Early February
Where is Your God?

I used to sleep in a 17x11 tent on 6 acres, 2 miles up Captain Cook Road under a canopy of Mac nut trees. I would do a few days of work trade for a place to pitch my tent and cook my Ramen. Al owned the little lot and lived across the road. I think he served in Vietnam and bought his land years and years ago. He taught me to sail and picked me up hitchhiking one day and offered the tent space if I could help out with some landscaping and building projects. Scott was in the truck with him that day when he pulled over to give me a ride. Scott was my Steve McQueen. He was filled with wild stories of truly living life and escaping the law. I was in awe of him. He loved it when I sang into the trees at night. I loved both him and Al because they were tortured souls like myself, but chose to emanate aloha and live with the soil and salt. Scott and I formed a particularly beautiful bond up there on the hill. We shared a common dream. He dreamt of returning to his two kids back in Atlanta. The law was in his way. I had a budding vision to know my mother. I had to find her in my way.

I didn't know the first thing about finding a missing person. In fact, the thought of looking for my mom hadn't even crossed my mind yet. During my stay up Captain Cook Road, I began to unravel a bit of the wonder and mystery around the whole story with Scott. He'd ask hard to answer questions. I would dig into his story, too. We challenged each other as brothers to go further than before. What was stopping us from fulfilling these visions? Ourselves.

At that time, I'd seen a handful of letters my mom used to write me. We lost contact with her around the time I was five years old because she moved around a lot. Since the adoption was private, the letters would come through a caseworker. My parents let me read the letters when I was 17. mom would always sign her letters with a note that usually read something like, “Don't be mad at me. I didn't have a choice. Please find me when you're ready.” And then she would sign it with her social security number. I remember reading that and thinking, “Aww ma, why would I ever be mad at you!?” Skip ahead four years or so, there I am smoking a joint with Scott under a blanket of stars chatting about the letters. He was quizzing me on the details of my mom's story and whereabouts. I sighed. I didn't know much. What I did gather was that my birth was not planned and mom suffered because of it. This truth had barely even begun to rear its weight.

It was pretty ironic to write this song and not two weeks later find my mother. Talk about a quick turn around manifestation! I wrote a pretty basic play-by-play that depicted in verse one my mama's journey, in verse two my father's part in the madness, and my own tortured moment in verse three. Their story wasn't completely accurate, but it got the point across. How could there be a god? How could he/she/it let this kind of horrible thing to happen? Yes, of course, my life was a product of it, and I was grateful, but at such a cost! “I saw her fall, fall, fall on her knees in sorrowful respect for the child she leaves. Tell me where is your god now.” There's a bit of spite in those words, I reckon. Not much, but I can feel a little of the frustration I was carrying in just the not knowing of truth. So, I spilled my heart into a song. I was born in early February. An unexpected gift to the world. This was the beginning of my trials and tribulations. I was taking my first steps onto that galactic highway towards self-discovery and scribbling bits of songs onto jungle-worn pieces of paper, strewn about 17x11. It's a wonder I archived the melodies into my memory bank and weren't lost along the journey. It's a wonder I survived long enough to tell the tale.