Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!
Bram Stoker, Irish Author
Category: music
Christofori’s Dream
I usually don’t highlight music on my blog, for everyone’s dreams are linked to so many different songs, lyrics, and memories that it’s hard to bring new energy into their lives.
Today’s blog will be different.
Today I will share — and I will ask you for suggestions.
Christofori’s Dream by David Lanz is (one of) my favorite songs. My favorite piano song. My favorite dream song. (It’s a great album, too!)
I know — favorite is a BIG word.
As I get older I get away with “my top three” … my top three foods, my top three movies, my top three desserts. It’s so much easier to have multiple favorites rather than one thing that stands heads and tails above the other.
Back in May of 2021 I wrote a blog asking which three books would you take back or forward into time? Hard, wasn’t it? Good thing I didn’t ask which one book would you bring back — one book to describe life, civilization, history, and emotions, just wouldn’t work.
At least for me.
But listening to a play list I made on Amazon Prime (more on that later), Cristofori’s Dream came up. Every time I hear that song I stop and listen. It is categorized as New Age, but that’s just huffy puffy. It’s instrumental piano. I would put it in the same category as Chopin’s Nocturne Op 9 Number 2 in E Flat Major (or the like).
Christofori’s Dream to me is magic, a touch of melancholy mixed in with a universe of possibilities. It is my creative muse in musical form. It gives me calm inspiration, if you know what I mean.
I have other inspirational songs I listen to as well, but there is something about the way David Lanz plays this that makes me want to stop and dream for six minutes.
And I do.
So for today (at least), this is my favorite song.
One fact I found out on this journey — the album was dedicated to (and named after) Bartolomeo Cristofori, who is widely regarded to be the inventor of the piano.
So now. Tell me.
What is your one go-to song? How do you feel when you hear it? What does it make you think of?
I’ll be sure to follow your link and find out what you’re all about.
Another Try…all and Err…or
Here it is, actually Sunday night, and I’m feeling agitated/messed up/peaceful/chatty/thoughtful once again. I’m sure you’re all here somewhere with me.
I have been thinking about starting some kind of routine/ritual both in the morning before I get out of bed and in the evening before I go to sleep. Something to refocus me: something to guide me, relax me, teach me; something to give my mental chatter and A.D.D. a rest.
I’m not much for religion these days — I held onto a little bit of it through the years, just enough get me through, but I think most of it disappeared when I lost my son.
I’ve tossed around several Goddesses for a number of years, along with spirit guides (who helped me write my books) and guardian angels who watched my back. I’ve looked for faeries to light my way, along with miracles meant only for me and words that blow through the pine trees that only I could hear.
So perhaps it’s time to take a break from the airy fairy and try some actual, old fashioned therapy.
I’ve thought about reading poetry before I get up in the morning. Not necessarily the creations of friends and newfound poets, but the old-fashioned ones. Robert Frost and taking the road less travelled and Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson and Marilou Angelou. Beautiful, soulful poetry. Simple start-the-day poetry. No preaching; just musical words.
A beautiful way to start a day, don’t you think?
Then, when all the madness of the day is done, instead of wasting time online on Facebook or some other mindless rot, I have started going to bed, listening to soothing music, and reading a classic, physical book. Not an iPad book, not a magazine — a real live book.
I am beginning to think our grandparents and great grandparents had it right. No TikTok, no television series we have to catch up on, no blasting rock and roll or video games till midnight. I mean, all those are wonderful activities — but not when we need to sleep.
Life is full of love and play and intellectual stimulation. Full of highs and lows and frustrations and dead ends. But it’s also a gateway to wonderful worlds, wonderful thoughts. We just have to find a way to get to them.
It’s the calming of the mind that recharges us. The calming of the psyche. The calming of the soul. We can deal with anything during the day, but it’s the dawn and the twilight that really connects with our soul. Our center.
We need to find ways to reconnect.
If you have access to Amazon Music, there are a couple of music playlists that work well for me: Studying Music: Music to Study By, Relaxing Piano, Study Music, New Age Music, Meditation Music, Classical Piano, Calm Music Piano: Soothing, Relaxing, Soft Background Music for Sleep, Massage, and More, and Study Music: Soothing, Calm, Relaxing New Age Music and Classical Piano for Studying, Meditation, Yoga.
Most of the music is minor chord relaxation music — I hope it helps you relax and dream as well.
Let me know how YOU reconnect with yourself.
Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Pianos
The piano keys are black and white but they sound like a million colors in your mind.
– Maria Cristina Mena
Craft and Rock and Roll
I am “up north” this weekend, working on Angel Tears and reading books while the boys are out fishing all day.
Nice, quiet woodsy world up here. Lots of birds singing, deer walking up and down the road, boats on the water at the nearby chain of lakes. So quiet. So peaceful. So ideal.
Until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
Peaceful spaces and renaissance thoughts and quiet classical music in the morning suddenly gave way to my “cleaning” play list on my computer. Then …
B A N G ! !
Kick Start My Heart by Motley Crue!
Bodhisattva by Steely Dan!
Conga by Gloria Estavan!
Sweet Home Chicago by the Blues Brothers!
Runnin’ Down a Dream by Tom Petty!
My whole world became a rock and roll blow out. At least for a little while.
I can take subtle, quiet, meditative states for only so long.
I believe contemplation, focusing on your creative passions, reading good books, all help expand our consciousness.
But so does loud rockin’ music.
Any upbeat music will do. Classical (anything by Tchaikovsky), Country (I only know country rock like Charlie Daniels), Spanish Guitar (flamenco is the best), rock n’ roll (I do love the Beatles loud too), all turned up full volume is good for the soul.
How can it not be?
It vibrates at a wavelength that pierces the coldest heart, the hottest head, and calmest shoreline, taking you on a journey through time and space. An almost out-of-body experience at times.
Singing along is a bonus point, of course. The louder the better.
It’s the jamming, shaking, soul-filled action of sharing the movement of the musical spheres at any particular moment that, as the song says, kick starts your heart.
I hope you all have music in your life.
Either you play it, listen to it, compose it, or sing it. Music adds so much to your life. And soul.
Which song do YOU jam to at full volume when no one’s around?
Faerie Paths — Music
Music is the one incorporeal entrance into the higher world of knowledge which comprehends mankind but which mankind cannot comprehend.
Ludwig van Beethoven
Faerie Paths — Flute
Then clear on a flute of purest gold A sweet little fairy played. And wonderful fairy tales she told and marvelous music made.
~Ida Rentoul Outhwaite
Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Musical Notes
Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything. ~ Plato
Faerie Paths — Who We Are
So close no matter how far
Couldn’t be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
And nothing else matters
~ James Hetfield, Metallica
Spring Morning Sounds
There is nothing more inspiring than a Spring Morning.
Country sounds are louder, more melodic, than you can imagine. Sitting on my back deck I hear a symphony of sounds: a woodpecker at work in the woods, robins, crows, and a half dozen other birds I can’t identify singing their little hearts out. There’s a bird in the far feeder squawking at any other birds coming near his breakfast, and a squirrel or two chitting and chatting at something moving in and around him. Now and then an airplane roars past from the heavens, and the neighbor down the way is running his tractor through the fields.
This is when I enjoy sound the most. No blaring TVs, no obnoxious radio stations; no yelling or swearing or scolding.
Most of my life I lived in the suburbs, and there was music out there, too. Just a different tune was played. The morning symphony of birds singing was joined by traffic on the busy street a block away. Summers brought out the sounds of kids in the neighborhood playing (mine included), dogs barking, lawnmowers buzzing, a rumbling truck passing by now and then.
This was when I enjoyed sound the most, too. No blaring TVs, no obnoxious radio stations, no yelling or swearing or scolding.
I think most of us lose touch with the songs of nature along the way. We are in the office from early morning until late afternoon. We are driving here, there, and everywhere. We are at soccer games and grocery stores and classes. We have to deal with computers, telephones, bosses, co-workers, talk shows, housework … the list is endless.
We never get a chance to just sit and listen to life around us. We are too busy, too responsible, too many tasks and not enough time.
I know. I’ve been there. Many days I’m still there.
That’s why everyone needs to take time to listen to the flow of life around them. We need to reconnect with the other side of life. The musical side. The sunshine side. The inspirational side.
No matter what our current situation, there is always time to get inspired. That’s where creativity comes from. Where it feeds from. Where it bursts open and spreads more seeds from.
City, suburb, countryside. It doesn’t matter. Get up early one morning and listen to the sounds around you.
You’ll be surprised how much life is going on — with or without you.
Faerie Paths — Ideas
When I am ….. completely myself, entirely alone… or during the night when I cannot sleep, it is on such occasions that my ideas flow best and most abundantly. Whence and how these ideas come I know not nor can I force them.
―
Monday Monday
Bah-da, bah-da-da-da
Bah-da, bah-da-da-da
Bah-da, bah-da-da-da
(do you know the song yet?)
Monday, Monday (bah-da, bah-da-da-da)
So good to me (bah-da, bah-da-da-da)
Monday mornin’, it was all I hoped it would be ..
All the oldies out there knew the song by the first six syllables. Funny how engrained music is into us. Even when we don’t think about it.
Was trying to come up with a topic, a theme, for this cloudy, cold Monday. But if there’s nothing there there’s nothing there.
Then a slip of lyrics passed through my head.
Monday, Monday (bah-da, bah-da-da-da)
I was a freshman in high school when the Mamas and Papas sang this song. I was escaping the horrors of middle school at that time. Those were rough times, especially for a geeky, smelly kid like me.
Not really stepping back, but I do know that even back then music made a difference in my life. The Beatles were my saviors, the Dave Clark Five my happiness. No one could break the bond between me and Paul or me and Dave. My writing started way back then, too. I used to have a notebook with my first love story written in it, but it is long gone. Perhaps it disappeared when it served its purpose.
Music was an escape when I was young. An emotional booster, an answer for self-consciousness and self-doubt. I didn’t think about doing drugs or getting drunk or having sex back then. (Shows you how backwards my freshman year was.)
But Last Train to Clarksville by the the Monkees and Summer In The City by the Lovin’ Spoonful and Five O’Clock World by the Vogues were songs that wrapped around those hard times and cushioned decisions in my life like why I never had a date Saturday nights or if my girlfriends wanted to have a pajama party or should I try out for the school play when I couldn’t sing.
I wonder if kids today have an inkling of that innocence. If they ever have a chance to be kids. If they ever have a choice to not be a part of the violence and discrimination and hatred that swirls around all of us.
I suppose songs like WAP by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion (I wouldn’t look up the words if I were you) reflects the current needs and desires within a high-school education, the need to be free and understood and in control. Maybe innocence in its banal form is not needed anymore. Better to be smart than be exploited.
These days I find myself wandering back to that innocence I probably never really had. I have had enough of death and prejudice and politics to last a lifetime of discovery. Time for a bit of innocence to return to the world.
Do you believe in magic in a young girl’s heart
How the music can free her whenever it starts?
And it’s magic if the music is groovy
It makes you feel happy like an old-time movie………..
Faerie Paths — Music
Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything. ~ Plato
Music is what feelings sound like ~Author Unknown
One of my favorite evening past times is listening to music while writing on the computer. Whether it’s editing a book, writing a story, cleaning up my SEAG gallery, looking for pictures, or just hanging on Facebook, music is the muse that takes me off this sofa and wandering through the nighttime skies.
As I look back at my computer writing life, I see different sound tracks guiding my thoughts and emotions as I continually refine my craft. In writing my first 3 novels I listened to a lot of mystical, smooth jazz (recently called ‘study music’ on Spotify). My art gallery music is definitely Beegie Adair on Spotify, a female pianist who is marvelous — she plays all the old Gershwin, Fred Astaire, Frank Sinatra, cocktail lounge tunes.
When I work on research or actually write on my current book, I put on French Café music. It eases me into the pretend world of Paris, connecting me with spirits of its past and future.
I have house cleaning music, H.P. Lovecraft or Edgar Alan Poe reading music, historical fiction reading music, exercise music (don’t hear that too often, unfortunately), and drawing music. I find music enhances every task I undertake, every dream I explore.
I occasionally fall for British Invasion oldies if I want to travel back to my youth, or polkas when I think of my dad. I try not to go back in time too often, of course, as no one wants to be melancholy all the time.
I’m not saying I listen to music 24/7. Often silence accompanies my creativity too, or a nonsensical movie in the background.
But just sitting and listening to the ending of a Tchaikovsky ballet or Edith Piaf singing “La Vie en rose” does something to the soul. Something that mere words cannot accomplish.
Do you have music that accompanies the different parts your life? Come on and share a theme or title or two. See if we all can connect.
Come Sail Away
Back on January 4th I wrote a blog about not making New Year’s resolutions. (in case you need a refresher course, it’s https://wp.me/p1pIBL-2Cm). I still believe in not making resolutions — they are merely commitments you can’t always keep. No offense.
But I have had an altered experience that makes me redefine the word “resolution.”
I was driving home from work today and the song “Come Sail Away” by Styx came on. What did I do? Cranked up the song and sang along at the top of my lungs. It felt great. Like a release into the atmosphere.
So I started to think what it would look like to the outside world if I did the same thing in the summer. Windows wide open, through the countryside and citywide as well. This 65-year-old granny of 2-1/2, singing like there’s no tomorrow.
I have been self conscious most of my life. The reasons don’t matter, but I am not comfortable when people watch me. (Watch me, as opposed to look at me when we talk/laugh etc.). I always wonder what other people think of how I look. Do I match. Do I dress like a teenager. Do I sound stupid when I talk.
Well, I have made a decision. Besides trying to not care what others think, I’m making a point of doing this same driving stunt during the summer. This 65-year-old woman driving around with the windows down, singing with my favorite songs at the top of my lungs.
Honestly. What have I got to lose?
Will it matter to me if the college kid in the car next to me or the lady waiting for the stoplight or the kid riding his bike think I’m nuts? Will it matter 20 years from now that I gave my favorite songs my “all”?
I think all of us have wasted too much time worrying about what the “other guy” thinks. We are all unique individuals. No one else has our DNA. No one else felt the things we felt and went the places we went or cried the tears we cried.
I am going to make a point of sharing my love of music by singing along with it and cranking it up and sharing my excitement, my transformation, with anyone who listens. I will be a 65-year-old inspiration for whomever wants to be inspired, and a good joke for those who could care less.
No resolutions. No commitments. Just making a point.
Be who you always wanted to be but were afraid to be.
A gathering of angels appeared above my head
They sang to me this song of hope and this is what they said
They said come sail away, Come sail away
Come sail away with me….
I Want To Be A Mixing Engineer
A few blogs ago I stated that in My Next Life I was “going to be very smart…high IQ and all, tall, thin, pretty, funny, bright, popular yet grounded, excelling in Math, Science and Witchcraft. I will cook like Bobby Flay, dance like Ginger Rogers, and chat like Ellen DeGeneres. I will work out, travel around the world, and be a best selling writer.”
Scratch most of that. I’ll keep the smart and thin and pretty, but I’ve decided I want to be a mixing engineer for concerts.
Let me backtrack.
Last night I took my grandbaby and son and husband to see the Transiberian Orchestra. Their website categorizes them as an American Progressive Rock Band. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen or heard of them, but they are amazing musicians that put flash and fire and laser beams in with their rock-style Christmas (and other themes) show. This year they were a little more high tech than in previous years, and I sat in Section 315 row 2 with my mouth wide open throughout the whole concert.
Maybe it’s an old person’s lament, but I look back at my life and, removing family and friends, see boredom most of the time. I’ve had vanilla jobs all my life. File Clerk. Secretary. Internet Data Analyst Specialist. Safe, boring jobs that didn’t take a lot of creative brain power.
Whenever I attend a live performance, I can’t help but be amazed at the amount of talent that it takes to pull a gig like that off. Forget being the star of the show — that’s first row talent. But you stop and think about all it takes to make Mr. Star Mr. Star, and it’s amazing. No linofilm typists there. No dictaphones or typewriters there.
The people who create the magic that the average Joe-sephine sees are experts in their fields. I mean experts. Mixing engineers. Sound engineers. Someone has to come up with lighting maneuvers that are programmed into a computer. Someone has to mix the live audio so that every piece of sound-creating equipment onstage comes through loud and clear and perfect. How do they do that? What kind of training did they have?
The person who created the graphics on the three screens behind the musicians were amazing. Where did they come up with such a mixture of snow and trains driving through snow and clocks and marching nutcrackers and photos of deep space and castles and dragons and fireplaces?
I have no idea how those people landed those jobs. I don’t know what their childhood was like, if they were a genius in third grade or if they lost a mother or father or if they did drugs. I DO know that they found they were very good at something and worked their a$$es off to get where they are today.
I suppose a lot of us suffer from cool-job-syndrome. Some of us managed to have cool jobs somewhere in our past….maybe some of you still do. I took the path my personality set out for me. It wasn’t bright lights or screaming guitar solos or graphic magic. I’m okay with where I am, with what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with.
But sometimes the thought of having become an astronaut or a famous painter or the head of a movie studio because of my God-given talent brings a soft sigh from my lips.
My only hope it to write one kick-ass story about it all…..
Music for Every Mood
I love music. I really do.
I don’t think there’s a state of mind, a physical or mental condition, social gathering, or house cleaning job that isn’t enhanced with music.
My first love of music (that I can remember) is my love for the Beatles. My parents weren’t much music affectionados, although my favorite memories are my dad listening to polkas Saturday and Sunday mornings while working in the garage, and my mom listening to Patsy Cline and Hank Williams.
My love of music has only grown and matured and exploded in the last 40 years. From orchestras to acoustical guitars, there is always something to fit my mood.
Today I had a headache, and didn’t feel like sitting in total silence, so I put on Easy Instrumentals. Nothing like a slow, sultry orchestral rendition of Midnight Cowboy or The Way You Look Tonight to massage my temples.
Cleaning house? 70s-80s rock, of course. There’s nothing like Lynyrd Skynyrd or Motley Crue or John Mellancamp or Rush to get your cleaning bootie moving.
Early morning wake ups? Light classical fills the bill. Work? Upbeat classical or New Age Jazz. Melancholy for my mom and/or ol’ Ireland? Gaelic Storm, upbeat Irish band, or the High Kings. Irish balladeers at their best. Can’t sleep? Aura or Spa, two meditation-type bastions for cosmic wanderings. Meditation? Electronic music, especially the space travel ones. Feel like I’m soaring past Jupiter when I get into the groove.
Late morning still trying to wake up? Swing Bands Big Bands. I have that on my flash drive for work, too. Nothing like Artie Shaw or Fred Astaire or Glen Miller. Writing? Smooth Jazz. Love those minor chords. Driving home from work? Semi-Oldies will do. Nothing like belting out Livin’ on a Prayer or Come Sail Away to shake the bad aura. Up north at the cabin? Polkas on Saturday morning, of course.
I have some friends who don’t listen to music much. I don’t know how they get through the day. There is something inspirational, celestial, about becoming one with the song and the singer and the band. You let the aura of the music world take you somewhere happy and safe. Oldies? My teenage years. Gaelic Storm? My Irishfest and Irish heritage. Rock and roll? My life. Big band, Sinatra and all? Days of future passed.
Let the music tempt you, grab you, and take you away. Explore new musical worlds, new bands, new interpretations of old classics. No one cares where you go when you listen to music — everyone goes to their own place, anyway.
The talent of the musical world is unmatchable anywhere else. TV and movies don’t let you choose your world –only music does. Go and listen to some tonight.
Elvis will be proud.
We Are All The Gambler
You’ve got to know when to hold ’em
Know when to fold ’em
Know when to walk away
Know when to run
You never count your money
When you’re sittin’ at the table
There’ll be time enough for countin’
When the dealin’s done.
It’s a precarious ledge we stand on, isn’t it?
Do you know when to hold your ground? When to give in?
When to walk away? When to Run?
It’s not as easy as it seems, is it?
We want to run away, we want to stay and fight.
We say it’s not worth it, yet sometimes it’s all there is.
Pick your battles.
Fight the fights worth fighting for.
Blow off the rest.
A stay in a hospital isn’t worth it.
Nor is a broken soul.
Every gambler knows
That the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away
And knowin’ what to keep
‘Cause every hand’s a winner
And every hand’s a loser
And the best that you can hope for
Is to die in your sleep.
~Kenny Rodgers
Another Wonderful Share
I must be in a sharing mood this week! I don’t follow a whole lot of bloggers, but the ones I do I really love their work.
Brenda is one of those poets whose words remind me of windchimes. Maybe she and I share a “Friendly Fairy Tale” connection, but there’s something musical about her poems. Do go and visit her website and be enchanted like I am!
Gathering in the sky are low, heavy mists: snow clouds shaped by Zeus and Thor.
Who Are They Singing About?
I’m sitting around this kinda warm Saturday afternoon, resting my pulled back muscle (which now is mostly my sciatic nerve), listening to music, trying to beat down the A.D.D. part of me that wants to run around and do a dozen things at one time.
I’ve been listening to the Rock Show on Sirius, and they’ve been playing a lot of great tunes from my youth. Ah, yes. My youth = my choices = my alternate choices. What could turn out to be a melancholy trip through the 70s through the 90s (I don’t consider anything past 2000 as my “youth”), actually turns out to be a voyage into song lyrics.
This time the words that haunt me are lyrics that sing about magical, powerful, beautiful women and whatever they did to have a song written about them. The song that struck me first was Hollywood Nights by Bob Seeger:
She had been born with a face
That would let her get her way
He saw that face and he lost all control
He had lost all control
Night after night
Day after day
It went on and on
What kind of a face could make a man lose his mind for days and nights and nights and days? Or one of my favorites, Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac:
Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night
Wouldn’t you love to love her?
Takes to the sky like a bird in flight and
Who will be her lover?
All your life you’ve never seen
A woman taken by the wind
Would you stay if she promised you heaven?
Will you ever win?
She is like a cat in the dark and then
She is the darkness
She rules her life like a fine skylark and when
The sky is starless
What kind of woman is thought of as taken by the wind? Does she fly? Do her thoughts lift her higher and higher? What about: Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night — clearly an analogy to her solid, musical soul breaking the silence of the night. Pretty powerful.
There are better examples than the ones I’ve given. But you get my drift. Super women. Gorgeous, powerful, mystical women. Ruling and running their lives just the way they want to.
What would it be like to born with a face…That would let her get her way? To be so beautiful, talented, genuinely breathtaking that you could have anything you want? You could go to any department store and pick something off the rack and actually wear it. You would barely have to exercise to keep your marvelously thin and voluptuous body. You would have men and women at your feet. Loving you, wanting you. From a distance — right next to you. You’d always have a date for dinner or the movies. The flowers would bend in reverence to your awesomeness.
I myself have always suffered from less-is-really-less syndrome. Unfortunately, I do not suffer from extreme beauty, brains, physique, or mobility. I’ve always been on the average Joe/Joelyn side. But I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be the best — truly best — at anything. From modeling to brain surgeons to ballet. To be sooooo great because everything came naturally to you.
Alas, I will have to leave those wonderings to the mystics. We make the most of who we are and what we have and leave the rest to mystics. Or writers.
But it would be great if they’d write a song about me…
and no…not Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen…
Music Makes Magic
I am not what most consider a music junkie, affectionado, expert, or addict.
I really do enjoy music, though.
I have a soft spot in my heart for banging old tyme rock and roll now and then. Give me Metallica, AC/DC, Motley Crue — any of those wild hair bands. Turn it up and shake the rafters…turn up the stereo and dance in front of the speakers.
I also am a whitebread, Midwestern suburban girl. My growing up years were safe and boring. The few licks of trouble I got into were pale in comparison with others I know. And have heard of. So my imagination has to take over for my lack of experience.
I know a lot of people LIVED the 60s and 70s — hung out, burned out, wilded out their youth, gaining experience and insight I will never be privy to. The high highs and low lows of “those days” are things movies are made of. Maybe that’s a good thing in some ways.
When I’m driving home, windows open, blasting “Sandman” from Metallica, I see dark rooms with strobe lights in the corner, scents of patchouli and garlic and illegal leaves swirling above me, heads banging to the beat, air guitars and beer bottle microphones, some band (I don’t know if its THE band) on a stage somewhere, salty with sweat and concentration, letting their souls mix with the beat of the music, crashing and burning and relighting again with the rhythm of the pounding music.
I don’t see needles and junkies and fights and blood. I don’t see people throwing up on themselves and the depths of depression that are liberated with the music. I don’t see black eyes and lost dreams and sliced wrists and empty bottles of Jack or Fleschman’s.
The same is true when I listen to classical music. The upbeat symphonies like Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake or Strauss’s Emperor’s Waltz, I blast at full-speed-ahead. I see picnics in the fields with women in long dresses and men in frocks and crystal wine glasses sparkling in the sunlight. I see gowns and tuxedos waltzing across an enormous ballroom dance floor, the dresses swishing with the rhythm of the music, their beadery reflecting the glint of chandeliers and candlelight.
I don’t see alcoholism, drug addiction, poverty. I don’t see filthy living conditions, barbaric medical treatments, consumption, or life before penicillin and electricity.
I’ve never been to either world. But I wonder. Does this one-way mirrored vision make me a weak writer? Someone who can’t write about those things because I haven’t experienced these things? Or does it make me a great writer, because I can dive into my own imagination and make the world surrounding the music whatever I want?
When I hear a ballad or a rock jam I don’t think about serial killers or drug dealers. I think of my youth — the life I lived, the life I never lived. I can identify with the 60s and 70s and beyond because I made it through them. When I hear a waltz or symphony I think of days gone by, a simpler life, of history and time travel and a time when a night out was a buggy ride to town.
And that’s where the stories come from.
Let music inspire your creativity. Let it take you places you’ve been — and places you’ve never been.
Just don’t throw your back out doing the air guitar thing….
Astronomy — the Song, not the Science
Like lesser birds on the four winds
Like silver scrapes in May
And now the sand´s become a crust
Most of you have gone away
Come Susie dear, let´s take a walk
Just out there upon the beach
I know you´ll soon be married
And you´ll want to know where winds come from
Well it´s never said at all
On the map that Carrie reads
Behind the clock back there you know
At the Four Winds Bar
Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!
Four winds at the Four Winds Bar
Two doors locked and windows barred
One door to let to take you in
The other one just mirrors it
Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!
Hellish glare and inference
The other one´s a duplicate
The Queenly flux, eternal light
Or the light that never warms
Yes the light that never, never warms
Or the light that never
Never warms
Never warms
Never warms
The clock strikes twelve and moondrops burst
Out at you from their hiding place
Miss Carrie nurse and Susie dear
Would find themselves at Four Winds Bar
It´s the nexus of the crisis
And the origin of storms
Just the place to hopelessly
Encounter time and then came me
Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!
Call me Desdanova
The eternal light
These gravely digs of mine
Will surely prove a sight
And don´t forget my dog
Fixed and consequent
Astronomy… a star [repeat indefinitely] ~ Blue Oyster Cult, 1988
This is a blog that wraps around my friends the poets.
I have written poetry — I think everyone has. Beauty is in the eyes (and ears) of the beholder. Some are just better than others at it.
I was listening to oldies music at work the other day and I pulled this song out of my flash drive repertoire. Listening to the words made me curious, so I Googled them, and here they are. And I wonder.
What do they mean?
There are lots and lots of songs (especially from the 60’s) with psychedelic melodies, lyrics, and mushroomed foundations. I suppose when you saw God from another planet anything was possible. And there are lyrics far more cryptic than those above.
But, like abstract art, I don’t get it.
I am not a scientific, linear thinker. Far from it. My stories include time travel, magic, computers that write their own stories, and women who follow shadows. But I suppose I always need one foot in reality, or else nothing will make sense.
The lyrics of songs are just as powerful as a sonnet, a haiku, or free verse. They can say so much, so little, be deep or light or anything in between. It’s just harder when it’s ME that has to figure out what it all means.
Like modern art, I know there are things I’m supposed to figure out on my own. Like a Jackson Pollock painting or a Craig Haupt sketch. There is a feeling, a meaning, behind its creation. Sometimes, if the artist is alive, I can plain ask (like Craig!) Other times, if the artist is long gone, I’ve got to either figure it out myself or Google that, too.
In the end, I guess I just liked moondrops and astronomy. And that is meaning enough for me.
****
P.S. I just looked up the meaning of the story…I like my own imagination better.
Sunday Evening Art Gallery Blog — Harps
The Harp that once through Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o’er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells:
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
Me and Motley REALLY Ain’t Old!
I was flipping through old posts today and came across this oldie but goodie from a couple of years ago. Just think — I’m two years older than when I wrote this. And I think I need this more than ever. Happy Thursday!
Motley and Me Ain’t Old
There has been a lot of angst going around the blog world lately. Problems, thoughts, ponderings. It seems to be hitting the 50+ group, although I’ve read quite a few -50 uncertainties as well. It is like we all are jugging the self-esteem balls, and we keep dropping one or two on our foot. The foot doesn’t break, but it sure as hell hurts.
I myself was going to write a blog about feeling like I’ve really aged in the past year. You know those movie stars and rock stars that come out of mothballs for one reason or another, and you find yourself saying, “Man, have they aged!” You know — the ones you loved in your teens or 20’s or 30’s. You cut them no slack for having lived — whether it be through raising a family or doing drugs or surviving tragedies. You want to see them fresh and perky and full of energy. Not wrinkled or bloated. For that reminds us of … us.
I find that at 60 I’m caught between making excuses and living them. The wrinkles and extra pounds and the inability to fall asleep at night and achy legs and feet are from meds, stress, drinking caffeine, sitting at a desk all day, walking the dog, and a hundred other things. It can’t be that I’m getting old. I mean, Keith Richards looks old. Chevy Chase looks old. Surely ~I~ can’t be looking old like that.
Can I?
This goes beyond our sound reasoning, beyond the I-loved-raising-my-family and the I’ve-been-through-a-lot-of-stuff stuff. It’s the accumulation of all those years of self criticism and/or questionable choices that’s winds up as lines on our faces and girth around our middles. It’s all those rock-and-roll concerts, college parties, and lonely nights. It’s the sleepless nights staying up with children, hard physical jobs, and watching all those soccer games in the rain. All these things play with our skin, our circulatory system, our psyche. We do all kinds of good things for ourselves and others. Still the legs ache at night, the circles under our eyes remain, and our hair still turns gray.
The good news is that we can always steer ourselves in a positive direction. We can become pro-active, getting involved in projects and people that keep us too busy to be counting years. We can — and do — make a difference in the world, in other people’s lives.
But still, there are tinges of regret in the eyes of the woman who looks back at me in the mirror. To be honest, there will always be a tiny flicker of sadness that I will never be as beautiful as Angelina or as smart as Einstein or as successful as Steve Jobs. Now and then there will be a faint whisper of shoulda, coulda, woulda. Looking backwards is a natural action; regret (in some form) a natural reaction. I don’t like the idea that the road is longer behind me than in front of me. Nor do I care for the fact that there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
But then I turn on the stereo or put my ear buds in and listen to my IPod, and my youth comes rushing back to me. And I realize it’s never been gone. And will never leave me.
Come on — I know you’ve got it in you. Put on your favorite music — country song, disco song, hairband song. Turn it on and TURN IT UP. You’ll see you’re not an age — you’re a legend.
When we started this band
All we needed, needed was a laugh
Years gone by
I’d say we kicked some ass
When I’m enraged
Or hittin’ the stage
Adrenalin rushing
Through my veins
And I’d say
We’re still kickin’ ass
Kick Start my Heart, Motley Crue
Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Stairway to Nowhere
There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold
And she’s buying a stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she’s buying a stairway to heaven.
There’s a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure
‘Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook, there’s a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.
Ooh, it makes me wonder
Ooh, it makes me wonder.
There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.
And it’s whispered that soon, if we all call the tune,
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter.
If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now,
It’s just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There’s still time to change the road you’re on.
Your head is humming and it won’t go, in case you don’t know,
The piper’s calling you to join him,
Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?
And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold.
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last.
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to roll.
And she’s buying … a stairway … to heaven.
Lyrics — Stairway to Heaven. Led Zeppelin, 1971
Perfection
Perfection.
We all seek it.
Yet it means something different to everyone.
The perfect sunrise. The perfect smile. The perfect chocolate soufflé. One person’s perfection is someone else’s faux pax.
The great thing is it doesn’t matter what someone else’s perfection is. You can have unlimited perfection in your life every day.
Take music. A great rock and roll solo. A sweet, tear-jerking melody. A choir that sounds like angels. All stir emotions deep inside; emotions that want an outlet. Need an outlet.
And sometimes music is just the thing to bring you out into the light of day.
I was listening to the following piece this morning, through earphones, simply sitting and being.The 1812 Overture by Pytor Illyich Tchaikovsky was written in 1880 to commemorate Russia’s defense of its motherland against Napoleon’s army in 1812. It has been used as fireworks fodder and cereal background.
A cliche of classical proportions, it takes forever to get to the finale, building, teasing, then pulling back. Cannon fire is in some scores; a choir at the beginning in others. But Tchaikovsky knew dynamics. He knew how to tell a story through music. The struggle of the peasants. Their heartbreak. Their struggles. Their war. Their victory.
Do me a favor. Put your earphones/headphones on and take 4 minutes and listen to this finale. Let your emotions build with the music. Don’t think — just feel. Just for 4 minutes.
And tell me it’s not perfection.
Oh — and P.S. — Turn it UP —
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=u2W1Wi2U9sQ
Kiss Me I’m Irish
There has been a lot of sadness in the news lately –too much death. Too much depression. I’ve gotta find my happy place. So I’m not gonna to be around much this weekend — I’m going to Milwaukee’s IrishFest.
IrishFest is a grand celebration of everything Irish. Chocked full of good music, good people, and good times. I am probably Gaelic Storm’s oldest groupie (61), but that doesn’t stop me from singing loud and clear along with the band and a thousand other good-natured fans. There’s nothing better than their bawdy, good-natured music to life my spirits and connect me with my halfblood Irish roots.
It is also the time of the year that I miss my mother the most. Five feet of firey Irish glow, she was taken from me when she was only 54. She never got to sing “Darcey’s Drunken Donkey” or “Kiss Me I’m Irish” with a thousand other real and pseudo-real Irishmen; she never got to meet my husband, nor watch her daughter and grandson sing teary-eyed to the High King’s “Wild Mountain Thyme”; nor watch her great grandbaby dance the Irish Jig in his emerald green t-shirt.
And 30 years later, she never will know how much her daughter still misses her.
So whether or not you are Irish, grab a mug of beer or cup of coffee; listen to Gaelic Storm sing “Kiss Me I’m Irish,” (especially the jig at the end) and love the one you’re with.
Here — let me help you —
Kiss Me I’m Irish
Old song and old stories
They keep us alive
Without our past
We would never survive
I am my island
My island is me
So you know what you can do if you don’t like what you see
Kiss me, I’m Irish
I am the wild rover
My eyes they are smiling
And I’m seldom sober
I like my whiskey
And I love to dance
So if you’re feeling as lucky as me, take a chance
And kiss me I’m Irish
My heart beats a jig
And me blood, it flows green
I’ve been a rogue and a rambler
From ocean to sea
And I like a Bevy
Now and then this I’ll never deny
But I only drink on the days of the week that end with a ‘y’
I’m no saint I’m no sinner
Of that there’s no doubt
I’ll tell you the truth
I am the one that your grandmother warned you about
Kiss me, I’m Irish
I am the wild rover
My eyes they are smiling
And I’m seldom sober
I like my whiskey
And I love to dance
So if you’re feeling as lucky as me, take a chance
And kiss me I’m Irish
Dublin, Milwaukee, Cleveland and Cork
Kerry, Chicago, Armagh and New York
Belfast and Boston, Donegal and DC
Raise you glasses and sing, sing, sing, sing with me!
Kiss me, I’m Irish
I am the wild rover
My eyes they are smiling
And I’m seldom sober
I like my whiskey
And I love to dance
So if you’re feeling as lucky as me, take a chance
And kiss me I’m Irish
Kiss me, I’m Irish
I am the wild rover
My eyes they are smiling
And I’m seldom sober
I like my whiskey
And I love to dance
So if you’re feeling as lucky as me, take a chance
And kiss me I’m Irish
Lyrics and Image courtesy Gaelic Storm ©2006
The Connection
There is something about a live experience — a concert, a reading, a play — that, when done correctly, vibrates you to your very core. There is an energy, a connection, with the artist that can move mountains. And when your mountain is moved…well, you can well imagine.
Through the loving generosity of family, I attended a performance of Phantom of the Opera last night. A chance to dress up, sparkle a little. A chance to elevate myself up from the everyday grind of cleaning and cooking and sitting in front of a computer screen for 8 hours a day. The lights dimmed, the orchestra swelled, and the doomed relationship between the Phantom and Christine began.
I am not necessarily an opera affectionado; I’ve seen maybe two in my life. But this encounter was more than listening to singing and dancing and orchestral surges. It was becoming a part of the interplay between actors telling a story. It was as if the Phantom and Christine and Raoul were living their sad, melodic lives just for me.
I tend to get a little choky and teary at episodes of soulful interactions. I used to be embarrassed about shedding tears, especially in public. Crybaby comes to mind…hormonal as well. But the tears I shed at live performances come from a different well — a well that has no faucet, no hot and cold handles. They just appear — slowly, silently, swiftly.
I don’t even know what the trigger is. This time it was the beautiful song Music of the Night. Sometimes it’s a sappy song like Wonderful World by the one and only Louie. Sometimes it’s the crescendo at the end of an orchestral piece, like the 1812 Overture. Sometimes it’s the words. A poetry reading, or a blog that just sends lightning bolts to the heart. I’ve cried during TV shows like Chicago Fire or endings of movies like Passion of Mind.
The triggers are always different, but the overwhelmingness is the same. It is like the meeting of souls. Someone’s words, someone’s music, someone’s painting, reaches out and strums your heartstrings like a Stradivarius. You don’t always know which way it’s coming, but you know you will always be right in its path when it comes.
I think that’s why live performances are so fascinating. So magical. When you experience what the creator wants you to experience, there is a meeting of the minds, meeting of the souls, that cannot be explained. A beautiful painting. A well-written book. A love song. An actor so perfected in his craft that you can literally see a phantom in love or a warrior before battle. You see them, you feel them. Your heart bursts with emotion with their loves and hates and the choices they have to make. Even if they’re not real.
This energy exchange crosses over into other avenues as well. There is nothing more exciting than sitting on the sidelines of a football or basketball game. The players can’t hear you or see your collection of expressions, but there is something about screaming in tandem with thousands sitting right next to you that keeps your spirit soaring.
I don’t know Cooper Grodin (the Phantom) or Ben Jacoby (Raoul) or Julia Udine (Christine). I don’t know what their favorite junk food is or if they have a mortgage payment. What I do know about them — and other artists — is the love they have for their craft. The pride they have in having honed this love into something that others can enjoy as well. And, for the brief moment we connect, them on stage or in a movie or writing that pivotal scene in their book, our hearts are seeing the same thing. It is me on the stage; it is me dancing the ballet. It is me bursting out in song or craft and showing the world what I can do.
Make an effort to see something live this summer. A band at a local bar; a poet reading from their chapbook; an orchestra in the park or a play or a rock concert. It doesn’t matter what avenue you take — just go and take a chance on connecting with someone who understands you. Who can instantly turn on your water faucets with a word, a note, a sketch. They will never know who you are, never know what your favorite food is or what you take for a headache.
But they will certainly feel your energy. And you theirs.
Me and Motley Ain’t Old
There has been a lot of angst going around the blog world lately. Problems, thoughts, ponderings. It seems to be hitting the 50+ group, although I’ve read quite a few -50 uncertainties as well. It is like we all are jugging the self-esteem balls, and we keep dropping one or two on our foot. The foot doesn’t break, but it sure as hell hurts.
I myself was going to write a blog about feeling like I’ve really aged in the past year. You know those movie stars and rock stars that come out of mothballs for one reason or another, and you find yourself saying, “Man, have they aged!” You know — the ones you loved in your teens or 20’s or 30’s. You cut them no slack for having lived — whether it be through raising a family or doing drugs or surviving tragedies. You want to see them fresh and perky and full of energy. Not wrinkled or bloated. For that reminds us of … us.
I find that at 60 I’m caught between making excuses and living them. The wrinkles and extra pounds and the inability to fall asleep at night and achy legs and feet are from meds, stress, drinking caffeine, sitting at a desk all day, walking the dog, and a hundred other things. It can’t be that I’m getting old. I mean, Keith Richards looks old. Chevy Chase looks old. Surely ~I~ can’t be looking old like that.
Can I?
This goes beyond our sound reasoning, beyond the I-loved-raising-my-family and the I’ve-been-through-a-lot-of-stuff stuff. It’s the accumulation of all those years of self criticism and/or questionable choices that’s winds up as lines on our faces and girth around our middles. It’s all those rock-and-roll concerts, college parties, and lonely nights. It’s the sleepless nights staying up with children, hard physical jobs, and watching all those soccer games in the rain. All these things play with our skin, our circulatory system, our psyche. A day at a time, a week at a time. Until one day you wake up and you say, “Damn!” We eat right, we exercise when we can, and worship in our own way. We are kind to animals and love our kids and take up a cause like walking for cancer or volunteer at the library and do breathing exercises to relax. And still the legs ache at night, the circles under our eyes remain, and our hair still turns gray.
The good thing is that we can always steer ourselves in a positive direction. We can become pro-active, getting active in projects and people that keep us too busy to be counting years. We can try and make a difference in the world, or at least in someone’s life. And we DO that.
But still, there are tinges of regret in the eyes of the woman who looks back at me in the mirror. To be honest, there will always be a tiny flicker of sadness that I will never be as beautiful as Angelina or as smart as Einstein or as creative as Giada. And now and then there will be a faint whisper of shoulda, coulda, woulda. Looking backwards is a natural action; regret (in some form) a natural reaction. I don’t like the idea that the road is longer behind me than in front of me. Nor do I care for the fact that there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
But then I turn on the stereo or put my ear buds in and listen to my IPod, and my youth comes rushing back to me. And I realize it’s never been gone. And will never leave me.
Come on — I know you’ve got it in you. Put on your favorite music — country song, disco song, hairband song. Turn it on and TURN IT UP. You’ll see you’re not an age — you’re a legend.
When we started this band
All we needed, needed was a laugh
Years gone by
I’d say we kicked some ass
When I’m enraged
Or hittin’ the stage
Adrenalin rushing
Through my veins
And I’d say
We’re still kickin’ ass
Kick Start my Heart, Motley Crue
Wind of Change
It starts slow, soft, like a kitten’s breath. In the distance, barely noticeable. Soon it gathers momentum, tumbling over cornfields, ruffling the trees in city parks, bumbling around skyscrapers. You sense it before you feel it. Before you understand it.
The Wind of Change.
You don’t always know where the wind comes from, or, as often, why. Perhaps it’s triggered by a thought, a conversation, a color or a moment. But it’s a familiar sensation, a fresh scent. One you’ve felt before.
And you know this Wind of Change is coming for You.
This is not a foreboding wind; dark things don’t bother to ride the wind. No…it’s a good sign. An encouraging sign. Maybe it’s whispering that you’re finally pregnant. Or that you’re going to finally lose 10 pounds or 50 pounds. Or that your financial future is about to change. Or that you are about to change.
Now, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t darkness trying to stop your growth; most likely you won’t win the lottery tomorrow or make up for years of abuse in a whiff of a moment.
Maybe the soft breeze is your signal to find your dream, to find your purpose in life. To move on. You know — that dream/purpose/growth that’s always with you, afraid to come out and see the light for fear of getting burned. Perhaps the wind is telling you that things are really all right out here.
The Winds of Change can start small and stay small. Not every breeze that comes and goes rocks your world. Perhaps the change will be as small as starting to say hi to people you don’t know. Maybe it’s starting to clean the dead debris off your houseplants. Maybe it’s looking into the mirror and once a day say, “You’re okay by me.”
When the wind blows your way, you taste the sweetness of the future, the positive vibrations of change. It’s not meant to be an overhaul…it’s meant to be a tinkle. A tingle. A psychic note that something is coming.
My wind has been tinkling my chimes for about a week now. Maybe it’s the anticipation of cutting and coloring my hair, or getting away for a week to our family cabin. Maybe I’ll get lost in a new story or discover a long forgotten gem. Whatever it is, I know it’s going to be a welcome change.
Don’t hesitate to blow your own wind of change.
This song seems to haunt my blog today…I hope you like it too….thank the Scorpions…
Even Plato Rock and Rolls
Plato once said, “Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and gaiety to life and everything.” Indeed. Those you who have found nirvana (no, not the band) through music, no matter what genre, will get the gist of the following story.
I consider myself an adult. Somewhere between 40 and 80, mother of two, full-time employee, loving wife, devoted mother, and average housekeeper. Mature enough to deal with menopause, bounced checks, bosses, brother-in-laws, burned food on the grill and late night (no night) kids. Yet now and then this immaturity creeps up on me.
‘Cuz I’m as free as a bird, now — and this bird you cannot chain —
Is there ever a ceiling to age? Is there ever an end to being young? Is there ever a reason to give up the magic of who we were — and who we still are?
If I stay here with you, now — things just couldn’t be the same — ‘Cuz I’m as free as a bird now — how bout you? — and this bird you’ll never chain —
It started one Saturday evening. The college kid was out for the night, the married son busy with his lovely wife and lovely baby, the house was fairly clean, the garbage taken out. Thunderstorms started to move in, threatening my evening of television. A movie, then. After ten minutes I was bored and antsy. Something was brewing. I just knew it.
“Let’s listen to some music,” I said to my husband, my foot bouncing with nervous energy.
“Like what?” he asked, picking up on the electricity in the tone of my voice.
“Well…how about a little Lynyrd Skynyrd?”
For those of you living on another planet, Lynyrd Skynyrd was a great country-rock band from the 70’s. So I innocently picked a song. Sweet Home Alabama. Suddenly all madness broke loose. My husband and I became…possessed. That’s the only way I can describe it. Sweet Home Alabama lead to the famous Free Bird.
Won’t you fly … freeeee bird…
We cranked up the stereo.
dede WA WA wonnca wonnca … WA WA wonnca wonnca …WA WA wonnca wonnca … wonnca wonnca … wonnca wonnca ….
Suddenly there were no middle-aged people lying around watching TV — there was only this young guy with long, full, bushy hair and a wild-looking woman with dark curls and big glasses dancing around the room, playing an air guitar or, worse yet, an air keyboard.
Daaaa du da-du-dada, Daaaa du da-du-dada, Daaaa du da-du-dada, Daaaa du da-du-dada …
We cranked it up, our eyes closed until the end of the song. Before we knew it, listening to music became a contest. Taking Care of Business. Flirtin’ With Disaster. Whole Lotta Rosie. Dancing in front of the speakers, shaking our booties in over-sized t-shirts and shorts. My husband ran to get the next song. Dream On. A slow song. I grabbed him and we slow danced in the middle of the living room floor. Slow with a rocky beat. Soon enough the song was over. Enough mellowness. I put on Walk this Way, and we sashayed across the floor, strutting like young dudes and dudettes. Another rock song followed, then another. My turn! I laughed and ran and picked out Fool for the City. My husband followed with Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting. Oh oh oh! My turn! Oh no! The song I wanted was not on that CD! Drats! I ran around, picking another rocking tune. The speakers were so loud they made the amplifier shut down. We had to shut it off and turn it on again. Couldn’t miss any of this song!
My husband put on a slow, country-rockish tune. Highway Song. I pulled him to the middle of the living room floor and we started to slow dance again. Suddenly the song picked up tempo, another moment lost in a guitar riff. We danced faster, laughing, hugging, trying to keep up with the increased tempo.
The phone rang — our oldest. Great. Hi, howya doing…how’s grandbaby..oh? …yeah…yeah…gotta go…see ya tomorrow… and we ran back to the stereo. We needed more rock and roll! We moved forward in the time warp we had created. A bit of heavy metal, Metallica, vibrated the plant atop the speaker. By the second song my head was beginning to throb. Perhaps we moved too far forward. We found another beboppy tune, Kryptonite…
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman …
The two of us, married over 30 years, sat on the sofa, bellowing out the lyrics of this song as if we were both on stage. The dogs came out to see what the loud voices were all about, then, deciding we were harmless, went back downstairs.
As our energy slowly ebbed, our choices changed. The ache in his elbow returned, my sinus headache from the rain outside demanded aspirin. We pulled out a few more mellow oldies, letting the clock tick away both forwards and backwards.
Our hearts are in the music; our lives entwined with hair bands and bald bands and country rock bands and everything in-between. We have grown up on music, have cherished it like an old friend and have never let it stray far from our world. Music has set us on fire and soothed our souls. It has brought back memories, tears and laughter; it has set the stage, not only for what has been, but for what will be.
Bob Seeger ended our time traveling for the evening. Turn the Page.
Here I go … on the road again … Here I am … turn the page….
My husband pulled me up for one last slow dance. We were 20 again, 20 going on 40 going on 60 going on 20. There is no such thing as age, only a state of mind. We “turn the page” in our lives every night we go to sleep, every morning we wake. We hummed the last few stanzas of the song, knowing our own pages were turning way too fast. I told myself I would make the most of every moment, every song, every slow dance. Every wa wa wonnca wonnca. I would turn up the volume of my life and dance with the gifts I have been given. One day my kids will understand — one day when their own pages start to turn.
Until then, it is our stereo … our rock and roll … and my turn….
Harry Potter vs Hannibal Lecter
I just finished watching the movie Silence of the Lambs. This movie is brutal and unnerving and psychological and graphic. It forces the audience to watch in fascination one minute and hide our heads under the blanket the next. It’s kinda like people who slow down to take a peek at an accident on the side of the road ― it’s scary yet fascinating. Voyeurism at its worst. And it makes me wonder why a simple, hard-working, middle class wife and mother, catalog coordinator, ex-soccer mom and spaghetti queen, watches a movie about someone who kidnaps women and strips them of their skin.
Why do we watch what we do? Why does society make movies like they do? Movie making, like writing, is a bizarre connection of our deepest fears and highest nspirations. The thought of such travesties existing outside our sphere of consciousness practically takes our breath away. Yet movie moguls make cinema magic focusing on psychos, mass murders, and psychological monstrosities all the time, and most of us have shared at least a piece of their legends. Writers such as Stephen King and Dean Koonz strip away our walls and prey on our vulnerable humanness. So I have to ask ― do movies and books reflect our true self?
The human mind is a confusing labyrinth of thoughts, impulses and memories. That’s why it’s so easy to get lost in it. Not only do we want cuddly children and sentimental songs and feel-good endings ― we want to be confronted with things that terrorize us. Things that unconsciously test the possibility of taking us to that last fishing hole in the sky. Because of this always-changing labyrinth, we find ourselves asking eternal question, “What if?” What if we/you/they had made a different choice? What if the chick that was captured in Silence of the Lambs decided to stop for a beer with her girlfriends and got drunk and wound up in Cleveland instead of helping the dude with his sofa? What if Melanie in Gone with the Wind had not died? If Luke Skywalker had grown up hanging around with his dad?
When we are young, there are many choices in front of us. Our love life, our jobs, our cars, all are ripe apples to be picked from the abundant tree of life. Life is nothing but one big choice. But often the energy and pressures of our existence make our choices come from circumstance and necessity rather than free will. Hence, one of the trials of being human ― the ever eternal million-dollar question.
But back to the crazy movie. In watching this psychological mess, I oft-handedly wondered if this kind of movie reflected my inner self. I have many friends who talk about the movies they watch: middle-aged love comedies; retro pot-smoking, chick-banging absurdities; historical pieces. Some are huge fans of horror; others cannot live without s lot of sex and drama. Do these favorites define who they are? Do these choices influence their cosmic journey? Does Star Trek and Fried Green Tomatoes influence mine?
I think I make too much of a simple case of being human. For more years than there are leaves in a tree, homo sapiens have been pigeon-holed into categories and titles and labels that may or not be true. Not only are we defined by our religion and our politics, but by our style of dress, choice of music, and our diet. Eventually, many of us figure out that labels, like time, mean nothing. They are nothing but illusions created to give us a feeling of being in control. Which is an illusion in itself. We all know there is no such thing as control ― only the temporary organization of chaos.
Are we too old to appreciate the humor of movies that showcase bare breasts, devil lawyers, psychos, marijuana, and farts? On the contrary! One of the challenges of getting older is there are so many new thoughts, impressions, and attitudes in the world that we cannot possibly keep up. The older we get, the more we want to show the world that we can indeed fit in with the aforementioned thoughts, impressions, and attitudes. And you know what? The gift of experience gives us the tools to do so. It may be that our attention span is much narrower, our need to shoot off at some erratic angle not as strong as hen we were 16…but it shows us that the more the world changes around us, the more it stays the same.
You see, the voice of individuality has never really changed. An individual can be Frank Sinatra mixed with Elvis mixed with Metallica mixed with Keith Urban. Why can’t we like chocolate and vanilla and tooti fruiti too? Why can’t we talk about football and Texas sheet cake and transcendental meditation in the same breath? Why can’t we wear silk one day and denim the next? We should revel is our uniqueness; revel in the fact that we can enjoy all of the above and not compromise who we are. Peeking at a horror movie doesn’t mean we are going to dismember the neighbor; watching two women run away and drive off the cliff does not mean we will get the same uncontrollable driving urge.
I am quite satisfied with the landscape of movies and music before me. The only problem is that I keep dreaming of Harry Potter vs. Hannibal Lechter. Both powerful main characters that keep you wanting to know more. Where does this polarity leave me?
Satisfied.
Humoring the Goddess 