Blood & Brine

I wrote this a few days after Chris Cornell died. His passing really affected me, especially in light of the circumstances. I realize it is lyrically quite ambiguous, but basically the song is an exploration of why so many artists suffer with and are plagued by addiction, mental health and depression. The people; painters, writers, musicians, etc who bring us / the world such joy and inspiration with their work are often very tortured individuals, battling daily with their demons. Is their creativity a part of this darkness that they face? Can they ever escape it? I used the metaphor of a labyrinth in the song to illustrate someone trying to find the answers to these impossible questions.

Millions are inspired by the artist - and when that artist succumbs to their mental illness or addiction - this event in of itself, in turn, negatively -- or -- perhaps positively from a creative angle, affects those who loved and were inspired by them. A very intriguing, albeit dark cycle.

Nothing to do with this song, but enlightening to note that a few months after Cornell committed suicide - Chester Bennington (Linkin Park) killed himself. Again, really no answers as to why - but we know he battled similar demons. Another young and very talented artist. So sad.

While in the process of finishing up the song, I recalled the mysterious death of Jeff Buckley - and that hearkens the 'black water' passages that close the piece. The only answer one can be comforted by, if at all, is the notion that maybe all of this is somehow, however tragic, meant to be. And at the very least, perhaps peace for these individuals comes with the finality of their deaths.

You put the color of the clouds Into perspective for me You put the hi-beams on the lines You showed me grace that I could not Contemplate before you Magic of the blood and brine

And now I paint the black abyss Knife this canvas with a poisoned, sentimental kiss

From the shadows passages Illuminated themselves Maps and runes scribed marbled walls My fingertips trace lines along the surface Wet with weeping A compass for the broken souls

Have you escaped these catacombs? Where is the metaphor? The lesson? Or the path your lighted voice has shone?

A silver key hangs at my throat It can’t unlock this mystery Symbolize the search within The only answers lead to questions Among these dusty tomes Where the fuck do we begin?

As the creative fire consumes The artists’ thirst for inspiration suffocates within its lethal fumes

A careful balance is the cost Between voices never heard, the songs of those we loved and those we’ve lost

Black water of the river wash me up Upon your shores A spell of deliverance cast me here Carry me home

Black water of the river wash over me Troubled and deep I long to deliver flesh and bone Carry me home