. It was recorded a year or two after the bulk of the "Kids With Dynamite" album was tracked, so it has a different vibe from the rest of the album which has, for lack of a better term, an angry optimism.

The album was released on a private label which was utterly novice to the intricacies of distribution and promotion, as well as unable to understand the market niche of the band (post-new wave smart-ass power pop?). We had envisioned the song "Urine Trouble," a satirical rant on the politics of drug testing, to be the novelty hit of the album, given the right juice and a bit of good luck, but the juice was as wrong as the luck was bad. The song "Don't Give Up," featured a theme of encouragement to the gay community, ravaged in the late 80s by the scourge of AIDS. Thanks to our North Carolina roots, this song caught the notice of several fundamentalist church groups who heard it on the radio and sought to condemn the devil worshippers who would dare wish something other than an early and painful death to homosexuals. We tried hard to further foment this sentiment by sending provocative letters to the churches and inviting them to our shows, thus creating a publicity firestorm (we hoped) which we could leverage, but sadly these churches' outrage was not matched by a vigorous work ethic, so they moved on to their next act of spineless condemnation rather than engage in a fruitless (for them) campaign to retain 19th century prejudices.

I'm glad the song caught Charly's attention, but I admit I am dumbfounded as why my own assessment of songs is often completely divorced from the public's. I continue to write, record and perform songs in my private studio overlooking the Eno River in North Carolina. I have long since given up any adolescent dreams of making music the centerpiece of my life. Instead I have found the rewards of family and public sector technology work far exceed the illusory rewards of success in the world's arguably most dysfunctional industry - music. Free to pursue any lyrical content regardless of its market merit, I freely write songs like "My Pet Tapeworm," "The Asshole Trap" and "Crank Up the Booty Machine" for the amusement of any like-minded nutcases and myself.

I guess that's why I'm not Burt Bacharach!

-Todd Jones
Lives in his dream house in tick-infested woods overlooking a river
http://www.toddejones.com/jukebox.html

by Charly Mann

Can we really define good and evil? These are terms that originate in our morality, philosophies, and religions, yet few people have defined precisely what either is. During the last few years, I have observed five of my friends (three religious and two atheists) use the term "evil" to describe someone they knew.

I believe evil is an unnecessary act that causes harm to another for one's own enjoyment or benefit. The defining characteristic of an act of evil is a lack of empathy. The root cause of evil is selfishness, and is something we should all guard against. In addition, to do evil, one has to rationally ignore their own conscience.

For example, I recently sold a DVD on EBay that is not compatible with most US DVD players. I noted this in my ad, but felt it might be overlooked, and purchased by someone who could not use it. When it sold to someone in Seattle I spent $9.00 shipping it to them, and paid EBay a $5.00 sales commission. I was aware that this person might contact me and want their money back because it was not what they wanted. A small part of me was prepared to say, "look I said clearly in the AD that this was not compatible with most American DVD players, and you bought it, and I'm already out $14.00 shipping and fees, so it is yours." But my conscience was clear that this was another human being, and I could not take advantage of their mistake, so I would definitely give them a refund. To do otherwise would be evil, because I would not be acting empathetically, but selfishly.

Empathy at Work

When I was 20, I encountered another example of evil. I was working in a record store in North Carolina. One evening, shortly before closing, a very beautiful, but extremely sad and distraught young woman came into the store. She tearfully explained that she had recently left an abusive relationship, had little money, and no friends or family close by. After closing, one my co-workers invited her to stay at his house until she could straighten herself out. That evening, he took the girl, me, and another male employee over to his home. When we got there he and the other male employee had a couple of beers. Then he offered to show the girl, who sat nervously and distraught beside me, where she could sleep. He took her into his bedroom, and emerged about ten minutes later saying he had had sex with her, and invited the other male to do the same, which he eagerly did. I was bewildered and saddened at what was going on, and when the other male came out, he told me it was my turn. I was appalled and declined. I left soon after this. I cannot imagine the additional trauma that having sex with these two men had on this poor soul. I suspect that she acquiesced because she was frightened and depressed. I never heard about the girl again, but as a coda to the story, several days later I had to take my two "friends" to the hospital to be treated for venereal disease.

Empathy is the cornerstone of civilized society. It is reiterated in the golden rules which say, "do for others what you would wish them to do to you," and "love thy neighbor as thyself." To be a part of a family or community requires one to care about the feelings and dignity of others. While I may like to play music louder than my daughter enjoys, I must recognize that her feelings are as important as mine, and I can either listen to music at a lower volume or use headphones. Anything that harms or hurts another soul, done consciously and unnecessarily, is selfish and evil.

Evil actions eventually do more harm to the perpetrator than to the victim. The laws of the Universe, or karma, always win out. I had a dream some years ago about how God might punish someone for evil. In my dream, God said all evil souls would have to spend 10,000 years in a conscious but motionless state where they would experience a dynamic and exciting world full of wonderful people and things but could not speak or physically interact with any part of it. I often think of this dream when I contemplate any selfish or evil action.

by Charly Mann

One's progress in life is perhaps best measured by the level of tranquility one attains. Tranquility is an inner calmness coupled with the absence of anxiety or agitation. The more tranquil you are, the more successful you will be as person, and the greater influence for good you can have on others. As you become more serene you will also become aware that there is much more to life than material comforts and physical pleasure.

People who have a tendency for calmness are 50% less likely to develop dementia than people who are high strung or prone to stress. This is because the ability to handle the rigors of life without significant anxiety protects the area of the brain called the hippocampus where dementia originates.

There are many paths for developing inner peace, but they all start with having good character. Good character rests on little more than being ethical and having a clear conscience. Selfishness is the main enemy of good character. The more we want for ourselves the less time we have for the solitude and reflection we need to scrutinize our thoughts and motivations.

Becoming more laid back is another great way to enhance your peace of mind. Too often we focus on things that are not important, or which we cannot do anything about. For example, most of us spend far too much time trying to second-guess the motives of people involved in our lives. One should also refrain from trying to interfere with how someone else lives their life. Other people do not always conform to our standards, but it is not our job to reform them. Once a person becomes an adult, the only time to offer advice is when it is requested. No two human beings are the same, and each has a unique way of living their life. Anyway, I happen to believe that God is far more capable than me at correcting someone else's behavior.

If you want to attain tranquility you need to be adaptable. Much of life is challenging and unfamiliar. Being congenial to whatever life has in store will enable you to harmoniously adapt and endure the obstacles along the way. At the same time, it is important that you avoid taking on more tasks and responsibilities than you are capable of doing well. Know your limitations.

Cultivating patience instills not only peace of mind, but a focus on achieving the kinds of goals in life that are most worthwhile and provide our greatest sense of fulfillment. Things like being a great parent, learning a foreign language, or becoming an expert on a subject, take years or decades to master.

Finally, I find there are two things in my own life that always make me content. The first is spending quality time with a close friend, and the second is reading a good book.

by Charly Mann

The Cremation Sam McGee is a great poem about loyalty and friendship that ends on a humorous note, written by Robert Service in 1907. It is set in the Yukon Territory of Alaska during the Alaskan gold rush. It has been popular for over a hundred years, and helped make its author wealthy and famous. Kirt Kempter put the poem to music in the early 1990's, creating the definitive rendition of this epic.

There really was a man named Sam McGee whom Service knew, but he was never cremated and was not from Tennessee. He died in 1940 at the age 73.

Listen to the song and read along with the lyrics. You will note how often the term "Strange Things" is used in the song. Kirt is a magnificent composer and lyricist, and his greatest composition, by coincidence, is entitled Strange Things, which you can also listen to here.

Mr. Kempter is also a PhD geologist, a highly regarded nature photographer, tour guide for the Smithsonian, and gourmet cook. Check out his tour schedule at: http://www.smithsonianjourneys.org/study_leaders/kirtkempter/

The Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'Round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
That he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
Won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
But God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
Because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
While the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
And I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
And I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
Such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.