What is the worth of the incredible diving catch to prevent the RBI if the next batter hits a grand slam?
How does the songwriter feel when she hears her song being used as an anthem for the campaign of the politician she loathes?
How does the firefighter feel if the toddler he pulled out of the burning house grows up to be a violent criminal?
How much do we all squander the breaks, windfalls and saves we are given and fail to recognize our myopia until it is too late?
It may be foolish to be saved and let the anchors of your past drag you right back down to the bottom, but the true fool is the saviour who thinks his act entitles him to ask, "What was the point?"
Learn from yesterday; look to tomorrow, but act only for today.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
We're on to victory some day
It seems so small a thing in the grander scheme of what this day means, but my most profound memory of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day happens to be from the very first one. In truth some states (including Ohio) had celebrated for several years already, but it was signed into federal law in 1983 by Ronald Reagan who cited fears of losing federal dollars paying for "another day off" but was overwhelmed by enormous congressional support for the bill. The first nationally recognized King holiday was then set as January 20, 1986.
I was in the second semester of my freshman year at Capital University, still at that time a Music Performance major and playing in a couple of the Conservatory ensembles including the "Fusion Orchestra." [Actually the ensemble was called the "Fussion Arkestra," named in the 1970s when I'm guessing the faculty was probably a bit more… bohemian. But then, as now, I refused to use that drug-addled spelling outside of compunctious brackets.] The Fusion Orchestra had been through two different faculty directors in the first semester of that school year and in the second semester was taken over by Stan Smith, the Conservatory's guitar professor, then and now. I could write whole blog entries on what a talented and amazing player, writer, arranger and instructor Stan has always been, but suffice to say the lessons he tried to impart to me then are still bearing fruit in my playing to this day.
In our first two weeks under his direction we were asked to play at a convocation at the affiliated Trinity Lutheran Seminary, directly across College Avenue from Capital's campus. Stan suggested we play a few things we'd been working on from the rocky semester before and also brought in an arrangement of "We Shall Overcome."
"We Shall Overcome" is a hymn written around 1900-1901 by the Reverend Charles Albert Tindley and gained a broader audience as it began to be used in the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s, sung by notables like Mahalia Jackson, Joan Baez and Pete Seeger, and of course quoted by Dr. King himself in both 1965 and in one of his final sermons (if not his very final sermon, although I understand this is debated) prior to his assassination.
Despite 1986 being the first year of federally recognized and mandated holiday, Capital saw no need to give students the day off from Capital since they are a private school, so I recall attending classes as normal that day. Which, to be fair, meant that I slept through my 8:00 a.m. Music Theory class but I did go to the rest before grabbing my gear and heading over to Trinity's chapel.
Most of the convocation itself was laid back and informal with various Seminary faculty and students presenting brief sermon-like orations to illustrate how Dr. King's message was applicable to a far greater segment of the world's population than simply the oppressed minorities during the 1960s. There were discussions on Dr. King's combining of biblical and secular references and an overarching emphasis on the equality of everyone. [Which, in retrospect, is probably why I was so proud of the E.L.C.A.'s recent decision to "allow" openly gay pastors in the church, and why I remain so disgusted with those who subsequently broke off to "maintain traditional values," which I can only assume means to ignore the entirety of the New Testament.]
When the Fusion Orchestra began playing Stan's inarguably breathtaking arrangement of "We Shall Overcome," I think even he was a little shocked at the energy that began building when the entire chapel started singing the words of the hymn. Within one pass through the song's form it became something larger than itself. Despite having made the choice to pursue an education in music because of my deep and abiding love for its power over me, this was the first time I found myself so immersed in the feedback loop between performers and listeners that the drowning became bliss itself. I remember Stan directing us to repeat the form over and over again, asking individual members to take solos here and there while the attendees continued to sing at the top of their lungs, making so joyful a noise as to make real every piece of the message that Dr. King wanted us all to take away from his use of that hymn. The truth of that message really could set us free.
I wonder now how much of that moment not only drove me to change my major just enough to add in as much learning outside the Conservatory in arts and sciences as I continued to have in music; how much it kept the fire alive inside me to constantly pursue music's truth and that performer/listener feedback loop; how much it propelled me into my now very non-musical career of fighting for the rights of every child brought before me in the justice system. It may seem inappropriate to discuss my own story on Dr. King's day, but then again, every holiday of recognition should be a day of introspection to see how much we live up to the beliefs and aspirations of the one being recognized.
And where we don't live up, we strive to overcome our limitations.
I was in the second semester of my freshman year at Capital University, still at that time a Music Performance major and playing in a couple of the Conservatory ensembles including the "Fusion Orchestra." [Actually the ensemble was called the "Fussion Arkestra," named in the 1970s when I'm guessing the faculty was probably a bit more… bohemian. But then, as now, I refused to use that drug-addled spelling outside of compunctious brackets.] The Fusion Orchestra had been through two different faculty directors in the first semester of that school year and in the second semester was taken over by Stan Smith, the Conservatory's guitar professor, then and now. I could write whole blog entries on what a talented and amazing player, writer, arranger and instructor Stan has always been, but suffice to say the lessons he tried to impart to me then are still bearing fruit in my playing to this day.
In our first two weeks under his direction we were asked to play at a convocation at the affiliated Trinity Lutheran Seminary, directly across College Avenue from Capital's campus. Stan suggested we play a few things we'd been working on from the rocky semester before and also brought in an arrangement of "We Shall Overcome."
"We Shall Overcome" is a hymn written around 1900-1901 by the Reverend Charles Albert Tindley and gained a broader audience as it began to be used in the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s, sung by notables like Mahalia Jackson, Joan Baez and Pete Seeger, and of course quoted by Dr. King himself in both 1965 and in one of his final sermons (if not his very final sermon, although I understand this is debated) prior to his assassination.
Despite 1986 being the first year of federally recognized and mandated holiday, Capital saw no need to give students the day off from Capital since they are a private school, so I recall attending classes as normal that day. Which, to be fair, meant that I slept through my 8:00 a.m. Music Theory class but I did go to the rest before grabbing my gear and heading over to Trinity's chapel.
Most of the convocation itself was laid back and informal with various Seminary faculty and students presenting brief sermon-like orations to illustrate how Dr. King's message was applicable to a far greater segment of the world's population than simply the oppressed minorities during the 1960s. There were discussions on Dr. King's combining of biblical and secular references and an overarching emphasis on the equality of everyone. [Which, in retrospect, is probably why I was so proud of the E.L.C.A.'s recent decision to "allow" openly gay pastors in the church, and why I remain so disgusted with those who subsequently broke off to "maintain traditional values," which I can only assume means to ignore the entirety of the New Testament.]
When the Fusion Orchestra began playing Stan's inarguably breathtaking arrangement of "We Shall Overcome," I think even he was a little shocked at the energy that began building when the entire chapel started singing the words of the hymn. Within one pass through the song's form it became something larger than itself. Despite having made the choice to pursue an education in music because of my deep and abiding love for its power over me, this was the first time I found myself so immersed in the feedback loop between performers and listeners that the drowning became bliss itself. I remember Stan directing us to repeat the form over and over again, asking individual members to take solos here and there while the attendees continued to sing at the top of their lungs, making so joyful a noise as to make real every piece of the message that Dr. King wanted us all to take away from his use of that hymn. The truth of that message really could set us free.
I wonder now how much of that moment not only drove me to change my major just enough to add in as much learning outside the Conservatory in arts and sciences as I continued to have in music; how much it kept the fire alive inside me to constantly pursue music's truth and that performer/listener feedback loop; how much it propelled me into my now very non-musical career of fighting for the rights of every child brought before me in the justice system. It may seem inappropriate to discuss my own story on Dr. King's day, but then again, every holiday of recognition should be a day of introspection to see how much we live up to the beliefs and aspirations of the one being recognized.
And where we don't live up, we strive to overcome our limitations.
Monday, November 7, 2011
The Final Show
So here I sit, no longer a musician.
And realize, of course, how unlikely that is.
The show on Friday night was almost indescribable. Unlike any other gig we’ve done it flew by in the flashing images of a DVR on super fast-forward. So many people came out that I often got overwhelmed just looking out at the crowd; there were hundreds of people crammed into a bar meant to hold eighty at best. From the foot of the stage there was a solid mass of human bodies straight back to the the doorway a hundred feet away. The thickest mass on the dance floor danced all night, but maybe a better description is that they throbbed, pressed together like pieces in a horizontal Tetris game, finding just the right fit against one another to move to the music without injuring anyone around them.
This was also really the first time there was a joining of our following; fans of the band who only ever saw us at Grandview Café, or Park Street Tavern, or Claddagh on St. Patrick’s day, or at certain weddings were all there together with our closest friends who have seen us everywhere. I felt nothing short of honored to see so many familiar faces taking in the music one last time.
I was also so very moved at seeing my closest friends there, including Jim, who had come up from Florida just for the show. Those in attendance knew just what a profound event this was for me and I am deeply in their debt for their support.
The band was on fire. Each song was played as though at its height of proficiency right before any boredom developed in its constant repetition. I think the irony is that the gig was so good that (not surprisingly) I want us to keep playing now, yet I know that the grace and bliss of that night existed because it was our swan song. The synchronicity of our performance with the crowd’s perception and retransmission of the energy back to us through their movement and cheers could only be a product of Sharp Circle Band’s farewell performance.
I can only agree with what Scott said last week after our Halloween show; it’s probably a damn good thing we never had Tim Perdue, Kevin O'Neill and Fred Gablick together before then because that sound alone is almost enough to never want to end things and ruin the whole plan of going out on a high note. Additionally having Sarah Stout and Damon Mollenkopf sing a few tunes with us (with that particular horn section behind us) was just icing on the sweetest, fattest, funkiest cake ever made.
Before I knew it, the moment I’d been dreading had arrived: Jason’s bass playing the intro to “With A Little Help From My Friends.” Looking out I saw that most of the faces were now stained with tears. In the last decade, friends of the band used our performances to get through the hard times of their lives as they came of age in their growing-up and grown-up worlds; we in turn relied on all of these friends to help get us to the high level of success we enjoyed for so many years. And then my eyes were wet too, trying to imagine just what in the ever-loving hell we were thinking when we decided to call it quits.
A day later I tried hard to put it all into perspective and remembered the reasons that it was time to stop:
- Aside from the final show, the week before at Grandview Cafe, and probably the Smokey Robinson show, there hadn’t been many uplifting, rewarding club gigs for probably over a year.
- The weddings we played during the last year or so found us playing to younger and younger couples who were less and less in touch with our style of music.
- I need to have some free weekends for awhile to dedicate all the time I can to my family while my boys are in their wide-eyed and delighted youth.
It was time to end. And what an end it was.
For those of you who have asked repeatedly, this question at least is answered: Friday, November 4, 2011, was not the last time I’ll play live music. It was just the last time for now.
I have a lot more parks and hiking trails to hit with my sons. And I have to hit the woodshed. And I have to hit a ****ing gym.
Then we'll see what other trouble that guitar of mine can get me into. In the meantime, if someone books a Sharp Circle Reunion show next fall, I’ll be there, baby. Ya heard?
And realize, of course, how unlikely that is.
The show on Friday night was almost indescribable. Unlike any other gig we’ve done it flew by in the flashing images of a DVR on super fast-forward. So many people came out that I often got overwhelmed just looking out at the crowd; there were hundreds of people crammed into a bar meant to hold eighty at best. From the foot of the stage there was a solid mass of human bodies straight back to the the doorway a hundred feet away. The thickest mass on the dance floor danced all night, but maybe a better description is that they throbbed, pressed together like pieces in a horizontal Tetris game, finding just the right fit against one another to move to the music without injuring anyone around them.
This was also really the first time there was a joining of our following; fans of the band who only ever saw us at Grandview Café, or Park Street Tavern, or Claddagh on St. Patrick’s day, or at certain weddings were all there together with our closest friends who have seen us everywhere. I felt nothing short of honored to see so many familiar faces taking in the music one last time.
I was also so very moved at seeing my closest friends there, including Jim, who had come up from Florida just for the show. Those in attendance knew just what a profound event this was for me and I am deeply in their debt for their support.
The band was on fire. Each song was played as though at its height of proficiency right before any boredom developed in its constant repetition. I think the irony is that the gig was so good that (not surprisingly) I want us to keep playing now, yet I know that the grace and bliss of that night existed because it was our swan song. The synchronicity of our performance with the crowd’s perception and retransmission of the energy back to us through their movement and cheers could only be a product of Sharp Circle Band’s farewell performance.
I can only agree with what Scott said last week after our Halloween show; it’s probably a damn good thing we never had Tim Perdue, Kevin O'Neill and Fred Gablick together before then because that sound alone is almost enough to never want to end things and ruin the whole plan of going out on a high note. Additionally having Sarah Stout and Damon Mollenkopf sing a few tunes with us (with that particular horn section behind us) was just icing on the sweetest, fattest, funkiest cake ever made.
Before I knew it, the moment I’d been dreading had arrived: Jason’s bass playing the intro to “With A Little Help From My Friends.” Looking out I saw that most of the faces were now stained with tears. In the last decade, friends of the band used our performances to get through the hard times of their lives as they came of age in their growing-up and grown-up worlds; we in turn relied on all of these friends to help get us to the high level of success we enjoyed for so many years. And then my eyes were wet too, trying to imagine just what in the ever-loving hell we were thinking when we decided to call it quits.
A day later I tried hard to put it all into perspective and remembered the reasons that it was time to stop:
- Aside from the final show, the week before at Grandview Cafe, and probably the Smokey Robinson show, there hadn’t been many uplifting, rewarding club gigs for probably over a year.
- The weddings we played during the last year or so found us playing to younger and younger couples who were less and less in touch with our style of music.
- I need to have some free weekends for awhile to dedicate all the time I can to my family while my boys are in their wide-eyed and delighted youth.
It was time to end. And what an end it was.
For those of you who have asked repeatedly, this question at least is answered: Friday, November 4, 2011, was not the last time I’ll play live music. It was just the last time for now.
I have a lot more parks and hiking trails to hit with my sons. And I have to hit the woodshed. And I have to hit a ****ing gym.
Then we'll see what other trouble that guitar of mine can get me into. In the meantime, if someone books a Sharp Circle Reunion show next fall, I’ll be there, baby. Ya heard?
Friday, October 21, 2011
James
This cerulean blue I have seen only once
Clear Hawaiian sky reflected in a pool
But that a trick of the painted azure/aqua walls beneath the water
Your eyes, then, some new miracle of genetics
Your older brother's eyes, the exact hazel of his mother
Followed my every move; copied my every action
Holding me daily as the revered icon I might never live up to
But yours never met my gaze
Always askance; always beyond my shoulder;
The ceiling; the floor;
The toy plate you learned to spin on the coffee table
Endlessly drawn into some deeper truth
In its oscillating, ever-quickening perigee of plastic on wood
Your brother relished every minute of human contact,
Never happy to be released from our embrace
Until sleep finally arrested him
You preferred to simply be placed in the crib
Our hugs and kisses a barely tolerable annoyance in your routine
Of constant smiles at a world seen through corners of the eye
She knew before I did, these signs glaring
But words failed her and she waited for doctors to announce
This unwanted paradigm, some new mystery of genetics
A day later, diagnosis in hand, tears wiped away
Your smile never abated and you were, after all, our little bear
Autism is just a word; its logotype a dark cerulean puzzle piece
James is a universe,
A blur of elan, frolic, giggles
Intervention; acceptance; therapy; love
Each day another lesson for you to engage
Another lesson for us to beckon but never pull
Each day another miracle of fulfillment
Now those eyes find mine and I melt like a spent candle
Burned in cerulean flame
Now those hugs come and I finally understand why you always smiled
Your love unhindered by any genetic definition
Clear Hawaiian sky reflected in a pool
But that a trick of the painted azure/aqua walls beneath the water
Your eyes, then, some new miracle of genetics
Your older brother's eyes, the exact hazel of his mother
Followed my every move; copied my every action
Holding me daily as the revered icon I might never live up to
But yours never met my gaze
Always askance; always beyond my shoulder;
The ceiling; the floor;
The toy plate you learned to spin on the coffee table
Endlessly drawn into some deeper truth
In its oscillating, ever-quickening perigee of plastic on wood
Your brother relished every minute of human contact,
Never happy to be released from our embrace
Until sleep finally arrested him
You preferred to simply be placed in the crib
Our hugs and kisses a barely tolerable annoyance in your routine
Of constant smiles at a world seen through corners of the eye
She knew before I did, these signs glaring
But words failed her and she waited for doctors to announce
This unwanted paradigm, some new mystery of genetics
A day later, diagnosis in hand, tears wiped away
Your smile never abated and you were, after all, our little bear
Autism is just a word; its logotype a dark cerulean puzzle piece
James is a universe,
A blur of elan, frolic, giggles
Intervention; acceptance; therapy; love
Each day another lesson for you to engage
Another lesson for us to beckon but never pull
Each day another miracle of fulfillment
Now those eyes find mine and I melt like a spent candle
Burned in cerulean flame
Now those hugs come and I finally understand why you always smiled
Your love unhindered by any genetic definition
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Frost in autumn
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And doubting I could not travel both,
I did
Keeping one foot on each for twenty-six years...
By this point, most of you know that Sharp Circle Band is hanging it up as of November 4th. That was precipitated at least in part by my decision to take some time off from the crazy world of gigging. I've gotten too old to take myself seriously as the 44-year-old funk/rock guitarist in a band of 30-year-olds playing mostly in bars that cater to 21-year-olds, and frankly people... I'm tired. With three amazing but busy sons, seven, five and three years old, and a full-time legal career, my recovery from a weekend of gigging has begun stretching past Sundays into Mondays and even Tuesdays. Not good.
Moreover, while just a year ago I was writing entries for this blog about relishing every wedding we played, the simple fact is that brides and grooms most often continue to be in their early 20s and we keep on aging (damn it all) and keep on playing music from the 70s and 80s. The gulf of being in touch with our patrons and clients is growing wider and wider.
Just this past summer, another band I gig with--an 80s cover band--was paid a lot of money to play three hours of music but was stopped after less than 45 minutes because the young attendees only wanted to hear Gaga, Ke$ha and Usher from an iPod. Part of that was certainly the fault of the bride and groom for hiring an 80s cover band and then not telling any of their friends and family they did so, but I can tell you I can't think of a more miserable experience involving playing music than I had that day.
I think the highlight of my career was getting to open for Smokey Robinson this past July 4th, and even then a combination of Smokey's control issues and a fatuous, self-important emcee cut our performance from 90 minutes to just over 30. Nonetheless it was a musical high I won't forget, if unfortunately overshadowing every gig that followed.
As I write these words, I have four shows left on the books. Quite frankly I'd rather have metal skewers driven into my skull than to play this coming Friday at the Northwest side's beach-volleyball asylum of suck, but after that we have a fun private party in Cleveland, a sure-to-amuse Halloween weekend gig, and our final going-away performance at Park Street Tavern on November 4th, for which our original bassist is flying back from California to help us us bring the Sharp Circle slam one final time. That will be a wonderful if emotional night, because frankly I'm not sure when I'll pick up a guitar in public again.
It's been a great ride. I've been honored and blessed to be able to play with bands like Soul Kitch'n, UberGroove, JusTus, Chess King, 456, Paradise Island, New Basics Brass Band and of course the phenomenally talented members of Sharp Circle. I've been able to release three albums of my own songs over the years, jam with other musicians around the globe, and do tons of studio dates with amazing songwriters and players.
But at the risk of destroying all of my accumulated prosaic credibility by quoting Little River Band, it's time for a cool change. I can't promise you I'm going to deal particularly well with it at first, but I'm curious as hell to see what comes next. One way or another I'm pretty sure it will involve writing. Just your luck; that'll probably mean more blogging.
Yeah, Frost, I hear you laughing.
And doubting I could not travel both,
I did
Keeping one foot on each for twenty-six years...
By this point, most of you know that Sharp Circle Band is hanging it up as of November 4th. That was precipitated at least in part by my decision to take some time off from the crazy world of gigging. I've gotten too old to take myself seriously as the 44-year-old funk/rock guitarist in a band of 30-year-olds playing mostly in bars that cater to 21-year-olds, and frankly people... I'm tired. With three amazing but busy sons, seven, five and three years old, and a full-time legal career, my recovery from a weekend of gigging has begun stretching past Sundays into Mondays and even Tuesdays. Not good.
Moreover, while just a year ago I was writing entries for this blog about relishing every wedding we played, the simple fact is that brides and grooms most often continue to be in their early 20s and we keep on aging (damn it all) and keep on playing music from the 70s and 80s. The gulf of being in touch with our patrons and clients is growing wider and wider.
Just this past summer, another band I gig with--an 80s cover band--was paid a lot of money to play three hours of music but was stopped after less than 45 minutes because the young attendees only wanted to hear Gaga, Ke$ha and Usher from an iPod. Part of that was certainly the fault of the bride and groom for hiring an 80s cover band and then not telling any of their friends and family they did so, but I can tell you I can't think of a more miserable experience involving playing music than I had that day.
I think the highlight of my career was getting to open for Smokey Robinson this past July 4th, and even then a combination of Smokey's control issues and a fatuous, self-important emcee cut our performance from 90 minutes to just over 30. Nonetheless it was a musical high I won't forget, if unfortunately overshadowing every gig that followed.
As I write these words, I have four shows left on the books. Quite frankly I'd rather have metal skewers driven into my skull than to play this coming Friday at the Northwest side's beach-volleyball asylum of suck, but after that we have a fun private party in Cleveland, a sure-to-amuse Halloween weekend gig, and our final going-away performance at Park Street Tavern on November 4th, for which our original bassist is flying back from California to help us us bring the Sharp Circle slam one final time. That will be a wonderful if emotional night, because frankly I'm not sure when I'll pick up a guitar in public again.
It's been a great ride. I've been honored and blessed to be able to play with bands like Soul Kitch'n, UberGroove, JusTus, Chess King, 456, Paradise Island, New Basics Brass Band and of course the phenomenally talented members of Sharp Circle. I've been able to release three albums of my own songs over the years, jam with other musicians around the globe, and do tons of studio dates with amazing songwriters and players.
But at the risk of destroying all of my accumulated prosaic credibility by quoting Little River Band, it's time for a cool change. I can't promise you I'm going to deal particularly well with it at first, but I'm curious as hell to see what comes next. One way or another I'm pretty sure it will involve writing. Just your luck; that'll probably mean more blogging.
Yeah, Frost, I hear you laughing.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Of thee
Watching you roll past the car windows, my country, it's of you I sing. I sing of the road that carries us south to see our friend, carved through farms and fields, hills and mountains, over streams, rivers and lakes.
I sing of your billboards, the windows you show us into your community--what you want us to know and believe about your values. The sweet land of liberty you hope we will see in you.
I sing of the rolling hills of southern Ohio, where people sit on porches watching their own coal carted far north to humming metropolitan areas while their lights glow from the power of steaming nuclear plant on the bank of the river.
I sing of the twisting, turning, snaking, rising and falling turnpike of West Virginia, which crosses Paint Creek no less than five times and reveals glimpses of towns set into the hollows, never knowing more than a few hours of direct sunlight each day.
I sing of emerging through the tunnel into Virginia and beginning the slow climb up through verdant horse country to the dizzying heights that afford a breathtaking vista of half of the state before quickly turning to the long descent that deposits us into North Carolina.
I sing of the boats and skiers on Lake Norman that teasingly suggest the Floridian waters we'll soon be enjoying and happily remind us how close we are to Charlotte, and then South Carolina, which through three decent runs on 77, 26 and 75 will get us to the "short side" of Georgia.
Georgia, I sing of the dozens of bridges that lift us over your maze of waterways and wetlands, hot sun now blazing on our arms and legs even through the polarized glass of the car.
I sing of Florida, as I have my whole life; each breath of summer air heating my lungs to a fiery, zestful glow. The ocean, the parent body of water from which this body made mostly of water sprang and aches to return yearly, monthly, daily.
I sing of true friends, one driving the vehicle which brings us, one awaiting our arrival; each conversation, each laugh another song to sing again and again.
And I sing of those waiting for my return: those I love nestled in our home, songs we've sung together; melodies and lyrics yet to be written.
This sun, this heat, this salt air. This life, this song.
I sing of your billboards, the windows you show us into your community--what you want us to know and believe about your values. The sweet land of liberty you hope we will see in you.
I sing of the rolling hills of southern Ohio, where people sit on porches watching their own coal carted far north to humming metropolitan areas while their lights glow from the power of steaming nuclear plant on the bank of the river.
I sing of the twisting, turning, snaking, rising and falling turnpike of West Virginia, which crosses Paint Creek no less than five times and reveals glimpses of towns set into the hollows, never knowing more than a few hours of direct sunlight each day.
I sing of emerging through the tunnel into Virginia and beginning the slow climb up through verdant horse country to the dizzying heights that afford a breathtaking vista of half of the state before quickly turning to the long descent that deposits us into North Carolina.
I sing of the boats and skiers on Lake Norman that teasingly suggest the Floridian waters we'll soon be enjoying and happily remind us how close we are to Charlotte, and then South Carolina, which through three decent runs on 77, 26 and 75 will get us to the "short side" of Georgia.
Georgia, I sing of the dozens of bridges that lift us over your maze of waterways and wetlands, hot sun now blazing on our arms and legs even through the polarized glass of the car.
I sing of Florida, as I have my whole life; each breath of summer air heating my lungs to a fiery, zestful glow. The ocean, the parent body of water from which this body made mostly of water sprang and aches to return yearly, monthly, daily.
I sing of true friends, one driving the vehicle which brings us, one awaiting our arrival; each conversation, each laugh another song to sing again and again.
And I sing of those waiting for my return: those I love nestled in our home, songs we've sung together; melodies and lyrics yet to be written.
This sun, this heat, this salt air. This life, this song.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Strands
I had a dream in which I was at a seminar of some sort, similar to one I just attended in Dearborn Michigan a few weeks back. There were hundreds of attendees, and presenters spoke to us from an elevated dais while twinned images were projected onto large screens on either side of the dais. My friends from work were seated around me.
And you -- and you -- and you -- and you were there. But you couldn’t have been, could you?
The speaker was explaining to us that using a new type of spectrographic imaging shot with recently designed cameras, one could see that as people walk they leave traces of themselves behind. An image of people walking on a crowded New York City sidewalk appeared on the screen, oddly translucent, and a glowing white line could be seen emanating from the top of each person’s head and extending back from the direction they’d walked into the frame.
“In zis way,” he said in thick, Israeli accent, “Ve can see zat a person leaves a trace of zemselves everywhere zey have been.” He went on to explain that this ethereal discharge was a small portion of a person’s daily thoughts and dreams—in a secular sense, a trace of their soul.
“I postulate,” he continued, “Zat in ze future we may be able to develop a mechanism to capture zese thoughts and know just vat a suspect vas thinking at ze time zey were in ze place. Certainly you all know zat if you visit a place you have not been for a long time, memories will instantly resurface which you had at ze time but have long zince forgotten. Zat is because currently you alone have ze ability to recapture your own strands, but technology vill change zat!”
A funny dream, and pretty scary if you're a defense attorney. But I digress.
I think somehow my brain had combined the lectures given by the brilliant Werner Spitz about homicide investigation with the recent news buzz about Apple and Android phones tracking people’s movements. It is always amusing to me the way our brains will slice, dice, puree and blend things we see and hear into new and bizarre stories, and I remain fascinated at how the you that exists in the dream can believe this contrived scenario without reservation.
Then you wake up. But unlike Dorothy, you feel no need to try to convince Auntie Em that the dream was real. Reality’s teeth, once set back into your flesh, allow little room for speculation.
This time though I have to admit I liked the idea. I pictured an aerial view of a map showing all the places we have lived as warm, glowing blotches of light, with thin strands traveling off in all directions showing the trips we’ve taken. All the places in the world that I’ve visited have given my soul something to bring back with me; have I in turn left something of myself behind at each location? And therefore, are there much deeper concentrations of my former self at places where I lived for long periods of time?
So, having a day off, a full tank of gas, a full aluminum bottle of iced green tea, and an iPhone full of old and new music, I set out to snag the strands of my past self left floating in and around my former homes in the greater Columbus area. I set off for the first place I lived in town—good old Schaaf Hall at 2199 E. Main Street, better known as Capital University. Mike Stern’s “Upside Downside” and then Michael Brecker’s “Sea Glass” set the mood as I drove: two songs I listened to incessantly while living at Capital.
Although much of the campus area has changed significantly since my time there in the ‘80s, Schaaf Hall dormitory looked exactly the same—as futuristic to those who built it as it is dated now—a C-shaped, brick behemoth that could easily have doubled as a set piece for any of the later Planet Of The Apes films.
They say that smell is the strongest sense, meaning that an aroma can trigger memories you thought you’d lost decades earlier, but I must admit in just seeing Schaaf’s steel side doors made to withstand any blast the Red Menace might send our way (duck & cover, kids!), I had a flood of memories that I had most definitely lost track of easily twenty years earlier.
The memories just kept flooding back as I continued on with my tour, playing songs on the iPhone that were from whatever particular era that I lived in each subsequent place. On and on I drove, listened and looked: Village Creek Drive (Nine Inch Nails), Broadmoor Avenue (Vinyl), Parklane Avenue (Stevie Ray Vaughn), Faymeadow Avenue (Dave Matthews Band), Broad Meadows Boulevard (Soul Coughing). At each site, a thick freshet of remembrance cascading through my head.
Just as the dream-doppelganger of Dr. Spitz suggested, the thoughts, hopes and beliefs that were in my head had seemed to have seeped out around those places and were still there, waiting for me to come by again and let them back in for a romp in my psyche. I’ll leave the question of whether or not those strands of my soul can metaphysically interact with those who lived in those houses later to better philosophers and Syfy screenplay writers, but I can’t deny I’m looking at my house now and wondering what strands have been left here by others to waft across my subconscious.
Did I discover any lost truths about myself? No, not really.
Did I uncover some valuable midlife advice to share with all of you? Not so much.
Do I plan to reference Wizard of Oz for a third time as the denouement of this blog entry? Yeah, probably.
Dorothy figured out there was no place like home. I learned today that home is inside you no matter where you are. Revisiting old landmarks can indeed make memories resurface to remind you who you were then, but far more importantly, how far you’ve come since then.
And you -- and you -- and you -- and you were there. But you couldn’t have been, could you?
The speaker was explaining to us that using a new type of spectrographic imaging shot with recently designed cameras, one could see that as people walk they leave traces of themselves behind. An image of people walking on a crowded New York City sidewalk appeared on the screen, oddly translucent, and a glowing white line could be seen emanating from the top of each person’s head and extending back from the direction they’d walked into the frame.
“In zis way,” he said in thick, Israeli accent, “Ve can see zat a person leaves a trace of zemselves everywhere zey have been.” He went on to explain that this ethereal discharge was a small portion of a person’s daily thoughts and dreams—in a secular sense, a trace of their soul.
“I postulate,” he continued, “Zat in ze future we may be able to develop a mechanism to capture zese thoughts and know just vat a suspect vas thinking at ze time zey were in ze place. Certainly you all know zat if you visit a place you have not been for a long time, memories will instantly resurface which you had at ze time but have long zince forgotten. Zat is because currently you alone have ze ability to recapture your own strands, but technology vill change zat!”
A funny dream, and pretty scary if you're a defense attorney. But I digress.
I think somehow my brain had combined the lectures given by the brilliant Werner Spitz about homicide investigation with the recent news buzz about Apple and Android phones tracking people’s movements. It is always amusing to me the way our brains will slice, dice, puree and blend things we see and hear into new and bizarre stories, and I remain fascinated at how the you that exists in the dream can believe this contrived scenario without reservation.
Then you wake up. But unlike Dorothy, you feel no need to try to convince Auntie Em that the dream was real. Reality’s teeth, once set back into your flesh, allow little room for speculation.
This time though I have to admit I liked the idea. I pictured an aerial view of a map showing all the places we have lived as warm, glowing blotches of light, with thin strands traveling off in all directions showing the trips we’ve taken. All the places in the world that I’ve visited have given my soul something to bring back with me; have I in turn left something of myself behind at each location? And therefore, are there much deeper concentrations of my former self at places where I lived for long periods of time?
So, having a day off, a full tank of gas, a full aluminum bottle of iced green tea, and an iPhone full of old and new music, I set out to snag the strands of my past self left floating in and around my former homes in the greater Columbus area. I set off for the first place I lived in town—good old Schaaf Hall at 2199 E. Main Street, better known as Capital University. Mike Stern’s “Upside Downside” and then Michael Brecker’s “Sea Glass” set the mood as I drove: two songs I listened to incessantly while living at Capital.
Although much of the campus area has changed significantly since my time there in the ‘80s, Schaaf Hall dormitory looked exactly the same—as futuristic to those who built it as it is dated now—a C-shaped, brick behemoth that could easily have doubled as a set piece for any of the later Planet Of The Apes films.
They say that smell is the strongest sense, meaning that an aroma can trigger memories you thought you’d lost decades earlier, but I must admit in just seeing Schaaf’s steel side doors made to withstand any blast the Red Menace might send our way (duck & cover, kids!), I had a flood of memories that I had most definitely lost track of easily twenty years earlier.
The memories just kept flooding back as I continued on with my tour, playing songs on the iPhone that were from whatever particular era that I lived in each subsequent place. On and on I drove, listened and looked: Village Creek Drive (Nine Inch Nails), Broadmoor Avenue (Vinyl), Parklane Avenue (Stevie Ray Vaughn), Faymeadow Avenue (Dave Matthews Band), Broad Meadows Boulevard (Soul Coughing). At each site, a thick freshet of remembrance cascading through my head.
Just as the dream-doppelganger of Dr. Spitz suggested, the thoughts, hopes and beliefs that were in my head had seemed to have seeped out around those places and were still there, waiting for me to come by again and let them back in for a romp in my psyche. I’ll leave the question of whether or not those strands of my soul can metaphysically interact with those who lived in those houses later to better philosophers and Syfy screenplay writers, but I can’t deny I’m looking at my house now and wondering what strands have been left here by others to waft across my subconscious.
Did I discover any lost truths about myself? No, not really.
Did I uncover some valuable midlife advice to share with all of you? Not so much.
Do I plan to reference Wizard of Oz for a third time as the denouement of this blog entry? Yeah, probably.
Dorothy figured out there was no place like home. I learned today that home is inside you no matter where you are. Revisiting old landmarks can indeed make memories resurface to remind you who you were then, but far more importantly, how far you’ve come since then.
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