“Beyond the horizon of the place we lived when we were young
In a world of magnets and miracles
Our thoughts strayed constantly and without boundary
The ringing of the division bell had begun

Looking beyond the embers of bridges glowing behind us
To a glimpse of how green it was on the other side
Steps taken forwards but sleepwalking back again
Dragged by the force of some inner tide

Encumbered forever by desire and ambition
There's a hunger still unsatisfied
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Though down this road we've been so many times

The grass was greener
The light was brighter
The taste was sweeter
The nights of wonder
With friends surrounded
The dawn mist glowing
The water flowing
The endless river
Forever and ever”

I can say, unequivocally, that I would have never been an artist if it weren’t for Pink Floyd.

I would have never picked up charcoal or lead or ink or oil and canvas if I never heard that sacred music.

I can say, without a doubt, that I wouldn’t have followed down the path I was on in the past and the path I’m on now if it wasn’t for my dad.

He owned the film, “The Wall” by Pink Floyd. I remember watching it at 11 years old, alone, in the dark, in my childhood bedroom. I couldn’t watch the whole thing without picking up pad and pencil. I drew all night, rewinding, forwarding and pausing with unabashed wonder at it all. My mouth was agape and my eyes were wide open in the blue television reflection of beauty, horror, passion and fervor.

I totally got it and had no idea what it meant all at the same time.

The music and inspiration floored me and I knew I had a way to express myself that had nothing to do with the way I looked. I was a fat kid back then and the way I had to express myself was of the more silent contemplative nature.

I knew I had something to say, but couldn’t speak up.

My mom and dad were all but happy to provide me with endless music, exposure to Broadway plays, New York City, lots of paper and tools to use and put on that paper.

I had never known anything like watching, ‘The Wall”.
My whole portfolio when applying for College and art scholarships was inspired by walls, running and escaping to freedom.

Ironic.

Today, I am in my new place in Santa Monica. The place, I’ve longed to find for months. I had so many walls in my way to climb over and knock through in order to get it. I ran like hell all over the city to see my potential dream oasis of apartments, apply for, buy gifts for and bribe management companies, file the right paperwork, get the funds and get it done. I have it now. And, I have my freedom.

My first night in the new apartment…
I woke up three times drenched in sweat.
I woke up in the morning with a day filled with things to do. I felt disoriented and uneasy. Regular life went on like normal, clients to teach, mom to call and check in about how dad was feeling, groceries to buy, people to call, E-mails to send.
I went about my busy day and came home. Hung some stuff and put some more stuff away.
Clutter made it’s way to carpet, but it still didn’t feel like home. Nothing felt right.
After all the nails, packing tape and garbage was cleared out from under my feet, I put my I-tunes on shuffle.
I was surprised I owned so much crap and I was surprised I forgot about Dave Matthews and A Tribe Called Quest and all the music that made me who I am.
I danced around to the Xanadu soundtrack.
I made carpet angels on the floor to Paul Simon’s Rhythm Of The Saints.
I lie still on the floor.
My first ‘still’ in weeks.
I don’t feel here.
I don’t feel there.
I don’t feel anywhere.
I don’t feel.
I only hear what’s in my head and on my I-tunes as I listen to the next surprise, always something new and always a reminder of some memory that, even at it’s most painful, is still sweet.

“Some stories are magical, meant to be sung. When the world was young and all of these spirit voices rule the night.”

When I talk about my dad, I always say that I know him best by his right side. That is the side I would see when he was driving.
At home, he was always drowned out by the burgeoning personalities of the women in the house, from my mom and my sisters to the dog and the cat.
But, when my dad was driving, he was in his element.
He was the one in the driver’s seat of the path, the conversation and the memory that was to follow.
I have so many of them.
Many of which I have written about here. When he would pick me up from college, load the car up with my laundry for the holiday or dorm gear for the summer; we would always stop for McDonald’s breakfasts. I can’t imagine that now, but back then, those days were divine and sacred.
In those days, even after long months and years jam packed with life and experiences, I was more than happy to hand the mic over to my dad and listen to him talk.

“So you think you can tell. Heaven from hell, blue skies from pain. Do you think you can tell?”

Mostly, dad would play his music. Paul Simon, Paul McCartney, The Rolling Stones, Stevie Nicks, The Eagles and Pink Floyd. He would tell his stories - his college days, his life, and his dreams – he’d pause at a bridge or chorus and sing along in a wispy attempt of a tenor that would go in and out of his own speaking voice.

“Diamonds on the souls of her shoes. Diaaamonds, ooon the souls of her shoes.”

He’d pause and let us both listen to a scat.
He’d light up another Newport cigarette or throw some rubbish out the window.
That always made me cringe, but the rest, the rest, was just bliss.
I knew my dad then.
I owned him.
It was my time with him and no one could ever take that away from either one of us.
It would all be over in another hour or so, when the influx of the family dynamic would take over.

At streetlights, he would take his hands away from the wheel and pick at his cuticles.

I often catch myself coming off the 101 on Highland, getting to a light, taking my grasp off the wheel and picking my cuticles. When I catch myself, I don’t stop, I just feel closer to him.

Then I go home and get a manicure.

‘We’re just two lost souls swimmin’ in a fish bowl, year after year.”

It’s funny, when you get what it is that you want.
After the giddiness subsides you are left alone, in the quiet, with your thoughts.
Most people turn on the lights, music, television, invite over a pal, to prove that life exists where you are and that all is well.

I lie on the floor, finally cleared of packing tape and boxes.

There are no memories here.

“Comfortably Numb.”

I smile.

I stare at the ceiling.
Popcorn.
Vertical blinds.
There’s a creak in the floor over there.
There’s another one over here.
I didn’t notice them when I first saw the place.
There’s chipping paint in the corner.
It’s quiet.
It’s a new year and I live here.
I’ve built and rebuilt my life.
Reinvented myself.
My hair is shorter and no matter how many miles I run, my hips are rounder.
I’m new again.
I’m exactly the same.
I remember.
Big walls.
Running.
Freedom.

“Wish you were here.”

Had I known when I moved out here years ago, that I would eventually have to think about what role I’d play in caring for an ailing parent, I might have thought differently.
I live for my family.

"And still those voices are calling from far away..."

I live 3000 miles away from my family. From the flight screen on Virgin America Airlines, it says that I’m only 2874 miles away.

There seems like little hope on some days and a lot of hope on others.

“There may come a time that I will lose you, lose you as I lose my sight, days falling backward into velvet night. “

My dad is always alive, big, strong and well with me. He is not sick. He is sitting to the left of me talking about the weather and effortlessly stroking rubber to concrete along the FDR or West Side Highway. “Mom is making Chicken for dinner. It’s going to snow tonight.”

“Slip sliddin’ away. You know the near your destination, the more you’re slip sliddin’ away.”

I remember one time my dad picked me up from Boston University and played this song in the car. We sang and harmonized the whole song. That only happened once. I only remembered it a million times after.

I am in LA and getting the score from my mother daily, literally. I’m waiting by the phone as if I am waiting to hear if I got into Harvard, have Aids or that the Red Sox won the World Series.

I see myself pausing my own life, because I don’t know what’s next for us as a family.

I don’t know how to commit to anything here because I don’t know what will happen there.

I’m half and half.
The fat free kind.
And really yummy in coffee.

Some days my mother is manic, often just exhausted and out of sorts. She is trying to manage her job and taking care of my father full time.

"'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."

She tells me to come home.
She tells me to stay and live my life.
She lives by the moment. I love that about her.
But these days, the moment can be of panic or drama, then release of emotion, despair and letting go.
I try to keep up with it all, not quite the drama queen, but more like a drama princess, understanding the gravity of the situation from what I hear but not being able to follow because I’m not there to see the changes.

“You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move, but I cannot hear what you are saying.”

I constantly search for my appropriate place between life here and there, the space between if you will. I consistently as a yoga teacher and student, look for balance in my life, how can I be, just be, enough here and enough there and be ok with just that.

One of the things I like to do whilst in traffic, especially after a long day or after something big happens, is call my mom.

Escape.

Talking to her always makes it better. It’s important to me that she knows what’s going on. Even if she can’t remember it all the next day, I know she’s listening in the moment and responsive. It’s enough that she knows. It makes it real.

Today, I returned from my busy day with things that happened and didn’t call her. I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell her what happened in my day. It was nothing compared to her day.

I felt lost.

“There may come a time when you’ll be tired as tired as a dream that wants to die. Further to fly, further to fly, further to fly.”

Someday it will happen with my mom too.

Not now, but it will, someday.

I visit that scary space.

Then…

I visit the space.

The space between my breath, the space between the calls, the space between the popcorn bumps on the ceiling, the space between the songs, the space between time that just happens between the memories being made and I decide.

It’s all enough.

Life is not easy.

It’s a series of running into walls in order to find freedom.
Life is pain in pleasure and they will all make for good stories and good memories and wild horses couldn’t drag me away from that.

I’ll take every bit of life I can get, good, bad, far away and close.

“I have my freedom but I don’t have much time. Faith has been broken, tears must be cried. Let’s do some living after we die. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. Wild, wild horses, we’ll ride them some day.”

(Song Quotes from Paul Simon’s Further to Fly, Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes, Slip Slidin’ Away, Spirit Voices, Pink Floyd’s High Hopes, Comfortably Numb, Wish You Were Here, The Eagles, Hotel California, The Rolling Stones, Wild Horses)