Wood-frogs moon laughter, hearts with friends, parent joy love
Embrace
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Friday, March 30, 2018
Wednesday I get drinks with friends. Life is good.
Thursday we laugh in the TOEFL class, even though we are learning about how to beat a standardized test. Sometimes the topics are very interesting, at least to me, because I'm not the one fretting about taking the exam. I just have to prepare them and improve their English. I especially enjoy the listening about handling bears in Glacier Park in Montana (page 263).
My favorite student, a fashionable German woman my age, buys us all donuts on her final day. I tell her it was totally fun teaching her for a year, and thank her for challenging me so many times. She responds in kind, and wants to read my next book. Now I'll have to depend on my knowledge-seeking, hijab-wearing Egyptian mother of three to answer the tough questions when everyone else is stumped, or to go on nerdy rants to demonstrate her open-mindedness and love of intellectualism.
In the afternoon class, we learn and laugh. The day before, the best female volleyball player in Kosovo says she is impressed that I remember all 19 of my students' names. I tell her it's my job. Then, to show off, and because the theme is law and order, I give everyone a selection of gangster names to choose from, tell them that those will be their names until the completion of Unit 5, and I memorize them as quickly as I can.
Within half an hour, I can reel them all off, and the doctor from Guinea/Belgium leads a standing ovation (well, a few stand, the rest are nice enough to clap). I remember all their names when they arrive on Thursday as well. "Good afternoon Cadillac, Sharkie, Queen Bee, Diamond, Kitty, Ice, The Boss, The Godfather, Red Hot, Baby Blue, Rosie, Brooklyn, T-Bone, Ruby, Pearl, Kingpin, Bambi, Books, Bones..." The latter already asks us to call him "Bobo," but he's looking down at his book and doesn't respond when I call him "Bones." So I say, "Bobo, Bobo, Bobo Bones." Soon I'm teaching about the George Thorogood song "Bad to the Bone," which is one of the few guitar riffs I was ever capable of learning. When they ask for my name, the best names left are The Mad Hatter and The Don. I go with the latter. Even so, I ask them to call me Ben.
Brooklyn, that is, Andreza from Brazil, gives me a chocolate egg for Easter. I joke that I'm 33 and I hope to live past Good Friday, but if I do, I'll share the egg with my family. After all, when I ate some fantastic fungus before walking barefoot around that pyramid-shaped gopura temple in Thanjavur in southern India, the woman with the bindi had come up to me and said, "You look like (that guy)," and I'd laughed.
Then, nervously recalling Life of Brian, I'd asserted, "Yes, but I'm not (that guy)."
And she'd responded with a smile, "Yes, but you LOOK like him," and went on her way.
In southern India, (that guy) has long blond hair and a red beard, I guess thanks to Portuguese colonization and their creative interpretations of history/mythology. There are photos of him all around Kerala, where I'd been before Thanjavur. In fact, there was one in the hotel where we stayed, and the old Indian man kept pointing to it when he saw me. When we said good bye after a few days stay, he gave us hugs. When he hugged me, he slowly reached down and grabbed a handful of both of my butt cheeks (MeToo?).
Now, just to hedge my bets to live a good long life (and avoid being groped by very friendly, lonely, elderly Indian hotel stewards), on top of eating beans, vegetables, getting some exercise, laughing, spending time near water, trees, and loved one's, I've also been extra careful not to reject my parents, stay friends with a couple money lenders and admit their spiritual potential (after all, an investment banker who wrote an article about Mexican mushrooms made them popular in the US), applaud all manner of ways in which women choose to express their sexuality whether conservatively or promiscuously, reject lifelong celibacy and refrain from claiming to be the way and the light.
I take a few hours in Harlem to get ready to go home for the weekend, as it always takes me a few hours to recharge before the drive. I get on the road around 9:15, and apparently everyone else in New York has the exact same idea, and it takes a while to get past the Palisades. Then it's easy, especially because I have this amazing Spotify playlist introducing me to works from Pat Metheny, Keith Jarrett, and various other jazz artists, with many tunes by my favorite, Hiromi. I get home at 12:34.
Life gives me 10 hours of sleep, which is much better than being awoken early by a construction buzz saw on Broadway.
When I come downstairs my mother greets me for the first time since early February, and she's holding a bunch of books, with The Presidency of Theodore Roosevelt on top. I eat breakfast, drink some Gyokuro, and when my dad wakes up from his nap, we tend to cover everything. Health, local friends' lives, world politics, the administration, gun laws, music, and so on.
I realize that the first song I can remember hearing may not have been The New Seekers' "Free to Be You and Me," but may instead have been any number of Irish tunes by Donnybrook Fair, especially "Get Up Jack." My parents remind me how I used to sing the lyrics as a toddler. Instead of "Hey Laddy-o, swing the capstan, round, round, round" I would say, "Hey Ratty-o, fing the wapstam rou, rou, rou!" Nancy Whiskey and Tunnel Tigers also ring a bell.
At one point in our long library conversation I'm saying that we have to learn from our elders while respecting the new lessons lived by youth, just like that lyric in "What a Wonderful World" where he says about the babies, "They'll all learn more than I'll ever know." Then we discuss whether or not Edith Piaf wrote the lyrics. My dad googles it and learns it was written by three guys whose names I haven't bothered to memorize. When we're debating something about guns and all the horrible tragedies of the world, my dad randomly interrupts and gives us more information about the creation of "What a Wonderful World."
I recall sitting on the front porch at 133 North Quarry Street in Ithaca on Wednesday afternoons my senior year of college, drinking whiskey with ice, inhaling some mother nature and feeling total zen while tapping my foot to T-Bone Walker's "Mean Old World," especially that intro. I'd have to admit that if I had to choose one, I would go with wonderful world, but mean world helps us create and appreciate that which is wonderful, and balance is our key to universal destiny.
Then we watch the news (PBS of course). After one program I decide I'm not quite as old as my parents and that one news show is enough for me. I take a half hour walk by light of a full moon, almost trip over some rolled up wire fence and wooden stakes on the edge of a cornfield, enjoy the spring frogs making their music, and then come back in time for some PBS round table discussion of the "MeToo" moment.
We plan on watching "Dylan: Unplugged" but it turns out PBS has this "Soundbreaking" series about the role of production in music. We watch three hours, and are still at it as I write this, which is way past my dad's bed time. My favorites so far are learning about Elvis/Howlin' Wolf/B.B. King at Sun Records, Sly Stewart (and the Family), Pink Floyd, the production of "Tomorrow Never Knows," and "God Only Knows."
I am so thankful to participate, to be one of the ways and part of the light.
Thursday we laugh in the TOEFL class, even though we are learning about how to beat a standardized test. Sometimes the topics are very interesting, at least to me, because I'm not the one fretting about taking the exam. I just have to prepare them and improve their English. I especially enjoy the listening about handling bears in Glacier Park in Montana (page 263).
My favorite student, a fashionable German woman my age, buys us all donuts on her final day. I tell her it was totally fun teaching her for a year, and thank her for challenging me so many times. She responds in kind, and wants to read my next book. Now I'll have to depend on my knowledge-seeking, hijab-wearing Egyptian mother of three to answer the tough questions when everyone else is stumped, or to go on nerdy rants to demonstrate her open-mindedness and love of intellectualism.
In the afternoon class, we learn and laugh. The day before, the best female volleyball player in Kosovo says she is impressed that I remember all 19 of my students' names. I tell her it's my job. Then, to show off, and because the theme is law and order, I give everyone a selection of gangster names to choose from, tell them that those will be their names until the completion of Unit 5, and I memorize them as quickly as I can.
Within half an hour, I can reel them all off, and the doctor from Guinea/Belgium leads a standing ovation (well, a few stand, the rest are nice enough to clap). I remember all their names when they arrive on Thursday as well. "Good afternoon Cadillac, Sharkie, Queen Bee, Diamond, Kitty, Ice, The Boss, The Godfather, Red Hot, Baby Blue, Rosie, Brooklyn, T-Bone, Ruby, Pearl, Kingpin, Bambi, Books, Bones..." The latter already asks us to call him "Bobo," but he's looking down at his book and doesn't respond when I call him "Bones." So I say, "Bobo, Bobo, Bobo Bones." Soon I'm teaching about the George Thorogood song "Bad to the Bone," which is one of the few guitar riffs I was ever capable of learning. When they ask for my name, the best names left are The Mad Hatter and The Don. I go with the latter. Even so, I ask them to call me Ben.
Brooklyn, that is, Andreza from Brazil, gives me a chocolate egg for Easter. I joke that I'm 33 and I hope to live past Good Friday, but if I do, I'll share the egg with my family. After all, when I ate some fantastic fungus before walking barefoot around that pyramid-shaped gopura temple in Thanjavur in southern India, the woman with the bindi had come up to me and said, "You look like (that guy)," and I'd laughed.
Then, nervously recalling Life of Brian, I'd asserted, "Yes, but I'm not (that guy)."
And she'd responded with a smile, "Yes, but you LOOK like him," and went on her way.
In southern India, (that guy) has long blond hair and a red beard, I guess thanks to Portuguese colonization and their creative interpretations of history/mythology. There are photos of him all around Kerala, where I'd been before Thanjavur. In fact, there was one in the hotel where we stayed, and the old Indian man kept pointing to it when he saw me. When we said good bye after a few days stay, he gave us hugs. When he hugged me, he slowly reached down and grabbed a handful of both of my butt cheeks (MeToo?).
Now, just to hedge my bets to live a good long life (and avoid being groped by very friendly, lonely, elderly Indian hotel stewards), on top of eating beans, vegetables, getting some exercise, laughing, spending time near water, trees, and loved one's, I've also been extra careful not to reject my parents, stay friends with a couple money lenders and admit their spiritual potential (after all, an investment banker who wrote an article about Mexican mushrooms made them popular in the US), applaud all manner of ways in which women choose to express their sexuality whether conservatively or promiscuously, reject lifelong celibacy and refrain from claiming to be the way and the light.
I take a few hours in Harlem to get ready to go home for the weekend, as it always takes me a few hours to recharge before the drive. I get on the road around 9:15, and apparently everyone else in New York has the exact same idea, and it takes a while to get past the Palisades. Then it's easy, especially because I have this amazing Spotify playlist introducing me to works from Pat Metheny, Keith Jarrett, and various other jazz artists, with many tunes by my favorite, Hiromi. I get home at 12:34.
Life gives me 10 hours of sleep, which is much better than being awoken early by a construction buzz saw on Broadway.
When I come downstairs my mother greets me for the first time since early February, and she's holding a bunch of books, with The Presidency of Theodore Roosevelt on top. I eat breakfast, drink some Gyokuro, and when my dad wakes up from his nap, we tend to cover everything. Health, local friends' lives, world politics, the administration, gun laws, music, and so on.
I realize that the first song I can remember hearing may not have been The New Seekers' "Free to Be You and Me," but may instead have been any number of Irish tunes by Donnybrook Fair, especially "Get Up Jack." My parents remind me how I used to sing the lyrics as a toddler. Instead of "Hey Laddy-o, swing the capstan, round, round, round" I would say, "Hey Ratty-o, fing the wapstam rou, rou, rou!" Nancy Whiskey and Tunnel Tigers also ring a bell.
At one point in our long library conversation I'm saying that we have to learn from our elders while respecting the new lessons lived by youth, just like that lyric in "What a Wonderful World" where he says about the babies, "They'll all learn more than I'll ever know." Then we discuss whether or not Edith Piaf wrote the lyrics. My dad googles it and learns it was written by three guys whose names I haven't bothered to memorize. When we're debating something about guns and all the horrible tragedies of the world, my dad randomly interrupts and gives us more information about the creation of "What a Wonderful World."
I recall sitting on the front porch at 133 North Quarry Street in Ithaca on Wednesday afternoons my senior year of college, drinking whiskey with ice, inhaling some mother nature and feeling total zen while tapping my foot to T-Bone Walker's "Mean Old World," especially that intro. I'd have to admit that if I had to choose one, I would go with wonderful world, but mean world helps us create and appreciate that which is wonderful, and balance is our key to universal destiny.
Then we watch the news (PBS of course). After one program I decide I'm not quite as old as my parents and that one news show is enough for me. I take a half hour walk by light of a full moon, almost trip over some rolled up wire fence and wooden stakes on the edge of a cornfield, enjoy the spring frogs making their music, and then come back in time for some PBS round table discussion of the "MeToo" moment.
We plan on watching "Dylan: Unplugged" but it turns out PBS has this "Soundbreaking" series about the role of production in music. We watch three hours, and are still at it as I write this, which is way past my dad's bed time. My favorites so far are learning about Elvis/Howlin' Wolf/B.B. King at Sun Records, Sly Stewart (and the Family), Pink Floyd, the production of "Tomorrow Never Knows," and "God Only Knows."
I am so thankful to participate, to be one of the ways and part of the light.
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Usually, I love the people who come through my classroom. I haven't mastered loving everyone unconditionally, whether in the classroom, the city, the country, the world or wherever else there's intelligent life. I will say, however, that when I move in that direction, or at least generally feel positive about life and people, I tend to treat others better than I have.
So many students have come through my classrooms so far, and I know there will be many in the future. Even if the publishing gods bring my words to more eyes and I can spend more time at this, I would still envision a future where I spend some time in classrooms helping to educate people, whatever the context (so long as it's interesting).
I remember when I would be able to write, photograph and arrange all day when I was living from harvest savings in SF, and although that gave me indescribable joy, I often would feel a certain emptiness while walking the streets, because I had minimal human connection, and none beyond my new roommates, who were available for conversations here and there. Come to think of it, the strangers I lived with those first few months were invaluable in keeping me grounded in basic human connection, fluent in conversation, and inspired to express experiences.
Just a few minutes in my classroom, now, and I wonder how I ever lived without so many people around, let alone on my own in the wilderness or foreign lands. I feel lucky, honored, blessed each year I spend meeting new people. I've checked off most of the countries at this point, and although I'd love to travel more and meet someone from every land, I'd know that some of those borders are arbitrary. There are often culturally and/or linguistically similar groups living across imaginary lines, while very different groups live side by side. That's why one of the most essential takeaways from this whole teaching experience is something I already knew but have constantly re-confirmed, which is that individuals transcend group demographics all the time.
I teach language to all ages now. I've done it a few years and who knows how much longer. One of my best friends is about to become a high school teacher. I think he'll be amazing, but we'll find out. I am interested in other things, so I won't be going that route, but it's a worthy endeavor, indeed. I have massive respect for people who instruct, inspire and guide people at that age. I have much less responsibility for my students' outcomes, because I usually know them for only a couple months. That being said, I do spend four hours a day with them, and some of them stay a very long time. As I've said before, I might meet students for a week, or they may hang around for a year. Some stay at the school for two, and I'll see them here and there on Friday classes even if I'm not always their every day instructor.
I think one of the reasons I'm a little more pensive than usual with respect to my current profession tonight is that one of my Hall of Fame students is moving on tomorrow. We will all congratulate her, not for finishing her course of study, but because she got married today! Which means that student visa's to learn English won't be so necessary for her to remain in our nation. I'm very happy for her, but, as usual, things are bittersweet.
When I moved to mornings a year ago, I changed from teaching level 2 and 3 immigrants who often lacked much formal education to teaching post-advanced business English, something I'd only done once. It was hard enough to change my sleep schedule, but I also had to be really sharp at the very beginning of the day. I couldn't slowly wake up in front of a computer monitor and some tea, reading e-mails or organizing/editing documents as in other work experiences I've had. I had to be ready to stand in front of the room and get things started at 9. What made that even more difficult was that I had very talented students who placed their expectations on me. One of them liked to correct me. She's corrected/challenged me quite a bit in the past year, whether in business or listening and speaking, or, most recently in my current (and first) TOEFL preparation class (post-advanced; after this, I will have taught every single level/class at my school).
Sometimes running a language class is like being a talk show host, except nobody outside the room is watching. And like any host knows, it helps to have your band leader or your sidekick to banter with and laugh at your jokes. Many a student has played this role since I started, and the best classes are when it feels like every student plays that role. That's always the goal, but some people are just really introverted, so you do what you can to encourage them to go as far beyond their comfort zone as they can.
Anyway, the current bandleader is from Germany. I grew up with a hard-headed intelligent woman who now lives in that same country. If that weren't enough, when I was in high school, we were joined by a German exchange sister who knew how to set me straight when I didn't have the facts right. So it only makes sense that this writer my age, who was supposedly keeping pages and pages of unpublished writing, waiting to find the right way/courage to publish, would be the one to play the role of my argumentative German sister.
Now, I'm visiting my real argumentative sister in a couple months so I can meet her adorable son. That means that after tomorrow, I will have to find my way on my own again, going a few months without a seriously good debate, or a female who is very engaged in politics/history/world events with whom I can commiserate. That said, I have many intelligent, lovable students, and life goes on. As annoying as that challenge could be, I will still miss her. I wish her well in her future in America, and I hope she publishes. More importantly, I hope I publish. We will see what happens as history builds upon its mystery... or is it the other way? I wonder what my graduating German bandleader would say. I suppose that's a light-hearted debate I will have with a different gifted, intelligent, and headstrong woman on another day... well, maybe not quite so headstrong.
We will see.
So many students have come through my classrooms so far, and I know there will be many in the future. Even if the publishing gods bring my words to more eyes and I can spend more time at this, I would still envision a future where I spend some time in classrooms helping to educate people, whatever the context (so long as it's interesting).
I remember when I would be able to write, photograph and arrange all day when I was living from harvest savings in SF, and although that gave me indescribable joy, I often would feel a certain emptiness while walking the streets, because I had minimal human connection, and none beyond my new roommates, who were available for conversations here and there. Come to think of it, the strangers I lived with those first few months were invaluable in keeping me grounded in basic human connection, fluent in conversation, and inspired to express experiences.
Just a few minutes in my classroom, now, and I wonder how I ever lived without so many people around, let alone on my own in the wilderness or foreign lands. I feel lucky, honored, blessed each year I spend meeting new people. I've checked off most of the countries at this point, and although I'd love to travel more and meet someone from every land, I'd know that some of those borders are arbitrary. There are often culturally and/or linguistically similar groups living across imaginary lines, while very different groups live side by side. That's why one of the most essential takeaways from this whole teaching experience is something I already knew but have constantly re-confirmed, which is that individuals transcend group demographics all the time.
I teach language to all ages now. I've done it a few years and who knows how much longer. One of my best friends is about to become a high school teacher. I think he'll be amazing, but we'll find out. I am interested in other things, so I won't be going that route, but it's a worthy endeavor, indeed. I have massive respect for people who instruct, inspire and guide people at that age. I have much less responsibility for my students' outcomes, because I usually know them for only a couple months. That being said, I do spend four hours a day with them, and some of them stay a very long time. As I've said before, I might meet students for a week, or they may hang around for a year. Some stay at the school for two, and I'll see them here and there on Friday classes even if I'm not always their every day instructor.
I think one of the reasons I'm a little more pensive than usual with respect to my current profession tonight is that one of my Hall of Fame students is moving on tomorrow. We will all congratulate her, not for finishing her course of study, but because she got married today! Which means that student visa's to learn English won't be so necessary for her to remain in our nation. I'm very happy for her, but, as usual, things are bittersweet.
When I moved to mornings a year ago, I changed from teaching level 2 and 3 immigrants who often lacked much formal education to teaching post-advanced business English, something I'd only done once. It was hard enough to change my sleep schedule, but I also had to be really sharp at the very beginning of the day. I couldn't slowly wake up in front of a computer monitor and some tea, reading e-mails or organizing/editing documents as in other work experiences I've had. I had to be ready to stand in front of the room and get things started at 9. What made that even more difficult was that I had very talented students who placed their expectations on me. One of them liked to correct me. She's corrected/challenged me quite a bit in the past year, whether in business or listening and speaking, or, most recently in my current (and first) TOEFL preparation class (post-advanced; after this, I will have taught every single level/class at my school).
Sometimes running a language class is like being a talk show host, except nobody outside the room is watching. And like any host knows, it helps to have your band leader or your sidekick to banter with and laugh at your jokes. Many a student has played this role since I started, and the best classes are when it feels like every student plays that role. That's always the goal, but some people are just really introverted, so you do what you can to encourage them to go as far beyond their comfort zone as they can.
Anyway, the current bandleader is from Germany. I grew up with a hard-headed intelligent woman who now lives in that same country. If that weren't enough, when I was in high school, we were joined by a German exchange sister who knew how to set me straight when I didn't have the facts right. So it only makes sense that this writer my age, who was supposedly keeping pages and pages of unpublished writing, waiting to find the right way/courage to publish, would be the one to play the role of my argumentative German sister.
Now, I'm visiting my real argumentative sister in a couple months so I can meet her adorable son. That means that after tomorrow, I will have to find my way on my own again, going a few months without a seriously good debate, or a female who is very engaged in politics/history/world events with whom I can commiserate. That said, I have many intelligent, lovable students, and life goes on. As annoying as that challenge could be, I will still miss her. I wish her well in her future in America, and I hope she publishes. More importantly, I hope I publish. We will see what happens as history builds upon its mystery... or is it the other way? I wonder what my graduating German bandleader would say. I suppose that's a light-hearted debate I will have with a different gifted, intelligent, and headstrong woman on another day... well, maybe not quite so headstrong.
We will see.
Monday, March 26, 2018
Friday, March 23, 2018
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Monday, March 19, 2018
I just got to see the legendary JASON WEBLEY perform in my home state of New York, and for my first time in Brooklyn. That was my first one-of-a-kind musical experience in 11 years. I think he has a song about that number. The drought wasn't intentional. He hasn't been touring as much as he used to, and when he has, I've been somewhere else (thanks to him!).
If you haven't read about Jason Webley before, here or elsewhere, I'll just let you know that he's a traveling musician who generally plays accordion, acoustic guitar, piano and a vodka bottle full of pennies. Also, he stomps a lot. More importantly, if you wanted to pick one guy to walk into a room, turn it into a party and get everyone singing along and laughing so hard their sides hurt, he's your guy.
Needless to say, the show was something else altogether, and I laughed throughout (he has a way of telling stories... there was a good one about giraffes). Even better, I had to go to some remote warehouse and ring the bell, because it was a secret location, and when the door opened it was Jason, checking his own guest list. I got to say hi, tell him it was my fifth show but first in 11 years, and then get thanked by him for attending. They had nice cushioned seats, and it was a small gathering so there was an intimate feel, which is the best way to see the show. If you get a chance, go, so you will know!
The first time I saw him was with my sister and her friends at Bard, in autumn 2005, when I was 20 years old and awaiting approval to study and live abroad for the first time. That had been basically a large classroom, although technically some place of worship. We got to sit right up front, and I've never seen a story teller bring so much energy to a room, before or since.
Although he didn't play all my favorites this Sunday, he played plenty of new ones, with great titles, and a few classics that still move me or put a lift in my step.
What really struck me was even though he's got all these songs about just dancing when the world is going crazy, or seeing that maybe all the upheaval is leading to something positive, he himself confessed to being in a strange place in his life, more specifically, in that he isn't sure he has anything novel to say to contribute to the various crises facing the world, or at least the general direction in which it's going. I think age has something to do with that. He's been touring twenty years. He must have been hoping for certain improvements. I know some of how he feels, but I think I've got some new energy, thanks to teachers like him. Even so, he still played the best song for these times.
I spent much of the day and the ride home thinking about all that had happened in the ELEVEN years since I'd seen him. I remember the last time I saw him was with three friends. What was most notable about that night was the absence of a friend, someone I had beyond strong feelings for, and whom I'd met because of Jason's music. But the feelings weren't reciprocal, and that night was a heavy feeling that even though there had always been signs I wasn't winning the girl, it was that night that I slowly, begrudgingly started to accept that a future together as a couple, at least in the near future, wasn't looking likely. I didn't give up on her heart for a while, but I knew deep down that if she wasn't even going to come out for Webley, then our connection must not have been quite as important to her as I'd thought it was (the fact we both liked his music was why she had befriended me in the first place). She was worth all the pain, and they both taught me plenty about the world, myself and where out potentials could meet. Despite the underlying sorrow, Jason lifted my spirits as always, just like the other three times I'd seen him. Those were back in college, and the first was before I had even studied abroad in New Zealand.
That's what was so special about last night. Jason Webley gave me courage to travel. I'd already applied to study in New Zealand, but after seeing him play Train Tracks at Bard College, I received my acceptance letter to study on the other side of the world ("your passport has been kissed by the holy fool"). It was the same song that made me burst into tears while cooking eggs and then sitting in front of a mosaic heart in San Francisco, that had kept me going traveling in Asia, hitching through snow in the south, riding with a canoe on top and hiking with a heavy backpack in the north, and while counting quarters for some beans while working in the Bronx and waiting for the next pay day ("if you'd just trade everything, for that small bag of dried up beans it's only time until the whistle blows...")
The last time I'd seen Webley, I hadn't even started to go on a reading tear. I'd just been introduced to the work of Tom Robbins. Interestingly, the woman who'd left a space in my heart because she'd chosen to share her heart with someone other than me was, sensibly enough, the same human being who introduced me to my favorite writer. So I read to take my mind off my heart, although I was really bringing my mind closer to my heart, even if I didn't quite see it that way back then. I also began exploring new music the following year, especially hip-hop, post-rock and jazz fusion. I hadn't even been to Chicago (first of three times), let alone lived in Tokyo or San Francisco, or hiked in the Grand Canyon, Glacier Park, the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the Golden Summit of Emei Shan, or the Himalaya. I was working only my second job after graduation, in publishing, and was about to finish there and take 3 months trying my hand at a novel, which was about the mysterious possibilities for creative magical journeys based on my meager experience as a 23 year old. I had a very limited perspective of the world, of what I'd already perceived in the world, and of my own capabilities to explore, embrace, enjoy and really perceive said world.
We were thanked by one of the greatest performers of all universe for taking the difficulty to see him on a Sunday evening, and then I walked to the train. Due to those tracks, the 60 minute ride home took 90 minutes, and I was more sleep deprived than usual this Monday morning. Thanks to the concert, however, I had plentiful energy, because something is back. Maybe Jason isn't sure what to say, but I'm finding my way, a little more each day. I hope someone revives in him the magical power that he helped me find in myself. I live creative uncertain journeys and am the man I am because of "magical helpers" such as Jason Webley. Please cheer him up and buy some of his songs!
If you haven't read about Jason Webley before, here or elsewhere, I'll just let you know that he's a traveling musician who generally plays accordion, acoustic guitar, piano and a vodka bottle full of pennies. Also, he stomps a lot. More importantly, if you wanted to pick one guy to walk into a room, turn it into a party and get everyone singing along and laughing so hard their sides hurt, he's your guy.
Needless to say, the show was something else altogether, and I laughed throughout (he has a way of telling stories... there was a good one about giraffes). Even better, I had to go to some remote warehouse and ring the bell, because it was a secret location, and when the door opened it was Jason, checking his own guest list. I got to say hi, tell him it was my fifth show but first in 11 years, and then get thanked by him for attending. They had nice cushioned seats, and it was a small gathering so there was an intimate feel, which is the best way to see the show. If you get a chance, go, so you will know!
The first time I saw him was with my sister and her friends at Bard, in autumn 2005, when I was 20 years old and awaiting approval to study and live abroad for the first time. That had been basically a large classroom, although technically some place of worship. We got to sit right up front, and I've never seen a story teller bring so much energy to a room, before or since.
Although he didn't play all my favorites this Sunday, he played plenty of new ones, with great titles, and a few classics that still move me or put a lift in my step.
What really struck me was even though he's got all these songs about just dancing when the world is going crazy, or seeing that maybe all the upheaval is leading to something positive, he himself confessed to being in a strange place in his life, more specifically, in that he isn't sure he has anything novel to say to contribute to the various crises facing the world, or at least the general direction in which it's going. I think age has something to do with that. He's been touring twenty years. He must have been hoping for certain improvements. I know some of how he feels, but I think I've got some new energy, thanks to teachers like him. Even so, he still played the best song for these times.
I spent much of the day and the ride home thinking about all that had happened in the ELEVEN years since I'd seen him. I remember the last time I saw him was with three friends. What was most notable about that night was the absence of a friend, someone I had beyond strong feelings for, and whom I'd met because of Jason's music. But the feelings weren't reciprocal, and that night was a heavy feeling that even though there had always been signs I wasn't winning the girl, it was that night that I slowly, begrudgingly started to accept that a future together as a couple, at least in the near future, wasn't looking likely. I didn't give up on her heart for a while, but I knew deep down that if she wasn't even going to come out for Webley, then our connection must not have been quite as important to her as I'd thought it was (the fact we both liked his music was why she had befriended me in the first place). She was worth all the pain, and they both taught me plenty about the world, myself and where out potentials could meet. Despite the underlying sorrow, Jason lifted my spirits as always, just like the other three times I'd seen him. Those were back in college, and the first was before I had even studied abroad in New Zealand.
That's what was so special about last night. Jason Webley gave me courage to travel. I'd already applied to study in New Zealand, but after seeing him play Train Tracks at Bard College, I received my acceptance letter to study on the other side of the world ("your passport has been kissed by the holy fool"). It was the same song that made me burst into tears while cooking eggs and then sitting in front of a mosaic heart in San Francisco, that had kept me going traveling in Asia, hitching through snow in the south, riding with a canoe on top and hiking with a heavy backpack in the north, and while counting quarters for some beans while working in the Bronx and waiting for the next pay day ("if you'd just trade everything, for that small bag of dried up beans it's only time until the whistle blows...")
The last time I'd seen Webley, I hadn't even started to go on a reading tear. I'd just been introduced to the work of Tom Robbins. Interestingly, the woman who'd left a space in my heart because she'd chosen to share her heart with someone other than me was, sensibly enough, the same human being who introduced me to my favorite writer. So I read to take my mind off my heart, although I was really bringing my mind closer to my heart, even if I didn't quite see it that way back then. I also began exploring new music the following year, especially hip-hop, post-rock and jazz fusion. I hadn't even been to Chicago (first of three times), let alone lived in Tokyo or San Francisco, or hiked in the Grand Canyon, Glacier Park, the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the Golden Summit of Emei Shan, or the Himalaya. I was working only my second job after graduation, in publishing, and was about to finish there and take 3 months trying my hand at a novel, which was about the mysterious possibilities for creative magical journeys based on my meager experience as a 23 year old. I had a very limited perspective of the world, of what I'd already perceived in the world, and of my own capabilities to explore, embrace, enjoy and really perceive said world.
We were thanked by one of the greatest performers of all universe for taking the difficulty to see him on a Sunday evening, and then I walked to the train. Due to those tracks, the 60 minute ride home took 90 minutes, and I was more sleep deprived than usual this Monday morning. Thanks to the concert, however, I had plentiful energy, because something is back. Maybe Jason isn't sure what to say, but I'm finding my way, a little more each day. I hope someone revives in him the magical power that he helped me find in myself. I live creative uncertain journeys and am the man I am because of "magical helpers" such as Jason Webley. Please cheer him up and buy some of his songs!
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
I was walking on this bridge about 25 hours ago, and I was listening to a piano, and I looked up at the stars and just said, "Wow," for a minute before continuing on my way. Sometime around then I suppose Steve Hawking made it to the umpteenth dimension to join Einstein just in time for his birthday, which is known as Pi Day. I imagine neither would approve of such references to an afterlife, no matter how imaginative. That said, in Life of Pi the protagonist tells us, "Reason is excellent for getting food, clothing and shelter. Reason is the very best tool kit. Nothing beats reason for keeping tigers away. But be excessively reasonable and you risk throwing out the universe with the bathwater." After all, he reminds us, "Which story do you prefer?" I wouldn't say you should always make choices based on "what's the better story," because the best stories often come after fiascoes, and there is something to be said for enjoying your life instead of just having good stories to tell. As with everything (or, to avoid absolutes, as with most things), variety is the spice of life. Savor the taste with your cosmic tongue. Also, as Stephen poignantly reminded us, we must remember to listen and to use that tongue borne of stardust to "keep talking."
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
Thursday, March 1, 2018
We talked about how we want to be treated, that is, what women want men to know, and what men want women to know, and it turns out we all want to be treated well... except when we don't... and we all have varying definitions of "well"... we need to speak/listen, but we also need to know when to leave each other alone with our thoughts... or lack thereof... we, the people, are wild energy combinations, viewpoint sensations
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