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.
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
Storyteller
I have always been drawn to music. Even at seven years of age, my heart and feet beat to the sound of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite or a Polonaise by Chopin. I am now considerably older, and through the years, my musical world has evolved to include a diverse array of musical artists, including, but not limited to the Beatles, Cat Stevens, Bruce Springsteen, Jimmy Buffett, Dan Fogelberg, Nirvana, NSYNC, Disturbed, K-Pop, Italian and Spanish vocalists, and many others. Gravitating to music has consistently been an avenue I’ve chosen, through good or bad times, and, if for no other reason because of the sheer wonder of it that never fails to resonate deep within, bringing both solace and joy. Music has never failed to meet me in moments of time not easily forgotten, perhaps due to circumstances found in the moment or simply due to the sheer beauty found in the music. Either way, music has chronicled much of my life.
While listening recently to Pandora recently (Dan Fogelberg Radio), I heard a large assortment of songs by not only Fogelberg himself, but by Jim Croce, Jackson Browne, Carole King, Cat Stevens, and many others, and I was struck by the stark contrast in the songwriting styles of the 70’s and 80’s when compared with more recent compositions. Musicians from the earlier eras seemed to largely fill their lyrics with high emotions, descriptive imagery, and amazing poetry, and in doing so, were able to weave illustrious tales complimented by musical tunes. Indeed, these musicians were not simply lyricists or composers: they were masterful storytellers. This is not to say that today’s musicians do not achieve the same method; however, my perception is that it is more easily evidenced in the songs of past days, as I wish to expand upon in this piece.
………………………..
The late Dan Fogelberg is a big favorite. Not only was he equipped with an angelic voice that covered several octaves or ranges, allowing him to harmonize with himself and do his own background vocals, he was also a poetic genius, musician, composer, and lyricist who could easily play an array of instruments. Fogelberg is largely known for the song, “Same Old Lang Syne”, often played over Christmas holidays. The song details the story of his return home where he unexpectedly encountered his former lover in a convenience store on Christmas Eve. The story – or rather the song – is a special kind of gift in and of itself, not only because of the lyrical magic, but also because of the beauty in its musical composition, which was based upon Tchaikovsky’s “Auld Lang Syne”. I was driving along the interstate on a cold, winter day the very first time I heard this song played across the radio. Of course, the tune was captivating, but even more so, the emotion it evoked was overwhelming, a mixture of joy and regret, encompassed strongly in the lyrics. The song was both wistful and romantic in a tragic sort of way, and as I listened, it struck a chord within me so deeply that I felt I personally knew the man who had written it. To this day, I identify just as much with the bittersweet song now as I did at twenty-three years of age when I first heard it.
“Met my old lover in the grocery store
The snow was falling Christmas Eve
I stole behind her in the frozen foods
And I touched her on the sleeve…..
We drank a toast to innocence
We drank a toast to now
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness
But neither one knew how…..”
Dan Fogelberg, “Same Old Lang Syne” (1981)
Because I fell in love with “Same Old Lang Sang” (and Fogelberg’s voice), I purchased the LP or album from which it originated, a true masterpiece entitled The Innocent Age. The double album is a collection of songs that spins the tale of man’s evolution from the cradle to the grave, each song written and performed by Fogelberg. I can still remember listening to it for the first time, watching it spin around on my stereo turntable while I sat alone in my grandmother’s living room. It was nothing short of sheer magic, and I was engulfed in the spell housed therein, each note and word enchanting. By the second song, I knew the album was more than a mere collection of music – I understood it was a wondrous piece of art and literature. Each song in this album embellishes life in such a unique way that it easily brings personal association and reflection for the listener, resonating in the very crux of one’s soul.
The album goes on to detail man’s evolution, touching on love, family, work, and the days preceding death. The haunting, final song of the collection is entitled “Ghosts”, and what I consider to be one of the greater pieces of poetry in the collection. Together with the echoing, chilling music, the lyrics lead the listener to the precipice of a man’s death:
“Sometimes in the night I feel it
Near as my next breath and yet untouchable
Silently the past comes stealing
Like the taste of some forbidden sweet
Along the walls in shadowed rafters
Moving like a thought through haunted atmospheres
Muted cries and echoed laughter
Banished dreams that never sank in sleep
Lost in love and found in reason
Questions that the mind can find no answers for
Ghostly eyes conspire treason
As they gather just outside the door….”
Dan Fogelberg, “Ghosts” (1981)
Of the many artists I’m fond of, Bruce Springsteen also springs to mind (my apologies, pun intended). While I’ve enjoyed his diverse musical talent for many years, I did not become familiar with him until I attended college in the 70’s. My university, being Southern based, was filled with out-of-state attendees from New York and New Jersey and nearly every one of them was a huge Springsteen fan. His album, Born to Run, was always played at parties I attended. In addition to the title cut from the album (that’s so amazing), “Thunder Road” is also one of my all-time favorite songs. I can’t remember exactly where I was when I first heard this song, but I can definitely remember singing the words out loud with several others whenever it was played – in parties, in cars, in bars – wherever you happened to be. “Thunder Road” is story woven from carefree youthful days and desperate love, a description of someone who is hell bent on going to the ends of the earth in search of fame and fortune - and you’re either with him or you’re not. The song is haunting, engulfed in a force of power, while being wrapped in freedom and youthful destiny.
“A screen door slams, Mary's dress sways
Like a vision she dances across the porch
As the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey, that's me, and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face myself alone again….."
Bruce Springsteen, “Thunder Road” (1975)
Admittedly, the music for “Thunder Road” is just as haunting as its lyrics, and both create inviting, vivid imagery for the listener. Who can hear the words Springsteen sings without the sound of a screen door slamming or Roy Orbison’s voice looming in their head? You can feel the eagerness and anticipation in the lyrics so much so that it makes your heart palpitate. As the music and singer crescendo near the song’s completion, you feel excited, exuberant, and ready for whatever life brings. Springsteen’s massive talent and success have easily proven his worth as musician, poet, and storyteller, and this song is among his best. His lyrics have a powerful effect on the listener, as proven time and again over the years with his many songs, scores, and Grammy’s.
I don’t personally know anyone who can deny the appeal of Carole King’s music. I listened to my cassette copy of Tapestry when I was in high school so much that I literally wore the tape out. It was only King’s second LP, but it packed a punch with every song on it becoming a single hit that rocked the Billboard. I have to wonder if every other listener, particularly females, identified as much as I did with King and her lyrics. Her songs encompass the full spectrum of human emotion and weave a wistful tale of love, regret, friendship, and life. The songs on Tapestry are so engrained in my memory that I can still sing along with them whenever they are played.
“One more song about moving along the highway
Can't say much of anything that's new
If I could only work this life out my way
I'd rather spend it being close to you
But you're so far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn't help to know you're so far away
Yeah, you're so far away….."
Carole King, “So Far Away” (1971)
Jimmy Buffett is another music favorite from my college days. My best friend, Barbara, first introduced me to Buffett’s music as we were headed to college in a little green Volkswagen Bug as she proceeded to sing every Buffett tune from his albums Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes and A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean. Being trapped in the car, I had no choice but to listen to her sing his songs for two hours. Needless to say, following her outstanding performance, I remained intrigued by Buffett's lyrics, and I was eager –and curious - to hear the actual albums or Buffett himself. Once I’d done that, just as my friend Barbara had, I fell in love with Buffett and his down-to-earth musical storytelling. It is obvious from the diverse and vast number of songs he’s written that Buffett’s life has been packed full of personal experience and growth, and he details nearly all of it (as well as the lives of those he’s met) in his music and lyrics. My absolute favorite songs by him is “He Went to Paris”, the sad tale of a man’s life that seemed to slip quickly through his fingers during years of marriage, toil, war, and death, but still, in the end, he was appreciative of the life he’d been given, not choosing to regret any second of it.
“While the tears were a' fallin'
He was recallin'
The answers he never found
So he hopped on a freighter
Skidded the ocean
And left England without a sound
Now he lives in the islands
Fishes the pylons
And drinks his green label each day
He's writing his memoirs
And losing his hearing
But he don't care what most people say
Through eighty six years
Of perpetual motion,
If he likes you, he'll smile and he'll say,
"Some of it's magic,
And some of it's tragic,
But I had a good life all the way....."
Jimmy Buffett, "He Went to Paris (1973)
“He Went to Paris” is a lovely, moving, and emotional piece of poetry and music. I will always fondly associate Buffett with my youth and love of the ocean. I spent many an hour listening to his music back then, as well as much later in my years. After all, there is nothing like going to a Buffett concert – it’s an entirely different world and those in attendance, an entirely different species.
…………………….
I have only highlighted a limited number of some of my personal favorites, but by no means are these few the only ones who deserve recognition– in past or current times. Music is a broad, diverse spectrum that reaches out to touch many, and it has enraptured my life for as long as I can recall. The wonder of music has the ability to enable people to connect and understand in ways beyond the scope of their understanding – beyond their imagination or dreams. It gives life to inanimate objects and makes memories alive again, connecting us to the world of today and yesterday, while also forging a path to tomorrow’s unknown mysteries. I thank all of the musical artists and the impact they’ve made upon my life over the years for I cannot imagine a day without the wonder of music, for without it, I would merely exist and cease to live.
I Love The Music and I Won’t Ever Quit!... (...Legitimately!)
Anyone who knows me knows I'm a certified music lover. I am a fool for it...I drool for it. It's my bread and butter. I'm so throughly obsessed that I: A. Work at a Record Store and consider myself a Music Detective; B. Write Songs and head my own band and haven't not been in a band since 2001; C. Have a massive music collection that doubles as my side hustle; D. Dream of one day owning my own Night Club/Record Store; E. Create imaginary scenarios in my head with my fav musicians of how we would hang out and chat if we finally ran into each other in the real world. I know. I'm a bit kooky.
My first album I owned was on Cd and I remember it was my own pick and paved the way for a vast majority of what I listen to which splinters off into many differing sub-genres. This particular gem was MC Hammer's 'Too Legit to Quit'. MC Hammer had it all in my teenage mind. He had a challenging fashion sense; he loved to dance; and he loved to rhyme. Hammer was all about making a splash with his presentation, and it was his gutsy Pop Rap that set the wick of my desire for electronic; funny; atmospheric and sexy music that had a distinct sense of style. The dude wore pants that were called 'parachute pants' and were very hilariously parodied in one of my fav comedy shows in the 90's In Living Color. Hammer also had a lot of good messages in 'Too Legit' that intrigued me to continue to pursue the interest of challenging subject matter that explored discrepancies in race relations and challenges inflicted by a blind society. He did all this with a lightening quick delivery that challenged and demanded reaction in the form of dance! I was 11 when I bought this album, but continued to branch out into differing segues of protest music that had a dance beat up to the present day.
I remember the next step up from this album(though there were differing choices made before this choice that also influenced me, like a handful of tape cassettes by the UK Punk/Goth/Pop/Experimental chaps The Stranglers) was Marvin Gaye's 'What's Going On' that I begged my Mom like an eager beaver with music fever for my 16 year old Birthday. This funky happening piece of art got my blood pumping and I was wowed by the poetry that dripped from Gaye's passionate voice but it lacked Hammer's steady pulse or humorous edge. For this reason it didn't get as many spins as MC. Onward I went to discover more and more music in an attempt to fuse these two elements of Poetry and a Beat driven electronic pulse equipped with a goofy grin.
Indeed I was intrigued by other music in my teens that got my booty shaking and bumping to a more distant shore then any place Hammer may have came from, but Hammer opened many doors for me. As soon as these doors creaked opened I made sure to jam a foot in and keep it lodged in there like a crook who has a sneaky taste for diamonds. Suddenly I was immersed in bands like UK's Underworld, and the solely instrumental UK Ambient/House band Future Sound of London. I wouldn't have given Future Sound a chance if I hadn't first been drawn to the surreal and oddly funny poetry antics of Underworld and their hypnotic Euro House beats with observational ramblings. On my favorite Underworld album strangely dubbed 'Second Toughest In the Infants' Underworld challenged me with surreal lyrics that were disjointed yet beautiful and drove my poetry with their odd feeling based tones. On Jaunita; which was the 1st track on the album, there was magnificent song that kept your interest for it's entire sixteen minute length which was jaw dropping for many in it's extraordinary length. The lyrics to this song were mesmerizing:
"...Homeless strays,
Gathering
Outside your window
Bootleg babies call to you lying among the mosquitos
That summer's fever coming
Cats are gathering
Outside your window
Homeless strays
Bootleg babies,
Calling to you
Lying among
Lie among the mosquitos
Your rails
Your thin
Your thin paper wings
In the wind
Your sun, fly
Danglin
Danglin
Your window shattered in the wind
The sun lying
Your cocacola sign
Your rails
Your thin
Paper wings
Paper wings
Resonator..."
Very William S. Burroughs like indeed who was my favorite writer at the time.
With Future Sound I finally stripped the poetry away altogether and allowed the atmospheric ambience create poetry ideas in my head without the words leading the way. When this dissection of the words occurred I was finally inspired to be a singer and write my own songs. There were sound samples of people talking in Future Sound that kept my fish on the line with their dark humor theme of people in society interacting with an ever increasing mechanized society engulfing their freewill.
I haven't listened to MC Hammer's seminal album for years, but now listening to it I hear elements of House music and Funk that I tumbled down into rabbit hole style which would later metamorphose into Euro House and Italo Disco in terms of my taste. Of course there was also elements of Hip Hop in Hammer, but a slightly modernized version of 80's Rap which is devoid of bad language and showcases a more tongue and cheek element to it that doesn't take itself too seriously. To this day I'm always reminding myself when writing music that an element of humor and child's play must be present in the music process! I do at times use a cuss word or two but they are almost completely subliminal if rarely if at all present.
Thanks to MC Hammer for keeping me drunk on the discovery of new and challenging music buried in the abyss of a hefty pile of records and cds. Music makes life more bearable and is the host at every party! I love the music and won't ever quit! In the world of music there's always a new music tidal wave to surf on, and the treasures at the end of the beach are always great in terms of newly discovered musical bliss boasting a questionable fashion sense.
Too Legit to Quit:
https://youtu.be/wiyYozeOoKs?si=TFP9N6KHg2paEvFt
MC Hammer in parachute pants in 'U Can't Touch This'
This song was why I purchased 'Too Legit to Quit' though it ended up not being on this album:
https://youtu.be/otCpCn0l4Wo?si=6Zq4YjDXkof---ff
4/19/24
Bunny Villaire
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!
..…
Who wakes up next to you
This is where I'll leave your note.
The first one I ever received was pinned to my shirt. It was yellow construction paper, cut out into the shape of a school bus. "832" was written on it in one of the eight most important colors that exist in the world, according to Crayola.
You're still one of the 8 most influential people in my world, according to every woman I've loved since last we spoke.
The first note I gave wasn't folded cleverly. I didn't learn how to do that until well into my teen years, when I had a reason to do the cute little tucks and tails. To her credit, she didn't laugh, but the subtle shake of her head was indication enough that the words she would use after reading would be empty attempts at mollification or hollow apology.
It's alright, though. Because later, I found someone worth walking 500 miles for.
Until she wasn't.
The note I found at your apartment, it wasn't mine to find. It was an accident, really. I wasn't looking for it, but there it was. It spelled out in clumsy verse, in my best friend's handwriting, words that I knew in my heart but hadn't yet seen with my eyes.
You were gone, and he was with you.
Not me.
Until he wasn't.
Oh, I am now fine. I wasn't fine. I didn't think I would ever be, but, well. Time heals, and all that. And wow, it's been a lot of time. A lot of todays between you and me and then.
A problem of mine, though, is that I linger. I still bleed a little when the trees move from green to smokeless flicker-flame. It's spring now, but everything turns to autumn when I remember you.
So this is where I leave the bloody trail, smeared for everyone to see and experience along with me. Pictographs written in clear language with unclear resolutions, red-fading-to-rust, scrawled for pondering and perusing.
I think the issue here is the time of year. I don't love the spring and all its promise, because promises get broken. Fall doesn't lie, it lies in wait. It's coolness is fact instead of false hope. Frost is a guarantee instead of a final, rude surprise. Spring gives way to hazy days, but autumn gives way to lazier days, shorter in duration and sepia around the edges of afternoons. Each morning stumbles in from the dark, shaky and a little weak.
We've force-Marched into April, but you always remind me of October. Fall.
I tripped, once. Fell. Landed hard, battered and bruised and bitter.
The bruises have faded, I think. The bitterness sometimes slips away into more of a bittersweet.
Which brings me to today.
This is where I'll leave your note.
I'm sorry. I can't say I didn't mean to bring you fear, anxiety, worry. I meant to give you those things. I wanted you to feel those things. I did that to you. I wish I hadn't done that; it was hurtful and hateful and born of spite and resentment and resistance to inevitable change.
I was absolutely withered. Everything good and right and just had been chewed up and what was left in me was envious and angry. I was poisonous and miserable, and I wanted poison and misery visited on you, too. I'd been done to, and I wanted to do. I spoke in anger, I spoke with hatred. Fury was my world, and our worlds were parted.
My emotions ruled me, and I should have done better.
You told me you were afraid, and I was appalled. I was aroused. I was proud and I was ashamed and I was disgusted and I was pleased.
Mostly, though, I was saddened.
I never wanted you to fear me, but you did. You were afraid of me because of me. I should have done better. I should have been better.
I have done better since then. I learned from us. You taught me. You taught me so much, and only now can I see the lessons written those decades ago. The words are the same, but now they convey different meaning, like shadows flickering in different light.
I've channeled the anger. I've funneled the pain, I've processed the emotions, I've done better with others. There are scars, there are aches, but they're stories and allegories and ways to learn and do better. Be better.
I am better.
I wish you'd see me. I wish we could talk; I wish laughter was our language.
These things can't happen, because there's no bridge to be built. The ashes all floated downstream decades ago. I understand that, and I respect the borders and the boundaries and the barriers. We're worlds apart now, with the light of years between.
Me leaving things alone is the best case for you and for me and for us.
I'd like you to forgive me.
I'm pretty sure you've forgotten me.
I know it's best that I stay here on my side of the world, so I'll leave a note here for you. A note for autumn in the spring, a note for a deciduous love that tries to be evergreen when 'what if' wanders in and whispers poison.
In maudlin moments, I wish you could know I want to walk those 500 miles that separate us, just to be the man you once thought I was. When clarity sharpens my focus on the here and the now, though, I realize how lucky I am to not wake up next to you.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJ6wJqaE6o4
Babbling from a blatherskite
cheeses crust, i ham the biggest imponderable mystery to mice elf. if me appeals to you, I would love to meet up for coffee, squid and sauerkraut. I am very interested in how things yar life seem to always work out contrary tummy way. It is my goal to live in the moment and enjoy without pouting, to learn from everything that comes into my experience without doubt this mwm simian with a smallish prickly cock eyed convoluted brain with three legs skinny as those of a whooping crane in tandem with elongated combo Sphinx canine body of a great dane the unwitting a donor she dog called elaine additional about my cat a tonic pet agree i will refrain thanks you very mooch genesis, per this human protoplasmic mic grain sans freshet mountain spring, where fertile fecund field rosy cheeked feral lane inxs of seeking nirvana foremost in me mind and main reason this ac/dc charged beatle browed guy, who huzzah dow ting thomas pane upon verdant greensward hopes acquaintanceship, and friendship simple and plain as expressed in the following quatrain attempting to endure this unpleasant mar writ till rein from dis baad bard barred arse who iz newt insane despite riding with barred naked ladies on a gravy train while above in the heavens, the moon shadows doth wax and wane. mo'e about dis dennis well axle rod gun tha lil rose off limits by the thorn until trust grows, and friendship born intertwining body, mind and spirit of counterpart like a bowsprit after maybe a narrow miss lust will mutually adorn yet, i call on Eros to release another magical arrow. this simian known in the varmint world wide web as alias m. scott tulle bug amber liquids o the dogs he doth not chug nor down mind expanding drug boot experienced spurred me to hug and drink froom busty mother nada speedily from swollen bosom jug, which supple fingers did gingerly lug and suckle as if from a nip pulled mug sniffs with nose, when aye used to be a puppy pug ye and regale like some intricate oriental made rug only to remind myself this dickering dither nebbish on same slimy playing field retractable male member oozes like a slug. while sew king in a broth of brine formaldehyde n sumac, an eternal sleep brew elixir bitter like quinine, but otherwise quite fine dis paw made up each line noah lion eyes from mine which ocular orbs total sixty nine n populate my epidermis along each disk vertebrae of me spine which makes potion costs life an limb one sprig off the human vine noggin - after down in a gallon o wine. i enjoy a commendable comment, though many respondents rage at this gent sans wordiness, and valuable time ms spent to decipher my gibberish evicted since hours decrypting forces her/him to live in a tent. this poet can know a range of feline artful dodger with his non lion cat skills concocting totally income pre hens able confusing trills. some of these claws n nay pickling skills, which include maintaining mouse sized dignity, grace (while under fire from Stuart little), kibitzing, nibbling on self crafted bon mots, and then rubbing the dead giveaway crumbs (from double entendres) using all faux paus into thy maw paw cent less whole foods masticating dull blade less choppers. sanguine at one hundred thousand minus forty six hundred, or eight years plus forty nine = an apt and pithy phrase to matt's labyrinth best characterized as a twisted maze (along a boulevard of broken dreams) lodged deeply inside this dutiful dada shackled to an endless role of scullion, but silently gesticulates for salvation. this spruced up fun guy (and not unduly coy -- see) pines for female to cure nostrum from domestic plight. just a spoonful of sugar will most definitely help this medicine go down (best hummed to the mary poppins tune of the same name), mine current existence like a modern henry david Thoreau with a twisted sister. after perusing this rambling prose (from mine psyche feeling walled in), you might judge this personal struggle more on a par with oliver twist, i sincerely seek salient gallant wings (with or without dishpan hands) to take this humble human being who can (ha) bring a fairy tale ending to my cinderella patterned existence, rather than this helter skelter pell mell tread full life like a rat in a cage. away i want to soar no matter such fantasy a fool's' paradise! an extra ticket just located and could be a boon and salve plus preferable to travel in tandem with another. only upon surrendering to a deep and peaceful sleep (which dream state will take place soon) does the fictional world (within the wide wedded web of this wayward thinking wanderer) take hold and serve up a brief hiatus to a life devoid of contentment. this amateur baker would cook up a souffle or rhubarb pie if willingly taken from mine own personal lake wobegon awash with raw bits of flotsam and jetsam and empty boxes of powdered milk biscuits, the one with big blue stain on the outside. san sol invictus served ancient civilizations as their com-stock load transmitted from my ip node. like a modern day icarus this mwm mulls the possibility of finding a real live likeness of what constitutes a hologram of his mythic muse, who exudes able bodied confidence donning every filament. keep on dreaming cyber buddy, an anonymous reader might think, telepathically communicate or even communicate via email, which idealism goads me to broadcast the following fanciful (and perhaps not so far fetched) feasible female find among the frequent purveyors of this website. the vague nebulous barely perceptible kernel of a fictional account per my own conjured up vision (as pertains to what might comprise a companionable woman to me) could conceivable materialize into an actual arch de triumphant revelation once landing this wistful nugget of an idea into the conscious of unconscious mind of an unknown gal, who just by a fluke (of the worm holes populating the universe) finds herself piqued with curiosity about me. not a whit of information yet exists about this writer who envisions himself in seven heaven (no matter he in truth really admits to espousing an atheistic outlook on the cosmos) if that all to fickle finger of fate (usually the middle one raised by an obstreperous onlooker) finally found me in the company of a woman able to articulate in a civil and democratic manner emotions, ideas, sentiments and thoughts with an unpretentious air of sophistication. she (meaning this balsamic scented woman) would also possess a cosmopolitan demeanor yet clear of all any unpretentious knotty suaveness, but also able, eager, ready and willing to allow, enable and provide quite an ability to get into an amazing tangle of literary profundity. unlike this older fellow seriously believes he got borne in an in apropos century and revels in another illusory consideration - aside from trying to summon forth a living gal of flesh and bone from this overactive imagination.frequent farcical notions flit to and fro inside the so called major sex organ, and in moi case one with not an immensely large head incorporating being transported to say the renaissance or medieval ages or more recently that war between the north and south. if hedging bets with yours truly being a union soldier of yore, you no doubt already can infer where thy political and more pertinently national would get cast. okay, the original aim of (what many might tag as a yahoo) really wishes to explore the make believe world and just maybe prick the inquisitive of at least one online browser, who although she might not in the least be seeking any male relationship just by happenstance or circumstance experiences some inexplicable necessity to reply. in the event that should lady luck be like a divine guiding star, i know best to tamp down any premature illusions of grandeur, but let the natural course of familiarity usher the chap a roan of sacredness to be cherished for however short or long such a friendship might endure. oh yes, an ongoing (specifically offline) interaction motivates this doubting thomas fool hardy spurious posting for to be ransacked with absolute and total consent in an effort to be plucked from this (utterly difficult to describe) morass (at date of crafting this mishmash) of discontent with thy marriage, which then quite contemptuous wife, yet consideration to pledge thine troth to another could be a moderate to strong consideration. so, now with a zing a hoop ye kin be yang 2 me ying i step in2 the digital xing via summit da fall low wing written jest 2 byte tongue in cheek yet unsure if zee phone here will ring or an unexpected gold plated invitation after yodeling ding in a catch 22 effort to hear pleasant, yet discordant musical ka -- ching for cherished pennies, nickels, dimes, et cetera from heaven 2 bring. patiently twiddling fir and twenty black bird shaped like green thumb as schmart simian Semitic arse gets comfortably numb after quaffing humongous amount of rum while also downing into me gullet oral roberts sesame street pudding made of pureed plum unlike jack in the corner mull huck mooch more glum and despite this facial stubble with here n there a stale crumb, this dabbler in words haint å no cracked barrel size petsmart, skidrow, dire strait bum. If receptive to react, redact, re-enact, refract, repack, Rorschach, et cetera ...the above scenario abridged text slack or email rsvp asap 2 me -- aka khan of union track the above message approved by the late doctor zeus n swiftly tailored president zack. from a sub human holed up in his man cave this one bedroom perky oh man dwelling, thee one i moost fave scratched with deep intentions grave, whereby credo, ethos and integrity induce me 2 be-have like the hairdo shellacked (substitute requisite stick figure or other symbols), understandable to this primate of a knave bang to rocks together to signal myself as a wah na b ya sigma sixty ninth audioslave signed: yo yo ma's, king crimson beastie boy.
Sunshine…
on my shoulders makes me happy.
…
You and I are camping with Jenny, camping like we did on the island, when you called me and said you were lonely. We paddled to the shore and hung a hammock and I started biting your lip and pulling at your collar. We had nowhere to be, and that’s why we stayed like that ’til the afternoon sun filtered through the low branches and the brush. And we have nowhere to be now, except around Jenny‘s table. She listens to music by searching songs on Facebook, though she says she only checks it for family news.
You and I are a family now, but I still came from her first. Still, nothing makes more sense than bringing you here to the beach to meet Jenny. The cell that became me was, before Jenny’s daughter was even born, when her womb developed within Jenny’s womb. She carried me before I was my father’s child. I was a part of her when she was a long-haired, barefoot little thing, running on the white sugar sand riverbank, the Jungle Trail. And I was a part of her mother’s mother, who came over in the cargo hold of Turnbull’s slave ships.
How different you and I are. Your fathers came over from Scotland, on the decks of the ships, but not in much better condition than my indentured Spanish mothers. Your Caledonian fathers reached the shore and soon found Indian women in the hills of western Virginia, who became your mothers. They had black hair like Jenny.
…
in my eyes can make me cry.
…
I am Jenny’s granddaughter and I can’t believe I am. She has raven hair, like you do— like I always wished I did, like I still sometimes imagine would grow on our babies’ soft heads. I think the 1/4th of me that is Jenny is recessive, because it sure skipped a few generations. I’ll never be half of the mother she is.
When I was a girl, and too difficult for my momma, I was sent to live down by the water with Jenny. I beat the wall with my fists and yelled obscenities and, on the really bad days, I would dig holes and sit in them. Since she was too afraid to stop me, she didn’t. She shouted at me from the screen room. The hot tears poured down my face and I couldn’t why I didn’t feel a thing, so I stayed quiet. She slammed the screen door, leaving me alone.
She wouldn’t sit with me in my mud puddle; she was strong and thought she could pull me out from the edge of the thing. She couldn’t. I blared my angry music and wallowed.
Her daughter would come get me the next day. I don’t blame Jenny for not being able to fix me, though. She couldn’t have known she had to get down in the mud with me in order to help me out. That’s alright. Jenny is tall, and she is kind, but her emotions steer her vessel. This is why we used to fight so much, before I grew into a woman; I was a woman the day I learned to hold my tongue.
…
on the water is so lovely.
…
Jenny spends every day she can on the gulf, now that she’s at least semi-retired. We kids sit around Jenny’s table on the screen porch, eating the good things she fixed, while she and her middle-aged daughter sit to the side in Adirondack chairs. Her daughter lives in the mountains with her 5 children, far away, but we are visiting for the week. Jenny starts cooking 3 days before the grands arrive, and she is a fine cook. She fried the fish the boys caught last weekend— she used to love being on the water, she says, but so many Yankees have come into town with their big boats and RVs, the fish don‘t bite often enough to suit her anymore. Jenny lets the boys go, staying home with a bit of a headache and with the grandbabies, and with you and me. She says doesn’t need anything more.
…
almost always makes me high.
…
John Denver garbles through her cell phone’s external speaker. She and her daughter laugh loudly, like how you and I laughed last spring in the Subaru with the windows down on that first warm night of the year. The year I found you.
The year you came and sat with me in my mud puddle, then gently asked me if I’d like to try getting up and coming in the house. Once inside, I refused to wipe off my feet and arms, but you made me a sandwich and told me about when you were a child and your mother made you feel so cold that you punched a fence post and broke your hand. I almost didn’t believe you. You are so gentle now.
You told me I could be gentle, too, but I was sure I never could be. You were gentle like a good father, even as a young man. I was a disturbed young woman and a monster and Jenny and her daughter had both given up on me. I told you I was no mother, that I couldn’t carry the 3 babies you always dreamed of, and that you should give up, too.You said I was in no shape be a mother, because who could bring up children in that kind of environment? But you would dig through the mud with me for as long as it took. You told me you believed I could dig, too, and what’s more: you believed I would. You knew that’s what I really wanted. More than to sit and wallow, I wanted to dig and get out.
Jenny and her daughter may have made me, but didn’t know me as well as you did. They didn’t trust me, either. It’s not their fault. They each had to dig through their own mud and learn to laugh in their own sweet time. I hope I have time enough to become their daughter and their granddaughter again, now that I have grown into a woman. The first step is listening to music with them on the screen porch whose door used to slam.
I pray to God I have time. Jenny slaps her knees and my mother spills her iced tea. ”Sunshine almost all the time makes me high,” Denver’s clear tenor croons from the grave.
I am still one of five siblings, and still a child at that. I feel distant from these two women who have grown to rise above the din. I am still very much in it. I still care what others think about me.
And though Jenny and her daughter both love you, getting up to add another helping to your plate, refill your glass, and pat your back, they think me naïve. To be so in love with man seems foolish to them. They have both seen enough bad men to believe that a man’s heart is an amusing and silly thing at best.
The song is over and they head to the kitchen to clean up the supper dishes, cackling happily all the way. I don’t often laugh around them, and I don’t laugh now. But you know and I know that on good days, I have the same huge, boisterous laugh as those two great women. That much doesn’t skip a generation.
…
Metallic Bones
The calendar looks like a dart board, covered in holes. Empty days and meaningless numbers, circles that don't mean a thing.
I used to mark the days, be able to count the hours since my fingertips last hit the keys, last strung together a slew of words that were possibly profound but more often than not just ramblings. He's gone now, no looking back, and I'm better for it. Everything happens for a reason, or at least that's what they say.
I'm like a swimmer out of practice, nose waterlogged and I keep stopping to catch my breath. God, this used to be so easy, but we're getting back into the swing of things. You and me, old pal. This rusty old machine is still good for something. Oh, and this typewriter's still here, too. How nice.
In some ways it was bound to happen, you know a human's nature must be stronger than the delicate bond between slightly-less-than-strangers. I'd gotten caught up in a messy web of sinewy connections, and I'm sure it'll happen again. But for now, we release. We relive. We write:
He'd been not too close but not too far away either, that's how I liked them, anyway. Enough to tell me I'm pretty--with his eyes--but didn't dare say anything. Just shy enough.
His fingertips were like paper cranes, careful and artful. Swan dances across my knuckles. Something about his smile, too, you know the way they pull you in. A laugh, a look. He hadn't been my type. Until he was.
We counted the hours using each others' eyes, found some sort of constellations right behind the iris. A ticking clock back there built for us and ignorant to all others. We thought it ticked forward, at least at first. And the longer I looked the more convinced I saw that it was a countdown. More I saw that the paper cranes were unfolding, and the stars were never with us anyway.
It fell around us like wallpaper without enough glue. Strips of rolled up paper, still sticky but not quite enough, whispering at our feet. A room of destruction but not enough to hold it together. Built to fail. Perhaps.
And in that room, no words. It was the one thing I always had on me, words. And I'd lost them somewhere, shoved them deep into your chest where I couldn't find them until you tore yourself apart and left all the words in the world pulsing on the floorboards, your flesh split on either side.
I broke you, I know. But I needed those words back. They fuel my ticking clock, no matter the direction. They're my sun and moon and everything in between. I wear them like prize furs, douse them in flame and scream them from the silence of my notebook pages.
You stole everything from me, and I stole even more. So here's all of it back again, the story of us. What you always wanted, no? I never did show you my writing. I never could. But my fingers are made of ink, made of metallic bones in the shape of typewriter arms. I can press my finger to the page and make a letter. This soul is bound in ink and wrapped in leather. Words become I.
Words could never become we.
So this is it, then. And my soul can breathe.
Let it Burn
He was my Darcy. However, in my version of events, he was all grump and no charm. My writer's heart and fallen for a character I had thought come to life only to realize far too late that the real deal is still buried deep in the pages and masterful words of P. & P.
"R. I. P. to my dreams and my passions," was my motto with him. My diploma says 3.8 but my relationship GPA was far too disparaging to grade.
Now that I've taken out the trash, I can rekindle my lifelong romance with wordsmithing. Oh, to feel the words flow through my fingers again. It is like water to a parched soul. The deadly desert is now a lush oasis. Like a cleansing, controlled burn, I am ignited by the fire that must set my pages ablaze or I risk my mind becoming a victim of its inferno.
During my prison sentence with that fool, I thought I was no longer a writer; perhaps it was just phase. Now, I realize that this craft was never simply a phase but rather an assigned mission that was simply hiding until it was safe to come out again.
My heart is healed, stronger than ever and ready to fire shots of retaliation at Cupid. Why would I ever trust a diapered man baby with my love life anyway?
Breathing in the mahogany scent of my long-abandoned desk and relishing in the cool metal of my typewriter, I am exhilarated by the punchy sound that first letter makes hitting the paper, a.k.a. my ticket to freedom. My speed increases as my story roars to life.
Sometimes, carrying a torch for the wrong person lights the way to the path you strayed from for so long. Other times, you are kept warm as you use it to burn the bridges and villages you once built together. Either way.... ;)