PHOENIX TRACKS
This project page is for collection of original music created during the largest recovery phase of life so far–rebuilding my homestead.
~ The homestead was destroyed in May 2022 by the United States Forest Service. The culprits have been reassigned and moved. ~
Approaching two years homeless, hapless victims of the fire are still fighting tooth and nail for FEMA to make them whole again.
These tunes and songs will eventually become soundtracks for vlogs detailing the phases and stages of this project as it progresses.
TRACK 1: Fluehornet Serenade
This tune was inspired by a hornet building a nest in the fireplace last fall before the polar vortex descended over the land. The first 9.5 seconds of the track are just the hornet playing solo. No pitch adjustments whatsoever were applied to any of the recorded hornet sounds. Then starting with simple kick bass drum and a single shaker, musical elements are progressively wrapped around the serenade.
I'm dedicating this tune to Bryan, Jo Jo and Aaron who collaborated to add the final touch of essential gear to the recovery vehicle I've been putting together since mid September 2023. They worked hard to make it happen in a day while I cooled my heels in the waiting area of their brand-spanking-new, thirty-thousand someodd square feet of all climate-controlled workspace. It's a fantastic place to behold and a wholly pleasant place to compose a new piece of music. So that's what I did, and I'm not entirely certain the finished piece could have come out any better than it did if I had created it anywhere else, except maybe at my own home/studio, if I still had one.
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Phoenix Tracks — Parcel Candidate One
So, yeah. Almost two years ago my own government burned me out of house and homestead.
Totally and unquestionably.
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The house, everything inside and around the house, an entire old-growth, unspoiled forestland spanning hundreds of thousands of acres surrounding the homestead and everything living within that wilderness that could not escape the USFS-ignited inferno was all turned to ash, twisted steel, shattered and melted glass, heat-cracked concrete, and scorched bone and teeth (formerly wildlife–mostly babies unable to flee). And now who knows how much toxicity released from incinerated sundry chemical-laden items of modern manufacture (formerly vehicles, computers, studio equipment, power tools, appliances, etc.) subjected to tons of rain and snow since the fire died out is all now slowly but surely percolating into the earth and contaminating groundwater. The destruction continues unabated.
And I’m not the only one attacked by grossly incompetent, obscenely (if not criminally) negligent GS pay scale nincompoops who never should have been allowed to play with fire. Hundreds of others along the front range of the Sangre de Cristos were burned out, too. Their homesteads also completely decimated in the wholly-preventable conflagration planned and executed by the one-and-only United States Forest Service, now referred to as the Hermit's Peak/Calf Canyon Fire.
Granted, those GS pay scale nincompoops responsible for such massive destruction were some of the lowest paid in the nation, but that does not excuse their actions considering how severely irresponsible and improper those actions were. By any rational measure, they are nothing more than lame-ass arsonists which have since been moved and reassigned to ply their malpractice elsewhere in the nation with only their consciences guiding them onward through life. Some may feel regret, even remorse, and some may not, but none are suffering as horribly as their victims are. And even though nearly four billion dollars have been allocated to make victims whole again through the Hermit’s Peak Fire Assistance Act signed into law by President Biden almost a year and a half ago, FEMA is treating some, if not all of us like conniving, scheming malcontents undeserving of receiving compensation which makes us whole again via a claims process their own (former) program director so enthusiastically mislabeled “simple, fast, and fair”.
Those lousy USFS employees sucker punched us to the ground, leaving us gasping, homeless and increasingly distressed at every level imaginable. Now FEMA is ruthlessly kicking us all while we’re down and vulnerable.
At times it feels like it would have been better to have stayed and perished in the fire trying to defend my homestead than to have evacuated to live through its unavoidable aftermath. But I was too pissed off to do that. Way too pissed off.
So I started my own process. A complex, slow, fantastic process of recovery. A process requiring imagination, ingenuity and persistence—both personal and of others met and involved along the way—which has finally ignited this Phoenix Tracks Project.
And today it launches with day one of its primary subprocess: evaluating property parcels to find the ideal one to rebuild the homestead on.
Keep in mind that to date, FEMA has contributed absolutely nothing to enable or initiate this project. No funds. No useful guidance. Nothing. On the contrary, FEMA has and continues to ruthlessly inflict damage to victims’ lives by stalling incessantly and offering offensively insulting compensation determinations, thus dragging our agony out as effectively as any medieval torture master would.
The only people applying effective action to enable and increase chance of success of this project are all non-government, free-market, forward-thinking, innovative entrepreneurs and business operators. No charity organizations, faith-based or otherwise, have been or ever will be involved in the project. And luck (which I do not believe in) played no part, either.
Finding these unwitting positive-force-giving participants wasn’t all that easy, but through fortunate timing and by maintaining an open mind while effectively leveraging modern communications (mostly the World Wide Web), highly-skilled movers and makers were discovered plying their trades of progress delivering excellent products and services which have all helped tremendously.
Their contributions will all be woven into this account of the Phoenix Tracks Project as expression of respect and gratitude, and also so I can remember years from now. They are all positive forces I will be focusing on from here on out now that I’ve thoroughly aired out my grievances against the despicable villains who forced me into this situation. Demons which deserve no more attention here. May they all rot in their own putridity.
The first positive force givers are my parents. They began teaching me at age six how to swim/dive/hike/climb/camp/fish/cave/cookout and appreciate nature in general. Without that influence, none of this stuff I’m doing now would have ever occurred to me as a possible solution to my predicament. Other early-age positive forces were my maternal grandparents who triggered an interest in music making by putting guitars ordered out of the Sears & Roebuck Wish Book under the tree when I was seven. My father reinforced that by bringing home more musical instruments and stoically enduring the noise of my wild explorations on them. Never achieving a level of great accomplishment playing any of them hasn’t mattered. Making my own kind of music has served as life-long healing tonic—calming nerves, distracting attention from current-events crapola, and occasionally stirring glimmers of wonder and delight. Better effect than weed or booze, although I have enjoyed those, in moderation, too, since transitioning into adulthood.
Most recently, positive forces driving me onto this project trajectory begin with Alphabet Inc., then Mario, Janine and the rest of the crew at AT Overland in Prescott, Arizon. Growing sick and tired of being homeless for more than a year, I started seeking ways to begin rebuilding the homestead as soon as possible. I figured I needed a camper of some sort to live in while searching for a new parcel of property and then during homestead version 2 construction on it. While binge-watching truck camper review videos revealing all of the latest offerings, the YouTube algorithm unexpectedly guided me to one of Mario showing the Aterra Topper. It perfectly suited my needs without violating constraints (durability, color, size and total weight). Keeping an open mind I contacted my insurance provider to find out if temporary housing coverage could be used to purchase one of them. They assured me it indeed could be. So I ordered one, picked it up a few weeks later and spent the next four months outfitting it for use.
A final bit of gear installation happened late last month when Bryan, Jo Jo and Aaron collaborated to fit the truck with an airlift kit. A few weeks testing that exposed no faults or leaks. By early yesterday evening the rig was parked and leveled on the first candidate parcel—a nicely wooded lowland acreage with seasonal creek bisecting the contiguous parcel along its entire length and plenty of homesteading potential.
I would prefer something at a much higher altitude abutting public wilderness with numerous other outdoor recreation areas within a few minutes or a few hours driving distance. Still, for a first candidate, this parcel is pretty nice. And the USFS continues lurking in the higher, wilder places with full intent to burn again.
The owner of this parcel knows I'm still waiting for FEMA to get up off its ass and deliver fair compensation for my claim of indisputable losses. But that seems only to have instilled reassurance that I am serious about rebuilding my homestead and my life. That attitude makes me grateful that there are indeed still good people out here, ready and willing to be positive force givers.
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TRACK 2: Flame-N-Funk
FEMA continues stalling and breaking its own IFR (what they are calling the assistance act rule enacted into law). The rat lovers are apparently incapable of performing their duties to least amount of IFR compliance, much less to any level demonstrating empathy for victims, or even to a degree of basic competence. So the state of funk the arsonists' flames have scorched me into and that FEMA seems bound and determined to ruthlessly prolong and intensify only swells. To quell their cruel burn, another tune emerges.
TRACK 3: Burn & Learn
Now 680 days homeless from the Hermit's Peak/Calf Canyon Fire and FEMA still refuses to deliver compensations a month past due to me. FEMA is behaving like a criminally-dysfunctional government agency if there ever was one, and there have been plenty of those.
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It still burns but best to learn from it all than simply stew in my discontent. Becoming consumed by one's enemies is never a good way to live. So Parcel Candidate One has been fully evaluated and preliminary steps to purchase it are underway. It has good ground water and everything else one could want in a homestead. FEMA needs to pony up on what it has promised to do or publicly declare its criminality. In the meantime, learning from the burn is never easy but it can be a lot of fun, just the same. A new tune for this fun phase of life.
TRACK 4: Debris Flo Funk
FEMA laid another lousy load of bureaucratic red tape on me yesterday, demanding I repeat for the umpteenth time the particulars of my claim for compensations from the fire. After a little thought I decided to write to the state rep in Congress and request a congressional investigation into FEMA-HPFAA Claims Office operations and policies for instances of abuse and corruption. No word back from congress, so far, but two hours after submitting the request for congressional investigation a FEMA bigwig wants to talk with me about it.
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I'm having difficulty curbing my skepticism anything will change anytime soon, but we'll see. In the meantime, another tune has been composed while enjoying a fine spring day in the camper rig, somehow beginning to dig this nomadic lifestyle searching for a new place to rebuild the homestead.
TRACK 5: Mindgamez
FEMA finally delivered a small compensation partial payment. It's about 1/20th the amount I need to fully recover, but it is a minuscule bit of progress in this battle. The two-year time limit to sue the U.S. Government for damages from my losses to the fire is rapidly approaching. I'm convinced this is why FEMA has been dragging its ass all along, stalling to eliminate as many victims as possible from ever being able to sue the government that burned them out of house and homestead–an obscenely sneaky, underhanded mind-gaming tactic I am increasingly unsurprised my own government would try to pull.
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Shaking my head in disgust at such things, a memory of a moment in time shortly after I began living full-time on the homestead popped into mind. My great niece and great nephew making bubbles at the new homestead. Their smiles and giggles are not reflected in this new tune. Only the dark intent of the U.S. Government's dastardly deeds of destruction and dysfunction weave through its sonics.
TRACK 6: Rage The FEMA
I was going to title the next tune in this project "Finding Solace" to celebrate arrival of a good portion of it from Ireland yesterday. But FEMA clowns tried to yank my chain at the end of last week and solace just wasn't in the chemistry of the weekend. Two FEMA bureaucrats teamed up to try to convince me my fight for compensation to cover loss of 25 acres of pristine timberland was a futile one. A pair of slimy losers. No matter. I caught them redhanded committing fraud.
TRACK 7: The Only Yes
Stewing over the ridiculously time-wasteful conference call with FEMA, I was reminded of the only moment I heard them utter the word "Yes", prompting creation of this tune. This nation is in sad state when it won't even help those whose homes they destroyed recover from their unprovoked attack.
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Can't let the sorry bastards defeat me, though, so onward with the Phoenix Tracks Project. Return to parcel candidate number one for last-pass inspection marked first time I weathered a severe storm in the camper rig there. It began with light, cool breeze and distant thunder. Sound of first rainfall on the ceramic-coated composite shell of the camper was soothing, making me very glad I didn't choose to go with an aluminum camper shell instead. That's like being in a bell.
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​It was a short but intense thunderstorm with lots of lightning, including a strike close enough to the campsite to knock out the video recorder with an EMP. Sudden air expansion from the strike made the camper rock a bit, too. Very exciting stuff.
TRACK 8: Solace
Haven't finished this track, yet. Haven't even started it, really. It will be the first composition on the lap steel recently arrived from Ireland.
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In the meantime, the stream on Parcel Candidate One started flowing yesterday after moderate rains I didn't think were enough to get it flowing. It's providing inspiration for the new tune, and pure, clear solace.
A terrapin at waters edge is a good sign. This may be the best place to rebuild the homestead.
This spot is at the end of a path which begins in a shady spot a few thousand feet to the west.
And about five-hundred feet west of that is a grapevine tangle of considerable age and size.
Along the path through the grapevines are signs of life familiar to me but still new.
I've seen fungus growing from live wood before, but never from a living grape vine.
TRACK 9: Shatterings
Watched an orb weaver build its web from start to finish then accidentally walked right through it about an hour later, totally shattering the spider's work. Fortunately the spider wasn't harmed and went right to work rebuilding. I wanted to help it but had no way to do so except to stay the hell out of its way.
This is what I'm being forced to do now after the USFS shattered my homestead and FEMA continues stalling to complete processing of my claim. They are obviously incapable of providing any help either, choosing to ignore me and stay out of sight while they continue their incessant torture treatment–pretending to be so busy doing nothing.
TRACK 10: Trancelot du Feu
Forced into trancelike state of existence by the USFS two years and four months ago and still waiting for the U.S. Government to keep its promise to make me whole again, my current state of being is best described as "of the Fire". Scanning the surrounding slopes of dead, blackened tree corpses a full 360º brings nothing but deep, dark depression.
TRACK 11: Transitionox
Transitioning from government-induced nightmare to progress-focused normality begins. Still, three years burned irks and there are still a lot of loose ends to wrap up. Babies baking in a sac.
TRACK 12: Still Stander
Stood still mid December last year during the Lunar Standstill.
Owls hooted in the south woods. Coyotes yipped to the north. This after a burst of activity by FEMA which resulted in a bit more progress but has still not reached conclusion. The agency is now too in stand still. Who knows when it will move its massive bureaucratic ass again to finish the job at hand. Judge James Browning has ruled FEMA must–by law–compensate victims for non-economic damages.
“The Court sees no sound reason to remand the Plaintiffs’ claims to FEMA for further determination after concluding that the Hermit’s Peak Act allows recovery of noneconomic damages, and that FEMA’s Hermit’s Peak Regulation precluding recovery of noneconomic damages is unlawful.”
FEMA is contemplating appeal of that federal district court decision rather than acquiescing and doing the right thing to make us all whole again. Still more stalling for no good reason.
Their cruelty is boundless.
TRACK 13: Contocracy
With the Con In Chief (formerly merely a con artist, now a full-blown convict) back in power, chaotic shit stirring is rule of the day for at least another four years. Never the praying type, I can only do as all prey do when dangerous predators are prowling: prepare and stay alert to survive as best I can, proceeding cautiously and keeping an eye peeled for deadly threats lurking in darkened peripheries along the way.
TRACK 14: Bureaucrapcy
One week ago a gaping chasm of bureaucracy opened before me when FEMA deposited a message in my case file declaring that my submittal of a Notice Of Appeal was done so in an "untimely" manner and thus my appeal was automatically denied. It specified the associated Letter Of Determination related to my NOA submittal and its date of delivery to me.
Looking at the date I did not recall receiving any FEMA communications containing any LOD on that day so I double and triple checked to make certain of it. Sure enough, nothing on file in the fat FEMA case file I have been compiling for almost three years now. The letter also specified that I had seven days to respond to this NOA denial or I would forfeit all rights to carry on with the appeal forever and ever and ever.
What a load of bureaucrapcy. Considering how complex and protracted FEMA's mishandling of this now infamous claims process has been to date, it's outrageous that they deny any victim of anything with such nonchalance. And such attempts at deception as this one obviously was have only one effect on me: enragement.
So began a week-long warpath action to bring this sneaky little trick out into the open where I could shake it like my pet border collie shakes a rag toy when she gets her teeth into one. And as this warpath action began and progressed, a new tune emerged.
(No photo or image for this one. Use your imagination as the tune plays)
To help the imagination a bit, each section of the tune is described here with its piece of the sound plot and what was going on when it was recorded.
The first section of the tune represents opening and first reading of the letter of "untimely" response on day zero:
The next section plays out from there to -04:09, representing incredulity and mounting rage that FEMA would even deign to try pulling such a sneaky, underhanded action against me:
Then comes the section where I start figuring out how to counter the bureaucrapcy in a creatively effective way, ending at -03:52 representing the first of several creative communications sent to FEMA regarding the matter. It simply states the facts and demands that FEMA provide definitive proof of delivery of their missing-in-action LOD and a copy of it.
And waiting for reply from FEMA . . .
The next communication to FEMA was sent a day later and included lyrics to a song titled "Lyin' Smiles".
Lyin’ Smiles
(Sung to the tune of “Lyin’ Eyes” by The Eagles)
Sunrise over ash and broken dreams
Another letter, it just plainly screams
“Denied," they say, "No proof that you were there"
While memories of the fire hang in the air
You sift through rubble, your heart a heavy stone
Another promise broken, you're all alone
They saw the flames, they’ve heard the desperate pleas
Still FEMA stalls and balks, they just can't seem to see.
~~~
Lyin' smiles, smirking ' to your face
Tell tall tales, holdin' not a trace
Of empathy or truth within their hold
Just regulations, so rigid and so cold
Lyin' eyes, stare right through your pain
Claimin' you're a fraud, playin' cruel games
While the embers fade and the seasons turn
Your hope is burnin', lessons left unlearned.
~~~
You gather photos, charred and incomplete
A neighbor's witness, standin' in the street
The local news report, a flickering frame
The paperwork's a weapon, for shifting blame
They ask for proof, lost to inferno's wrath
The bureaucratic maze, a twisted aftermath
You try to navigate, the system's cruel design
But those FEMA staff, they're always in a bind.
~~~
Lyin' smiles, smirking ' to your face
Tell tall tales, holdin' not a trace
Of empathy or truth within their hold
Just regulations, so rigid and so cold
Lyin' eyes, stare right through your pain
Claimin' you're a fraud, playin' their cruel games
While the embers fade and the seasons turn
Your hope is burnin', lessons left unlearned.
~~~
They talk of helping out, lendin' you a hand
But their compassion's buried deep in blackened sand
Red tape and jargon, a tangled, twisted dread
While families are broken, no futures lie ahead
In ruins and ashes, memories they erase
Leavin’ you stranded in this desolate place.
~~~
Lyin' smiles, smirking ' to your face
Tell tall tales, holdin' not a trace
Of empathy or truth within their hold
Just regulations, so rigid and so cold
Lyin' eyes, stare right through your pain
Claimin' you're a fraud, playin' their cruel games
While the embers fade and the seasons turn
Your hope is burnin', lessons left unlearned.
~~~
Lyin' smiles, lyin' eyes, they'll haunt you in your dreams
Another victim lost, it always sadly seems.
Lyin' smiles, lyin' eyes, a legacy of shame
A broken promise whispered in fire's name.
Again waiting for reply from FEMA which does not come.
Getting into the warpath action, on day two I sent a communication once again demanding proof of delivery and a copy of their mysterious LOD which I never received. I also asked for an apology from FEMA when they figure out they cannot comply with these demands, carrying this tune out to -02:51.
Still no reply from FEMA.
On day three I wrote and sent a bit of prose describing what the homestead destroyed by the fire meant to me, represented in this tune's next section ending at time marker -02:20 the prose went like this:
The heavy steel frame of the house, hand-assembled and stout, rose from the thick, hand-smoothed slab carefully laid on clean earth—an unnatural extension of the Sangre de Cristo foothills. I fretted at first that it was too civilized to be there. The house shell completed weeks later, twenty-two years of felling and hauling trees, milling timbers, coaxing water from the mountain's stony heart, sunlight and wind converted into power for lights and tools; all while learning the slow, deliberate rhythm of high country seasons which steadily convinced me it wasn’t too civilized, but well constructed and frugally powered with Sun and Wind, barely causing a hum with its presence yet strong enough to withstand heavy snows and winds. Upper Morphy Canyon became my patient, loving mentor, its silence a language I learned to hear, listen intently to and ultimately understand; its harsh winters a test of resilience, springtime bringing glorious tension release, its swift summers a riot of wildflower colors and fragrances against the deep green of pine, oak, maple, willow and fir, and it’s autumns quiet, calming time for harvests of delectables and deep reflections. I became a wilderness dweller, not forcibly, but by slow, certain osmosis, my skin tanning the color of weathered bark, my hands growing calloused and strong, lungs breathing deeper and greater breaths, sense becoming attuned, and my spirit entwining with the very roots of the ancient trees I harvested for multiuse.
The canyon breathed within me. I learned to know the precise moment the first snow would dust peaks, the exact call of the raven as it wheeled above the valley, the subtle shift in the wind that foretold a coming storm. I was thrilled by sudden storms of intensities never before endured. I thrived in that thin, crisp air, my lungs expanding with every breath, my senses sharpened by the clarity of such high altitude. I was a part of the place, and the place was a part of me. My life was a tapestry woven with the threads of the mountain's seasons, and contentment swelled within every flexing fiber and pulsing neural pathway within. Deepening, abiding happiness frequently caused unexpected bursts of joyous laughter.
Then came the fire. A roaring, consuming beast started by nincompoops. The preventable catastrophe ripped through the canyon, leaving behind a blackened scar where my life, my home, my very being had been. The flames didn't just destroy the homestead; they incinerated a way of life, a connection to the earth that ran deeper than bone and marrow and thought cycles. I was forced down, driven from high altitude to lowlands where the air hangs thick and heavy, saturated with acrid stench of industry and the ceaseless drone of traffic roaring across land and sky. The cacophony of it all assaults my ears, a jarring contrast to the whispering pines and the musically bubbling streams of the high canyon. I am a displaced person, a refugee in my own land, sickened by it all.
And then, insult to injury: FEMA. Promises insistently whispered like the rustling of fallen leaves, turning to dust in the face of bureaucratic indifference. Forms filled out, applications repeatedly submitted and routinely altered to fit bureaucracy’s needs rather than mine, hope flickering and dying with passing weeks turned to months turned to years. They speak of assistance, of rebuilding, but their words are empty, echoing in the void left by the fire. Their inaction is a slow, agonizing torture, a constant reminder of what I've lost, a barrier between me and the possibility of ever returning, of ever healing to again experience contentment in high country. They hold out a twitchy hand, only to snatch it away, lying and conniving to cover their ineptitudes and resentment for victims, prolonging the agony of this exile, this forced severance from the highlands that berthed me without grudge. The USFS took my home, now FEMA is stealing my hope. I am adrift, a wilderness dweller trapped in a place I cannot belong in contentment, yearning for the silence of the high place, the clean air, the whispering pines, the life that was, and the life that might never be again.
Apparently unimpressed by my creative approaches, FEMA does not reply.
Sticking with the prose approach on day four, I wrote about FEMA's abject failure to process victims' claims in its so fervently advertised "simple, fast and fair" manner. I pulled no punches in this writing, represented musically out to -01:51 on this tune's play clock:
Ash clings to everything, gritty reminder of the inferno that devoured homes and dreams. But the fire hasn’t suppressed the irksome spirit of the victims of the Hermit's Peak and Calf Canyon fires. What the flames couldn't consume, the glacial pace of the FEMA-HPCC Claims Office seems determined to erode. Forms stack up as fortresses, regulations a raging river victims are expected to cross with broken bodies and minds. The claims process, a labyrinth designed by Kafka himself, snakes and twists, each dead end punctuated by dismissive shrugs of overpaid, undertrained bureaucrats lacking all empathy. These “officials”, nestled in their climate-controlled offices, whose inaction expresses a view of victims not as shattered families, but as annoying, pestering, bothersome paperwork. Their eyes, glazed with indifference, they see only numbers, not faces etched with worry, loss and determination.
But the spirit of the mountains runs strong and quick in the veins of these fire survivors. They were forged in the harsh beauty of the high country, where resilience is as vital as water. Their outrage, a righteous blaze hotter than any wildfire, fuels a stubborn refusal to be broken. They gather in community halls, not to mourn, but to strategize. They share stories of bureaucratic absurdities, each tale of incompetence met with knowing glances and nods. They become experts in FEMA jargon, deciphering regulations like ancient runes. They learn to navigate the lumbering, heartless system's purgatory, growing ever more wise to what is really going on.
They write letters that bleed ink and indignation. They make phone calls that echo with raw power of their collective voice. They organize, they rally, they persist. They know that their homes, their history, their very way of life hangs in the balance. And they will not, they cannot, be silenced. Their willpower, a force as undeniable as the changing seasons, is chipping away at the wall of bureaucratic arrogance and indifference. Slowly, painstakingly, they move immovable barriers. Their courage, not just in facing the fire, but in facing the system, has become a beacon. They will not be quelled. They will not be denied. They will be made whole again, not just their homes, but their very lives and souls, through conviction fueled by embers of outrage and unyielding strength of their community. FEMA cannot withstand such force of will, no matter how many bumbling, bungling ways it tries to stall and balk and connive to prolong victims’ agonies for sake of petty wins.
FEMA is F A I L
Another day waiting for a reply from FEMA passed without results.
Day five I was feeling poetic again, so I wrote a poem:
FIVE DAYS & COUNTING
Five days have passed,
the clock still ticks,
a FEMA letter,
full of tricks.
"Untimely," it declares
with haste,
my appeal denied,
a bitter taste.
Two days remain.
to make my pleas
Against sly bureaucratic,
paper freeze.
I fight the lie,
more red tape's sting,
Five days,
and still
no answering.
Then waiting yet another day for reply from FEMA and receiving nothing.
Settling in to reflect at length, I tried to gain knowledge via retrospection.
While FEMA cools its heals, apparently unconcerned about the situation.
On day six I just wrote a terse haiku expressing my ever-mounting frustrations with FEMA, taking this tune to conclusion over its remaining 22 seconds:
Red tape binds the heart,
Lost home,
a mountain of forms,
No help, just more pain.
And finally, this tune ends as quietly as the conflict does. On day seven, FEMA sent an apology letter and accepted my NOA as delivered in entirely timely fashion, as they should have done from the beginning of it all.
Loose Rock
For three years now this action of recovering from the Hermit's Peak/Calf Canyon Fire has consumed pretty much every waking moment, a lot of dreaming and nightmare moments, and certainly the majority of thought cycles happening in my conscious and subconscious mind. Before the fire my mind was occupied with much happier activities like composing tunes for and playing them on a nicely crafted 5-string banjo.
This tune isn't an official Phoenix Tracks tune. It was composed decades ago while wintering in a tiny casita I had rented in Cerrillos in late 2001 and early 2002. I had been working about four months for a government agency in Santa Fe after surviving a dot-com bust-era layoff from a pretty sweet job in Colorado Springs. Los Veranos had already been purchased and the slab had been poured and smoothed for steel frame and cladding assembly to begin as soon as roads became passable in spring 2002. The steel framing components had already been laid out on the professionally smoothed slab, ready to be raised and bolted together into the shell of the home/studio I would eventually occupy and operate my own company fulltime in about six years later.
In the meantime, living in the little casita in Cerrillos was a pleasant experience. It had its own kitchen and bathroom in addition to its one large living/sleeping/dining/existing warm-and-cozy-from-winter's-wrath room. A feral cat dropped by now and again for a saucer of milk. The landlords were a nice couple with a toddler daughter who played quietly on her swingset in the courtyard. I was happy and full of excitement and energy such positive changes can bring. Dreams of retiring to Los Veranos had already begun, sparking inspiration to compose this piece for 5-string banjo.
Loose Rock emerged from several sessions in the Cerrillos casita and now I've played it for the first time on a DP Hopkins Phoenix 5-string purchased from a store which also has risen from its own ashes In fact, the Hopkins brothers designed and built this banjo for Morgan Music which burned and was rebuilt in a town I once visited as a child which is named the same as a country I once visited as a 16 year-old just as I was learning to plink and pluck on the banjo: Lebanon.
This rendition is messy due to years not playing so much as I used to, and I'm still getting used to the narrow neck of the Hopkins Phoenix, but it's decent enough to serve as reminder here of happier times and things that mattered to me before the Hermit's Peak/Calf Canyon Fire distracted me so.
TRACK 15: In Shoes
Seeing the destroyed homestead for the first time caused a dull thudding sensation between my ears. It was all clearly a total loss, unrepairable within my remaining lifetime. But my natural optimism continued dominating thought cycles so that all I could think was that it would be repaired, quickly, and better than the original version. But it was a numbness all the same. That phase lasted two days.
Then the long slog developing proof of loss material and getting it all online and in PDF format for easy access and downloadability commenced while waiting for FEMA to get its ducks in a row. I suppose the two and a half years they spent lining the ducks up is par for the course as government agencies go, but it was damn well unacceptable by my measure, so I engaged in bureaucratic warfare with FEMA, tracking, anticipating, and dealing with every curveball they launched at me.
After catching FEMA staff committing a blatant act of fraud by faking an NRCS report for which a ground-based survey never happened, the glimmerings started when partial compensations for some of the losses was finally delivered. Then a District judge surprisingly ruled in favor of victims receiving compensations for non-economic damages and the glimmerings were followed by a period of slumping,
Preparing everything to battle for the remainder of my slice of the pie, I recharged and then began the long appeals march phase, submitting everything imaginable as evidence supporting the appeal during this march which will take who knows how long.
TRACK 16: Soulacrity & Soulerity
Having conspired to destroy my homestead and then keep me homeless for three years of life, the USFS and FEMA are finally diminishing in demands for chunks and slices of daily thought cycles. I can distinctly feel power of positivity intensifying and propelling me forward to ever-greater levels of existence and satisfaction. It’s a delightful sensation I am calling Soulacrity & Soulerity.
It isn’t anything mystical, but it is spiritually fueled and even somewhat supernatural in that as I make steady progress recovering through application of lifetime experiences of my own and of ancestrally-kindled memories still alive and advising from deep within, it culminates into sensations of superpower.
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They are key to good future, so I've invented these two new words. Soulacrity and Soulerity. Like Alacrity, soularity imbues all positivity and energy of that word but elevates it to a new level by incorporating all knowledge and experience I have gained on my own as well as all I have garnered from ancestors and acquaintances which have propelled me successfully through life. Like Celerity, soulerity imbues all aspects of that word while also acknowledging impact of deeply-instilled experiences and ancestral influence. Here is why I’ve invented these two new words in more detail:
Beyond Mere Motion: Introducing Soulacrity and Soulerity
Language is a living thing, evolving to meet the ever-expanding needs of human expression. Sometimes, however, we encounter experiences and states of being that existing words, while useful, don't quite capture in their full depth and resonance. This is why I found it necessary to invent two new words: Soulacrity and Soulerity. They are born from a recognition that our readiness and swiftness are not merely physical or mental attributes, but are profoundly informed by the rich tapestry of our inner lives and the enduring legacy of those who came before us.
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Consider "alacrity," a word that speaks of cheerful readiness and eager briskness. It's a positive term, certainly, but it often feels... incomplete. It describes a surface-level energy, a quickness to act that lacks the weight of wisdom. This is where Soulacrity emerges. Imagine that same eager briskness, but infused with the distilled knowledge and experience I have painstakingly gathered throughout my own journey. Now, layer upon that the profound, often unconscious, insights gleaned from the lives and struggles of my ancestors and the invaluable lessons shared by acquaintances who have propelled me forward. Soulacrity is not just readiness; it is a readiness imbued with the accumulated intelligence of a lifetime and the silent strength of generations past. It is the eager embrace of a task, fortified by a deep well of understanding and inherited resilience.
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Similarly, "celerity" speaks to swiftness and speed. It denotes rapid motion, efficiency in execution. But like alacrity, it can feel purely functional, lacking the acknowledgment of the invisible forces that shape our actions. This is the space occupied by Soulerity. It holds all the aspects of celerity – the quickness, the efficiency – but it acknowledges the profound impact of deeply-instilled experiences and ancestral influence on that very speed and execution. Why are we able to react so quickly in certain situations? Often, it is not just learned behavior, but a visceral response shaped by past traumas, triumphs, and the inherent instincts honed by our lineage. Soulerity recognizes that our swiftness is not just a measure of time, but a reflection of the ingrained wisdom and reactive patterns passed down through blood and experience.
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I invented Soulacrity and Soulerity because I needed a language that could articulate a more profound truth about human agency. We are not simply minds and bodies acting in isolation. We are the sum of our experiences, the inheritors of a vast, unseen legacy. Our readiness and our swiftness are not just metrics of performance; they are expressions of our entire being, informed by the whispers of the past and the hard-won lessons of the present. These words offer a way to honor that complexity, to recognize that our most powerful actions are those fueled not just by energy or speed, but by the depth of our soul and the enduring strength of our roots. They are a testament to the idea that to truly understand how we move through the world, we must acknowledge the profound, often hidden, forces that propel us.
No photo for this one. Instead, consider visualizing this music video concept in your mind's eye as you listen to the tune:
Music Video Concept: Soulacrity & Soulerity
Duration: Approx. 4:55 Genre: Surreal
Abstract Music Style: Evolving, perhaps starting ambient and slightly disjointed, moving into layered, melodic electronica for Soulacrity, a more rhythmic and fragmented sound for Soulerity, and finally a complex, harmonized blend for the integration.
Visual Concept: The video uses abstract and symbolic imagery, transforming environments, and non-linear sequences to represent the internal processes of integrating past, present, and inherited knowledge into action. We follow a central figure, not necessarily a distinct person but sometimes an abstract form or presence, navigating shifting landscapes.
(0:00 - 0:45) Scene 1: The Unformed Landscape
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Visuals: Begins in a seemingly mundane, yet subtly off-kilter space. Perhaps a room where gravity shifts slightly, or a pathway that curves unexpectedly. The colours are muted, the textures indistinct. Objects appear and disappear randomly. The central figure/presence feels hesitant, trying to move forward but lacking clear direction or momentum. There's a sense of potential energy, but it's scattered and undirected.
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Sound: Ambient, low drones, occasional dissonant notes, sounds of searching or hesitant movement.
(0:45 - 2:15) Scene 2: The Rise of Soulacrity
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Visuals: The environment begins to fracture and reveal hidden layers.
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Images flash and overlap: hands turning pages of ancient texts, fragmented family photos, overheard conversations manifesting as shimmering dust motes.
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Roots, glowing faintly, appear around the figure's feet, sometimes stretching into the distance, connected to indistinct historical scenes.
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Abstract light forms representing personal memories and learned lessons coalesce and merge with the figure.
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The figure starts to move with more purpose, an eagerness that is visibly informed. Their gestures are deliberate, imbued with a new kind of knowing confidence. The colours in the environment become richer, more vibrant in specific areas touched by this energy. Objects align in meaningful ways.
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Sound: Music becomes more melodic and layered. Ethereal synthesizers, organic sounds (like rustling leaves or distant chimes), perhaps faint, echoing voices woven into the melody. The tempo picks up slightly, carrying a sense of informed anticipation.
(2:15 - 3:45) Scene 3: The Current of Soulerity
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Visuals: The environment shifts again, becoming more fluid or geometric, but also fragmented.
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The figure's movements become swift, almost instantaneous, but with a strange, ingrained grace. They navigate obstacles with unnatural ease.
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Sudden flashes of intense light or colour represent deeply-instilled experiences – a moment of fear, a surge of triumph – leaving abstract 'trails' in the air.
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Shadow figures, perhaps resembling ancestors or past selves, move in parallel or briefly merge with the figure, guiding their rapid actions.
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The visual flow feels both rapid and deeply patterned, as if following an invisible current shaped by history and ingrained reaction. The swiftness is not just speed, but a form of intuitive navigation.
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Sound: Music becomes more rhythmic and percussive. Syncopated beats, sudden shifts in texture, fragmented melodies. There's a driving energy, but also an unpredictable quality, reflecting the impact of deep, sometimes unsettling, experiences. Electronic glitches or distorted sounds could represent moments of intense, ingrained response.
(3:45 - 4:45) Scene 4: The Integrated Dance
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Visuals: The environment stabilizes into a surreal but functional space – perhaps a flowing river of light navigating abstract obstacles, or a complex, living machine being effortlessly operated.
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The figure, now more defined but still potentially abstract, moves with a perfect synthesis of informed readiness (Soulacrity) and guided swiftness (Soulerity).
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Visual elements from the previous scenes intertwine seamlessly – roots glow within the currents of movement, flashes of experience illuminate the path ahead, ancestral shadows guide the precise timing.
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A complex task is performed with effortless grace and efficiency, clearly empowered by this deep integration of being. The movements are both deliberate and instinctual, swift yet deeply considered.
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The visuals achieve a kind of complex, beautiful harmony, representing the power of action born from the entirety of one's being and heritage.
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Sound: The music becomes a rich, harmonized blend of the previous themes. The melodic layers of Soulacrity combine with the rhythmic drive of Soulerity. The soundscape is full, dynamic, and carries a sense of purpose and resolution, building towards a peak.
(4:45 - 4:55) Scene 5: The Threshold
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Visuals: The action concludes. The figure stands at the edge of the frame, or at a new threshold. The environment behind them shows hints of the integrated journey, but the space before them is vast, unknown, full of potential. The figure faces it with calm confidence and a subtle sense of readiness. A final, iconic image that encapsulates the concepts of Soulacrity and Soulerity being fully embodied.
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Sound: The music fades out slowly, perhaps leaving a single, resonant tone or a simple, repeating motif that lingers in the air, inviting contemplation.