Official Hiatus

I am taking an official hiatus from writing on this site. I am tired of advertising every thought, daily dramas, stupid little little problems of band life when the state of affairs in this world are disheartening, discouraging, devastating. when there is so much suffering in the world. Humiliation, abuse, corporate evil killing innocent people, animals, wildlife, I just can't bear to share these thoughts anymore.

LOOK HERE GIRLS: Stop worrying about how your hair looks, how skinny you are, how this how that and please do something that goes beyond yourself. Stop being so self involved that you have to get addicted to drugs because you can't stand this world, or yourself. GET OVER YOURSELF, and go help someone, i don't care if you walk to raise money for AIDS or Breast Cancer, or if you join the Peace Corps. Do something. stop being so self-involved. stop fishing for accolades, for adoration, (sometimes art can seem so superficial). create art for others, not for fame. not for money. Really do it for the greater good. I am so discouraged by the self absorption of mankind. Get out of your head for once and do something good even if it's just a smile to your neighbor on the train. Day 1. Day 2 do something bigger.

In search for selfless art and to focus on the real work I do, and to do it better, I am taking an official hiatus from Motor Wilson Band Diaries, but will continue to write music,lyrics, social commentary, etc...

Please read on for all the past song entries and chronicles of band life in various form in the city of angels, Los Angeles. A city which has gripped my soul with fear, burned my heart with hate, but has allowed me to grow as an artist and a person. I love you Los Angeles.

some part of the journey

and sometimes i wanna walk away, figure it'd be easier that way
since i idnetify your way
not their way
but my soul my soul my soul i say
doesn't look at politics and anatomy and body parts
it feeds on true instinct and knows the road
though my head would like to aruge it too knows
there is a reason for every season
even though it would seem
busy or perhaps preoccupied, even hiding
hybernating? and everyone else seems to know it think it
that this is just part of the journey
and sometimes it hurts to breathe

she's just busy

i'm over the wishing well.
the biltmore bravmore hopemore stale
when i'm here because the health of my soul is well
a plane that the lipstick ladies panty parties did not bode me
sure i miss and i envitize and wanna answer every call and be social and
free and sunshine gal, many late nights every night who wouldn't wanna be
everyday laughter and wine outdoor festivals and parties
and the disappointment in your voice that maybe i don't hear
or maybe i do
that i just can't let settle
"she's just busy, she's just busy"

i've had to pick my battles, my priorities
but in the end i'm happy
in the end i'm happy
that i didn't keep going until 7am
that i wasn't fighting the demons at 10am
that i'm not sitting around anxious and confused
needing a glass of wine everynight and a fluctuating social life
she's just busy

and though my existence to you seems a series of arms-length friendships
to me they're more, mean more, you're more, though i don't see you every day
i don't need to and this you know
and sometimes i guess it doesn't settle well with you, you'll settle for seeing every few months for a blow out party extravaganza, she's just busy you tell yourself, you know i'm still around, you know i'll always be around

because i reside with my soul
settled in this cove
of course i'm still trying to make it all work
because i identify as something slightly else

my bed is made

there is a realization i am coming to perhaps again needing to revist the old dreams, old relationships, because there was something there
and i have to be there for someone else who didn't allow me to breathe before
"that's nice of you" i'm told when i speak of my plans, my day
and another laughed, he said, "just thinking about what you must have gone through motor." but unless i feed i don't get to go where i want to go. this is my bed, and maybe there is a balance. we'll just have to see.

why this writer must create music

if writing is the art then music is the vessel in which to transport the art. i thrive on the interaction. writing can be such a lonely activity. through music we can communicate on a more universal plane. though it is a much harder process indeed. to write a song, when these simple words come out so easy. just throw a rhythym behind it, and i'm happy.

for whom it really doesn't matter

another weekend of way too much partying
at least I was with my city girls, all the way from san francisco
y' know tattoed sex toy freaks, where there are no rules. there are no rules to follow so no one recognizes when you break them, or do something traditional
no one notices no one recognizes no one comments just praises because you are who you are you do what you do and you recognize sexual freedom whether in action or state of mind. it really doesn't matter. and i love them for that.

we sat and talked for hours about the years that passed behind us. not knowing what is ahead of us, but proud for where we've been, what we've done and for recognizing what most do not, for there are no rules, and the rules really don't matter. i love them this.

and i now today come to acknowledge this different life out here, that often i feel forced to live because of who i love, trapped by love so often i feel, and even though it's so not me, so not me to be so love-lee, i'm here and this is how i've been living, sometimes frustrated, but mostly safe and happy, working so busy. and these words wouldn't come so easily if everything were perfect and shady. at least these words have come from this to gain.

inspiration comes random

inspiration comes random like Sarah from Marla Hooch who has her paying talent her livelihood designing buildings, architect, on a shoe string budget, but its her own thing. she plays bass in the band by night and it brings her joy.
the double job. the day job and the night job is the only way i can and want to exist. for i seek happiness and to be in my own skin, to do what comes natural to me.
if you don't like it go sit your ass down somewhere and worry about your own self my pretty
for i know what i need to do, and i can't explain it any better to you, and yes, i know it makes me tired, and i wish there was a different answer, but this is me, this is what i do.
inspiration comes random, between the pages of a society magazine, i read the stories of the the beatnik, living urban, creating realities based on intellect and idealism, not money. and i know i must work. i must continue this work by day and by night, two distinct realities, doing what i can. every spare moment i can i will sleep.
inspiration is no longer a glass of red wine, or endless nights hanging out with the trendy kids, who all moved here from somewhere, drinking, smoking, filling up time with the social bill. inspiration comes random and resonates within you for days to come.

everything is wrong with everything that was perfect before

if i could have it my way, i'd never step foot in another one of those fany upper-echlons of high class and short skirted, techno beated, silky straitened hair, french-tip manicured hussied hip house hollywood dance clubs packed with the corporate tie sausage basket, just as i could never sit in blonde-bimbo playboy mansion villed, except that we're all suckers for a pretty face, who is the one you love? he's gyrating on the floor overdosing on pills. it was in the news. that's not my scene either.

the club scene is where i was born where black lipstick met fishnet met red pumps and sex pistols, but the club scene changed overnight and all the country farm fed girls got a taste of the city when they came to hollywood to become a star or famous by association or money, not where i grew up at all. not at all. and now it's circa 2007. they own the shit. all we have left are a few measly dive bars in this city, the alcohol drenched dive bars with the tatted bartendress, that's all that is left.

remember the lipstick lesbians who danced with the drag queens next to the long haired tattooed rocker boys circa 1988, that's where i would go. that's where i will go. late at night despite my mother's fright. and take designer drugs by moonlight. high forever. high all night.
who do we have to fuck to get a bed by the window?