Hi - herewith follows a stream of consciousness mish mash salvaged draft from an outdated saved archived digital file
photographs rarely doth me justice boot at least some idea will be available if aye seem appealing enough to kiss. boy george, i will try to maintain a thorough lee good convivial over tone so police pardon moi, who calls out justin timberlake time this hermit tick lee sealed hominid dwelling metallica regular rolling stone sans placid yet poison end herman hermits stung by the scorpion human league this abba ca dabra purported - vee lad putative culture club virtual puddle of mudd digital glop, nor conclude me crud cuz, this olda boy - by george wants 2b yo steve a door miller bud jist hole dejure sly and the family stone horses that wanna prance n let there be dragons, seals and crofts me fair lady gaga cuz u auto let my sex pistol gofundme 2 see eddie money far hay, how duh name of dis swiftly tailored tar nation did ya got a hold - don't be afraid e cat nor slink away like a def leppard, fur mebbe i wrote cha from this utter alias name from zee station here or maybe at my previous abode while sipping tea? enjoy a glass of vintage wine don't let the rush o time induce necessity to reciprocate with one or more lines for your aura, charisma, enigma variations align to evoke an alluring, captivating, enervating charm of a gal, whose electronic presence felt as like an animal farm-ville replete with picture perfect barn, and chicken coop where foxes befriend each hendricks without harm dis here buoy i.e. stanley steamer doth newt goot any piercings and no tat twos any where, boot not bothered by a gal covered froom head to foot, or...one with my name i.e. matthew scott harris 'tho no emerald, ruby sapphire, nor flash gordon in the pan could ever sway me away from living a short span that would allow, enable and offer at least a millennium where we can take a spin in my car a van actually, this bloke drives a 2020 hyundai elantra, which revving engine silenced guns and roses without inducing your stomach 2 turn and skin appear to turn green, when most would agree this mutt spouts a meaningless pro verb whose poe it tree haint superb with no intent to perturb butta sprinkle your monitor with some savory her band...also ye need not worry this schlemiel potty trained habit upon georgian bush doth politely curb. witness this somewhat inn o 50 cent pennywise thrift, nickelback, dime a dozen face no bias, boot moi christened name, would be matched by equipoise puss, and amazing grace becoming a worthy friend within the milieu of virtual place who could disguise herself as being an alien from the human race perhaps our egress living twat seems light years away in an acme safeway, wholefoods, et cetera and secure distant virtual or real space so if intrigued to learn more send bits o digital feedback in binary code or across the heavens some skywriting message these eyes (e'en though tired like twin led zeppelins) will trace. i wish (as u2 might also desire as belonging to the human league) to feel that palpable poison us scorpion stinging pearl jam metallica making egress viz in living color deep purple reigning village people. this beatle browed (harkens to the black crows of Nazareth) that sound akin 2 rushing train of pleasure that courses thru an entire being (during black sabbath) on account of welcoming frequency to explore journey toward nirvana sans writing as the mental foreplay toward...inxs letting this red hot chile peppered beastie boy playing with one bare naked lady. even if something real and tangible a possibility, you could be disinclined to step up to a closer degree of intimacy, perhaps based on seriously involvement with a significant other since progressing thru the creed dent shul of many emotional/ spiritual trials and tribulations. no need from me to resort with insistence (vis a vis induce any hype or pressure, yet once in a lifetime golden finger red opportunity) to experience one direction of joey vivre enjoyment of me as feigned bad company. police - kanye kim e sump tin faw free swiftly tailored made oh kay tee perry up so i can go gaga over ma dear lady.lettuce both induce glee juiced send n email 2 me 3 doors down with inxs of pearl jam shutters no beginning nor plea cuz ah already rote in ma dire straits pledged yar troth can, yippee contrived virtual toy story qua ratatouille poetic brew could materialize in2a likely chance such an idea prods me 2 shrek out with excitement & dance just in case a glimmer of prospect in the park exists. this self anointed bard dislikes formality, hence i present good humor skills, which hopes to enhance this chap who offers poetic expression uncommon in france. he sets sights on sand fran sis go. take a glance 2 help dis intuitive homo sapiens sharpen mental acuity like a lance bite size bit torrent word play might cause ye 2 soil pants interpreting hodgepodge as rave & rants. even platonic rapport would buoy positive stance intent worth b friend ding, 2 sway au currant series electronic charge affect hypnotic trance 4 consideration 2 advance. I betcha never red an intro duck tory reply like this quacker. i'm an ink blot from bic pentameter typed o'er electric wires boyish looking blood muggle father up in years, (whose nonpareil courage 2 face Voldemort, which exploit does tire), and 2 luv lee young adult girls want him 2 sing miles away from the choir 2 prevent game raw bits of yar self 2 acquire frum a boyish chap dreaming excitedly 4 grandiose humping interludes joyful kindle bound by pages o love, who lives within perkiomen valley, penna, but, yukon only text. postscript nose one: would you care2 become my bride no joe king nor do i chide please take me away alive or freeze dried or sere this buck hits hide, which lil maximus m butted pill grims pride moon thuntz later whipped mir cull o joy n pure writ tin pride. postscript nose two: i noah nuttin bout witches r warlocks boot feel spellbound with magic dat mockshard science and knocks said solid hard core principles that hocks some basis in astrology n such early learning blocks of humanity - now swept away like chicken pox virus, yet those un-named discoverers of matter allow artificial satellites capable to establish docks far removed from gravitational force when (keep this on the qt), those spacecraft lobbed into cosmos base sic lee from a potion of balled up soiled red socks void where prohibited by sign language or pop yule lye vox. unlike my personality to come across like some forceful chap ling go ring, gang bang buster keaton being orgasm will buoy us alight if we take to some invisible primal grunting wing from - this average male member egret, who rem members when we first met and consider thee a queen for this rolling stone, who emails (then abduct) me via the net adieu. Bye. chow now, this mwm will await pleasure like when ye text me - if willing, ready, eager and able create r hard woo n intimate ace cee dee cee zip pity doo dah fable enjoying your cuntry villa mossy two lipped gable vagina sans the medical terminology whispered to thee when voiced per phone where airwaves crackle, snap n pop like mayhem of cars or babble heard at tower of babel via telephonic cable or rsvp tap text message to me a dope gang pull choseer this label the offspring of one great great great...grandmother named Mable who adorned herself in horsehair woven from her thoroughbreds kept in a golden arched stable housing a large equus shaped table.
Melancholic Musings
Sometimes it feels like I'm inside a small glass dome at the bottom of a deep, dark ocean. I see the cracks gathering in the glass and I know that eventually I'm either going to drown, alone and helpless under the weight of it all or I will struggle and struggle until I breach the surface only to find no land in sight.
Sometimes I feel that spiteful, stubborn spark within me yelling at me, spurring me to just keep moving. But sometimes that darkness leaks into the dome and I'm surrounded by a miasma of all of that pain and self loathing, and it gets so much harder to kindle that spark in me.
I guess I'm just intelligent enough to see not only myself trapped in this cycle, but everyone else as well. A part of me knows that to break the cycle, if such a thing is even possible, that I would have to break that dome that surrounds each and every one of us. And that it may just cut us down to nothing in the process. Besides who am I to be capable of anything like that. Just another drowning man.
I try to wave to the others through the darkness in between our respective prisons, hoping that they see me, even though I can't see them. But I hardly see any evidence that they even know that I'm here. Perhaps the miasma grips them deep as well. I don't know.
But eventually something has to give, even if that something is me. Until then, I search for the light where I can, and hope that others do the same. Maybe one day we can cast these dark waters in warm light and finally truly see each other. Finally help each other without the pain and paranoia and greed poisoning us all.
I hope so, more than anything.
Tomorrow
It's posturing, I know. "I could find another you tomorrow."
I swallow a grimace, my eyes drawn to the wall, fingers slack on my phone.
"I could have as many girls as I wanted by tomorrow."
I nod, unmoving. But the thing, dead and un-beating in my chest stirs uncomfortably.
"I've dated a writer, I'm already immortalized."
I clench my jaw, wondering when my words became so meaningless.
"You never said sorry when I was hurt."
I know that isn't true. But what is to kick a rock in a river, other than to look stupid? I am aware of my wrong doings, and yet there has always been more wrong. In my tone, in my manner of feeling.
"You're way more emotionally immature." No, because I do not talk like this.
My cadence is easy when I speak, my eyes hardened in my reflection and my words carefully picked over. "Okay. If that is what you believe." and I respond with such a draw string reaction each time, that I notice each irritated teeth click and memorize each draw of the brows, like perhaps I could be understood through a screen.
Only when ive had enough, when that dead, un-beating thing chest stirs do I say I am going, and that is when something is obviously wrong. I say "think about it." they say, "Can you communicate for once?"
But perhaps, tomorrow, I should care to.
Footprints in the sands
I firmly believe that we never hear a song twice. And I don't mean, that it's the first time you hear it that matters most. It's the time that you heard it, really held it, within a circumstance that sets the music for you, fitted like in fine jewelry. That gemstone, that cameo, or picture in the locket, becoming surrounded by auditory gold, or silver if preferred.
Then, with every glance back at the music, we see it as if turning in another light...
yet, somehow, that most significant instance, is there in the tint of the shadows, or highlights, and becomes a near or distant accompaniment... as mood that goes with, in the background.
We seldom sang at home. It turned out that was a great regret, to our adults. Our dad sang us songs sometimes. Our mom once confided, when we were grown and on our own: "I thought for sure having two girls meant there would be constant singing around the house..."
She never sang. We dare not either, except in private, where there were no adults to criticize. (I make a point now of singing loud with my little boy, and my heart cheers and flutters at every attempt of his to follow along with lyrics, to hum a tune, or invent his own songs. I want for him to know that freedom of spirit.)
Criticism was taken very seriously in the household, immediate and extended family, as an art form in itself in the oratory tradition. I understand now why mom held her tongue rather than be scolded and reminded that her tastes were too common.
I'm listening now to Diana Ross and the Supremes and remembering the grimace that passed across faces. No one wants to be shamed of the music that finds resonance within themselves; for reasons, more oft than not, hidden or incoherent, and psychologically complex.
As I'm dwelling on music that moved, emotionally or intellectually, impacting our path in some way, I can't help go back to this one song involuntarily, that on hearing once as a teen, I could not listen to again, but would shut it off, or walk away. I have blocked the title, and the artist, only to say it is a commonly played 80s tune by a rock band with female vocalists, and it must have been, objectively speaking a powerful number, to have that gripping effect on a young person. I had trouble wrapping my mind around the moral implications, the ethics, and where I would place myself into the situations of any one of the characters that would be involved. It was story song, a rock ballad. (I am leaving no clues here, so don't trouble the mind in trying to retrace any leftover grains.)
I won't listen to it even now, yet I commend the impact. That is art, isn't it? and we remember the footprints in the sands of memory long after they have been wind swept and near irrelevant. Things change. They certainly shift. A little bit of sensory input, goes a long way, many a times.
I've never been to a grand concert... It would terrify, I imagine. Once, on impulse I bought tickets to the unlikely proposition that 10,000 Maniacs was to play live at our nearby ski and summer resort and conference center called with southern homeliness Mountain Creek. That was very bold of me, but familiarity built up confidence, and I sometimes make a gamble on odd chances. Tickets, for me and my sister; we never went. The concert was "canceled" a day or two before, and it took months to get a refund. Maybe cynical teenage imagination was at play, but we decided somebody had swindled a quick loan from the community... it was quite hard to believe that our little locale would be visited by any such name brand in music, just too good to be true...
https://youtu.be/c0b7ltFrB34?si=yZZz542f3eufMGef
As a theme, I've been drawn to songs about the passing of time. Maybe it's because the first cassette I ever owned was Cyndi Lauper's 1983 She's So Unusual album, and my favorite track was Time After Time.
https://youtu.be/lx8-95fPjHc?si=uEe9FB3qZCnDqi6P
I remember receiving the cassette soon after starting school, so I would say I was six or seven years old. By that time mom had already run off from our home twice; with us and without us, children. The tune has continued to grow in meaning for me.
Eventually, I did some church choir singing, and to this day those hymnals, memorized, are among the most comforting musical tunes for me. I'm thinking of songs like Here I am Lord; On Eagles Wings; and Amazing Grace, among others.
I'm trying very hard to think of a song or album that I felt initially one way about, and then, on rehearing, changed my mind... and it must have happened, but apparently nothing that strongly felt, as I am not recalling. Maybe I feel less dismissive of Frank Sinatra or Linda Ronstadt or similar voices that I thought, early on, lacked depth... unfair judgements, immature, and I chide myself against these notions, nowadays.
It takes quite a lot of vulnerability to create songs, lyrical or instrumental, of every kind, especially as a cohesive body of work. Yes, there is music that doesn't suit the moment, but it ought not be dismissed altogether... Or deemed as good or bad. I've tried very much to be open to all music and to its ability to nurture our soul along the journey. We are blessed, when we can turn and return to music again, if only reliving it in our hearts.
The Rationality of Music
I grew up thinking music wasn't all that important in my family.
It wasn't pervasive like the argumentative silence-- the constant grudge that was held against communication and creativity in general. But I was wrong. Impressions leave a mark, and they are only half-truths, empty indentations, before the long paragraph that would follow as explanation.
Music was part of our myth, after all; the Polyphemus, kneeling, before sound.
I grew up believing I wasn't musical, and competitive as is my nature, I was determined to make up for that deficit. I asked Mother for a flute one year. The year before they would have selected openings for Band. I was eight.
Flute, sax, clarinet, trumpet, or drums. Those were the options for tutoring.
"Ask your grandfather," was the monotone answer behind the magazine, after a long sip of homemade latte. Mother liked a little coffee with her heavy cream, between the lazy trailings of her red tipped dragon companion. Newports.
Her father, Bruno, with deference, was one step from church and God Almighty--
he was Bank.
Promptly, my grandparents returned from a trip to Europe with a lovely hand carved wooden recorder. (Flute, sax, clarinet, trumpet or drums, remember? unless trying out for string orchestra.) Sigh. I was disappointed. I had no natural ear; otherwise maybe I'd be already mimicking bits of Mozart... with all humility, I knew I needed lessons.
Mother played the piano; and refused to teach us. The basics, to me and my sister. Finger positions, chords...
"I'm not good enough," she sighed pushing some junk mail from side to side.
I persisted.
I wanted a flute. For a very specific pragmatic reason.
It's odd the way things metaphorically distort mentally, in the eye. Stress. They say children lose their distance-vision as a defensive response--to things they fear to see or wish to shut out of their lives.
Listening intently to the inside.
I don't condemn them for it, philosophically. Our parents refused to get us glasses, though both my sister and I "clearly needed" them by mid-elementary years. The admonishment was that the crutch of lenses would make the myopic condition irreversible.
As might be imagined, it made school difficult-- not seeing the board, or math problems, or oncoming persons, or gym balls, etc., etcetera.
I strategized that a flute would secure the comfortable "convincing" distance I'd need to actually see the music sheets, and discretely learn the notes, in sound and name, and the corresponding finger positionings... Music is dynamic like that...
The Bank, reconsidered.
And gave me a beautiful, old, imported Stradivarius.
It was gorgeous. Red carved and lacquered wood with requisite horsehair bow and an amber block of intoxicating pine-scented rosin. They immediately encouraged me to take it out of its ornate case and hold it, under the chin proper, with arms extended... my nine-year-old heart breaking at every silent punctuation of the natural dimensions required.
No, I could not see the music sheet to save my life.
Not only did I have no natural talent to "play by ear," but now with musical notation in front of my face, I was a certified idiot.
I was just awful. Mrs. Bobiak all but said so.
I practiced of course, at home, at odd angles, to memorize the songs so as not to mortify myself, in front of peers, but time and time again, if asked to start at some arbitrary point (on paper) I was at a loss... f*k if I knew what note was what where, and somehow Mrs. Bobiak never grasped that I could not see the sheet...
My sister, on our Father's insistence for fairness, was also given a Stradivarius, the subsequent year; to her bewilderment; and she took the thing with emotional distance. She never saw the issue. She was musical, and voice was her preferred instrument.
As for the violin, she seldom practiced.
To wrap this part of the torturous history, a brief stint in foster care, as well as court appointed healthcare, landed us both in unfashionable, but functional eyeglasses. My sister made rapid progress. Mrs. Bobiak said so and smiled politely at my continued ineptitude.
I continued to grow up believing my family really didn't care for music...
All the perquisites were there, but surrealistically misplaced.
Father, on his part, had recorded with a band of his own devising (...Ciche Mnichi, meaning The Silent Monks) in which he played Banjo. Our family house had a modest collection of unplayed vinyl with the standby labels and titles, Elvis, Roy, Aretha, Beatles, etc... here respectability shattered... the expensive stereo was as if permanently transfixed to a leaky corner of the living room, where water seeped from the cathedral ceiling and made it semi-operable... and upstairs in the library closet, audio cassettes number in the 100's including four sometimes five copies of identical albums... maniacally... still sealed in cellophane, and those hard plastic wrap around handles designed to prevent theft....
And the greatest treasures, of lyric and instrumentals, were bootleg. Wojtek Mlynarski. Maciej Zembaty, Edith Piaf, Leonard Cohen, among others. And some that got transferred over, and over to fresh blanks... Like ABBA and 100 of the World's Most Beautiful Melodies...
As it turned out, Father cared so much for music that he would rather play it in his memory, than suffer a washed-out reality over poor equipment or disintegrated copy. He told me, when he could not suffer another note by Aula Babdul (*on poor mix tape containing the otherwise esteemed Paula Abdul).
Which explains, in part, why music was listened to primarily in the car...
It was Mother who surprised me most, years later... when she met my husband, music fanatic Bunny Villaire, and it turned out they spoke as if the same language, like veritable encyclopedias, referencing fairly obscure gems of music recording...
Mother even voiced the title on his mind an hour before our wedding as he searched his files for just tune as I descended the stairs...
"...play the Power of Love," she suggest. "Perfect," he answered, setting the needle.
I understand now that love of music is kept locked, close to the heart, and emerges at times, spiritually like Gospel or Jazz, improv.
And it is beautiful to take part in Song, whatever the genre; and its counterpart.
The track that comes to mind, as haunting my music experience:
https://youtu.be/qYS0EeaAUMw?si=Yn0rNy6gHhh_JQHR
Nonsensical. Noncommittal. Disingenuous.
She exists in a state of perennial, nonsensical gratification. Flitting from blossom to blossom, she quenches her thirst with ever changing flavors. The nectar of the honeysuckle has no sooner faded from her tongue, than the vibrant violet catches her attention. The morning glory, the lilac, the mums, the hyacinth.
She is too disinclined to engage on the same excursion a second time for fear it was her destiny to summit only once. Too disingenuous to admit defeat, she embarks on the journeys tailored to a skillset she hasn't cultivated, but rather been granted. Why conquer the dawn wall if she can walk up the trail behind and sit on the peak of the captain with her feet dangling over the aspiring climbers?
She's too afraid to decide on one meal, because there is a chance she may like another better. She samples bites from each like a famous critic. Never full, only a whetted appetite. Too soon, the restaurant is closed, and she has no choice but to go somewhere else to find a morsel to tide her over until she may embark on another journey, tasting, and tasting but never full. Noncommittal, lest she find herself satisfied: only to be let down again.
Youth. Beauty. Time. They are her pleasure and damnation.
Why I Write
He really liked my writing, actually. He was fascinated with my words. He had an uncanny ability to memorize any passage of literature no matter how large it was. He read every poem, short story, and even edited my first novel. I guess he thought it would impress me if he could quote my own words back at me. I found it awkward. At first, I really enjoyed it. He was more enthusiastic to read my work than any friend, romantic or otherwise, had ever been. But it changed. He started asking me if I'd written anything. If I had, he just absolutely had to get his hands on it. I'd always said my writing was a part of me. Quoting my words back to me, he said he just wanted to get to know me.
I know lying is wrong, but when he asked if I had created anything recently, no matter what had flowed onto the page, I said no. I preferred to volunteer pieces for his consumption and criticism. It worked for a little while. I could relax and write whatever I wanted to. My therapist recommended journaling and even gave me a composition book to use.
In my free time, I often used the journal. I hadn't handwritten much in a while, but it was even more cathartic than my keyboard. He caught me one time, writing an entry with a poem and a drawing of a bird tacked onto the bottom.
He asked to see it, and when I refused, it was like a cold breeze blew into the room. His entire demeanor changed. It darkened in a physical way that I'd never experienced from him before. "Are you hiding something from me?"
Naive as I was, I found no other argument to prove my innocence than to hand over the entry. And to my deepening horror, he flipped open to the first page. Any protest that the words in there were private, were hushed and waved away as if I were just a fly. I told him that I couldn't watch him read it in front of me and I let him take it home.
I wish I could go back to that moment sometimes and dump him right there on the spot. He claimed a relationship was built on trust, and if I didn't trust him, then we couldn't be together. But I could have done two things: first, I could have said, alright, then I don't trust you and we would have ended. Second, I could have accused him of not trusting me. But I was so afraid of losing him, of losing someone who cared about me, that I let him walk all over me.
I stopped writing.
I lied to my therapist about the journal.
I attempted a few soulless poems. Though likely some of my prettiest verses, all for him, I've since deleted them.
He thanked me for my openness with the journal when he gave it back to me. I still have the journal. I never filled in the last twenty pages or so, even though I had wanted, originally, to complete the entire thing like a physical copy of my memories, my emotions, and my ponderings. I haven't ever gone back to read it, despite the memory lapses, for there was more than just the manipulation. I don't keep it to remind myself of the pain and stupidity of that year and a half. I keep it to remind myself that I won't be naive or allow myself to be smothered. I keep it to remind myself to keep writing. Not for him, not for my friends, not for my family, not even for my husband who I'm completely enamored with. I keep writing for myself.
Miss You?
Yeah, I miss you. My ears now hollow, once filled with the sounds of your real laugh, every word that was spoken with passion, and the way you sang all your favorite songs. My heart aches so bad because at one time it sang for YOU like that. Did my voice ever captivate you too? I wouldn’t know.
My skin, now afraid to be touched. Longing for your soft kisses and gentle touch: only comparable to a snowflake, quietly melting when it meets my face. Lips sweeter than my favorite dessert. My nose, longing for your floral perfumes that would take me to the middle of a meadow in spring. Were you able to teleport simply by indulging in me too? Your actions say otherwise.
I miss the galaxy in your blue eyes, staring just as deeply back at mine as if we were the only two in the universe. Lethal doses of oxytocin from the security of your arms locked around my waist and head nestled perfectly under my chin. But deep down, anxiety calls my name. Is she being sincere? Am I a fool blinded by lust, giving every last atom of my heart with no reciprocation?
I can’t shake the feeling that you are only staring at somebody I’m not. Only holding so tightly to this false idea of me. Hearing only what you want to hear. Your words, your body, your time all given to somebody who exists only in your mind. How horrible a feeling. I’m not good enough. The person I’ve worked so hard to be, overlooked and thrown away like a diamond mistaken for glass.
Out of the corner of my eye, my notebook. The cover reads “Wonderlust & Wanderlust,” and now covered in dust. Memories flood in. How many situations have those pages helped me through? Every single one of them. Never failed to be there to help clear up my thoughts. Between those lines I can escape yet understand reality. How could I forget? How could this one woman, as great as I think she is, cause me to neglect myself and one of my greatest sources of joy?
I let go, ask her politely to let me be alone, and I dive into the pages and read everything I’ve written thus far. Nostalgia floods in as I hold this generic number 2 pencil. I begin to write, and page after page flows like a reservoir that finally broke through its dam. There’s smoke coming from my pencil, pages are setting fire. I capture my deepest thoughts and concerns, I contemplate why I feel so anxious in this relationship, why fear has taken root where my self-love used to be. The truths I discover are harder to swallow than a bowl of rusty nails with no milk. And at the same time, I’ve never felt better in all my life. With a sigh of relief, I reread what I had written:
“What a deadly feeling it is to fall heart-first into a space next to someone incapable of loving me the way I deserve. And how terrible it is to find it difficult to walk away from such a person.”
“I ignored my intuition telling me how absurd it is to beg for my love reciprocated.”
“How stupid I feel, thinking someone cared for me as much as I did. How stupid it is to make excuses for them for why they chose to not see my beauty, why they chose to not put in the effort I did.”
“She never encouraged me to do what I love.”
“The anxiety sunk in when I realized I had to shrink myself to make her more comfortable. It sunk in more when I had to desperately search for her authenticity and couldn’t accept never being able to find it.”
“I gave her every ounce of my love, and she took it like a hot desert takes water, with nothing in return but harsh lessons.”
“et cetera…”
I could write 100 more paragraphs of the words I wrote that day. But the main message I found myself was to listen to my intuition, be my true self, love myself in the way I choose to love others, and never settle for anyone who makes me become less than I already am. She may be gone, but the lessons will always remain. I used to be afraid of losing her. Now I’m more afraid of losing myself by staying in something that’s not right.
So, do I still miss you? I miss certain things, sure. Nothing that I couldn’t get from someone else. You chose not to see my beauty, or the light I offered. You never tried dancing with my demons. I lost a rose in a field of roses, I’m looking for that one sunflower standing proud within that field.
My world was fine before you and it’ll be fine without. I can’t thank you enough, I am back perfecting my art, this time with a whole truckload full of new inspiration.
Turn it Up
… turn it up!
Those quietly spoken words follow Ed King’s first, meticulous little guitar riff in the original recording of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.”
I clearly remember riding with my father in his pickup truck back when I was in the fourth or fifth grade (which, by the way, was a long, long time ago). It was the first time I remember hearing the song. Ronnie Van Zant’s words, “turn it up,” rattled in to us from the WANV radio station where my mother worked through the truck’s static-y, AM speakers. I remember watching in awe as my father’s hand subconsciously reached for the volume button. The singer of the song had asked my dad to “turn it up,” and the old man was actually doing it? It was both a mystery, and a revelation at once. My father liked to make it known that he had no use for what he called “hippie music,” yet here he was, “turning it up“ on command. Furthermore, as he was “turning it up” with the one hand his other one was tapping out the beat atop the steering wheel. And even more uncharacteristically yet, Pop was singing along with the chorus!
”Sweet home Alabama
where the skies are so blue.
Sweet home Alabama,
Lord I’m coming’ home to you.”
My father wasn’t big on singing, though he liked music well enough, Hee-Haw mostly, yet he somehow recognized this song well enough that he could sing along in parts. I’d only ever heard my dad attempt to sing a few times, and then he was more likely to be singing along with The Statler Brothers, or maybe The Temptations, some of his favorites. What can I say? The old man was partial to harmonies. At least I come by that right.
Yea, Pop!… turn it up!
I would learn later in life that while recording the song, what Ronnie was actually doing was asking the song’s producer to give him more sound in his headset before he started singing. “I need more volume,” he was telling Al Kooper. Upon hearing the recorded playback Al wanted to edit the words out, but Ronnie stopped him. Ronnie knew he had a great song, and he knew that kids listening in their cars would do exactly what he’d just been telling Al Kooper to do, and conversely what my father had done. Those kids would “turn it up!” And, as usual, Ronnie Van Zant’s instincts were spot on.
Speaking of instincts, less than a week before that recording session Ronnie had called Al up in the middle of the night. “I need some studio time,” he’d told Al. “We’ve got this song, and it’s perfect right now. If we wait the song is gonna change. They always do. We need to record it right now.” So The Lynyrd Skynyrd Band took the long bus ride to Doraville, Georgia, where they laid out their soon-to-be rock and roll classic nearly a full year before the rest of the album was cut. Apparently it paid to follow along with Ronnie’s instincts.
… turn it up, Al!
The funny thing about the song though is what I learned from my dad that day in his pickup truck. Sweet Home Alabama appeals to nearly everyone. While the song is unmistakably rock-n-roll, it somehow manages to take a savvy listener on a four and a half minute southern musical odyssey. The airy, initial pluckings of Ed King’s guitar have a blue-grassy sound, being almost mandolin-ish, while Gary’s country, slide guitar accompanies it. The rhythm section which follows in behind those guitars only complements that bluegrass sound with a slow, very steady, stand-up bass feeling. When Ronnie’s voice joins in it is light and articulate, coming off as being almost untrue to his redneck persona. When the Honkettes (JoJo, Leslie and Cassie) join Ronnie in the chorus their harmonies bring in an almost hymnal quality, their “ooohs and aaah’s“ raining down from the holier, upper pews. The guitar solos are steeped heavily in the Memphis blues, and the sprinkling in of boogie-woogie piano finishes it all off. The music itself is very nearly the coming together of all the great, southern musical styles into one pop-rock perfection.
And then you have the lyrics. Home is what the song is about. It tells you right there in the title. The song is about home, about wanting to be home after a long stint on the road, and about loving one’s home, warts and all. Yes, the song was inspired by Neil Young’s song “Southern Man”, and yes Ronnie takes a pretty good dig at Neil Young in the second verse, but that is all in loving one’s home, and in refusing to see it disparaged by someone who isn’t even American, much less southern. “Fix your own house before you stick your nose into mine,” Ronnie fairly enough reminds Neil Young, “A southern man don’t need you around, anyhow!” It was the early 1970’s, a time when it was already rightfully difficult being southern, but no weed-smoking, sandal-wearing Canadian had any business piling on, did he? Young had tried it twice now, beating up on southerner’s, but not again he wouldn’t. And the funniest thing about it was, Ronnie wasn’t even from Alabama. But even though he never lived there Ronnie felt a kinship to her people, people who were sharing the same struggles that his folks over in north Florida were.
“Big wheels keep on turning.
Carry me home to see my kin.
Singing songs about the southland.
I miss Alabamy once again (and I think it’s a sin, yea).”
For fifty years now I’ve rocked out to “Sweet Home Alabama.” I’ve heard it hundreds of times, maybe thousands, and I still “turn it up” every time it comes on, my toes instinctively tapping along to the radio. I heard it at the end of Forrest Gump, when Jenny and Forrest had become “like peas and carrots once again.” Reese Witherspoon made a whole movie out of “Sweet Home Alabama.“ The song has been covered by just about everyone; to include Nirvana, Rihanna, Poison, and Justin Bieber. Kidd Rock wrote a tribute song about this song that was a response to another song. I’ve heard symphony's attempt it, and marching bands, and even a bagpipe ensemble. I live in Nashville, where you cannot to this day walk down Broad Street without hearing it blare from at least one live music bar, and more often then not from two or three at once.
Oh yea. I’ve heard Neil Young do the song he inspired too (and he did it with much respect, too. Thank you for that, Friend).
Hey Neil! ... turn it up!
After much careful consideration about this prompt I have decided that “Sweet Home Alabama” has what it takes to be the “Soundtrack of my life” (which is not a mantle easily bestowed). It is not my favorite song. It is not even my favorite Lynyrd Skynyrd song, and may not even be my favorite song on its own album, Second Helping, which also boasts Curtis Loew and Swamp Music. But I am choosing it due to it’s popularity, and because the song is very nearly everything I believe I am while also managing to remain relevant for nearly as long as I have been around to hear it. The song is upbeat, straight shooting, contemplative, artistically diverse, it features a fantastic arrangement of driving guitar work, and it brings some attitude along to boot. Those are the very things I am about. That description happily meets me out there afloat somewhere on the big, slowly rolling river that is the Dixieland Twelve Bar Blues.
So take a tip from me, Ronnie, Al, Neil, and my old man. The next time you hear those light, plucky strings followed by Ronnie's suggestion that you, “turn it up,“ don’t just sit there...
Reach for the damned dial, already!
..…
The Cumberland Breeze Moved Still [revised]
We hid under the Mulberry tree that had been scarred by the knives of Southern mischief two summers ago. He was seated across from me on a turquoise antique. The afternoon held its breath for us as he offered me his hand resting palm-up on my knee. And it unfolded slowly. His angled posture was straight, leaning forward to complete the missing half of my triangle. And his eyelids were partly drawn, set meditating on my forthcoming move. When I placed my hand upon his, for a moment, I was a child. I found safety in his comfort, but our love was a wildfire. The shade caressed the mood and from behind its veil of landscape, the sun eavesdropped and he sighed. Sweet molasses lacquered my heart and its beat bellowed baritone. He smiled. Then too abruptly I retrieved my hand from his to salvage a silkworm lost on his shirt. And with that, our moment became a memory We lost grip of our hope. But removed from the chaos happening everywhere around us, we spent one stolen hiccup in time under a tree with each other. And it was perfect.