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under construction: BONZO

So. Many. Cobwebs. 

The good news is that, in the two hours of cleaning out various webs and dark spaces, there was only one spider that wound up crawling up my sleeve and inciting a freak-out. In my mind, each of its legs were as big as the St. Louis Archway, and its fangs were like claw hammers, and its eyes were jet-black baseballs of death.

I’m too afraid to google for spiders and find out exactly what kind I saw in my garage. Mostly because I had a bunch of weird dreams last night. Also because it’s 6:30 in the morning, and I don’t want eight legged freaks invading my subconscious that early in the day. 

The carport at the back of my house was used, by the former owner, as a motorcycle repair shop. With that in mind, there’s a lot of various apparatus I need to remove — pneumatic tubes, pulleys, chains — before I can do anything resembling a proactive remodel. It’s a bit like Doc Frankenstein punched his ticket for the coast and left the shop with half the gear dangling from the ceiling. 

However, what the carport is almost immediately useful for — is my drum kit.

Because, you know, priorities. 


Well there's a light in your eye that keeps shinin'

Like a star that can't wait for night.

I hate to think I been blinded baby.

Why can't I see you tonight?

An' the warmth of your smile starts a burnin'

An' the thrill of your touch give me fright

And I'm shakin' so much, really yearnin'.

Why don't you show up and make it alright


Led Zeppelin entered into my life via Kyle Heath, a late-twenties janitor at church with long blond hair and an affinity for both Big Gulps and the Oakland Athletics. My brother and I took a shine to him, and during our junior high/high school years, we attended, on average, 10-15 A’s games a year. I grew up in San Jose, and yes, the Giants have “territorial” rights to San Jose, but the A’s were closer and cheaper, so there.

Our 45-minute drive to the Coliseum was a crash course in music education. We’d always kick off the drive with Ozzy’s “Crazy Train.”

“ALL ABOARD!!!!!!!!”

After that, however, it was fair game as to what we’d hear. Kyle introduced us to Van Halen and Eddie’s brain-melting, finger-tapping, bewildering solos. To my brother — a budding guitarist in his own right — this was like hearing the Sermon on the Mount from Christ himself, buddy. Christ himself. 

Kyle also played rockabilly (Paladins, Stray Cats), early and late-stage Journey, Cheap Trick, and more Butt Rock (80’s hair metal) than I care to recount. 

One sunny day during batting practice (we always arrived early for BP), I asked him about Led Zeppelin. “They were a band back in the seventies. They’re pretty hard rock. Their drummer died though right at the beginning of the eighties.” Sugar Ray’s “Every Morning” played over the Coliseum’s loudspeakers as Jason Giambi stepped into the box. We, in the right field bleachers, readied out gloves. “I can lend you a couple CD’s; see what you think.”
He lent me Led Zeppelin I, II, III and IV/Zoso/Untitled, depending on your denomination.

I was hooked from “Good Times, Bad Times”, the first track off the first album. You can almost see the audience waiting in anticipation, and the lights cut to black at the opening crunch of Jimmy’s guitar. There’s Bonzo, John Bonham, stomping along with Page, slowly ramping up the tension, right up until that Motown-by-way-of-Worcestershire swagger drum fill ushers him, Page, along with bassist John Paul Jones and lead vocalist Robert Plant rollicking into the blasting light. The crowd goes wild.  

Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads. 


And if you promised you'd love so completely

And you said you would always be true

You swore that you never would leave me baby

Whatever happened to you?

And you thought it was only in movies

As you wish all your dreams would come true

It ain't the first time believe me baby

I'm standing here feeling blue!


My first drum kit is, so far, my only drum kit: A six-piece used Magenta Tama Rockstar. 22-inch bass drum, and five, count ‘em five, toms (8, 10, 12, 13, 16). I remember the exact number on the Guitar Center receipt — $523.16 It was, at that time, the most expensive thing I’d ever paid for with my own money. That receipt was like Wonka’s golden ticket.

I set up the kit in what was my and my siblings’ play room, where we kept our toys, video game consoles, lightsabers, championship wrestling belts, etc. I played and wailed and sounded like drunken elephants stumbling down a hillside. I promised my parents to not play past 8PM, and I kept my word. To this day, in fact, I still can’t play past that deadline.  

When I moved down to Southern California for college, the kit stayed at my parents’ house. Same for the first apartment after college, same for the house after that. I had six roommates in that house; a drum kit was one thing too many. 

However, a year and a half into my time on the East Coast, it was time. I jammed the kit into my car and brought both the car and the kit out to Philadelphia. I set it up in the basement and renewed my love affair with music. With drums. With Led Zeppelin. 

The kit came with me to Portland, and after a few more basement stopovers, she’s found a wonderful home in the remodel-in-process carport.


Now I will stand in the rain on the corner

I watch the people go shuffling downtown

Another ten minutes no longer

And then I'm turning around, ‘round

And the clock on the wall's moving slower

Oh, my heart it sinks to the ground

And the storm that I thought would blow over

Clouds the light of the love that I found, found



In Through the Out Door, Zeppelin’s last album, was released in 1979. The album garnered so-so reviews upon its initial release, though some people (myself included) defend its quality. The album is personally notable for two reasons: first, it includes one of my favorite Zeppelin tracks, “Fool in the Rain.” It’s the song whose lyrics I’ve been quoting throughout this piece. It’s a rollicking 6/8 track that, for me, gives me an idea of what Zeppelin would have sounded like had they made it to the 80’s.

Second, the album was released with six different cover designs. The concept, created and executed by famed English art design group Hipgnosis, is a single scene shown from multiple perspectives. The scene depicts a man, wearing a cream colored suit, seated in a New Orleans Bar. He holds a “Dear John” letter in one hand as the letter’s corner ignites in flame. The album’s colors are muted, save for a wipe in the center of the picture in full color. There’re several people in the bar —  bartender, piano player, additional patrons — and each cover showcases their point of view of the man at the bar.

Collecting all six would be a difficult task in and of itself, but Zeppelin upped the ante by sealing the album itself in brown paper bags. Therefore, when you bought the album, you’d never know which cover you’d be purchasing. Nowadays, when you walk into a vinyl, most of the Zep albums aren’t plastic-wrapped, so it’s easier to look at which covers the store has in its possession. I’d collected four of the six by the time I graduated college, but I put the search on hold for a while.

And by a while, I mean ten years gone. 

But this past Friday, a friend and I walked by a record store, and I told him about Zeppelin, In Through the Out Door…and my passion was rekindled. That night, I laid out the four covers I had and took a picture of them for reference. The next day, I returned to the shop, hopeful but realistic of what I’d find (it’s one of the smaller vinyl shops in Portland). 

When what to my wondering eyes did appear…

The last two covers. 

Thirty dollars fled my account like it was a prison break. Maybe the guy at the counter thought me weird for buying two of the same album. No matter. I had my six covers — more precious to me than Infinity Stones or Horcruxes — and my quest had been completed.


Ooh now my body is starting to quiver

And the palms of my hands getting wet, oh

I got no reason to doubt you baby

It's all a terrible mess

And I'll run in the rain till I'm breathless

When I'm breathless I'll run till I drop, hey!

And the thoughts of a fool's gotta count

I'm just a fool waiting on the wrong block!  


Today, September 25, marks the 38th anniversary of John Bonham’s death. In the aftermath, we’re left with drums that cascade into the room and reverberate in your rib cage. It’s Hammer of the Gods, from first to last.

Now that the kit’s up and running, I’m playing drums more regularly. I’m rusty, and my chops aren’t what they used to be. Intermittent playing has done me no favors. 

Good Times, Bad Times, sin pregunta.  

However, as I continue to clean out the carport, continue to dream about what the space could be, continue to find more and more chains, belts and spiders, I continue to stop every so often, put on the headphones, and ramble on with the madman behind the kit.

Ramble on, Bonzo. Ramble on.


Light of the love that I found

Light of the love that I found

Light of the love that I found

Light of the love that I found


under construction: IN CARE OF

I’d rather write than rake. 

I’d rather brainstorm about post-apocalyptic jazz landscapes and crumbling hotels that turn into arboretums, but my backyard’s overgrown, and needs tending.

My personality avoids the mundane responsibilities of caring for my space — laundry, dishes, lawn maintenance. I’m more inclined to write a sonnet than sweep the living room. “Anyone can do these tasks,” I reason. “Only I can think about time-traveling tweens, talking planets and made-up colors.”

This is why I wind up doing dishes at 6 in the morning, or laundry at 11 at night — because it is always the last thing on my mind, never on purpose, always begrudgingly.

But here I am, mid-way through the backyard, and the mower’s stopped again, and I’m positive it’s not the battery. Once more, I don’t know what I’m doing. 

I remove the starter key and lift up the mower to diagnose the problem. It’s been so long since I’ve cleaned the lawnmower that a skin of yard waste, composed of wet grass and dirt, is plastered to its underside. I use the most available tool — my car keys in my pocket — and scrape away at the grass. It comes off in scabs, and after its cleaning, the mower’s cutting noticeably improves.

* * *

The scraping of the lawnmower’s undercarriage (yuck) reminds me of the wallpaper I scraped off two of the living room walls when I first moved into the house. I went to Home Depot — the first of one-hundred and eighteen trips (so far) — and told the first employee I saw about the wallpaper.

“Oh,” she said, smiling, knowing I was in for a treat.
“Yeah, so I need to know…”

She nodded, taking me under her wing. “C’mon.” She gave me the PSP solution, and what looked like an older computer mouse with a spiked gyro ball on the bottom.

“Score the wallpaper with this,” referring to the mouse, “then spray the solution on it. That’ll reactivate the adhesive and pull the paper away from the wall. Then,” handing me a scraper, “you scrape.”

The process really is as simple as it sounds — and it’s also a pain. It takes forever, especially if you’re like me, who struggles to do one thing and one thing only for a long period of time. I’d scrape a section, then set it down and move to something else — some lights I was replacing, cabinets that needed cleaning, etc. I’d scrape another section, then work on a video I was editing, or a piece I was writing. 

It took me several days — way longer than was necessary. One of the days, I was sitting on a bucket, and the Comcast guy was in the other corner of the room, setting up Internet. He looked over at what I was doing. “That looks terrible,” he said.

“It’s not that bad,” I said. And I meant it — the wall-paper scraping put me in that front living room for a prolonged amount of time, and during that time, I tried to pray. Sometimes it was prayer against carpal tunnel, other times prayer for friends and family. When I was really on point, it was prayer for the room. Scraping was, in a strange way, a kind of spiritual discipline.

Before I reaped, I had to first learn how to sow. 

Before anything else, I had to clean the place. I had to scrape the walls to prepare them for painting. I prayed for the conversations to come, for the people who’d stay in the house, for the place of imagination and tenderness I hoped it would become.

* * *

Work on the house has been slower than I’d like to admit, but I’m here, and the house is still here, and there’s still work to be done. I hesitate working on the house because I don’t know what I’m doing, but that’s not to say I can’t learn. That’s not to say I won’t make mistakes, but that’s not to say I can’t give to something good.

I can put good work into a good thing.  
I can scrape wallpaper and grass clippings. 
I can care for a place and, by extension, care for myself.

Homeward Sound

For Christmas, all I want are two fixed coordinates; X and Y.  Also known as a point of origin. 

I want to have come from somewhere ancient; to be able to first point to a very old place full of very old buildings, say “There, Then.” And second, point at myself, a heart full of trembling hands, and say, “Here, Now.”

Why do I desire roots, and by extension, Home? “This is where I come from,” I long to say, “This red dirt and these sounds of Blue Herons, these smells of lavender and this amber ray of sunrise — here and here and here.”

More than Los Gatos, California — more than Scotland and Italy — more than dirt and air.

Beneath the desire, a lament — that I wish to possess the virtues of age and place, but without any of the cost or process necessary to acquire them. I want to have roots, but I don’t want to grow them. 

In this way, I’ve forgotten what ‘growth’ even means. Nothing around me grows. Instead, everything around me — from coffee to money transfers to entire seasons of TV to air mattresses to an exact timeline of the French and Indian War to new homes — is Instant, Instantaneous, infinitely swappable for the next model and always — always at my fingertips. 

And not to say that speed is inherently evil — because it isn’t — But it’s not always good. 

Roots require growth. And growth hurts. Roots seep out from within my trunk, and dig deep into the earth. Into a place. Roots demand abiding and endurance, neither an idea with much sway nowadays.

Perhaps I take pride in having left ‘Home’, or having re-arranged the building blocks to the point of not recognizing it as home at all. 

I burn bridges as if it’s a rite of passage. I re-develop mangers into shopping malls. Re-configure cradles into convenience stores into coffee shops into co-working spaces into into into… 

Everything looks familiar, but nothing feels familiar.

Vintage is now virtue. Distressing material is now an assembly line directive. Grain and Dust are incorporated into clean pictures and used to displace, or de-place, ourselves. Wear and tear, brick and wood, Edison bulbs like sand on the seashore. Shiplap and hardwood floors. Rust and frayed edging, amen.

Yes, I am cynical of Time and Age’s mass commodification, but not of the desire. The desires are in me too — the desires to belong to somewhere, to someone — to yearn continually for Home — for a land you know yet cannot describe — a place you’ve never been, but have always known — and that is Good. 

But I cannot build Time, and I cannot manufacture Place. I cannot create Age. Rather, the best humanity can offer is the comfort of dust — from dust drawn out, and to dust destined for. but not of the desire. 

I build my pretty frames and admire the bark on the wood without stopping to acknowledge the deeper truth: I — We — are not made of bark.

We are made of rings. Which are, in turn, made of time. 

+ TWO +

What a beautiful truth — Yes, I come from a very old place.
What a strange truth — Yes, I belong to a current I neither created nor control. 
What a difficult truth — No, it is not a place to be bought, sold, subdivided, redeveloped or repurposed.

What a frightful truth — I am home in the hand of God.
What a loving truth — You are home in the hand of God.
What a painful, graceful, mysterious, burdensome, vibrant, wondrous, transformational-if-we-let-it truth — We are home in the hand and heart of God.


One of my favorite movies is Hook, for the scene where Peter Banning — now an overweight, overwrought adult — has been rejected and disavowed by the Lost Boys. 

Until the last boy. He approaches, looks Banning up and down, and calls Peter to his level, down near the soil. And the little boy smooshes his hands against his face, pulls back the eyelids, and like magic — “Oh, THERE you are Peter!”

There I will be, in what the world considers my greatest success, me at my best and biggest, and there my beloved will smoosh their fingers against my face, and they will know me as no one else knows me, as only God Himself knows me more — “Oh, THERE you are, Dominic!” 

And there I will be, in what the world considers my greatest failure, me at my worst and weakest, and my beloved will smoosh their fingers against my face, and they will know me as no one else knows me, as only God Himself knows me more — “Oh, THERE you are, Dominic!” 

+ FOUR +

The world, like Saul maladapting David into a soldier, will drape you with ill-fitting armor and demand you fight battles you don’t believe in, for reasons you don’t understand.

"Be a soldier, not a shepherd. Be a warrior, not a lover."

But the Lord, the Shepherd who made me well, sees through all worldly adorning and shaming. It’s Padre, palms open, “There, Then…Here, Now.” 

Here, I’ve always been. Here, I’ll always be. 

Who sings the song I've heard all this time?
What is the still, small voice which has always stirred me -- which has sparked simultaneous dream and terror?

Does Home fill me with dread? With imagination?
Does Home dig deeper and wider than I'll ever know?

What King -- What Shepherd --
Where am I walking? 

What Lion -- What Lamb -- 
Whose steps are these? Whose blood in my veins? 

What Maker -- What Love --
Who are you that calls me Home?

Home might never be a single place, but it is always a Presence; less of an establishing and more of a knowing, where all of you is welcomed, at all times, for all time. 

Home again, home again — in the hand and heart of God — who holds the dust of the earth, who traces canyons in the lines of His palm, and as we bow low, in tenderness, a voice — 

“Son — daughter — child — to the river, to the table. There you are…Home.”