When I say I'm happy

it means that at this moment - if only for this moment - there is nothing else I want, and everything within reach of my senses and my memory feels like a treasure.

All Hallows Eve Eve

When the kids were little - and even ten, eleven - it was easy to get that Halloween buzz, because they were just so into it; I mean, how could you not?

But this year, my oldest is seven hundred miles away, and my youngest is fifteen, so yes, it took a bit of effort to drag home the two large pumpkins (only ones left at our Safeway), cut 'em open, scrape 'em out, and carve (or in the case of Jackie's and Teri's, drill 'em out).

But I'm glad we did it. She's still into it, though she may act a little cool about it sometimes. Believe me, I want to avail myself of every trick in the proverbial book to slow time down and treasure every second.

SEA-TAC, 4 PM

Got a ride to the airport way early, and again breezed through Security in less than five minutes. With more than two hours till boarding time. Jeez. Airports are, as everyone knows, a place where time crawls and your powers of concentration are sapped by the drone of Muzak and fragmented by each booming, repetitive announcement over the PA.

But I scored an actual table and chair outside a Starbucks directly across from my gate, and SEA-TAC furnishes free w-fi that actually works. So this is actually sort of homey in an early 21st century way.

The trip was a success as far as my bosses were concerned; the event at the museum was well-attended and - atypically for a gathering of this kind - most of the attendees appeared to be in good spirits and curious to hear what we had to offer. So my colleagues and I rose to the occasion and did our song and dance with gusto (again, not the first time I've been struck by the performance aspect of sales).

Later, John and Steph picked me up and we went to a Chinese restaurant by the water (don't ask me which water - but there were many small boats bobbing on the silver-black surface beneath our window).

We drove back to near where I was staying and we stumbled upon a cool pub (http://www.mcmenamins.com/308-mcmenamins-queen-anne-home) with great beer. Started with a sampler tray; John and I moved on to pints of Terminator Stout. Then they walked me back down the hill through a light rain to my hotel where soon I was deep asleep.

Once In a While You Get Shown the Light

 

I had a boss, a few years back, who was well-meaning but basically ineffectual; he was just not good at connecting with people (a grave flaw for a person in sales). In fact, the rest of my co-workers seemed to actively dislike him, and treated him with close to open disrespect. I never really understood exactly why they were so contemptuous of him, but neither could I muster up much of a defense for him - he really was kind of a putz.

But in the course of one of the ongoing sales trainings he held, he said something which was very true and moving, and held far more significance than anything else I ever heard him say.

What he said was that no matter how successful or accomplished you are in your field, there will still be times you will do a bad job, or otherwise suffer setbacks and disappointments. And at that those times, you need to remember that there is a"you" who is not just the person doing your job. There is a "you" that was there before any job, and for that matter before any of the relationships in your life. And you need to remember that person, and to remember what that person believes in, and to take care of that person. Because your true happiness and success depend on that original "you".

("....in the strangest of places, if you look at it right...")

Up North a Lttle Ways

Flew out of OAK at 9 AM. Felt like a hotshot because Teri dropped me off outside Alaska Airlines at like 8:20 and I boarded the plane at 8:35 without breaking a sweat. Strange how satisfying tiny victories can be.

Landed in SEA-TAC right on time; met my colleagues (who had flown in out of SFO), jumped in the rental car, and drove to our sister company's offices in Issaquah, where we conferred on a range of technical topics at the outer edge of my competence, and also helped with some prep for the event they are co-hosting tomorrow afternoon at EMP|SFM (Experience Music Project/Science Fiction Museum). This is my kind of geekdom, no question about it - I'm actually looking forward to it, assuming I get to spend some time exploring.

Then we drove to a sports bar and watched the Giants beat the shit out the Rangers, while drinking many beers and eating high-calorie/high-fat foods....those of you who know me know that this is not my typical night out. And that's probably a good thing. Still, good company, fun horsing around. Part of who I am is being able to plunge into this kind of foreign territory and find a groove. (I did enjoy the fact that SF won, I will freely admit).

As a special bonus, once I make my way through whatever tomorrow brings, John and Steph will be picking me up and we'll go out to dinner. And not at a sports bar. No offense to sports bar aficionados. If that's an actual demographic.

OK, I will admit

 - part of why I grieve for the past? Full goddam disclosure - I miss looking (and feeling) like this. I will take the hit here - I am a very bad buddhist.

But - I AM working on it -

After a long hiatus

 - maybe as long as five months, I seriously don't know - The Waterdogs finally reconvened, at least in our acoustic quartet manifestation. Quintet, actually, since Kurt had our occasional collaborator Gerry Tenney sit in. (For those of you steeped in Beatles' lore, I guess I'd compare Gerry's presence as similar in its stabilizing effect as Billy Preston's during the Let It Be sessions).

When we do our acoustic practices, we generally hold them in either Joe or Kurt's living room, and they are usually literally 100% acoustic - no mikes or amps of any kind. For me, this is a liberating experience - I get to wander around, bend, and move however I want, as I sing and play. Not sure if everyone else agrees, but it works for me, and not for the first time do I give thanks for the street music I played all those years ago - taught me how to sing and play nice and loud when needed.

We were decidedly rusty in some spots, but after that much downtime, hell, no shocker. Given that, we sounded OK. I felt a little bad for Gerry, since we had no charts or cheat sheets and not really enough time to walk him through the material, most of which he hadn't played in at least four years, if he'd ever played it all. But he's a pro, and he dug in fine, plus played us a couple of his (simpler) tunes for us to stumble through in return.

When it comes together, it's like leaving the ground, or like having the wind fill your sails; always has been, always will be.

Walked out this morning

and the rain - which had been only a slow pulse of mist or fluttering curtain of droplets on Friday and Saturday, but had grown more serious on Sunday - had moved on.

As soon as I opened our front door, the sharp scent of the wet brown leaves on the sidewalk wafted up through the cool clean air. Mind you, around here, the seasons play hide-and-go-seek - it could be Autumn in the morning then back to Spring by noon, then early Winter after sunset. So the transience of these markers makes them pack an extra punch.

And of course, after real rain, the birds seem to sing much louder. Makes me wish I knew their names. After all this time, about the only one I can identify by sound is the crow. Wonder what that means.

This morning

when I pulled back in front of our house after picking up our Sunday bagels, I just sat for a few minutes, watching and listening to the rain.

Used to Keep Me Up All Night

Again, may be new to some.

I tell you what, I have been ridiculously fortunate in the quality of people I have gotten to sing and play with.

From Late Spring 1979

A Nice Treat

when the sun breaks through late in the afternoon after a cloudy day

This morning, while driving Jackie to school

the Sam Cooke song "Wonderful World" came on the radio ("Don't know much about history", etc.). I heard the line "don't know what a slide rule is for", and asked Jackie if she knew what a slide rule was. She of course said no, so then I had to try to explain what it was. Which proved difficult. I finally settled on describing it as a stick with mathematical tables on it, that people used for calculations. She asked, weren't there calculators? And it struck me that, no, when I was in high school, we DIDN"T have calculators, and the only people who did were scientists or engineers, and they cost more than a thousand dollars each.

I told Jackie this, and she said, wow, you're old.

Twilight is a bad time to drive

but a fine time to be at home. Yesterday was a struggle from dawn till dusk, but - though nothing observable changed - today was an interesting hike. I often reflect that for all my inexperience and self-absorption, I got a lot of things right the first time around. As a boy of, oh I forget, maybe twenty-one? and with not much knowledge of buddhism, I wrote:

Things Don't Create Emotions
Emotions Create Things

- there, that's what I'm talking about.

The One (The Characters 1986)

Thought I'd add this to the mix, for those who may have missed it first time 'round. This version is pretty highly caffeinated but I still think it holds up.

Delighted to discover

that a section of one of my bathroom walls had been converted into a tiny planetarium

Been Here So Long, He's Got to Calling It Home

I've said this so many times that I fear I've passed over into eye-rolling OMG he's saying that AGAIN territory, but for most of us, we spend a lot more time at work, earning a living, than we do with family or friends, so it's as vital as oxygen that whatever we do for money needs to be at least a little fun.

And you can't necessarily count on anyone else to bring that light into each day. I would consider that a bonus.

So, it's all you : how can you make the people who are part of your working day happier, if only for a few minutes?

Note: the photo has no intrinsic relevance. It's just the world on my block, today.

Tonight

Note: Due to economic forces beyond my comprehension, pine nuts are now insanely expensive (like, $24/lb). In this recipe, walnuts work JUST FINE.

Teri’s Pesto

1 bunch fresh basil (leaves only)

1/2 stick butter melted in microwave with 5 cloves crushed garlic

2 oz heavy cream

2 oz olive oil

2 oz cream cheese

1/2 cup pine nuts (or walnuts)

3/4 cup parmesan or romano cheese (already grated)

In food processor, pulse basil leaves until chopped.

While the machine is running, add butter with garlic, cream, oil, dream cheese.

Stop and push down sides.

Add nuts and cheese; process until smooth.

Toss with hot drained pasta.

What The Rain Does

What the rain does: it gives you permission to relax a little. Read the Sunday papers in bed with a cat or two sleeping nearby. Gaze out the window. Get the idea?

Took all day,

but I finally cleared my head

Housework, Pale Sun, and More

My wife and I are both fairly indifferent housekeepers, which only occasionally bothers me, and after all, if and when it does, I can always break out the vacuum or mop, right?

But Teri is periodically seized by guilt at the accumulated grime and will then dedicate a day to fervent cleaning. Today is one of those days. Though she in no way expects me to pitch in any more than I care to - which isn't much right now - I still have some unsettling childhood memories of my mother cleaning house - which she did often - with a grim set to her mouth that conveyed a bewildering blend of anger and determination. As a child, I couldn't begin to decode what the causes could be, so I just tried to stay out her way, but I still felt vaguely afraid and guilty.

So, yes, some of that still hovers near me on days like today. I'm in the midst of a great book - "Parrot & Olivier in America", by Peter Carey - but the hazy sun in the backyard is somehow distracting and I can only read a few pages at a time before losing my focus. So I sit down and write a few lines about my anxiety and dissatisfaction in an effort to shake them off.

Not sure if it's working.

Right Where You Belong

New song, mid-tempo country in A minor; think guitar, mandolin, fiddle - here's the story so far:

I don't believe in Heaven, 

and I don't believe in Hell

But I believe that each deed
has a price that time will tell
 

And I don't know the Bible, 

but I do know right from wrong -

I know someday you'll end up

right where you belong

You talk about the little guys,
you talk about disgrace
You make up lies about the past
and throw them in my face

I'm trying not to scream
and so I had to write a song -
in the end you'll wind up
right where you belong

March, 1973

I was a sophomore at Utica College at this point. Wrote this on a weekend visit back to Hartsdale/Ardsley/Dobbs Ferry.

Your guess is as good as mine.

Home Again Home Again Jiggedy Jig

We're in the midst of another spike of hot, bone-dry weather, which evokes for us East Bay folks memories of the Loma Prieta 'quake and the Oakland Hills fire (both October events during similar eerie weather anomalies).

But for all that, actually had an interesting day at work and then, best of all, got to come back home.

Day got off to a rocky start

- after a night of shallow, unsatisfying sleep. Woke up at four AM, and as we all know, no one lies awake in bed at four in the morning with a calm mind and a heart full of contentment. After an hour or so of rapid, useless thoughts, I wore myself out and fell deeply asleep - dreaming of swimming past whales under a sky teeming with flocks of birds and, later, entering those puzzling, familiar buildings we see in so many dreams.

Got up - still dark; fed four or five cats, showered, ate, hit the road at 7:30 AM to make it down to Campbell in time for a 9AM staff meeting but was late anyway, doomed by crawling traffic. But so was my boss, so eh.

I sometimes find drive-time a good time to think, without interruption, but one of the things I've learned - over and over, unfortunately - is that you just can't think yourself out of a dark or unsettled mood. You start in a bad place and the harder you think, the deeper you go into that hole. Trick is to say a hearty fuck it all and skim across the black water like a flat rock.

Trick is to remember the trick.

The drive didn't look like this, but it felt like this:

And Every One 'Neath Their Vine and Fig Tree

...Shall live in peace and unafraid

What Is The Value of Misfortune?

One answer: in moderate doses, it may prevent complacency and arrogance.

I said, in MODERATE doses.

Johnny Go (2002).m4v

This song was easy and fast to write; it's really just Joni Mitchell's "Circle Game" as written by a father. Inspired by my son, and by the whole notion of children moving on, but no way am I setting it to pictures of my kids through the years - that would be obvious and sentimental and embarrassing to them and may I freely admit would also make me sob like a baby. So, just some random band shots and a sketch of a logo John banged out a few years back.

Two webs. Don't think I've seen that before.

Two friendly neighbors? Competitors? Or one driven over-achiever?

It's Just Not Fair (Studio).m4v

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EEshsNjYxno
 

October 26, 1967 - Kind of Morbid, But Still Sort of Cool

I Put Up a Valiant Fight

- to focus on work and to resist the temptation to just walk away and go read in the warm, brilliant sunlight to my heart's content.

The morning was interminable; I felt a chilly fatigue so deep in every bone that the simplest tasks took forever.

Still I pushed on. But to no avail. The warmth and light are irresistible. I surrender.

Happens All the Time

Putting this one back out there. If anyone wonders who the craggy, soulful fellow in the thumbnail is, this is my late father-in-law, Francis "Skip" Hayes. Miss you, Skip.

Early November, 1991. Where did it go?

Flashback: Bethel, NY, August 16, 1969

< Originally posted on the 40th anniversary of the Festival>


OK, seems like a Woodstock story is the order of the day. Full disclosure - forty-year-old memories of a wet, muggy weekend of no sleep, too little food or water, and too many mystery chemicals are bound to be -- imprecise. 

...on Saturday, early evening of the second day of the Festival, I ran into a old friend I hadn't seen in a year (and remember how long a year was when you were 16). David Washington, from Poughkeepsie. David was a true freak - made me look like Pat Boone by comparison. Skinny, long stringy hair down to his elbows, scraggly beard, and dressed in a paisley vest, with an old top hat on his head. 

After catching up on events - like my unfortunate adventure the month before behind Korvette's, with Harry, Dippo, and Fred I - DW mentioned that he'd just purchased some hallucinogens, and would I like a tablet? Why, yes, that would be lovely, Dave. But we'd heard all the warnings about "the brown acid", so I asked him - being a prudent and cautious lad - what color these tablets were. He pulled a baggie out of his vest pocket and peered at the pills inside. But it being twlight, damned if he could tell. 

So he bounds up the hill to the one service road they had kept open for emergency vehicles, and motions for one of the passing cars to stop; he leans over to examine the tablets in this car's headlights, then yells to me with a grin, "They're blue!". And then waves the car on. The driver gives Dave a thumbs up and rolls on. 

He was a New York State trooper.

Every Deal is a Package Deal

I've complained (on more occasions than I care to count) about my occupation, sales - I would say "chosen occupation", but that's just flat-out incorrect; I never chose it, really - I just kind of drifted into it. It was a way to potentially make good money, without a lot of up-front training and with a minimum of corporate flag-saluting bullshit.

Which brings me to the whole package deal concept. Yes, I have enjoyed some good paychecks, but like many financial morons with variable income, I consistently based our spending on an annual income that I always projected would equal my best month times twelve. A spectacularly defective strategy, it turns out.

And I've enjoyed autonomy, too, in varying degrees, and the freedom to work my opportunities as a kind of virtual entrepreneur. Again, with a trade-off - I'm measured - literally every working day - on how much revenue I've brought my company recently. And offering excuses for bad numbers is a dependable way to make things worse.

My current gig is really pretty promising - I work with smart people who respect my experience and take my ideas seriously, plus I get to work from home more often than not, sparing me, my car, and the environment a two-and-a-half hour daily round-trip commute. But once again, every working day manages to contain periods of intense stress alternating with mind-numbing record-keeping and mechanical tasks.

So why do I do keep doing it? First, it's what I know - a feeble statement, but, hey, it still carries weight. And second, when it comes together, and the deal closes, I've made something happen that would not have happened without me; a circuit's been completed, and I get a charge, a buzz.

Anyway, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Is There a Stone on My Heart, or Just a Shadow on the Land? And a recipe.

(Don't be put off by the first bit - just a line from a song of mine).

Got the whole autumnal early darkness thing going on. That and the evening chill creeping in. Tides.

These phenomena can be cozy, but they can also darken your mind. As so many articulate humans have pointed out, it's all context.

(Insert favorite Wm. Blake quote: "All that we know is not the same as it will be when we know more.")

Proud to say that I feel like I can still talk with people in their twenties and thirties, and share knowledge. One thing I've discovered is that as I talk with them, I'm pleasantly reminded that I actually am at least a bit smarter now. And they in turn seem happy with the prospect that age does not equal just decay.

Now that recipe (all praise to my wife and sustainer Teri Hayes) (BTW, this is what's in the oven right now!):

Jackie’s Favorite Mac and Cheese

Boil 1 box shells pasta, drain.

Toss in a 9x13 inch pyrex with stick of butter cut into chunks.

Add salt and pepper; set aside.

Finely chop 1 onion and 2 cloves garlic.

Sauté in 1/2 stick butter in large saucepan on high heat.

After 1 minute add splash white wine to keep garlic from burning

When wine has evaporated, add 1/2 stick butter, lower to medium heat, melt butter, and 3 tablespoons flour.

Keep stirring for about 5 minutes.

Add 1 cup heavy cream, 1 cup milk. Stir until thick.

Add 3 cups grated cheeses (fontina, swiss, mozzarella) 1 handful at a time. Keep stirring.

Add a dash nutmeg.

When all cheese is incorporated at to pasta; mix well.

Add diced ham (about 1 cup) or sausage.

Heat oven to about 375*

Top with bread crumbs to which you have added parsley and parmesan cheese.

Bake until brown and bubbly; about 20 minutes.

October Sun

I do occasionally feel fleeting pangs of, oh, I wouldn't call it homesickness, but some echo or memory of longing for New York. It's been more than thirty-five years since I bought my one-way ticket and flew out of LaGuardia, though, so you could safely say I've made peace with my decision.

And days like today, where I get to take my lunch break out back and feel that strong sun pouring down through the clear, crisp air, seal the deal.

California, here I am.

I know

I know the purpose of being a parent is to help bring real and full people into being. People who can take a beating and get back on their feet. People who can forgive unkindness and bear injustice, or even just disappointment . People whose path may wander far from mine.

I didn't say I would bear it all without pain. How could I say that?

Ever try to take a picture of a stray cat?

I'm here to tell you, it is not easy. Behold, our moving target, Pancake. Or Annette. I'll get back to you on that.

Luck of the Draw

Ah, to be a mere lad of 32 again -

I Got Lucky Here

I don't identify myself as a photographer at all. Which really frees me up to take some nice shots here and there.

Stray Cat - a tiny drama

A pathetically scrawny little orange and white short-hair young cat had been sneaking up on our back porch to steal bits of food, and we decided to try to bring her into the fold, so to speak.

Harder than we expected. First, we borrowed Roger's humane trap - you know, those metal mesh cages that you bait with food, the door panel clicks down when they go for the food, and you can then take them to the vet for check-up, shots, spaying, etc., and then bring them home and hope they stick around (even if they don't , at least there's one healthier stray). We did this with our oldest, Shelley, more than 13 years ago and she's still around.

This one, though - no sale. She (gender is guesswork at this point) went nowhere near the trap, though we did catch a possum and one of our own cats, Elvis. (Twice).

However, every day she gets a bit more comfy with hanging out on the porch and even ventures in to the pantry to scrounge from the other cats' dishes. I do believe she looks a little plumper and less sickly.

An interesting exercise in patience.

Great, Easy Shortbread Cookie Recipe

As my friend Fred so rightly observed, baking season is nigh. Try this one out:

Shortbread Cookies

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 cup butter, softened

1/2 cup powdered sugar

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon vanilla

Combine flour, butter, sugar, salt, baking powder and vanilla in food processor.

Pack dough into 9-inch round cake pan and prick well with fork.

Sprinkle sugar over dough.

Bake at 350* for 30 to 35 minutes.

Cut into wedges while warm.

Oakland, 3:20 PM

Unedited. Just shot straight into the sun.

Winter Rain

Audio quality on this: not great, but I recorded it on my phone for chrissakes.

Laying out journal pages like playing cards, not knowing the game but playing anyway

Prized Possessions

Don't need much else

Same as My Curse

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IQDFIt_j4tM&feature=player_detailpage

Always hear people say
that it goes by so fast
Pleasure evaporates
but the pain seems to last
There must be more than this
at the end of the day
There must be something true or kind or wise to say
There must be something true or kind or wise to say

Like any good man
I've done a lot of things wrong
But they come back to get me
and they never take long
I know my blessing
is the same as my curse
and it makes no difference
which one came first
and it makes no difference
which one came first

I look toward the west
over the trees
to where the sun appears to sink
into the sea
I know it's us
who keep turning away
from that sun that's burning bright
all night and day
from that sun that's burning bright
all night and day

Confessions of a Proud Amateur

When I was in high school and college, I identified myself as a writer - kept a journal (still do), started out by writing pretty awful material in that painful way that precocious, over-thinking young people do, but eventually hit a sort of stride - just in time for graduation. Wound up in California, working in a bagel and dessert shop down the street from the house I rented, with the thought that I would hole up in my room after my shift and write - something great. And I choked. Wrote stuff that I hated even before I finished each page.

Meanwhile my pals in the late great band Skywheel made their way to the Bay Area, a few at a time, and most of the band moved in with me, until our three bedroom house was home to ten people. As the band reassembled, I somehow wrangled (sounds better than "weasled" or "wormed") my way into the line-up, mostly as backup singer and percussionist (tambourine, maracas, conga), and I poured my heart and soul into whatever bit part I played, because the writing thing made me feel useless and sad and isolated, while the music made me feel alive.

So, was I a musician? Yes, especially after the band exploded and I helped found one of the spin-off groups, and got more front time, and also in the sense that we made our living - or part of it - from our music.

But the bands all dissolved or relocated and suddenly I was stranded. Again. Fortunately, my pal Greg cajoled me into forming a group with him, and even convinced some solid players to join.  Up to this time, I'd been going through the necessary process of writing a bunch of terrible songs, but persevered until I had four or five decent tunes; those, along with some of Greg's, enabled us to offer our players the chance to bring this material to life (god knows we had nothing else to offer).

I was proud that I hadn't quit, even as I accepted the reality that I would never be able to support myself, let alone a family, with my music. What I had slowly begun to understand, is that "amateur" does not mean "second-rate", "dilettante", "dabbler", or "poser". It just means no one's paying you to do it. How good or bad you are should only matter to you on your own terms, and speaking for myself, I play for smiles and praise, and the "pay" is pretty good.

It's only our reductive culture that insists on dividing us into the categories of "performer/creator" and "audience/consumer". Sorry, I ain't buyin' it.

The Power of the Press (Lightweight Division)

Fred and I had worked as gardeners in a graveyard in North London over the summer - 1972?-and I took my earnings and bought a sweet little Yamaha six-string. Returned to college - Utica - and by then knew perhaps four chords. My buddy Frank and I were stretching our legs on the lawn in front of one of the dorms after our drive, and at that moment, a reporter from the local rag wanted a "Utica welcomes back its returning students" story, so the guy pulled over two girls and a guy who we'd never seen before, and told me to play a song, and for everyone to sing....this accounts for Frank's deeply amused expression.

Layla

First saw the album displayed in a record store in Cambridge, Mass, in January of 1971. I was there in Cambridge visiting my soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend; she was in Cambridge for the month on some kind of work/study arrangement with her college. In contrast, I had just dropped out of college after one semester (Told my parents it was a leave of absence, which on paper it was, but in my heart I believed I would never go back.)

So I was adrift, and I’d hitch-hiked up to Cambridge with the idea that I would re-connect with Fran and somehow restart my life.

Pure delusion. In reality, she had been trying to let me down easy for some time but I was not getting the message. So she kept busy at work during the days, leaving me plenty of time to wander around Cambridge, about $1.25 to my name, in the bitter cold.

Ducked into a record store - not that I could buy anything; more to just get warm for a few minutes - and as I looked at the album for the first time, my initial thought was, whoa, that is one ugly album cover. Seriously. Second thought was, I really need to hear this when I get back to Ardsley - most of my friends were hardcore Clapton fans, and most were not as broke as me, so one of them had undoubtedly already bought it.

After about three nights of Fran not sleeping with me, I could no longer maintain the fantasy that we were going to reunite any time soon, so, with my boots now soaked from trudging through the slush, I thumbed my way back to NY.

As I’d figured, I was able to find a friend who had the album and we all congregated in my parents’ living room later that week, while my folks were both at work. My house was the preferred choice because we had the nicest stereo - a giant teak Scandinavian-style cabinet about seven feet long, with fabric-covered speakers built into each end.

This was still a time when groups of people would listen to a whole album, start to finish, without much talking, almost like going to the movies. So, we did just that.

We all loved it, though we probably argued about which tracks were the strongest. Early favorites out of the gate were “Bell Bottom Blues” and “Anyday”, but they were subsequently blown out of the water by the title track.

“Layla” - god, how great it was just to listen to it the first few times, brand new, long before anyone called it a “classic rock anthem”. That opening riff, like a hieroglyph of fire in the sky, bursting into being so fiercely the whole world can see it, then repeating, with a slightly varied resolve; then the whole band storming in like warriors on horseback.

Then those riders, led by the figures of burning light, ride up and down steep hills, till they break into a full gallop as the main song finishes, with the lead guitars at the very tops of their necks till the melodies become distant sirens and the vocals are wolf howls, because you’ll never be with her, and the world may as well come to an end.

But wait; there’s still the coda or outro or afterlude or whatever you want to call it.

My son asked me not long ago what purpose this whole final passage serves; we’ve just experienced this driven, raging rock song when out of nowhere come these melodramatic acoustic piano chords that introduce an entirely different melody; a gentle rollling cymbal flourish flares, fades; the guitars and bass join in, and now we’re in a whole new song, seemingly.

OK. But no. After you’ve roared yourself hoarse and punched a few walls, she’s still gone, and you have to find a way back to your life, to your friends, to the possibility of beauty and happiness. Even still blinded by tears, you need to blink and breathe and sail on, on wave after wave of desire and grief.

Till at last you reach the harbor. The band goes nearly silent, except for the final ultra-high guitar trills, like the cries of birds floating and circling in the sky, high, high above.

That’s why the coda’s there.

Of course, don’t go thinking that a few listenings to “Layla” taught me any of this. I continued to cling to hopes for a joyful reconciliation with my ex until April of that year, when she finally showed me the door in terms that a coma victim could have understood.

I walked out of her parents’ house and stood in the middle of that suburban street under a flawless blue sky for some time. (Early afternoon on a weekday - not much traffic).

Adolescent love is dangerously capable of wiring itself like a suicide bomber to absurd emotional equations. Like: “Without you, I am nothing”.

So on that quiet, sunny afternoon, I was forced to finally test that equation.

“I am now without her; am I now nothing?”

And for what was probably only a minute but seemed much, much longer, I saw the world dissolve and felt myself stripped of my body, my mind, my past, and my future, till I was just a point, a dot, a tiny mark in space.

But I did not disappear. In fact, as I remembered to breathe,I began to grow back. I felt the cool breeze at my back, the warm sun on my face; I saw the trees and the sky, and I heard birds singing.

And I began to walk.

Pleasant surprise

Last night our friend Ellen stopped by with a few pals en route to their Friday night festivities, but once I found out that Jesse and Graham are musicians - and that they had their instruments with them - guitar, fiddle - next thing we knew we had an hours-long session on our front porch, followed by a modest feast of pork tenderloin and pilaf at the dining room table. Did my heart good!

Can I get you anything?

In the summer of 2001, my mother, who had outlived my father by fifteen years at that point, was under hospice care in a convalescent home in Concord, CA. Her kidney function was at 10%, and she had extreme hypertension and what appeared to be chronic pneumonia. 

The prognosis would not have been good even if these were all being treated aggressively, but in fact, Lilyan had refused treatment. Since she was also experiencing increasing dementia, I had made sure to look her in the eye and ask her, "Ma, do you understand what all this means?"

She paused, then started to say that she'd been missing her mother more and more these past few months (her mother who had died when Lilyan was forty, more than forty years ago at that time); she then looked at me with a calm expression and stated, "I guess I won't be missing her much longer now."

So, she was mostly immobilized by pain and morphine, waiting for the lights to go out. But I still needed to visit every few days, if only to sit by her bed while she drifted in and out. In any case, between her cataracts and atomized attention span, she could no longer read or even watch TV, or conduct a meaningful conversation for that matter. But still, before I left each time, I would always ask, "Can I get you anything?"

I rarely got any answer beyond a weak shake of the head and a murmured, "no". But one June Saturday afternoon, she looked over at me when I asked that same question, and said, in a much clearer voice, "Yes. I would really love a vanilla milkshake".

 I was initially stunned, since I had long before given up any hope of an answer and had only been asking the question as another step in the visiting ritual. So, I responded, a little warily, "Really? A vanilla milkshake?" "Yes. That would be nice".

I drove back to Oakland, to the Claremont Diner, where my daughter and I had being going for milkshakes since she could balance on the stools at the counter; ordered a vanilla to go, and sped back to Concord.

My mother drank that shake with all the concentration and delight of a five-year-old.

Lilyan died about a month after that, deep in a morphine dream, but my grief was lightened by the fact that I had been able to grant her at least one last wish before the end. 

And it was all because I remembered to ask that question one more time.

Hot and Cold

So how do I start this thing?

With the encouragement - hell, at the insistence - of a number of good friends whose ideas I trust, I'm baby-stepping away from the relatively passive sandbox-play of Facebook and carving out my own virtual space.

Since I'm sole contributor, anything interesting, funny, sad, thought-provoking, or, or, ANYTHING, has to come from me. No sitting back and muttering wisecracks at the screen, or otherwise bobbing in the stream like a beach ball; it's creativity time, baby!

So I'll start by recycling some content previously posted on FB. That'll at least get me started, and there'll be those of you who never saw the original posts, so it'll be new to you, as they say in the rummage business.