Another tricky balancing act

is to take responsibility for your mistakes but not to delude yourself that you have anything like complete control over the events in your life. Come to an understanding that you have limits to your power but resolve to keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel, for starters.

Also good (while we're doing driving metaphors): letting other drivers merge in traffic. Unless they're talking on their cell phones.

Oh, and while you're forgiving people, remember to forgive yourself too. Unless you're a complete psychopath, in which case, get the hell away from my blog, maniac.

January 24, 1977

Still Raining, Still Dreaming

Quiet day, no drama. I've become what I can only describe as an emotional conservative - I don't love or crave abrupt change. Hit the gym, did the grocery shopping, then braved the dark and damp to sit outside my favorite cafe to read and reflect. For the gazillionth time, I recognized and gave thanks for all the people who have cared for me and helped me, my whole life long.

I have an I Ching app on my iPhone - go ahead and laugh; I fully appreciate how much that makes me sound like a character in a Tom Wolfe novel - and when I consulted it this evening, at my chilly cafe table, it said my plans were wise and would bring success. Again, laugh if you like, but I've had many readings - astrology, Tarot - that have been surprisingly dark.

So I'll take guarded comfort in my phone's counsel. And how's that for a statement that would have made even less sense even ten years ago....

Funny...

...how sometimes your troubles can harden your heart, but other times they open your eyes to what other people must be going through.

Why is that, I wonder? I guess I should be thankful for anything that opens my eyes, even at a high cost. I came here to learn, so I guess I'd better. I paid my ticket, may as well take the ride for all it's worth.

This may be the main thing I've picked up along the way, or at least one of the contenders: we've all got burdens, and we're all in this together, whether we know it or not.

This is something I've been slowly learning over more than forty, fifty years. As much as I may mourn my lost youth (too much, yes, I know), I sure as hell had no more than a sliver of a clue about this back then.

It would be great if all this was easy, but I'm OK just to know something's possible. I can work with that.

Snow, thoughts on:

A lot of people far from the cold,- including myself - can get nostalgic about snow, especially massive storms that transform your street, your neighborhood, your town....my thoughts: easy to love this phenomenon when you are a child, or even a teenager - but the idea of having to get to and from work, shop for groceries, get your kids to school, shovel your driveway and walkways, heat your home, etc. - eh, not as lovely....not dissing my Northern friends at all - just a reality check on missing snow. And to paraphrase Fran Liebowitz, of course it was better way back when; you were young then.

Bartholdo Macheem

Up till now, I think I've only posted my own stuff here, but I'm happy to bend that rule and share this great song by my dear old comrade Greg Gould. And of course, I do play bass on this track. (That was always a nice treat - in The Characters, Greg would switch to guitar when he sang his tunes, and I would step in on bass).

This video is a kind of a mess, but I wanted to do it as part thank-you to G for his years of friendship and support, and also a valentine to a vivid time in my life.

When Greg and I founded The Characters, in I want to say 1983, I had been without a band since 1980 or so, when Tattoo moved to Oregon, and I believe my "sibling bands", Jonah and Deakin, were over then too, or soon to be. So after about four years of being immersed in playing music - and how I mainly defined myself - I passed through a three-year limbo.

And it was grim at times. Now, I was living with and soon to be married to Teri, so I was extremely happy in that part of my life. But playing in a band - especially when you're working on original material - is not like any other relationship. And to have that drop away leaves a hole.

For most of that time, Teri worked nights, waitressing and bartending in Sausalito, while I worked days, rebuilding and refinishing antique oak chairs. (Different story). So, alone most evenings, I would usually mess around on guitar and sing, just so I wouldn't lose what modest skills I'd acquired before the diaspora. Along the way, I wrote perhaps a dozen really shitty songs, but eventually wrote a couple I wasn't ashamed to play in front of people.

It was Greg - who had a few really cool tunes under his belt by then himself, including this one - who took on the burden of finding musicians to join us. The challenge was this - we wanted people who a) played well, b) were relatively easy to get along with, and c) were willing to play with no immediate expectation of getting paid.

This required Greg's extensive networking skills, among which was his long-time practice of asking just about every single person he met if they played an instrument, then, if possible, getting their name and number and writing them down in one of the shirt-pocket-sized notebooks he always carried.

We eventually managed to put together a functioning band that practiced once or twice a week, the core being Phyllis on piano, Drew on drums, me on mandolin, guitar, and vocals, and Greg on bass (except when he wasn't). Along the way, I managed to bang out a few more decent songs, as did Greg, and we decided to start recording them, at a really nice and inexpensive sixteen-track studio on Adeline in Berkeley, Madman Studios (long gone, alas).

We could only afford to record and mix four tunes every six months or so, but we would just practice our brains out on the tunes we'd chosen for each session and we at least went in with the ability to record the basic tracks in just a couple of takes. And we didn't do a whole lot of overdubs.

So in about eighteen months, we had a twelve-song "album" that we were overall pleased with. This was one of the tracks that really had a great, loose, party feel to it, I thought. (It may have been one of the last we recorded, so we knew the studio pretty well by then).

During this same period, my son was born, Teri quit the bar business, I stopped fixing furniture and began selling it, among other major developments. So when The Characters eventually did fade away (turns out gigging regularly is important to most players, and we just never did get the hang of managing that aspect), I had plenty to keep me busy, and that made the end less traumatic than the end of all the Skywheel sibling bands before.

Years later, still proud and happy to be writing and singing and playing, and I owe a lot of that to Greg, without a doubt.

When I Paint My Masterpiece

In the Fall of 1973, after my sophomore year at Utica College, I transferred to Bard College. I think I'd wanted to go to Bard in the first place, after visiting Fred there when he was a freshman and I was still a senior in high school, in the Spring of 1970, but in the midst of the personal and global chaos at that time, I did not get it together and wound up applying to Utica at the last minute, in August 1970, as an.....Urban Studies Major. Long story short, my father saw an ad in the Sunday Times soliciting applicants and really engineered the whole thing. (Needless to say, I was the only white person with that major).

I eventually found my bearings there and did pretty well. (After leaving Urban Studies). Made some good friends too. Then I somewhat abruptly pulled up stakes and left Utica behind. I don't even remember making the decision to leave. It just happened. Could have been those brutal Mohawk Valley winters; maybe just the bleakness of that particular city at that time.

In any case, Bard was certainly more beautiful, and by a fluke of demographics, the female to male student ration was nearly 2:1 while I was there. (Different story).

Another nice aspect was that a bunch of my very good friends from Hartsdale/Ardsley, who had formed an excellent band called Skywheel, had set up housekeeping nearby in Elizaville. I hung out with them quite a bit, and one interesting detail of that scene was that in addition to all the singing and playing and songwriting, a bunch of the guys were (and still are) exceptionally fine painters.

So a much-loved winter afternoon activity was to all set up our easels and crack out the brushes and oil paints, put on some music, smoke a bit if we had any, and just get deep into the brush strokes. I had no painting skills at all, mind you, but I did absorb some basics from the rest of the group, and I turned out some abstract color storms that weren't entirely awful.

What made it so profoundly pleasant for me was that I had no pretensions about being an actual painter, so I was free to paint almost as freely as a child. The other pay-off - which took a while to sink in - was that even at my rudimentary skill level, I was now able to look at paintings and appreciate how much it took to create a good one, let alone a great one.

Which is why I'm so happy that my children have grown up knowing that art in all its forms - including cooking and gardening, of course  - is made by flesh-and-blood people, and that the more they themselves are involved in acts of creation, even if only for their personal amusement, the more they'll be able to comprehend and enjoy all the art that's out there.

And who knows where that might lead them.

Winners and Losers

For as long as I can remember, I've hated hearing people describe the world as being made up of winners and losers. And of course most everyone that sees the world this way thinks of themselves as being one of the winners, and believes they can identify the losers quickly and easily. And once a loser, always a loser, right?

After a while, I have begun to understand that this view of life, of people, is so deeply ingrained that it's no longer a conscious thought process. But it doesn't change the fact that when I hear someone refer to another person as a loser, I'm still shocked, and I'm actually disappointed in their lack of empathy and self-reflection.

Perhaps worst of all, though, is what so many people are willing to do in order to convince themselves that they are NOT one of the losers. This is the driving force behind so much toxic behavior, from greed and over-consumption to racism.

And when people get hurt and beaten down often and severely enough, they're capable of branding themselves as losers. Unredeemable, done, game over. And that's not just pitiful - which would be bad enough. It's dangerous. People who believe they have nothing left to lose are capable of anything.

So what am I suggesting? For starters, think about how you see the world, for real, not just what you would say out loud.

If there's any hope of undoing some of the damage, it starts in our hearts, by refusing to stand in judgement of others, and in being fair and honest in how we judge ourselves.

Jan. 19 & Jan. 25, 1985

Drifting fog in the morning

usually means late morning sun, at least around these parts.

And that's all right with me. Each day the sun rides a little higher, and my spirit rises with it.

A fun fact which leads to an intriguing question

is that Keith Richards, in his autobiography, "Life", mentions his great appreciation for a series of novels based on the adventures of a British naval captain and his ship's surgeon set in the early 1800's; this is the well-loved Aubrey-Maturin series written by the late Patrick O'Brian:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aubrey–Maturin_series

Not really that odd that Keith would like these books; aside from his well-deserved reputation for staying high for stupendous lengths of time, he's an extremely bright guy, and these books are beautifully written and exciting.

No, what piqued my curiosity was an off-hand comment Keith makes, to the effect that aspects of Captain Aubrey's and Dr. Maturin's relationship reminded Keith of his and Mick's relationship.

For those of you that have not (yet) read any of the series, a quick sketch of these characters: 1) Jack Aubrey is a captain in the British Navy, a skilled sailor, a fierce warrior, and a large man with large appetites; 2) Stephen Maturin is a brilliant physician, scientist, linguist, and (unbeknownst to Jack) an undercover spy for the British intelligence services.

They are the closest of friends, though the only outward things they share are a love of music (J plays violin, S plays cello) and their hatred of Napoleon.

So, which one does Keith identify with?

All I have is a photograph

Kate and Pat Moran, San Diego CA, 1978. Photo: Teri Hayes

Run Me Out in the Cold Rain and Snow

I don't know how many respondents they heard from, or how valid on-line polls are in general, but Parade Magazine hosted one recently, asking people, "if you could start over, would you choose the same career again?"

Results: 39% would choose the same one; 61% said nope.

If these were election results, this would be called a landslide.

No question that this was a much more reflective feature than we usually find in good old Parade. I know it got me thinking; to put it more accurately, it plunged me into a mental state akin to the bottom of a well.

I know that some of my gloom is caused by the dreary, damp winter we are "enjoying" right now, and it's also intensified by my money worries (I have none; that worries me). But even on a bright morning in the not-too-distant past when work was going well and I was making decent money, I would have still been one of that 61%.

I fell into sales, with no plan or goal beyond supporting my family, and I certainly didn't think of it as a "career". To be fair, I've had some good times, worked with some cool people, and learned a lot along the way.

But I could have done better. And my deepest desire is that my kids will be in that 39%.

Forgiveness. In all matters. Great or small.

One of the secret benefits of being a parent - or, I suspect , being a teacher - is that you may get the chance to teach your young ones great ideas that you may consistently fail to embody yourself.

By sharing the idea, it gets a new life, a brand new opportunity to enter into the world outside your mind, outside your life. Perhaps with a different and better outcome.

When my son was, oh hell, not sure, eight? he went through some kind of stupid bullshit head-butting with some of his friends, and as I drove him to school one day, he was seething at their bad behavior and the injustice of it all.

I told him, "your anger doesn't hurt those guys at all. It just burns inside you, eating you away. I'm not saying you should take shit from people, but when it comes to grudges, the first one to get over it wins."

Having said that to him, I then needed to look at who I was not forgiving. Good-sized list.

Working on it.

I've heard it said

that no one reads poems. Not even poets. May be true; I know I read poems, well, sporadically. Why do you think I started writing songs? With a song, at least - when you perform them - there's a chance your words may be heard.

(NOTE: Most of the drummers I've worked with over the years have said, in as many words, "Lyrics? What are lyrics?")

April 1975

What's the angriest you've ever been?

I'm asking you; think about it. So. Did you want to hurt someone? Did you feel as though there was no doubt that you were the wronged party, and that the object of your anger deserved to suffer?

What did you do then?

If you had no weapon, you probably then had to think - how do I get a weapon? And as that thought progressed, did your fury increase or decrease? Educated guess: decrease. At least temporarily.

If you had a weapon, then what? And if you had an automatic weapon - evocative description - what then?

You know where I'm going with this. Rage to massacre, in the time it takes to walk or drive to your target.

Fists can't do the job that spontaneously. Nor can knives. It takes a gun to kill a village.

January 8, 1974

Gary was probably Gustafson, but could have been Tacon. Russell - sorry, not a clue.

Insert warm, wise observation here

The setbacks at work intensify. One of the qualities I admire most in myself and in others, resilience, seems to be running perilously low right now. 

I want what I write here to contribute to an image of an evolved, humorous, reflective man; duh. So what do I write when I need the pleasure of writing but anything I say will only reveal my fatigue and sadness?

I could always write it down then delete it all. But, come on, that's worse than not writing at all.

OK, I got something: in the face of disappointment, the best response is serene acceptance, but back here on Earth, the most common reactions are either regret or resentment.

I'll take regret.

 

My eyes are not getting any stronger, but I don't care,

because now I see even more interesting scenes sometimes -

 - like a moonlit jungle river instead of the side of a truck - 

I knew it was going to be a potentially challenging day

when the last dream I remembered before getting out of bed was that the Earth was being invaded - the sky was dark with alien ships; warehouses on the waterfront were starting to catch fire - and no one else in the dream seemed especially concerned. Hell, even I was only vaguely anxious.

Got up, took a deep breath, coughed - yep, chest cold still holding steady, check - but after a hot shower and a cup of coffee I began to feel like at least a good approximation of myself.

Drove Jackie to school - her first day back after Winter Break - and she was in a reasonably decent mood. I  did not ask why; I know when silence is genuinely golden.

Got back, turned on the work laptop, and got only marginally more done than yesterday. Prospective clients are still almost entirely unresponsive this week, but all I can do is try, right? The point was, I felt there was point.

And the sun was shining strong, nearly all day. Take that, you fucking aliens.

What I Did On My Birthday

As I've mentioned elsewhere - elsewhen? - holidays and birthdays can be stressful, because We (the Social We, which has replaced the Royal We) have decreed that these are "special" days. But we (the real "we") all know that this assignment of jewel-like value and uniqueness to specific days is arbitrary and that we need to live them in whatever way will make us happiest, including not celebrating them at all if we so choose.

And again, as a person whose birthday falls on a holiday - New Year's Eve - I've had some time to ponder this. Fifty-eight years, to be exact. Well, OK, probably no pondering (of this) until age fourteeen. So forty-four years.

Don't get me wrong; we don't turn off the lights and sit in the dark till we fall asleep. We just don't "party" per se. But the point is, I had a great time, in my own way:

"They shot Sonny on the causeway. He's dead." 

* Small group of friends and family in for a supper of fresh cracked crab and latkes;

* Then a viewing of The Godfather.

I Wish I Was a Headlight on a Northbound Train

Some of you may not be as obsessed with songs, and song lyrics, as many of my other friends and I am. But for those who are, it's really a miracle how the distinctions between melody and rhythm and words dissolve as a great song takes flight.

Synthesis, right? or is it synesthesia?

And I'm not even necessarily talking about the great original writers, the list of which I'll leave to you.

No. I'm talking about "Composer: Trad."

Songs so old only REALLY dedicated scholars will spend time tracing back the historical strata of their lyrical evolution.

What an accomplishment, to be some fucking farmer or hunter and have energy enough after your tedious, harsh day, to come up with,

"Jack of Diamonds,
 Jack of Diamonds,
 Well, I know you of old -
 You rob my poor pockets
 of the silver...
 and the gold...."