Sorry, Dad

The other day, I ranted against Maynard, which is NOT like me at all.  If you know nothing about me (which you don’t, I deleted my old blog, so this is largely trying to catch up), I usually use Agostina as my last name.  Agostina is Maynard’s daughter’s name, because I liken him to my father.  His music and lyrics are, in large part, what pushed me to realize that there was so much under my calm waters that I was ignorant to.  Between his three bands – TOOL, APC, and Puscifer, I have become a woman that is strong, resilient, beautiful, connecting with her power and love.

The cathartic drug of music transforms me daily, and his music especially, was the spark to my gasoline fumes of desire to write.  There was a time I said, “I want to be Maynard when I grow up” but he would sneer in aspersion at such aspiration.  He is my inspiration in so many ways.  His love of Joni Mitchell led me to, like her, attempt to write the chords of my heart based on my mood.  It is fulfilling, challenging, and fun.

On my 6 mile lost in the woods hike yesterday, I remembered the simple truth I had forgotten over the past few weeks.  Like Maynard, I do not, nor have I ever (unless I forget, apparently) have a single fuck to give about what anyone thinks of me.  I’ve spent too much time worrying over opinions.  My just desserts are a lot of humble pie and tears to cry.  No thank you, says I.  Maynard is Maynard because of his intuition.  When I listen to my intuition, I am a fierce lioness.  When I listen to anything else, I am a scared sheep.  I am glad for the past few weeks, they were terrible.  It was incredible.

So, while I disagree with the joke about Frances Bean as I have overwhelming compassion for addicts, Dad, I apologize for saying you suck.  I was contemplating the lessons your lyrics have taught me when I began my journey, and I realized that I have gotten turned around on my path.  Humans are the only mammals that can successfully get in their own way.  I am tired of a being a lion trembling at the butterfly, and I will not be the illogical butterfly arguing with the wind beneath her wings.

Relying on myself with a dead phone and nothing but chattering birds singing my footsteps, contemplating the artists I admire, pondering the beauty of nature, I lit my own spark.  I want to ground back down in the good stuff – my Puscifer.  It’s time to have some fun.

I Will.  I Am.

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