How to Be Young Forever

 Here he is..  attacking it, his eyes lost, glowing half-desperate / half-euphoric, chasing the center of the room's voice, flowing..   channeling the ferocity and the affection that I can see moving through his body, in waves. 
 The hands grasping the neck, and the slide trembling against the strings..  
the guitar quivers,
the banjo bends into shiny-splinters,
 the echoes of the drums turn into honey and drip from the corners of the ceiling. 
The music is not being played..  the music is playing itself.    
It is not being recited...   it is happening out of its own free will.   
Very. much. alive.     
This isn't a song  - and everyone else knows it..   everyone else feels it too.   
Entranced, eyes glowing too..  half-desperate / half-euphoric.. 
at the edge of our chair,
 listening and yet also longing and quietly shivering with joy.  
Its like making cornbread out of intimacy.   And eating it.    
Its like sculpting a statue out of breathing. 
We had it backwards..  the music is conjuring us, 
not the other way around.
Everyone leans forward...  hearing themselves in the mess and the perfection,
and the room fills with the conversation of instruments,
describing with detail the greatness of each of us..
and we rock ourselves gently, because of the sensation
of being spoken to with
ferocious kindness. 


To sabotage the soul is to say:
this is what IT IS, 
and never agreeing to more than our name,
to say that we are [only] the makers of things.. 
instead of also being made by them.
I sit, and feel this somewhere inside of me that you cannot see with your eyes. 
I feel tonight that I do not know myself truly,
that I am larger and more elegant that I have imagined. 






Andrew Tipton

The Dragonflies Of My Chest

 

It is you
who placed the dragonflies in my chest
yesterday. 
Still.
Undiminished, AND the wet, delirious, expanding blueness of the center of the ocean,
to me.  

I see you clearly across my mother’s quilt, 
woven,   together
a metaphor for our limbs – since we met,
the white sand clinging to your bare breasts,
where her lips nurse,  
as I have,
and still, I have no words collected, or understanding of how to convey them
if I did. 

And the Aries of me HOWLS!    Below the surface. 
 Claws at the photographs of memories
that
are still young and fresh to the mind’s touch,
Could you pry open with your motherly fingers,  my chest,
past the rib bones, and the muscle,
and grasp ME between your hands
the flesh and the shaft
of my essence:
discovering..
half of me, yet, hidden and dark,
half of me skipping like stones on a lake
at just the sight of you.

swaying in the depths
of my hammock,
I consider the aftertaste of anger, and the sadness that
remains a scar on my shoulder, 

Who am I to throw punches at the ghosts and wilderness of our past?
Who am I to say [ YES, NO, PERHAPS ] to the stories of god’s hidden dreamer?

And in the flesh,
I mock you!    The constellations of your thoughts, the recklessness of your freckles,  the obscenity of your tussled hair,  
NOT because I agree with you…  
but, because I find those parts of you marvelous and breathtaking. 
As I always have. 
Never question your beauty! 
 WOMAN.    
Never speak poorly of your much-ness.
You shimmer. 
Sparkle.    Like the dream where I am the rascal
and you are the    
Mermaid,
from the ocean,
Where I found you. 
Chasing whales. 

And
As the night folds in around us,
through the gray of a San Francisco fog,   
SEE you finally,
as we used to be.
Gingersnaps between lips.
Shaking hips.
Dino disco.

And
 the Uncanny Adventures of Free Giraffes.
reclaiming your cursive,
 redeeming
her
simple, elegant, earthly ferociousness.  
Rowdy, fearless, eager.
YOU CAN”T FUCK THIS UP.

Not on the pages,

Not anywhere.

I see you.  






Andrew Tipton

The Ones Who Chase Goodness

There are few men that I know, whose existence is prioritized with ferociously, chasing down goodness.   Fewer still, who live a state of vivid, constant appreciation for their existence, as well as a constant affection towards their families, their surroundings, and everyone in between.     My uncle Robert was one of these men.   

Robert saw the world through determined, relentless eyes.  His vision was simple...  completely straightforward and unwavering..   to make life better.    Spiritually, physically, visually, mechanically - the lines all merged and crossed.   He lived in state of thoughtfulness for his environment..   a mentality that we should improve the lives and spaces around us.    

I remember driving with uncle Bob as a kid, weaving through the mountains of Arkansas.  Sitting in the back seat of his car staring out at lakes and rivers.   I listened for hours as he talked..    his conversation always circling around what would be "done".   There was an urgency to his thoughts and his words..  like he knew time was of the utmost importance - that it was a gift.   When he spoke, I never doubted him.  He talked about life with sincerity.  
 He acted upon life with sincerity.  
 No matter what it was:  beginning a rural community ministry, building a house, cooking gravy and biscuits in the mornings, volunteering in hospitals..     he treated life as his personal chance to MAKE GOOD,  to facilitate greatness in the lives of other humans.  
And he did it in a way that was fearless.. leaving no room for excuses or compromised expectation.

When he hugged you..   he hugged you.     Full-on, brutally, honest, welcoming, passionate, warm. 
He didn't hold back, and I admire that deeply.  





Andrew Tipton

Notes to The Self

Speak with Sincerity.   






Andrew Tipton

Fight for The Inner Spark / Part II

As a kid,  I remember putting up a fight nearly every day for awesomeness.  

If there was any way to squeeze a little more goodness-juice out of an afternoon..  by god,  I was going to try!    The struggle never ceased..  
fighting to stay up all night long playing games,
 fighting to campout with friends on weeknights,
to devour pizza every meal of the week,
to swim in the ocean after the sun set,
to not wear clothes,
 fighting to feed and milk the cows on my own,
to watch gory movies,
 to drive my grandpa's jeep by myself,
to build massive ramps for our red Western Flyer wagon..  
It was the constant pursuit of the things that made life worth living... for a kid.  
Pushing the boundaries of what was permissible..    persisting on living life on the verge of exhaustion and demise..  and utterly, absurdly, irrationally - loving it.       

   There was this rush, adrenaline, and intensity...  looking out from six year-old eyes, and feeling that the world was infinitely expanding in all directions, that adults lived as demi-gods ..   and this secret revelation, that the rules governing childhood (and everything else) could be challenged!   
And so at every opportunity I fought to 'live'..  in the most convivial way I could imagine.  



 I often wonder if my "six-year old self" would approve of the life I live as an adult? 
Now that I am officially the supreme being that I always imagined becoming as a kid..    what am I doing with my super powers?
     Does life still impress me?
  Am I still fighting for awesomeness? 
 

As adults,  we seem to be headed in the opposite direction of our younger selves..
no longer struggling to push the boundaries of our day,  but rather, often making excuses not too.  
 Its a fascinating thing for me to watch a grown human make an excuse for "why they cannot" do something!    Here, in the perfection of our human self.. with the ability to choose nearly anything..    we often choose nothing! Its ironic that as kids, when we were our most unprepared and unequipped,  we fought our hardest for the world.
I imagine our kid-selves, looking on with disbelief and sheer horror,  watching the adult notions of practicality and rationality dismantle the "ferociousness" that they knew so well.    


I admire our younger selves!!   I admire my six-year old self..  
I admire our inner spark and our great daring!




Andrew Tipton