IF IT HURTS, DON'T DO IT

 

I went to a concert recently where the stage was raised and baffles designed so none of the sound leaked out the sides or up through the rafters. It was all funneled out to the audience. Seating was on a grassy slope, room for several thousand; you bring your own chair or a blanket. Before the show began they played recorded music over the PA system; not by the night’s performer but the same, blues/rock genre. The sound level was just right, it came across clean, clear, every note, every syllable. 

The introduction was short and the show began. We were in the middle of the amphitheater just behind and to one side of the audio control booth and the sound engineer. After the first verse, into the first break I tried to tell my companions that I had to leave; too loud. They couldn’t hear me, had to resort to sign language. “Pain; it hurts my ears.” I took my chair and headed to the high point in the far back; still had to cup hands over my ears. My friends followed in a few minutes. We still couldn’t hear each other. 

I remember in the 1980’s, Metallica, Van Halen; they were loud and offensive but my teenage kids loved it. I remember in 1958, the guitar riff at the front of “Johnny Be Good”. Our parents thought is was awful. After all, aggressive, edgy music was then, still is how kids push back against authority. Nobody could make you, not like music that pushes back. We liked “Sweet Little 16”, a black man singing to white kids, veiled, double entendre songs about sex, and it was too loud. "Loud" has evolved over time and technology and now it means (if it doesn’t hurt your ears it isn’t loud enough.) 

I understand, I really do. Musicians want to stretch boundaries and decibels is one way to do that. With “Rock” music, many if not most writer/arrangers consider the voice (lyrics) as just another instrument and whether or not it can be understood is not important. Sinatra and Fitzgerald started singing nonsense sounds in the 60's. They called it “Scat”. But they made sure you heard each consonant and every vowel. They were trying to embellish the story. The current norm is meant to overwhelm the sensory system, an experience rather than a connection. It takes half a million watts to drive 160-170 decibels out a hundred yards to the nose bleed seats in the upper deck. In bars and clubs, it’s common to register 150 d. which causes permanent hearing loss. You can see ripples on the surface of your drink as it vibrates toward the edge of the table. I know something about hearing loss. After decades of denial, I went to the doctor; 40% loss in both ears and I can’t hear for S#*t. When you’re 24 or 31 you can laugh it off; “If it’s too loud, you’re too old.” There’s a very good chance you are too old: you will be the last to know but it’s way-way-too loud as well. Weird how euphoria can increase dopamine production which in turn suppresses the pain. Those same sound levels are used in some places to wear down resistance and torture prisoners. 

I like music meant to be loud, to be loud. But over 100 d. you’re just caught up in a trendy form of self immolation. Your ears don’t go “Boink” over night but they do go boink over time and the fix is over rated. I didn’t stay for the last hour and a half of the Amanda Fish Band. She was trying to howl like Janice Joplin but was just making noise, Janice didn’t need a bazillion watts to get your attention. Beth Hart screams but she is her own amplifier and every phrase is clear as a bell. So much for Too Loud. If it hurts, don’t do it. 

CLOTHES PIN & A RUBBER BAND

Anthropologist Margaret Mead (1901-1978) deduced from her research clearly that funeral rituals are of and for the living. The correlation between self awareness and intelligence is obvious but the unhappy third element of that triad is the knowledge that we will most certainly die. As far as we can tell, animals are unaware that they were born or that they will die. In that vacuum they live ‘happy as a clam’ and good for them. It’s a scary, unescapable legacy. 

Once upon a time, people died at home. Death was as natural as birth. You could see it coming, something you could count on. My grandmother died in her sleep on the couch in our living room while I slept in my bed upstairs. We don’t do that much anymore. Our culture is obsessed with “Young.” Death is depressing and we’ll have none of it. We have nursing homes where old people go to die, with dignity if you believe the brochure and just as importantly, out of sight. Shortly after my dad moved to a place called Foxwood he told me, “This is the place where you walk in the front door and leave out the back on a gurney.” He knew he would die there. As much as we would like to live, happy as clams, we can not. Funerals are for mourning our own unavoidable passing as well, whether we understand it or not; evolution and human nature have taken care of that. It is the time and place when it’s appropriate to vent that double sorrow.

How many times have we heard people say they want their funeral moved up a year or so before they stop breathing to enjoy all of their friends at their ‘last hurrah’. I think it’s a great idea; macabre maybe but why not? I could write my own eulogy. It might go something like this.

FRANK STEVENS 1939 - 20??

Born the 2nd of three sons to Frank & Dorothy, he was naive and shy, loved to play games, especially games with a ball. He loved ladies but found them intimidating. It set up a life-long dichotomy that he could navigate but never reconcile. The boy could entertain himself with a clothes pin and a rubber band. The demands of work required self discipline but his imagination did not. Never lacking for imagination he followed it; his teachers said he was lazy but what did they know? 

He grew up reluctantly. The military bridged an awkward gap between aimless diversion and gainful purpose. Physically, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. But he was never the best, not even “Really Good”. But he was good enough to make the team, to play and to learn the lesson - being a small part of something grand is wonderful. Skydiving was his path to becoming, really good at something. People noticed; recognition is strong medicine. That self confidence would be a springboard to college and a career in education. When he had to chose between the adult work force and hanging out with teenagers, it was no contest. 

Reinventing the self was always a necessity, nothing to do with philosophy or insight. Living was like landing an airplane; any landing you can walk away from is a good one. Curiosity always trumped ambition. All he ever wanted was, to understand why, and how it works; to be loved. After that he wanted to please others and if possible, to have a fun toy. He tried to be a good son, a Christian to please his parents but like the Ugly Duckling, life had other plans for him. The classic Agnostic, he made the distinction between disbelief and unbelief; the absence of proof doesn’t prove anything. His doubts were great and many while his Faith could neither float nor fly. To meet his spiritual needs he trusted Gibran and Twain. Not knowing the unknowable simply left him with an inert question mark. ‘Whether or Not’ was simply irrelevant, it didn’t matter. Here and now, this life was enough. 

The only reservations he had about his own passing would be that someone might, in good faith, allow a cleric to pray or preach over his bones. That would be horrible. “Even when they believe their own hyperbole,” he would say, “they are salesmen exploiting someone’s grief.”

When the sun turns into a red giant and Earth itself has been reduced to star dust, it will have been enough to have been here for a while. In the movie Grumpy Old Men, 95-year old Burgess Meredith scolds his 65-year old son, Jack Lemon, “When you die, all you get to take with you is your experience.” Whatever becomes of his ashes, Frank’s experiences will still be his experiences. He would say, “Life is for the living; you don’t have that much time.”

MORE THAN ONE HAT

When I arrived in Halifax it was late afternoon, too late to get a bed at the downtown hostel. So I parked in the Atlantic Grocery parking lot across the street and walked down to the waterfront. That was five years ago. It was the week of their Busker Festival and the pier was wall-to-wall with street musicians, magicians, jugglers and the like. I spent the afternoon being entertained, delighted at my good fortune. Then I slept in my car. The next day I reserved my bed early and set to find a room to rent. 

In that first afternoon I noticed a subtle difference between Canadian and American crowds. Over the next three months that observation would be confirmed again and again. Nova Scotia is only a half day drive or a two hour ferry ride from the American border but you sense quickly that the world turns to a different tune there. I noticed through etiquette and mannerisms, through unmistakable body language and overt acts: they saw themselves as being more responsible and less entitled when it came to their liberties. “Do unto others. . .” is a civic responsibility more so than high minded morality. They have high expectations for each other and they communicate that in interesting ways. If you drop a piece of trash, someone might well pick it up and hand it back to you with a disarming comment; “I’m sorry, you dropped this.” Or, they might give you detailed directions to the nearest rubbish barrel; a gentle reminder but a reprimand none the less. That same collective accountability holds true from standing in checkout lines to law enforcement. In my first week there, I sampled a cashew from the bulk food bin. Before I could walk away, another customer politely informed me that in Canada you pay for food before you consume it. I got the message. 

By the end of my stay I had reset my compass to Canadian expectations. Simply stated, true north was We-We-We rather than the more American, Me-Me-Me. I have a friend there, an engineer  from Thunder Bay, worked many years in Atlanta, Georgia, now retired in Halifax. He observed, “We were not born of a bloody revolution and don’t have to live in that shadow. We put more stock in peace, fairness and good government than in your, life, liberty or pursuit of happiness.” He put into two sentences what I couldn’t unravel in two paragraphs. 

Yesterday I went to another Busker Fest; this time in Lawerence, Kansas. Some acts were at sidewalk venues, others in bars or churches or closed off streets. A young lady, singer/songwriter drew a crowd of maybe twenty, inside, off the street and that was enough. She did good. I took some photos and emailed them to her. A juggler/magician out on the sidewalk was clever and funny. He worked the crowd for half an hour with about six minutes of intermittent performing. But that was nothing compared to the break dancing, tumbling, standup comic who did five short passes over a forty five minute distraction. I’ve seen that act many times in an open air theatre in the French Quarter. In New Orleans it’s a cast of 5 or 6 athletes. They take turns doing the sweaty, leaping, twisting, arial work while the others work the crowd for tips. Yesterday the guy worked a modest crowd into a densely packed horde, all drawn to the noise. He milked us like a carnival barker, selling snake oil. When he did the good stuff it came with little warning, lasted only a few seconds and it was back to the in-your-face jokes and self-deprecating humor. The bigger the audience, the bigger the payday; I hope he made a bundle. 

He finished, I was entertained; put a few dead presidents in his knapsack and headed back to my car. It was time to get off my feet. On the drive home I thought about the crowd, what it took to make them feel good; it made me think about how, not everyone moves to the same drum. I felt good with simple, finger style guitar and gentle lyrics from a little, mid-west girl and equally comfortable with raucous, street theatre. I am an American; I can wear more than one hat and right now I miss my Canadian friends.

BIRD NERD

My plan was, not to feed the neighborhood birds this summer. Bird food is plentiful or they wouldn’t be here in the first place. Fresh water in the bird bath still serves a need and I see to that but then I noticed, I did the math. If you want birds, song birds, birds with character and good looks to frequent your yard, they need a reason. I already had a good, spring loaded, squirrel resistant feeder, several suet cages and a peanut feeder all gathering dust in the basement. It didn’t take much convincing to change my mind about luring birds to my yard. Yesterday I went up to May Milling, on Main Street; came home with peanuts, black oiled sunflower seeds and a blend with millet and thistle seed. 

May Milling; when I was a kid the building was a big, barn-ish cavern with corrugated metal for both siding and the roof. The board floor creaked under our feet and it smelled of leather, hay and grain. My dad took me there in 1947, I was going on 8. We had 3 acres with a barn but no fence. Daisy, our new (to us) brown & white, Guernsey milk cow needed a halter and a lead rope. When she wasn’t in the barn she was staked out to graze on a 50’ chain. When we needed something for Daisy or the barn we went to May Milling. By winter that year the new fence was finished and Daisy didn’t need me to lead her. Her water trough was by the gate and I still had to fill it but the garden hose did the work.

Now, 70 years later, I still go to May Milling for fertilizer, seed and bird food in particular. When Main Street was widened they moved the front door around to the side street loading dock and paved the parking there. But the floor still creaks and the smell is just like I remember. Grandview’s city council thinks it’s an eye sore and would like to see it replaced with a 21st century building but I don’t think it’s a priority. Tractor Supply Co. is just down the road in Belton and they have a huge selection of farm hardware and supplies but I still go to May. The old man who takes my money was also a kid in ’47. His dad made change and thanked my dad for his business just like he does me. Sometimes I go in just to breathe and check the price on a bale of straw. 

Back in my yard, before I could put my tools away, a Chickadee dropped in on the feeder for a sunflower seed or maybe millet chips. This morning the suet cakes have been pecked on and I look forward to nut hatches, feedng upside down on the peanut feeder. The idea of not feeding birds in summer makes sense if all you think about is, do the birds need me? At first glance, House Finches can pass for sparrows but the mottled red on their heads and shoulders give them away. They are getting into the rotation now as well. When I see a Flicker or a Red Bellied Woodpecker at the suet or peanut cage I’ll feel like a regular bird nerd. 

MUNDANE

There will be several times during the day when I am moved to write about one thing or another. Something happens and I react, simple as that. What would you expect from someone who loves words? The writing allows me to spend time with an idea. In the end, text on a page is no more than a few leafy twigs on the ground after thunder storms have pommeled the trees all night. 

I keep a journal, much of which is spinning wheels and going nowhere. I take it public sometimes in a blog when I think a piece has legs. “Stones” began as a sign post for family and friends who wanted to know where I was and what I was doing. When not on the road it loses momentum, mundane attempts at staying current. There is only so much you can say about yard work and current events before you put people to sleep. Still there’s something contagious about connecting with others who move to the same rhythms as you and you keep reaching out. If I stay on the surface all I get is more of the mundane. It’s not so much writer’s block, just that it takes some effort. I am much better at sharing story than ruminating on ideas that take root in my experience. 

When I moved into the house I live in now, it had a deck in front that had outlived its potential. No amount of linseed oil or sandpaper would bring those splintered old boards back to code. Every spring and fall, I took a hammer and center punch to hail heads that had worked loose, driving them down again into nail holes they had occupied for decades. They came up like weeds, just enough to catch the sole of your shoe. The answer would be to tear the whole thing out and replace it but I am the master of quick fixes. I want things “Good enough” without a lot of unnecessary expense or distraction. So I beat old nails back down into boards that that had lost their grip. 

One day I took a crow bar and hammer to the railing. I realized I was biting off more work than I wanted but it was time. Maybe that’s how birds feel when it’s time to build a new nest. Between beating and prying, sorting bent and rusted 5 inch nails into a coffee can and stacking wood, the old deck gave way to a raw patch of dirt between the flower bed and the front door. Yesterday I was watering flowers in big pots where the flower bed used to be. It’s a concrete patio now; no nails, no splinters. You live, you learn; hopefully we change. I made a rack for my shoes recently, put it inside the wardrobe and I can run the sweeper in the bedroom now. 

VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in seeing with new eyes.” French author, Marcel Proust penned this line about the time the Wright brothers were making history at Kitty Hawk. If this idea is all you remember about Proust, it’s enough. When I first read it, the play on words and the moral won me over but also begged the question, why not both? New landscapes and new eyes go very well together.

I was in San Carlos De Bariloche, Argentina, just across the Andes from Puerto Mont, Chile. It’s South America’s answer to the French Rivera. High mountain lakes, cool summers and tons of chocolate. I was there in late May, their fall. The summer crowd had gone and the mountains had snow but the ski season hadn’t begun. Wherever I went it was on foot or by bus with a duffle, back pack and guitar. In Bariloche I got a bunk in a dorm room at the Tango Inn Hostel on the north end of town. For three months, roaming around Patagonia I had used ATM machines to get cash from my account in Michigan but in Bariloche my card was rejected. Someone had hacked VISA and my credit union issued new debit cards. My new one was in Michigan and there was no way to get one to me. With serious help from people at the hostel and at the bank, it took several days to get Michigan money wired to me. In the meantime I explored the city. 

The front door of the hostel had a vestibule, just enough space for two or three people as they pass between the inner and outer doors. In the morning and evening, there were two dogs lying against the wall there. Both medium size, one black and the other speckled, black on white. They were friendly, appreciated kind words and a pat on the head. You would think they came with the rent. During the day they were somewhere else. One night I had been in town sampling chocolate, watching fútbol on the big screen at a local pub. To get back to the hostel I would have to climb a long, steep hill for about a quarter mile and then descend the other side. Another way was longer but relatively flat, through a beach front park. It went along the lake shore until the walk curved and joined with the street again. I took the beach path. Street lights were few and far apart and there were few people that late. Timed perfectly, as I passed an alleyway, a pack of dogs came out and turned up the walk. We merged and you would think we were together. Maybe a dozen mutts, they walked with me step for step, dogs in front and on either side. I glanced back and what do you know; a dog was walking at my heel, a medium size, black on white speckled pouch. It was the dog from the hostel. We held a good pace for several blocks; they had someplace to be and they moved with purpose. On the hillside a stone wall was breached by a steep staircase going up. The lead dog made a hard right turn and the pack took off up the hill.

I continued on my way but noticed quickly, the speckled dog was still on my heel. I stopped, it stopped. I patted it on the head and it wagged its tail. I walked and the dog walked with me. Another five or six blocks and you would think that speckled dog was on a leash. At the hostel door I saw the black dog, already curled up in the vestibule. As I pushed the door open, speckled dog slipped past me, lay down beside the black and put its head down. I asked Marco, the night man, whose dogs they were. He told me they were street dogs. They slept there and it kept vagrants away. They were well behaved, never come into the lobby so it’s a win-win. “Who lets them in and out?” I asked. He said, “They wait for someone to open the door and they slip in and out, just like the white one did with you.” 

So now I’m vexed with the obvious question: did the dog recognize me from a week at the hostel? Was our convergence a coincidence or did it know I was the guy who opens the door? If it was simply headed home, why did it stay on my heel, stop when I stopped? I know dogs are smart but really! Marco nodded his head one way then the other, said with a silly grin, “Argentine dogs are smart, maybe as smart as a gringo.” I went to the kitchen, got a piece of bread from my food cache there and made a peanut butter sandwich. Sitting on the floor in the vestibule we shared the sandwich. I got half while each dog got a quarter. They finished before me. By the time I took my last bite they were head down and eyes closed. I gave each one a stroke and they were good with that but they didn’t open their eyes. My money came through and I was ready to head south. The last time I saw the dogs I had my picture taken with them. I think Marco was right; if someone will open the door for you, why not follow them home? 

BLUE BOTTLE FLY

“I write as much to understand as to be understood.” Oh my; ain’t it the truth. If nothing else moves me to write I still sit down at the keyboard and wait for inspiration. We are creatures of habit and early morning is my time to write. Come 10:00 if I haven’t narrowed my view to a particular idea, I let it go and move on. I don’t have to turn out a product every day but I do need to sit down and shake the tree. It is supposed to work like Hansel & Gretal, leaving a trail of bread crumbs as they go deeper into the forest. If you leave a trail someone may follow. If no one follows, you might be able to retrace your path; to find your way back. I know; there’s no going back but we take comfort in the myth. Regardless, it is the leaving of crumbs that, in the moment, meets the need. 

I have often likened myself to the “Fly on the wall.” The world at large is going on around me and I watch it unfold, try to figure out what it means; history. Like a rain drop in a thunder storm, my little contribution could be weighed and measured but in the end it’s just a rain drop. I don’t need to believe I moved the needle. I don’t think people make history, just the opposite. If Edison hadn’t invented the light bulb we would still be in the dark: I don't think so. The blue bottle fly buzzing on the window doesn’t need self esteem, a hero or a role model. It breathes, takes shelter, finds food, reproduces and goes unobserved on the wall somewhere. People fixate on the anonymity of a fly when it suits them. I don’t know if it is by choice or by chance but I’m not taking myself very seriously this morning. 

Former President Obama was in the news this morning. In a speech he alluded to members of congress saying, leaning in the best interests of the powerful and the privileged doesn’t require any courage at all. It struck a chord with me then and there. I have no agenda concerning the former President but his observation cut straight to my sensibility. 

The French have elected a new President. With a sweeping mandate, 2:1, they either embraced the moderate or rejected the right wing extremest, however you want to see it. Any time the French make news I think about how America maligned them when they pushed back against our war in Iraq. Clever insults included talk of banning French fries. We lauded how we saved them from German conquest in two world wars. Nobody remembered how a struggling, bumbling rebellion against England's war machine would have never gained traction if not for the French. Had they not moved on our behalf we would no doubt still be speaking English. We speak ‘Merican now, ask any patriot. 

My opinion plus $2 and you can get a cup of coffee most anywhere. If you want me to elaborate, I’ll have to think on it. If you’re still hanging around when I get it figured out I’ll try to frame some kind of narrative. Writers who earn a living with their observations and opinions leave me in awe. They do the research and put it together like Van Gogh put paint on canvas. You can't help but get the message. I like Van Gogh too but that’s another story. My purpose, if I get to have one, is to find a good spot on the wall and watch the world turn.