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.

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.

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."

Stream -- Julian still held a romantic idea...

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

Julian still held a romantic idea of anything related to a boating lifestyle. Often, he would go to one of his favorite food places and take his order over to the harbor, to eat lunch. He liked being among the boats. Average sized sailing vessels were his favorite: nothing really big enough to make a statement, that was a statement of its own. Every part of the ship had a use, and yet it was still primarily used for pleasure. It's bright white color when viewed from afar on a windy, choppy, dark blue ocean day was like a beacon, but up close, on the harbor, you could see that each boat had its own experiences and shares of highs and lows.

The food, of course, attracted the seabirds, and that reminded him of those chartered fishing boats. All souls would congregate aft. The music would be playing, comfortably audible. In his mind, he heard Santana or Bob Marley. The smells of fresh fish and clean, salt air were pungent. Usually, they would cook up the first of the white sea bass that was caught, and Julian could taste the meat with just a little butter and lemon. He loved thinking about how the undulations of passing waves became second nature, and then lasted beyond the fishing trip itself, even onto dry land. His favorite was the deep blue, far as the eye could see, going into the horizon. He enjoyed feeling lost in that environment.

The seabirds were most interested in the smells and tastes, as they were on the harbor. Seagulls would creep up cautiously, to see what Julian would do. These ones weren't too pushy, so he could could eat in peace. Sometimes a pelican would fly overhead low and slow. The bird would force itself to drag against the wind long enough to check the goings-on. Then it would flap its wings and move on, presumably to the open ocean.

Julian knew he loved the sea life, in one way or another. He often thought of that day at that house. He sat in a gazebo-like structure on the rock seawall. It was low tide on a blustery day and without that structure around him, he would have been very cold. The water was dark, dark blue but was being broken up constantly by white caps out past the breakers. He just stared into the water and thought about absolutely nothing. He was mesmerized by the rhythmic movement and just knew he belonged exactly where he was. Then he saw a moving white cap that initially broke his concentration.

When he made the object the focus of his concentration, he knew exactly what it was. He recognized the beacon immediately. Julian knew he was witnessing another part of its experience, a high, a low, maybe both. It was a bright white, average sized sailing vessel. He could tell it was captained by someone who was serious about boating. Someone interested in recreation might use the motor on a day like this. This was a serious sailor's day. This sailboat was sailing. Julian watched intently. From this vantage point, the boat almost ambled across the sea, taking each wave as it passed. He was sure this happened for the captain as well, but he also knew, relatively speaking, that boat was moving. The bright white ship created a bright white trail in the choppy ocean. Long after the captain had moved on, Julian watched that trail sink back into the deep blue.

The Rhythm of Evie

This is a character I developed a long time ago when I was still in my screenplay phase. I've now decided that she would make an excellent addition to my fiction. This is a great example of the way I see Write What You Know. Thematic but not specific. Originally, I had planned to write a story about a fictional beach town based on the areas above Ventura that I visited so often growing up. Also, a somewhat villainous character makes an appearance, although I have no definite idea where the mysterious ending is headed. Please enjoy these passages:

"Rhythm. Rhythm was all that she could focus on. All the things she needed to remember in that moment were related to rhythm. The cycle of breathing... head up to one side and take a breath in, head into the water and breathe the air out, then at last, head out to the other side and another breath. The waves of the water lapped up against the edges of the pool and back to the center in a perfect sequence. The motions of arms and legs, her streamlined body, and most of all, the sheer force of her will, her spirit, propelled her back from one end of the pool and forth to the other. It was simply a necessity of exercise, 48 proper laps... not 45, not 50, but an exactly right 48. Simplicity was actually not in the exercise itself, but in what the exercise did for her mind.

A clear mind meant a good connection to her emotions. And that meant it was the right day spiritually for a visit to her uncle's estate. There was always something simply not right about his sanctuary, especially when Uncle Porter was there on-site. That's why Evie never spent any long duration in Summerland. It's also why she kept coming back. The beach, the people, the water, the guilt ridden loyalty to a caretaker's financial position, all of these things continually called to her.

Rhythm. Every movement, every step Evie made seemed measured by some cosmic force. It was as if she knew everything she was supposed to do before she even thought of doing it. And it was beautiful. Evie finished her swim and glided over to the pool stairs. To an observer, she almost rose out of the pool with pure blonde hair bronzed by the water, sparse eyelashes giving way to sparkling eyes, and a face washed clean of any makeup, definitely for the better. Her healthy lips suggested a hidden smile of pearly whites, and there was always a look of happiness about her even if it was not outright.

She could have worn a more accentuating swimsuit with more suggestive colors for the benefit of onlookers. But, a standard one-piece matching the light blue in her eyes suited Evie’s needs just fine. She always prided herself on not being the advertisement, but instead radiating its essence.

Over to her usual poolside table to dry off, Evie then put on her robe and sat for a few minutes. She took in the breeze and the beauty of the nice community pool in her moderately upscale apartment building. Then, evoking some sort of Greek goddess, she walked to her room in her usual way, ever so gentle but ever so confident. Every step was sure, but seemed to float over the surface, as if there would be no footprint left behind.

A short trip to Uncle's and the beach, she thought. Porter Williamson had other ideas, however. Evelyn Thorpe must have known in her spirit, but the rest of her had no idea."