Downright Otherworldly

Note: This began as stream of consciousness fiction, but took on a little more planning. Let's call it extremely short fiction. For a blog entry, it's long.

I'm at this concert with Lindsey. It is our third date and I am definitely hoping things will go well. Our first two dates were amazing, so I figure a little live entertainment is definitely the way to go tonight. The place is nice, intimate and warm. You enter from the street at the back of the building, where the bar is. In this area, as it should be, the bar is the focal point. It has been placed symmetrically between the two openings in the building. On one side is the entrance proper, and on the other is a short hallway that looks to lead to the kitchen. The walls are 100% red brick, but laid uneven in certain parts for a more natural feel. Various murals have been painted right into them.

The bar appears like a solid block of long, rounded cherry wood stained to a very dark and smooth finish. Simple stools with dark, leather cushions stand like pylons at the front of the bar awaiting the show. Behind the bar are all manner of spirits, liquor, wine & beer lined up in fancy bottles, below cabinets matching the cherry wood finish. The cabinet doors are made of glass, to display all of the novelty tumblers and glassware. The bar is essentially on a kind of wooden stage with a balcony fence and stairs on either side. Down four or so stairs are deep navy carpeted walkways surrounding the wood floor dining area consisting of about 30 small, round tables. In the very front is the stage, perfect for tonight's acoustic guitar performance.

Lindsey and I make small talk at a volume a little bit above a loud whisper. For a room of more than 60 people, the banter is surprisingly quiet. Toward the back, a few groups have pulled tables together, but couples like us are the majority. Some are eating the fair, light appetizers and salads, most are imbibing. On my suggestion, we went without a meal and both of us have a single glass of red wine, Cabernet. We're sitting in the front.

She looks unbelievable, wearing sandals with newly manicured toes (from what I can tell about female grooming), her nicer, dark jeans, and a simple, white halterneck that complements her slightly tanned skin. Lindsey has her blonde hair down, thrown over one shoulder. She knows what she's doing. This is a wink to me, because of what I said the other...

As I was looking into Lindsey's grey-blue eyes telling her another one of my goofy jokes she loves, I noticed the old man looking at me from the table behind her. There's something about him, I'm not sure. I must have stopped my joke in midsentence because she still has that geeky smile I like, waiting in anticipation for the punchline. Then she asks me what's wrong, but the old man holds my gaze. I don't know what it is. Now, Lindsey is looking at him, transfixed.

He is very old. Completely bald on the top of his head, with incredibly smooth skin, he has long silver hair to his shoulders. He smiles. Both of us, I believe, start feeling very happy at this. With that, the man stands. He's tall, about 6'4" and lanky. He deftly grabs one of the chairs at his table and, with a sweep of his long arm and a quick stride, is seated at our table in moments. He greets us, I'm sure. He speaks mostly to Linds, and I hear him & I understand, but I don't know his words. The speech is harmonic. From what I can tell, it conveys more through tone and movement and expression than through words.

I begin to admire the man's features, and I notice something peculiar. It's his ears. They're large, of course. But, ever so slightly, and just subtly enough that most passers-by wouldn't care to notice, the ears are pointed. In fact, the longer I stare, the more distinctive they become. But then he's looking at me, smiling. He knows me. We haven't met before, but there is warmth between us, like two friends, brothers even, who survive a calamity. Maybe one brother saved the other. Just as quickly as he met us, the man is back to his own table. Strange.

I look to Lindsey who acts like the Cheshire cat. I ask her what he said and I sense something different about her in the response. She is speaking harmonically, also, but her words come through, like hearing something new for the first time in your all-time favorite song. You know the lyrics but the melody is just somehow different. Linds tells me that the musician we came to see is called Thomas Reynard and that we're in for a real treat. There's more that she isn't telling me. Something about me, it must be. She beams at me when she thinks I'm not looking. Something good, at least. Can't do me any harm to just let it be, so that's what I do.

As I'm back to admiring her, I notice that her skin is getting more tan, but then I look up to see the lights dimming. The show is starting. The whole place quiets. The whole place is dark. I hear one of the doors open at the front of the place, opposite our end. Footsteps now, I can barely make them out, but I hear footsteps. Lindsey puts her hand on mine to tell me to turn so I can see him. He is coming down the walkway closest to us. I am amazed.

Reynard is tiny. Maybe 5'5" if he combs his long, brown hair right, he has complete command of the room despite that. As he approaches the stage, I notice something peculiar. He is barefoot, walking heel to toe naturally. His features are remarkably pronounced. Reynard's small body is adorned with long arms and hands of spindly fingers. His face seems older than his years, wrinkled under the eyes from concentration & exhaustion and around the mouth from excessive smiling & laughter. His nose is long, but not oversized like his ears. His eyes are huge and greenish-brown, the kind that change in the light.

My experience now tells me to observe Reynard like a hawk. I don't hear him introduced or the spirited applause he receives until Lindsey takes her hand from mine to clap, herself. With his guitar in his left hand, Thomas waves to the audience with his right. As he sits down, he nods to the old man who responds in kind, bowing his head in respect. Reynard plays.

No song has lyrics. The emotions from them are stronger. Thomas plays in a way that makes you feel as if you're only seeing one small portion of a greater masterpiece. The feeling is palpable that certain rhythms and melodies are flying over us just as others are being received. The only audience participation is the assumption that jaws are on the floor. Each element, arrangement even, amidst a song causes various reactions. They are all joyful. Lindsey and I are amazed, together. She now has a firm grip on my hand, and mine back to hers. At different points during the performance one of us gives a squeeze. It is pure excitement.

This is downright otherworldly. I could swear as I look back toward the bar that those bar stools are swaying in time to the music. But that is nothing. The murals on the walls have come to life. Several shape notes, painted into the red brick in bright colors, dance across the ether above us and trade places between the two walls. On one wall is the mascot of the establishment: an elephant on a trampoline. As sure as Lindsey is beautiful, that elephant is doing backflips and dance moves on that trampoline. And last, behind Thomas Reynard, the grand mural of the stage has become three-dimensional. It looks almost like he is literally playing on a televised beach performance.

A feeling like this is nearly impossible to describe, but Reynard onstage is the icing on the cake. It is as if the music moves through him and down his arms and into his fingers and onto the strings and out from the guitar. He dances as a vessel possessed by its cargo, moving in time from a straight-up posture to that of a deep bow forward and back again. Each time, he leans back and stretches far, throwing his head back with his lips pursed and his eyes closed. The eyes, though, are rolled back in a dreamlike state. I picture him simply envisioning the notes and causing his fingers to respond instantly. It is a sight to behold.

Finally, Reynard closes the show and then plays his encore, bringing the audience to his true height. At the very end, out of the corner of my eye, I see that old man get up and dance around his own table faster than I've ever seen a person move. Show over, lights up, and Reynard staying to speak with audience members, Linds and I just look at each other. I think this date is a hit.

Gradually, after the shock and amazement of the incredible show begins to wear off, the specifics fade into our memories, and we regain our conversation. The old man is over with Reynard, saying goodbye, as I can tell. The man leaves, leaving us with a simple wink of his warm eyes. Soon after, Reynard walks by smiling genuinely, and looks us both in the eye. We can only smile. As he brushes his hair back, I notice it: a long, pointed ear.

As we get ready to leave, I ask Lindsey, "So, what did the old man say about me?"

She looks at me like she has good news.

Once Music is mystical

Music seems to be very mystical. I'm always astounded by the way it can fill an otherwise still room with the most vivid, nearly tangible emotions. Depending on which emotion it is, the style of music can transport us to another place, it can cause us to change shape, or even disappear. At its best, it can take the musicians creating it and transform them into one organism.

If we reduce music down to its elements, those being (for our purposes) sound, rhythm, melody and harmony, we can see how it relates right down to the very basics of our humanity. We need life, first and foremost, which is kept thriving by the cycles in nature and governed by the order of the universe. Most every entity is greater than the sum of its parts. This is especially true for human beings. A human being, soulful and alive, is all those processes physical, mental, & emotional working in concert. The pieces are useless alone, and yet something is still missing within the mechanism of the pieces together. Music is still just a theory in this stage. It takes something more transcendent to bring music out of the void.

Creativity.

Something spiritual is necessary here. It is a giving and receiving. Just as I pointed out how music transforms a group of musicians into an entity, they must first create and nourish this thing before it gives back to them. The essence is out there, always. We give it form.

I saw Once for the second time this morning and can certainly say it is another favorite, a new favorite, of mine. It will be hard for any film to top Into the Wild for its depth of meaning as it relates to my life. But Once comes as close to that meaning as I can expect. I love, love, love how John Carney juxtaposes the down-and-out natures of the lives of both Guy & Girl with the purity and heights reached by the music they make together. This is an example of sublimation at its finest. Girl, while incredibly well-adjusted, is the picture of functional destitution. She is very poor but makes enough to feed her daughter & mother. Guy, while quite secure financially, is bereft of all social graces and romanticism. He has everything he needs, save for a crucial kick in the pants that is now necessary after losing his lover. Together in music, the Girl and the Guy live out their ideal selves in their ideal lives.

Ireland Forever

A quick entry today, in commemoration of St. Patrick's Day 2008. It has always made me uneasy to think of myself as being defined by the geographical location of my ancestors' birth. At the same time, however, I cannot deny having a particular affinity for all things Irish. I have always felt that one of the greatest mistakes an American can make is to not realize they are an American. I love who I am and I wouldn't have it any other way. While it may be literally true in this case, I don't think the grass is greener on the other side, figuratively speaking.

However, when I hear those familiar melodies of traditional Irish folk music, I feel a deep connection inside to all those people and all those events that contributed to putting me where I am. I cannot deny that the Irish fiddle & flute and the Uilleann pipes strike a chord within me. I envision some kind of cinematic flyover across the ocean as the mist and clouds give way to lush, green fields appearing right before my eyes. Admittedly, it's a grand, romanticized vision, but it's mine nonetheless. Perhaps certain traditions from certain cultures do that for all of us.

Whatever it is, it is a blessing to be a part of, and as I learn more and more, the connections between the me of today and my ancestors of the past become eerie. After all, my family name means: "sea warrior".

All best.


EDITOR'S NOTE: Soon, I'll be doing a full write-up of my impressions of the film, INTO THE WILD, which I give my highest recommendation. See it in the very near future, if you can. I don't want to spoil anything for those who are looking forward to it.

How I Deal with Pain

Pain sucks, and there's no way around it. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I have a very high pain tolerance level. On one hand, that means that it takes a lot of suffering to knock me down. On the other, that means that it takes a lot of suffering to knock me down. The good news about having high pain tolerance is that I have developed several ways to cope. Most of them are pretty standard and logical, but it's always cool for me to think about the mentality that goes into dealing with pain.

Pain is divided into two classes for me. The first class is just your garden-variety pain. It's the kind of stuff everybody deals with on a daily basis. I'm actually a pretty big wuss when it comes to this class. In this instance, I'll usually be vocal about anything. I call it, "expressing my pain." I figure that because I have to use up so much energy for the real pain, I'm entitled to be a sissy over the sissy stuff. The second class is big-time, emotion draining pain. This is the stuff that requires my game face. Besides medication, the best, most effective method for fighting pain is meditative breathing.

A lot of the stuff I face happens in a medical setting. Controlled breathing is good for everyone involved. If you aren't used to managing such a situation, it's easy to panic, which makes things really hard on the medical professionals. If you panic, they have to stop what they're doing and that prolongs the entire process. Falling into a good rhythm of breathing goes a long way toward ensuring that I will stay calm. Then, it's difficult to explain, but I try to exist purely and completely within the moment of each breath. I direct all my energy toward each inhalation and exhalation. I think of myself in no other context but that present moment. Literally by living from moment to moment, I can break up the experience of pain into smaller, more manageable bits. It's quite a meditative process which is why I call it meditative breathing.

Certain kinds of music are very helpful. It has to have an especially rhythmic quality to it. Obviously, there are certain genres that are more conducive to rhythmic music, but the genre doesn't matter in reality if the song I'm listening to has the type of richness and repetition I need. Using music for pain management comes from the same place, essentially, as the meditative breathing. Listening to the right music requires less energy, however, so it's very useful when I'm tired. I can be a little more passive and, in some ways, a little more relaxed. This allows me to just "be" in the moment and focus on the experience of each tiny movement of music.

Humor is extremely valuable, especially in a more social setting, although still a medical one. If I'm laughing or joking about whatever it is I'm going through, it gets minimized mentally for me and becomes easier to manage. I usually can compartmentalize the pain and allow myself to be distracted by jokes. Those who know my sense of humor can also use it to gauge how I'm feeling. Sometimes, I can feel the anxiety of the other people around me, the medical people not working on me and my loved ones, and that makes it worse. Humor allows me to be engaged with them about something else and that relieves a little of the tension, usually enough for what I need.

The last thing about coping with pain is realizing that these personal methods are not enough to deal with everything. The physical portion of this fact means acknowledging that a painkiller regimen is necessary. Finding the right balance on that front took me a year and a half, but once I had it down, that part of it became very easy. Emotionally, I've accepted that I need to depend on those I love to help get me through the rest.

Song Series: "Prayer for the Dying" by Seal

This is one of my favorite songs by Seal and simply just one of my favorite songs. It is right down my alley as far as the theme and spirit the song conveys. You could argue that the reason I like it so much is because it is so similar to my worldview, however I like to think that this is one of those songs in particular that have informed on my worldview. Seal, himself, has called "Prayer for the Dying" a celebration of life more than a mourning of death. The song can be found on Seal's self-titled 1994 album. I first heard it in 1996 and I still love it to this day.

This song is quite philosophical. In the first few lines, it immediately identifies the problem it is confronting and, almost as quickly, provides the solution to that problem. First is the issue of the problem of life. "Fearless people/Careless needle/Harsh words spoken/And lives are broken." Working backwards, it is clear that coping with brokenness (sound familiar?) is certainly a struggle. Seal attributes that to a breakdown in personal relationships. He often uses the imagery of a needle & drugs as a symbol for the high we get from love. The seemingly odd inclusion of "fearless" leads me to believe that there is a suggestion that misplaced emotion leads to the breakdown in personal relationships which makes coping with brokenness such a struggle.

Then, Seal arrives at a solution. The most important theme in this song is faith. "Forceful aging/Help me I'm fading/Heaven's waiting/It's time to move on." The first half of this quote says, essentially, that there is no time to lose. The problem can be fixed, and every person can fix it, but they need to start immediately. Next is one of the deeper, multiple-meaning points in the song. First, the listener is reassured in the expected way: move on, don't be afraid, Heaven will be there. There's more to it, however, as you consider that because heaven is waiting, that means it is not here now. That solution is up to us. Life is not waiting, and therefore it's time to move on, literally move, now. The motivation is obvious as is the need for faith in yourself, the last piece is faith in others.

"I may not know what you're going through/But time is the space between me and you." Despite the undercurrent of urgency present, this is another reassuring line. This line is the solution to having faith in others. Essentially, the only external thing that really separates two people is ignorance, and ignorance is removed quite simply by taking the time to remove it. Everything else involved in having faith in other people is literally within the control of the individual.

"I just don't know what's got into me." This is the second most important quote of the song, and the key is in the word, "know." Seal does not, and cannot, know what's got into him but he believes something has. He feels it. This is spirit, that thing which moves him toward faith. And just in case the idea of faith hasn't yet dawned on the listener, he hits you several times with this line: "Hold on, say yes, while people say no."

Now, the most important line: "Life carries on... when nothing else matters, when nothing else matters." To me personally, this quote is extraordinary and would probably require my whole life story and philosophy written down and analyzed for me to convey the extent of the quote's meaning. However, a very superficial interpretation is that when you have everything, life carries on, and yet when you have nothing, life still carries on. So, life is moved by nothing but itself. When everything falls away, if you're lost or suffering, you are still left with your life, and it carries on. Faith says that this should be a comfort. Finally, Seal ends the song with one last thought. "It's just a prayer for the dying... for the dying." This takes us back to the solution of the problem stated at the beginning. The dying refers to us all as, after all, life carries on until it's over. And that's a beautiful thing.

Unfortunately, the demands of radio edits and music videos means that the most important line of the song is not included, but here is the video nonetheless:

Stream -- Old Man Troubadour

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

We sat on the grassy hill under the tree that overlooked the beach several hundred yards away. Close by behind us, the hill sloped gently down to the quiet road. We were close enough to the ocean to hear its rhythmic sounds and smell its sea breeze. We were far enough away to sense the rest of our surroundings. We hoped to hear the familiar sound of strumming guitar strings soon.

Her nickname was Hula, and she was beautiful. She was exotic and yet somehow familiar, always, and that's why I loved her. She was what I wanted... not what I thought I wanted. I had never seen eyes like hers before. They were dark, and her hair was dark, and her skin was a smooth brown, and her face invited you in only to sting you with her bright smile.

She wouldn't want anyone to know my nickname. But she said I was strong, probably stronger than I can say, and I was sure that's why she loved me. I had a lot of spirit and it reflected in my face. My age, my knowledge, my wisdom, I guess, showed in my eyes. And that's how she put it. I'd agree and, as an extension, say I had a lot more to learn.

That's when the old man troubadour surprised us. He was new to our routine, only having been around for about a week. We so enjoyed hearing first the music and then seeing the man behind it. The old man was always strumming something new and yet in that short time, each bit of music sounded like a part of a master piece. That day there was silence. He awoke us from the hypnotic ocean view. He still had his guitar, but it was strapped on his back. "Hello there lass and laddy," he called.

I turned to be greeted by his joyous smile. "There's our troubadour," I said with a good-natured laugh. The old man looked to Hula and asked, "And how are we today, sister?" As I motioned him to come and sit with us, she said, "We're doing great! How are you?" He breathed in deeply through his nose, exhaled and said, "'Tis a wonderful day!" While I certainly agreed, it felt different, perhaps melancholy, without his song. At the same time, however, it was quite possibly one of the most beautiful days of the year to observe.

Rather than wondering, I asked him. "Will you not play a song today? I see your guitar there, friend." The old man had a great sense of humor. He looked back at me playfully, as if thinking *Well, look who thinks he's the boss*. He said, "Indeed, brother, my guitar carries me everywhere, but you're right, I'll not play it today." Hula was miffed somewhat and rhetorically asked, "What will we do with no music today?" Old man troubadour was standing up, looking at the sea, when she said this. He seemed confused by it and sort of stared back. Then he smiled as he walked back toward the road. We went with him to say goodbye.

"My friends," he said, "I play the music almost every day."

"And what about today?"

Then he spoke his goodbye:

"Today, lass and laddy, today I listen to the music."