I’m not sure what just happened. Two hours ago, I was performing bits of damn-near perfection via my fingertips. Perfect enough to where non-musicians wouldn’t notice. Then, something invisible slapped me across the soul.

I picked up the Hummingbird one more time for a quick tuning – which, of course, turned to playing – and something felt off. I couldn’t perform a proper 4-fingered open G chord to save my damn life. It’s like I was stroking-out. Then, my stomach fell.

Butterflies. I was under the impression that the Army killed those in 1997. If I look thoroughly enough, I still may have the receipt to prove it.

I quickly, but carefully, put the Hummingbird back onto its rack and ran for the bathroom. I made it in time, but it was a close call. Nothing like that has happened to me since I stopped drinking alcohol almost four years ago. Does it still have that much of a hold on me?

The main reason I stopped performing at open mics was the fact ALL these places serve alcohol; even the coffee shop! The smell, from the bottles themselves or from people’s breath when they speak to me, makes me sick and jittery. The clinking of bottles also does a number. I made the mistake of picking up a beer recently at a grocery store. The frigid glass in my hand felt like the Holy freaking’ Grail. I nearly blacked out. All I was doing was showing it to someone.

We live in an alcohol, football, and pop music world. I’m a pothead rocker who digs hockey. At times, I can’t help but think I don’t belong on this planet, but that’s too broad. I should at least be Canadian. That’s obtainable, right?

The rain is falling, the cat is keeking, and the studio is dark. Perhaps I should just sleep.

My contribution to the universe feels tarnished as of late.

Is it the world who feels empty, or has my bubble just darkened?

It feels warm and snugly for now. Safe, almost.

But safety is a point of view.

Lone Star is the white man’s MK Ultra.