Tag Archives: death

Foolish Cousin Ego (Chapter One of the forthcoming book There Is No ‘Other’: Ego vs Heart)

CHAPTER ONE (For more info, visit www.timbirchard.com)

Foolish cousin ego

Come back here and have a seat next to me. Sit here with me in the sunshine, here in the back yard. Feel the warmth of the sun on your face. Here, have some water. Have some sunshine. Have some lemonade. Have some delicious food. Have some company. Have some quiet time. Rest. Relax. You’ve been working so hard to find yourself… to take care of things in the way a man of goodness would, and does. You’ve been striving to do and be the right thing for so long… Sit and rest. Set down those heavy bags. No need to worry: I’ll have someone carry them to your room for you. Filled with anxieties and worries and concerns and deadlines and storylines and masks and passwords and keys and backup hard drives and floor mats and extra boots and windbreakers and an emergency sleeping bag and some backup cash for just in case.

You certainly are prepared. Or you seem to believe you are, anyway. Little cousin ego must be whispering in your ear again. Have you been believing his lies? He knows no other way, so we can’t really blame him, can we? But as good as his intentions might be, he is misguided, and has misguided you, time and again. He tells you that you had better be prepared; you had better be warned and cautious and on your guard. No place for vulnerability and openness here– in order to survive, you have absolutely got to grit your teeth and clench your shoulders as you walk, to make yourself look larger and more threatening to others, who would take advantage of you for walking down the sidewalk in a big, scary town like this. Haven’t you heard the latest news? Haven’t you memorized the latest crime statistics? Don’t you know your very life is in danger?

Yes… foolish cousin ego. He believes his own press, and that’s how he can be so utterly charming and convincing. But you’ve noticed, no doubt, that he can spin on a dime to turn against you, shaming and blaming you for all kinds of things, and then getting you to believe that he’s doing it all for your own good. Can you believe that? Would you ever put up with such attitude from anyone on the street? In the classroom? At the grocery store? Just imagine if your checkout clerk at the grocery store was checking out your items and started chastising you for what you were purchasing… what you were wearing, or for humming the tune on your lips. Would you ever tolerate such abuse, such lies, such incredible inhospitality? Of course not. You would talk to the manager, remove yourself from the unhealthy relationship as soon as possible.

So why is it that when this back alley bum starts whispering in your ear with its nasty breath, you immediately invite him to come sit in your lap? When he starts pulling your hair and scratching your face and slapping and pinching you, insults flying, curses spilling all over your favorite shirt, all you can do is thank him for his kindness? When he wipes snot and saliva all over your sleeve, and sneezes in your face, all you can do is congratulate him for being such a good ally?

No. This is not how it was meant to be. The next time your ‘kind uncle’ sidles up to you, blowing smoke in your face, with food stuck in his teeth and vomit on his breath… the next time he leans in to give you a big kiss on the lips, turn away. Refuse his advances. Don’t listen to him. He does not deserve your attention, let alone your acceptance. His game is to pretend that what he thinks is what you think; he whispers something in your ear, and if you repeat it out loud, he congratulates you for having such wonderful ideas. He tells you that you are a smart guy; a man of the world who can tell the difference between fools and heroes.

But trust me when I tell you, he does not have your best interest at heart. In fact, he has you serving him, when it should be the other way around. Long ago he applied for the job of butler, just to help out around the house and get things done. And you were ready for a little help; some guidance would be great, you thought. Better than having to try to make sense of this confusing world all alone. And so you hired him. At minimum wage. And he started out by taking out the trash… vacuuming the carpets… mowing the lawn. He did a pretty good job at first. But then he started playing the ‘expert’ card, acting as if he were still being helpful, but influencing you little by little to move in his direction– to take down some of those paintings you like so much and put up some of his favorite posters.

Over time, you ended up listening to his ‘counsel’ more and more. Soon he had you repainting the walls to his liking, while he sipped on a piña colada in your favorite armchair. At every turn he alternated between congratulating you for your wisdom, your hipness, and your cleverness, and berating you for being such a clumsy asshole. He laughed at you when you talked about bringing out those brushes and canvases again, reminding you that there was no WAY you were quite good enough yet to do anything like that. “Maybe wait just a little bit longer, then you’ll be ready,” he said with a confident smile on his lips.

And you believed him. You had a choice about it the whole time, from the very start, all those years ago, and you’ve been choosing to believe him, day in and day out. Eventually he climbed out of your favorite armchair and actually up onto your back, “just for a quick little piggyback ride,” he whispered. And you agreed. “Sure, come on up… it’ll be fine,” you told yourself. And he did.

Soon you were hobbling around the living room with this ogre on your back, pointing and shouting directions so loudly into your ear that you started to believe that his voice was your own voice. That his thoughts, ideas, and intentions were your own. That his malice was yours; that his layers of protective defense mechanisms were yours… that his selfish need for more love, more sex, more everything was your own. You took it all in stride. And you paid the consequences.

You forgot that the heaviness you felt every day, every night, every waking moment was this smelly, unbathed jerk riding around on your back. You told yourself (or was it him?) that you simply had to be strong, carry on… that it would all get better soon. And so, at his slightest suggestion, you threw open the windows and invited the clamor of the world into your living room. You ran outside and grabbed the lawn furniture from the patio and threw them through your beautiful plate glass windows. You gathered trash from the gutter and then scattered it around your kitchen. You invited rats and leeches and wild monkeys into your home, and when they threw feces at you, you told yourself that it was all just part of life.

You taped up black trash bags over the windows to block out all the light, and then you set fire to the curtains. The flames licked the ceiling, leaving charred black designs on the walls, ashes on the floor, and a stench in the air. You ate stale cigarettes for breakfast, and sobbed into your pillow at night about how unfair the world was. You poured gasoline on the lawn and set it on fire, then rode your bicycle through the inferno, weeping at the ‘cruelty of the world’.

You smashed your favorite guitar against the windshield of your car, until strings broke and the headstock cracked and tuning machines were hanging off and strange angles. Then you turned on your tape recorder and sang out-of-tune songs about heartbreak and weariness. You pounded nails into your car’s tires, then drove it around the block until hot black smoke poured from the wheels… You drove it up over the curb, through the front yard and crashed through the wall of your house and into the living room, smacking your head against the inside of your windshield, leaving a spiderweb crack in the glass and on your forehead.

You poured rat poison into the well of your home, then took a long, hot bath and cried because you felt so bad.

You wrapped your favorite baseball bat in rusty barbed wire and then chased the cat around the house. You made prank phone calls to your loved ones and cursed at them through the telephone, foaming at the mouth and throwing raisins at the tv set. You tied a blindfold around your head and then ran at the wall with a pair of scissors in your hand. You juggled open boxcutters. You stuck pennies in the light socket. You soiled yourself and then rolled around on the floor, laughing like a crazed man.

All the while, he was riding on your back, whispering all of these ideas into your ear. “This is what will set you free,” he promised with a smirk. You thought the smirk was your own– that somehow you were going to get ahead in life; that you would somehow get the best of this world. That the world, and everyone in it, would finally recognize your true genius and pay you what it owed you. And it owed you a lot.

For years this has gone on. Decades. And on a regular basis, you would throw your hands into the air, look up at the sky and cry, “Why me?! What did I ever do to deserve this?!”

But you missed something. In those moments of desperation, as you were crying your truth to the sky and the stars above, you didn’t happen to notice that the creep riding on your back was mouthing those very words along with you. Even those very words were not your own; they were his. You got so used to hearing his voice in your ear that you took it on as your own. You forgot the sound of your own voice.

Somewhere along the way, you noticed something magical; something long-forgotten that tickled a special place in your heart’s memory… just as the sun was about to set, or about to rise… just as storm clouds were about to roll in… just as you were about to brush your teeth, you recognized that something wonderful was just out of reach. Instead of the usual anger, sadness, fear, and despair at the awful state of things, this tiny, strangely familiar feeling of hopeful joy rose like a bubble from the bottom of the ocean and welled up in your heart. Your eyes opened wide, and you started in surprise at this feeling, which had a very different flavor than all the rest: it tasted like gratitude.

The guy on your back was quick to take the credit. “Oh, you felt that? Yeah, that was me. It’s a good thing you’ve been listening to me… following my recommendations… otherwise you probably NEVER would have felt that. Want some more? Let’s go raise some hell!”

And with that you would once again turn away from the silence that had brought the glimmer of peaceful, hopeful joy… your birthright. You went right back to the mayhem of the day. And the joy would dissipate back into feelings of despair. As hard as you tried to ‘grab and hold on’ to those special, magical feelings of belonging, of oneness with the world and everyone in it, they would only take the stage fleetingly, from behind the curtain, and would disappear just as quickly as they’d come.

One day you sat down, tired. Enough is enough, you thought. Something is not right. Something is not working. This cannot be what life is truly about… running around like a chicken with its head cut off, searching and dissecting and collecting and disposing and running into walls, bruising body and heart all the time.

“What if I take a look in the mirror?” That was the thought you had, and when you did, the guy on your back was startled. And angered. If you were to do that, especially for very long, you might notice him hanging on your back. And then there would be trouble.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said a little too quickly, trying to cover it up with an easy, dismissive laugh. “That’s just a waste of time anyway… your time is worth more than that. Let’s go blow some shit up instead.”

But this time, something about looking in the mirror, as uncomfortable as it might be, really sounded intriguing. “It can’t be any worse than what my life has been like already,” you figure. And you walk into the bathroom. You take a quick peek in the mirror above the sink, where you brush your teeth every day. But until now, you’ve only stared vacantly into the mirror, not really expecting to see anything different than your own chin, your own stubble, and the foamy toothpaste you spit into the sink. This time there’s no toothbrush. There’s no auto-pilot. You’re looking in the mirror to see if you can see anything different.

And you do.

You spot something peeking up from behind your left shoulder. What in the world…? A little tuft of hair poking up, and one eyebrow, trying to remain undetected. You turn around and try to look back over your own shoulder to see yourself better, but something is blocking the way. And an insistent voice is saying, with increasing intensity, “This is a big waste of time! C’mon, let’s go DO something!”

But on this day, you hesitate. You head slowly but persistently toward the bedroom, with its full-length mirror. Even though you feel the need to pour some more gasoline in the front lawn and shoot flaming arrows into it, you pause for just a few more moments. You turn to one side.

And there, right before your eyes, is a 240 pound beast hanging on your back with its arms around your neck, just barely cutting off your airflow. You see it there, with your own eyes. And it keeps looking away, determined not to meet your gaze, for it knows precisely what will happen if it does. It is shouting something– ‘waste of time! waste of time!’ and keeps trying to dodge and duck, working to spin you back around so you can’t see it.

All of its wriggling around causes you to lose your balance, and you fall awkwardly to the floor, gasping for breath and hoping like hell you’ll survive whatever this is that is happening. You wrangle with the beast, and it still has its arms around your throat. You manage to spin around under its weight so that you’re facing the mirror from the other side, and you catch sight of it again, in all its twisted glory.

“I see you!” you shout. It looks up in terror. And in that moment, you lock eyes with it in the mirror. It starts to scream and grabs a beer bottle and slams it against the mirror, which shatters and collapses upon itself. But you’ve already seen. You reach back and grab hold of hairy flesh and wrench yourself around and up into a seated position.

Face to face, you peer directly into the eyes of your tormentor. The kidnapper who brainwashed you into believing that he was your savior. The abuser who lied about caring deeply for you. The monster who enslaved you. The beast that locked you in a cage.

And suddenly, you can breathe again like never before. You take the deepest breath you’ve taken in decades, and you see its eyes grow as wide as saucers. You begin to smile, and as it takes one last gasp and tries to unleash its final battle cry, it disintegrates before your very eyes. No blood. No vomit. No urine. No stench. It vanishes completely, leaving no trace… no evidence of ever having existed. Except for the broken mirror, the monkey feces all over the walls, the charred front yard, the jagged shards of glass and rusty barbed wire littering the living room floor.

He’s not around to help you clean up. But he’s also not around to wreak havoc anymore. So you begin the task at hand. Slowly, you move room to room, sweeping, vacuuming, mopping up the mess… repainting, replacing windows, tearing down the black plastic, pumping out the poison water and upgrading the well.

And you realize that he was your choice. All along. You made an agreement. You made sacrifices, and you also received some sort of payoff, some reward for your part in the deal. Maybe it was fame. Sex. Glamour. Money. Reputation.

Or maybe it was poverty. Hunger. Sadness. Victimhood status. With rewards like these, there would never be a need to chase your dreams and face your fears, right? You could defer the act of stepping more fully into your power as a leader, an artist, a hero, a poet, a parent, a friend, a lover… and as your fully-realized true self. Maybe even circumvent that discomfort forever. It seemed like a pretty good payoff at the time.

But now you see a deeper truth. Now you sit in the eye of the storm, resting calmly. When it’s time to work, you work, but with peace in your heart. When it’s time to relax, you relax with peace in your heart. As the wind blows the curtains, as the storm outside blows trash down the street, as the wails of the police sirens cry out in the night, as fear and panic and worry and uncertainty work each other over in the alley behind your house to the sound of chains, broken bottles, switchblades and gunfire, through all of it you sit quietly and watch.

The inner calm of your divine living room is a sanctuary for your heart.

For more info visit www.timbirchard.com.

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Miles Davis: “So What” trumpet solo on guitar

All my life I’ve been mesmerized and intimidated by jazz guitar. I’ve wanted to play jazz so badly, but didn’t believe that it would ever be within my grasp.

Until now.

Turns out the only thing that had to change was my thinking. My beliefs. “I AM a thriving, talented, successful jazz guitarist.” “I AM able to learn jazz guitar.” “I AM someone who enjoys the challenges involved in learning new things.”

Over the past week or so I assigned myself a new challenge: to learn the first solo (Miles Davis on trumpet) of Miles Davis’ “So What” on the guitar. Note for note.

The last three bars on this page took me on a two-hour journey of exploration and discovery. (This is not my transcription.)

This solo is about 2 minutes and 5 seconds long. When I woke up this morning, I could play all the way through 1 minute and 19 seconds of it. After about an hour and a half of practice, I can now play through 1 minute and 23 seconds of it. An important lesson for me here: it took me nearly two hours to move forward 4 seconds. The cool thing is, I ENJOY that challenge. It’s fun and exciting to think that almost 2 hours of work is needed for me to gain only 4 seconds of the solo… when I’m able to do the whole thing, it’ll mean a lot more than simply 2:05 of guitar playing… It will represent my energy, my love, and my passion… my willingness to change my mind about how I see the world… about how I view myself and my abilities. 

Another interesting point: As I was learning that new 4 seconds of material, I found myself spending a lot of time on one 6-note phrase. I played it over and over. I explored different ways of playing that same phrase, and found THREE different places to play it on the neck. Now I had an interesting decision to make: WHICH way should I focus on? As I explored deeper, I found that one way seemed the most simple because I could base the entire phrase on two adjacent strings, but there was quite a horizontal reach with my pinky involved. This option kept me well within my comfort zone.

The second path took me farther down the neck, utilized three strings, and involved a whole-step upward slide with my index finger on the high “e” string. A little more challenging, but all movement was on adjacent strings, so this was still within my comfort zone.

The third path involved string skipping; reaching up with the pinky from the 2nd string to the 4th string, up 5 frets. This took me well outside my comfort zone and even made me stop a minute and wonder, “can I even DO this??” I can’t recall purposely skipping strings during a solo. Then I thought of Steve Vai. Steve Lukather. Larry Carlton. All of my heroes. What would they do? Do they skip strings while soloing? Or do they only move across adjacent strings? These guys don’t practice to success; they practice to failure. That is, they don’t simply practice something until they can do it right… they keep practicing beyond that, until it’s second nature… until the rare occasion of goofing up happens… then they practice it even more.

When I realized this was a limitation that was holding me back, I decided to practice it some more. I quickly ditched the first path. Decided the second path on the high “e” string sounded too whiny/trebley. Went with the third path. Worked on it for awhile… not sure how long, lost track of time.

Then, following my intuition, I backed up and practiced the approach and entry into this new phrase. Of course that felt completely foreign at first, but after a few tries, I began to see how the phrases connected. As I became more comfortable, I realized I was creating new neural pathways in my brain.

I’m not in a hurry. I’m not trying to get this solo down before Tuesday, or by any sort of deadline. At the same time, I do feel motivated to learn the whole thing and get it into my fingers… into my bones, so that it becomes mine. I’m practicing at least a little bit every day, even if that means just running through what I know once or twice to make sure it’s still there. When I was a young teenager at the local public swimming pool, I remember challenging myself to learn how to do a gainer off the high diving board. Not having any sort of lessons, I didn’t know how to go forward with any sort of formal process for learning this new skill. So I just ran off the end of the low diving board and threw myself into the air, trying as best I could to approximate that backwards flipping motion without cracking my head on the diving board.

After many false starts, I finally did it. Sloppy. Dangerous. But I did it. After doing that a hundred times or so, I decided to try it from the high dive. After facing down a terror that made me want to vomit, I finally did it. The interesting thing was that I was never satisfied with doing it only once. There was no victory in that for me. No. I had to prove to myself that I could do it repeatedly. So only after doing it dozens of times over the course of an entire summer would I allow myself to say, with any sort of confidence, “I can do a gainer off the high dive.”

This is sort of the same. It’s one thing to patch together the phrases of this solo and to execute them all in a row one time without making a mistake. It’s an entirely different thing to be able to visualize where my fingers will land and hear the notes in my head as I’m lying in bed. A whole different animal to be able to play it without analysis, without thinking about where the next notes will come from. Without counting beats.

Of course, this is simply one step along the path. Since everything in this realm is temporary, my ability to play this solo will diminish and disappear. The guitar I call ‘mine’, as much as I love it, will change hands. Disintegrate. Be destroyed, sooner or later. This body I call ‘mine’ will collapse and return to ashes. There’s no trophy here to be claimed with any sort of finality. Like everything we can see, hear, taste, touch, feel, or think, this experience is temporary. Finite. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end.

The joy for me is that, in the midst of this understanding, I can fully embrace the spirit and passion of learning this solo. Even as we know leaves on a tree will end up on the ground come autumn, in this moment they can blow wildly in the sunshine, glinting sunlight and brilliance. And understanding that we can’t make them shimmer forever, we can still appreciate their beauty in this moment.

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He gave this flower to a teacher

He came into my office one cold day last October. Had a glorious rose in his hand.

“Look what I got!” he exclaimed with an excited smile. I agreed that it was beautiful.

He asked me if I’d hold on to it for him. Of course I agreed. Set it on the windowsill in my office, where plenty of sunlight shines in. Days, weeks, months went by, and the rose dried up on my windowsill and became preserved as I waited for him to return. I reminded myself that each person has to return in his or her own time. That process can’t be rushed.

The preservation process of the flower also had to happen at its own pace. I realized that if that natural pace was respected, a new beauty would be revealed. And it was true; the flower, in its death, had taken on a new kind of beauty. It seemed perhaps even more beautiful, in some ways. Once or twice I briefly considered throwing the flower away, but it was so amazing that I simply couldn’t. I’d hold onto it for just awhile longer.

Fast forward three or four months.

Two or three weeks ago I happened to see him in class. I ran to my office and grabbed the flower. Took it into the classroom, where students were gathering for class, which would start in just a few minutes. I tried to discreetly show him the flower without attracting too much attention. (Wasn’t sure how “cool” it would be.) “Hey! Look what I still have!” He looked at it and looked away casually… and I realized maybe I wasn’t being very cool. Not very cool at all.

Oh well. I told him he could have it back if he still wanted it, and I returned it to my windowsill.

The morning I heard about his death, there were a lot of things for me to do. In the midst of my business, I spotted the flower, the aura of which now seemed to hold a lot more emotional gravity. First I thought, “Wow… I have such a beautiful keepsake.” Then I thought, “wait a minute… there’s someone else who would truly appreciate this.”

I took it to Durango Art Supply. My new best friend Sarah created the perfect shadowbox for this important occasion. Tomorrow, at the memorial service, I’ll give this to his mother. I’ll tell her this story. And she’ll have some small token of her son’s sensitivity and appreciation for beauty.

I know nothing will ever take away her pain. But maybe this can make that pain just a tiny bit easier to bear. I sure hope so.


Durango Herald article April 24, 2011: click here

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Letter to my student who died Thursday

Hey. I was shocked and saddened to get to work this morning and find out that you were dead.

In fact, I didn’t believe it at first. No proof. Nothing in the newspaper yet. Just people talking matter-of-factly about it.

So I called the police station. Transferred me to Investigations. Yep. They knew just who I was asking about… Told me there was a death investigation underway.

Still, I had to ask. “So… he’s dead then?”

Yessir, the officer replied. There’s definitely a death investigation underway.

First, I needed to let my colleagues know that it was confirmed. Then, on to interrupt every class in session. Tell the students. Let them know they can talk to me, and to any of us. Tell them that I care about them. We care. Not just about the books. The grades. The behavior. We care about the hearts. The minds.

Did they hear me?

Do you hear me?

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For best results, remove protective gear

It was 8 degrees Fahrenheit this morning when I got on my bike to ride to work.

It was 8 degrees F this morning

Since I’ve got some good gear, it wasn’t even really that chilly. A couple of weeks ago, I rode to work when it was twenty below (-20F). By the time I got to work, yeah… my fingers and toes were feeling pretty chilled, but the rest of me was fine.

I get to work, take off the protective gear, and get my heart broken.

That’s my job. Again and again. To create a safe and comfortable environment characterized by stability and trust. A place where a young (or young at heart) adult can walk in, sit down, and open his heart. Spill her guts. Share stories of child abuse. Sexual assault. Neglect. Homelessness. Fear. Hunger. Grief. Death of a child. Victimization by individuals in positions of power. Feelings of worthlessness.

To do some jobs right, you’ve got to take OFF the protective layers. Strip away the protective mechanisms.

My job is to remain calm. My job is to listen. Really listen. My job is to open my heart and really receive what’s being shared. As a mandatory reporter, sometimes my job includes calling Child Protective Services to file reports of child abuse or neglect. Pages of reports. Sometimes it includes facilitating conflict resolution with young adults.

My job does NOT include bursting into tears when someone is sharing something painful. (If your rowboat is sinking, I can help by throwing you a rope. Not by drilling a hole in my own boat to prove I understand your pain.) I can offer you strength by opening my heart. By demonstrating vulnerability. And by remaining emotionally present. Which, in my experience, requires a certain amount of detachment. (I can’t pull you to shore if I jump into your sinking boat with you.)

I help people finish their secondary education by getting a GED. And I help them continue on to college or trade school. My job is to inspire. My job is to strip away my own layers of b.s., because people who have struggled and suffered can smell my arrogance a mile away. My job is to cut through the lies that I tell myself in order to avoid looking into the face of pain. My job is to shut my mouth, open my ears, open my mind, open my heart, and really try to understand where the other person is coming from.

My job is to get on the phone and get the person sitting before me connected with whatever help might be available. And when I run into breakdowns in communication, my job is to relax and keep trying until I get some help for them. When I run into dead ends, my job is to dig, dig, dig, and keep digging. (Special thanks to Lt. Elizabeth A. Jones, USN, for teaching me how important this is.)

My job is to turn away from the temptation to become frustrated. To strip away the layers of impatience. My job is to keep coming back, again and again, to my breath. To my heart. To gratitude.

And when the amp is warmed up, the guitar is in my hands, the “tape” is rolling, and it’s time to dig deep, my job is just the same. Strip away the layers of protection. Throw off the worries that what I’m about to play might suck. Turn away from the fears that my music may never be heard. And maybe the biggest challenge of all for me, to strip away the need to sound ‘cool’, and whatever baggage that might include.

I finally got all the tools I need to do the job. Now I don’t have any more excuses not to do it.

How about you, Fellow Artist? What do you try to strip away as you delve into your craft?

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the subjectivity of song interpretation

My Baby Caught Me (Eating Chili in the Bathtub)

(words and music copyright Tim Birchard, 2010)

What’s this song about?

chili in the bathtub 2 mp3

Strained relations with family members?

Suicide?

An actual bowl of chili?

All I can say is that I did (I confess) sit in an actual bathtub and eat an actual bowl of chili. And it did, in fact, spill into the tub accidentally. And boy oh boy, did I ever have to clean up a nasty bathtub ring.

But all of that really has very little to do with how anyone interprets the song.

If it awakens anything within you, “good” or “bad”, happy or sad… if it’s caused anyone to feel

…then it was successful. What else can a writer, a painter, a singer, an architect ask for in this lifetime?

Lyrics:

Well I found her note on the table yesterday

She said, “I just can’t go on living life this way.”

I’ve tried to walk the straight and narrow every day

What did I do that could have made her go away?

Was it the time I lingered longer than I should?

Was it the time I said ‘your sister’s looking good’?

Was it the time I yelled at you for spilling nail polish on my hood?


My baby caught me eating chili in the bathtub

My baby caught me eating chili in the bathtub

Well, can you tell me what it happening to our love?

My baby caught me eating chili in the bathtub


That’s not what the bath is for

You even got some on the floor

What kind of luck did you think this would bring?

Who’s going to clean that greasy bathtub ring?

Tim's next guitar

 

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