...City Streets You Used To Walk Along with Me...
My music feed has been mostly through radio. Muesli as such, with the premix and hodgepodge invitation for infiltration of the psyche. I speak of the random input of compilation by dj. Music not sought out, and I recognize it, Life like, not controlled by me despite having some dials to mix: to the left or right; up or down; on or off. A bit more treble or bass if my equipment was up to snuff, which varied widely. To call up a song-- on demand-- that was a power of disc/cassette I just didn't have for a very long time. By which I mean purchase, not in dollars, but in the means to go fetch.
Let it be known, I grew up in the official Boondogs.
Pointing the antenna took considerable learned skill.
As did capturing songs on mix tape...
Residing on the East coast mountains, it would seem that the feed would be mostly from the Tristate area, and predominantly NYC as largest hub.
I listened to AM and FM. The AM very poor in connection and rapidly changing. Staples were actually WMU (*that's Western Michigan University Public Radio) based NPR, and Temple University Radio (*a Philadelphia broadcast from what I was later "informed" was a black leaning school, from former professor...). NPR is where I tuned into for classics, but also to find occasional wonders like "Who Shall I Say is Calling?" which when unattributed prompted a flood of questioners and the All Things Considered main guy returned shortly with a statement of apology to listeners.... Guess they didn't think we were listening....
https://youtu.be/6VHQq-XTSEk?si=4Bw1KWcYayrSYSLZ
Leonard Cohen - Hallelujah & Songs from his Album
Early morning public university radio played stuff local radio didn't like Euro Beat tunes and stuff in foreign languages (French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Scandinavian). I'm still looking for that fun foreign accented tune with English refrain... hey, hey, supergirl...
One of the first cassettes I ever owned, given to me for Christmas, fresh, age 10 was:
https://youtu.be/TIQyAitAcPk?si=oJslHOtysCtoQmiehttps://youtu.be/LCzgsZi_zfg?si=2oH_bAFb9klWkOGR
Beats International - Let them Eat Bingo
Jazz and swing, especially electroswing are my blood type. And that's where Temple University radio was a sustainer. One of my first vinyls insisted on, later:
https://youtu.be/HFz1RbQg9gE?si=OTnrFDsMmVL-BRkw
Dave Brubeck Quartet - Time Out
Sure, I listened to local pop radio as well, and Casey Cason's Top 40 weekend countdown, and it was informative to a time... until Clear Channel swept through and started buying up stations and stacking the same cue of tracks on rerun. No matter what local station you tuned your dial, it seemed suddenly Clear Channel was sitting on it, and playing the same stuff over and over and even in the same damn sequence day after day. Maybe I listened to intently or too often; it really seemed a blatant take over of the airwaves. And I stopped listening.
I started buying CDs, and now mp3s.
Monsoon
Oftentimes the gutter would throw up its contents, in a great tidal wave, by the front door of the house, forcing the already-damp earth to swallow more than it could hold – too much, always too much.
At the edge of the woods behind the farmhouse, young trees lost their anchor points to the mud. So they fell, in a dull, wet noise, barely noticeable through the drumming song of raindrops.
Still rain was a good thing. During monsoons, while the whole family holed up together upstairs at the first sign of a flood, the amount of noise a dozen people could make acted like a shield. Whatever happened there, under the rain, had nothing to do with them.
Everything, from ruined fields to unearthed carcasses, was the doing of the old pagan gods who once ruled those lands. Mortally offended ever since the peasants had turned their backs on their traditions, those eternal beings rose from the earth, bringing corpses and secrets with them, cursing the traitors. Rumour had it that whoever set foot outside while it rained would be devoured whole by the gods themselves.
Gerbille had been living with that story burrowed at the back of her mind for years now. Her fear should have dwindled with time, but it had only shed its skin along with the girl. As a child she feared mud-monsters crawling from under her bed, yellowed teeth at her throat. Now she feared she'd see nothing at all, would only feel the pain when it happened. After all it was pitch dark in the attic where the whole family slept, and sometimes, at night, the rain stopped falling.
Those rare moments of utter silence were the soil from which the legitimacy of her childhood terrors sprouted. She was fifteen, old enough to work the fields, sell her wool at the marketplace without supervision. Fifteen and yet there she was, lying on her straw mattress, letting the black ink of night pool over her wide-open eyes.
That same darkness blanketed the entire house, separating it from the outside world perfectly. Behind the windowless walls there was no howling wind, no creaking roof. The sound of rain had accompanied her for so long by that point, that it took Gerbille a moment before she noticed its absence.
Behind that lack was something else. First she believed someone was walking of dead leaves, but the crunch was too loud for a few leaves. Then the sound changed: now she could have sworn someone was eating soup downstairs.
"Anyone else hearing this?"
To her left, the rustling of beddings put a lid on the soup slurping noise.
"Who's eating at such an hour?" Whispered Souris as she got out of bed.
"Don't go!" Gerbille tried to grab onto her cousin's sleeve, but she couldn't see a thing and her hand only found air. "I have a bad feeling about this."
"I'll be careful going down the stairs. Stay here."
Souris's footfalls grew fainter, and before long the creaking of the stairs reached Gerbille's ears. The slurping noise went on, uninterrupted. Punctuated with Souris's slow descent and a new sound, sharp cracking, it seemed to be taking form the more Gerbille listened to it. She imagined its long hands, nails curved like talons that could easily pierce her shoulders. The sound would have teeth too, the same yellowed teeth she had so feared when she was younger.
If she stayed put, lying there with her blanket her only shield, the noise would come for her. It would push itself all the way up the stairs using its spindly arms. Then it would open the door, slowly, and Gerbille would know the exact second the nameless horror crawled inside the room. Its gurgling, its loud inhales, its ancient bones ground nearly to dust – all of this would draw closer, slowly, inexorably. At last, fear itself at the foot of her bed, Gerbille would understand what it had been slurping with such enthusiasm – but it would be too late: she would lose her eyes, lose her tongue; that vile beast, that carrion of forgotten god, would bring Gerbille's frail figners to its mouth, one by one. Its lukewarm tongue would wrap all the way around, until the very last knuckle, and its acidic saliva would turn flesh into soup. Gluttonous, the sound would suck until nothing was left but her bones, clean and smooth. Then it would break those too, snap them between its molars, holding her firmly by the arm. She wouldn't be able to cry out, to move; thus held by the undistilled purity of the hells, the only thing a peasant girl could do was pray.
Downstairs, something fell heavily. Gerbille sat up with a start, drenched in sweat. There was no way she could stay put.
"Souris?" Nothing. "'Ris? Who was eating?"
No one answered. She got up on trembling legs, staggered to the door like a young fawn. From the landing she could see a faint light coming from the kitchen, waiting, inviting. Gerbille answered its call.
A small candle flame danced without a care in the world, sitting on the large dining table, reflected by the puddles darkening the floor. Souris laid on the floor, eyes and mouth wide open. A towel was tied around her arm, probably to slow down the flow of blood rushing out of it and into a bucket. Her hand rested on top of a slice of bread on the table, next to a knife smeared with butter.
Gerbille didn't have her mouth fully open yet when a hand wrapped around the lower half of her face. A tall, ice-cold body pressed against her back, then an arm wound around her waist, keeping her still.
"Be good," her father whispered in her ear. His breath made her stomach turn. "Go back to bed, before the rain calls for me again."
He freed her slowly, ready to silence her again should he need to. But terror locked her jaw shut, then walked with her feet. Twice she stumbled, but her father didn't make a move. Near the stairs, the round door leading down to the cellar was cranked open. The stone steps had disappeared under the water. Gerbille stared at it, that lightless unknown, for a second. Just long enough, really, to hear it again, that familiar, damnable sound, the tapping fingers soon to turn into a deafening beating drum.
"It's raining."
Slowly, she turned around. Behind her, her father had tensed. His eyes were dead, the colour of milk. The shadows on his hands toyed with his raised veins, the length of his nails. In the cellar, something laughed, the sound of an emptying well. Gerbille closed her eyes, and jumped.
Meeting the Meat
He didn't understand. The meat was rancid again. This was the third cow of the day, the third that released an overpowering stench when opened. On the first, he thought it had some unknown infection and continued butchering until the smell forced him to stop. The second cow stinking of rotting flesh concerned him and now the third...
He paused at the fleshy slapping sound behind him. Initially, he saw only the dangling intestines as the first cow rose. As it lumbered toward him, he realized daylight was visible through the hole in its head left by the rifle bullet.
Zen Garden
When I get bogged down
In the unblessed flesh
There's a calm retreat
Where my soul can rest...
Dateless sands of time
Have been raked just so...
And the well stacked stones
Look like Tokyo...
It's an easy guess
In this dog eat dog
Where a broken mind
Can see through the fog...
Zen Garden!...
Ride the eastern winds...
Like a long lost friend...
Zen Garden!...
Gliding on the waves,
Mythic mountain range...
Gazing at Bonsai,
On the winding path...
It's no wonder time
Need no hourglass...
Zen Garden!...
Fighting earthly ills
By just standing still...
Zen Garden!...
See your silhouette
Outlined by sunset...
Beauty beyond words
Now will come to pass...
While the songs of birds
Cleanse my mind at last...
Zen Garden!...
Zen Garden!...
When the jigsaw blue
Is full of plot holes,
And my two brown eyes
Needs a toilet roll
I get petrified...
But if roads were paved
In kimono flowers
I'd emerge unscathed...
Vagrant silhouette
On the river Kwai
Is a Sensei sent
To drink in the sky...
Zen Garden!...
Ride the eastern winds...
Like a long lost friend...
Zen Garden!...
Gliding on the waves,
Mythic mountain range...
Gazing at Bonsai,
On the winding path...
It's no wonder time
Need no hourglass...
Zen Garden!...
Fighting earthly ills
By just standing still...
Zen Garden!...
See your silhouette
Outlined by sunset...
Beauty beyond words
Now will come to pass...
While the songs of birds
Cleanse my mind at last...
Zen Garden!...
Zen Garden!...
In some twilight state
Scaling the eclipse
I was sleepwalking
To red carpet hips...
Your low hanging fruit
Had me mystified...
I'd gone deaf to quakes...
Missed the warning signs...
Now I'm taking stock...
Peering past ice caps
As the cherry trees
Cause my wings to flap...
Zen Garden!...
Ride the eastern winds...
Like a long lost friend...
Zen Garden!...
Gliding on the waves,
Mythic mountain range...
Gazing at Bonsai,
On the winding path...
It's no wonder time
Need no hourglass...
Zen Garden!...
Fighting earthly ills
By just standing still...
Zen Garden!...
See your silhouette
Outlined by sunset...
Beauty beyond words
Now will come to pass...
While the songs of birds
Cleanse my mind at last...
Zen Garden!...
Zen Garden!...
4/23/24
Bunny Villaire
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.
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, 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 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
Armada
sometimes I wonder what my grandfather saw on that battleship,
port cities doused in napalm
Saigon set on fire
he was just an electrical engineer,
my mother says
he never saw combat
what did you see out there?
when I close my eyes hard enough,
I can picture myself standing beside him
watching people die
along the shoreline
you’ve got two options, son: join the army or the navy
so he shipped out
(he reads Catch-22 in bootcamp but I don’t know it til he wanders into my
house
while I’m reading it on the couch)
there’s things he’ll never say
(is he scared in the clear light of day?)
i’m old enough to know he’s no hero
i’m also old enough to know not to bring up Vietnam or the words bomb or sarong
(i learn this when I am ten and sitting on the backporch waiting for him to stop screaming the house
down
over a
crossword)
what did you see out there?
I see old photos of him sometimes,
hidden in the wallpapered corners of my mother’s dresser
holding my grandmother (and all her rage is in my mother now)
there ain’t no light in his eyes
and i wonder where it died
lies
I suppose that there are many different types.
there is the lie I tell when I say I am 24, when I mean that this is my twenty-fourth year on this planet and soon I will be entering another.
there are lies we tell children, those 'harmless' ones. cultural tales and legends and tricks to get them to behave a certain way.
there is the lie of one who has fallen out of love - repeating words with lost meaning, no effort, and in avoidance of honesty with themselves.
there's the lie of the deceiver, an intentional misleading. who they are, what they want from you, who they are willing to take down to get it.
and then there is a different kind of lie - the kind that comes from fear. and while sometimes it's well intentioned, it's the one that stings the most. it takes many, many forms.
somehow they always pick the lie that crosses every category. they tell me the same words in different ways. and usually, they mean to comfort, but they don't know quite how, and they don't have the answers. fear does many things.
so yes. there are many different lies. but there are only a few that pierce straight to my soul. so don't tell me that I will be okay just because you do not have the answers. i have sought out my future in the vitality of those who have lived through what I have. and it helped with the trauma. it helped me through the abuse. it helps me survive nights of PTSD flashbacks and harm to myself where I struggle to remember why I am still here, where I fight voices in my head that repeat the words drilled into my being since birth, that prevented my worth from ever growing, that destroyed any semblance of self that ever began to sprout green life from concrete and gravel with hatred and hunger and glee.
but there is no vitality of those with my letters, my labels, my illnesses, far up ahead, in my current progression. my clinical profile identical to those in their 30s and 40s - what's that mean for me? No one can say. It's anyone's guess, anyone's game. I'm not sure it's a game that I'd quite like to play. So no, do not lie to me. Don't tell me that I'm going to be okay; grant me that one kindness. They number only few, those from whom these words and this comfort accepted.