King of Limbs

If a stranger on the street or a new friend asked me if I liked Radiohead’s recent release, “The King of Limbs,” I’d reply with my classic falling-cadence “Yeah.”  It’s a weighty word in that context, conveying honesty, sadness, and a bit of reluctance to discuss the answer much further.  With most conversations borne of courtesy rather than curiosity, this would suffice to share my casual impression of the album.

In all honesty, discontinuing the conversation with an impartial answer has at its heart a most pragmatic purpose – I wouldn’t want upon first impression to be pigeon-holed as someone who would like the album, so far from my lyric and melodic sensibilities as it is.  I wouldn’t want someone to know that I enjoyed this album and suggest something like it.  I wouldn’t enjoy anything like it.

With that being said, I do love this record.  With fellow Radiohead enthusiasts, I would wax poetic about the layers of sound, the touching trifle lyrics, and in particular about the fleeting magical moments on this album that remind us of past albums. 

Recording a record (and most artistic output), is like making an imprint of your hand in setting concrete – it’s simply capturing a moment in time.  In the months or years that pass between recordings, it’s easy to forget (since your only connection with the artist is the imprint) that the artist is changing. 

I learned about Radiohead at the beginning of their most important transformation, between OK Computer and Kid A.  I fell in love with the dark chords and paranoid, ethereal lyrics of the earlier albums and was willing to follow them on their coming, well-publicized departure to new soundscapes.  Kid A was shocking, but beautiful, and I recognized through the sampled drums and blips and beeps everything I’d loved about them.

This has continued for me with diminishing success for several albums.  Each intentional divergence on their part from what I fell in love with was met with my grasping for reasons to enjoy the record, desperate and convoluted, based on our relationship.  I loved every minute of every album because it was from them, not because of what it was.

In a quiet moment this morning, I recognized that Radiohead is no longer making music for me.  I love the album, but I don’t like it… I could point to phrases that struck me as tender or moving, but they’re only glimpses of what I used to truly enjoy.  The experience of listening to the album was very sad for me… with eight songs averaging almost five minutes, I found myself wishing each song would end, hoping the next would capture my attention – twice, three times: nothing was written for me.

I mean no disrespect to Radiohead… I was well-informed of their intentions, and I absolutely appreciate the need for individuals and artists to grow.  I have grown as well, and can acknowledge when I’ve been left behind.

Cloudy Thursday Mornings

On cloudy Thursday mornings on the beach,
it can be tempting to presume redress
for crimes unspoken. Conscience turns to each
And pleads the opportunity; Confess!

But in the break of mist her heav'nly glow,
enchanting warmth and light upon your face,
inspires a sense that she loves you alone:
selecting you from others for her grace.

The passing time reveals this ancient trend-
Our sins neglected, splendor unperceived.
She has no whim, no passion, and no friend:
The sun's no arbiter, prefers no creed.

In sooth, the sun is simply meant to shine,
illuminating worlds more than mine.

On a cloudy morning on the beach

On a cloudy morning on the beach,

the sound of the waves and the salt air

serve as indelicate reminders

of the main attraction.

And when she, in congress with the winds,

steals a glance of my sallow frame,

I arch my back and raise my chin,

as meeting the lips of a lover.

Departing in short order,

a smile dances across my face.

I will meet my benefactor again

as the gods will.

Genre

I'm learning that choosing a genre for a song before laying down words is going to be a necessary evil. To this point, I've had some fantastic concepts and couplets, but my fondness for the ideas has impeded progress - I'm afraid to make a decision that will corrupt that magic.

There comes a time when everything needs to be classified in one way or another, and it's hard - because once you put a label on something, you need to start making decisions. Binding decisions. Nothing really exists until anyone can identify what it is, and while that shadow may be romantic, it's not really real until it has a shape - it's nothing you can hold onto and define yourself by.

There's a song in my heart, but I'm not quite sure how it goes.

The Long Goodbye

I think of my job as a series of long goodbyes.  With each project we’re assigned comes the understanding that, after several months of getting to know your hospital, getting to know the town, making friends with the staff, waking in the middle of the night with a brainstorm or to answer a frantic phone call… you will never see the people, or the place, likely, again.  It is defined. 

Letting go of the place is always hardest for me.  Whatever the circumstances of the installation, however troublesome or hectic, and regardless of the frequent “get me the hell out of here” mentality that comes with bucking my seatbelt on the final day of my final visit, I always take my time driving to the airport, repeating under my breath the street names, the landmarks: this place I’d come to know, passing away.

We exaggerate our own importance to a location, I’m sure, and even I would be hard-pressed to convince myself that Shannon, the bartender at Gerard’s, would wonder why I hadn’t returned six weeks later, as usual, for my 32 ounce Miller Lite in a frosted mug, but there’s something bittersweet to be said for making yourself a home, away from home, knowing you will leave.  But what choice do I have?

If grace is a virtue, then forced grace is still a virtue, albeit, perhaps, contrived.  The eloquence of my series of goodbyes is in knowing their inevitability, in the cold, defined reality of my responsibilities.  I take care, in that regard, to make my goodbyes, and leave quietly, reverently.

In a sense, our formative years are defined by transition, and thus, by goodbyes.  Each graduation (primary definition: mark on a vessel, indicating quantity) serves as a new opportunity to get accustomed to saying goodbye; to buildings, to teachers, to friends.  But few of these goodbyes are permanent (rather, perhaps, the ones we wish not to be are not) and thus do little to prepare us for the realities of real life, when we cease to grow and begin to die (some of us faster than others).  It is in this time that we come to treasure the long goodbye, the touching, cinemafied, romantic ideal of letting go.  For real, this time.

I stopped smoking several months ago, arbitrarily.  I remember the moment I made the decision perfectly: It was 12:40 in the afternoon.  I had picked Greta up at the airport at 1:30 in the morning the night before, still fairly hung-over from my previous night’s escapade, and she was now in the living room, checking her e-mail, while I smoked the fourth-to-last cigarette in the pack in the kitchen.  I had a six-day-old beard and a pimple had me afraid I was getting a cold sore.  The nearly-empty pack was a left-over from earlier in the week, and this particular cigarette had been crushed and tasted awful.  My hands smelled terrible and were shaking from two cups of Southern Comfort flavored coffee.  Massachusetts had just raised the tax on cigarettes by a dollar.  I’d had enough.  In three cigarettes, I would quit.

In the summer of 1998, my (first) girlfriend Amy came with my family to Kiawah Island, South Carolina on our annual vacation.  We drove my dad’s black Ford Thunderbird down I-95 for 700 miles to join the crew, blasting Radiohead and Dave Matthews, talking about our future.  We went on bike rides and late-night walks on the beach, and on the final night there, she fainted while waltzing with me in the sand.  Sure that only our love would get her through that difficult time, I proposed that we get married in four years, and she happily accepted (What else could she do?  I was her ride home.).  A month later, my fiancée visited me in State College on my first weekend in college, kissed me goodbye, and drive off in her Rabbit.  Two months later, her best friend told me that she was back with her ex-boyfriend, she never loved me, and I looked like a giraffe.  Our goodbye was simple, uncomplicated, inelegant.  In many ways, it was one of my finest goodbyes.

Shortly after I made my decision to quit smoking, I realized an immediate shortcoming: namely, I didn’t give myself adequate time to enjoy them while they lasted.  Oh sure, cigarettes and I had spent some good times together… well, all of my twenties.  I had met my closest group of college friends thanks to cigarettes, and those I didn’t meet thanks to cigarettes, I introduced to cigarettes.  Cigarettes went with me on every road trip to New York, they were there when I was promoted to assistant manager of the movie theater, and they were here for me when I was unsure of a job in Boston.  Cigarettes deserved better than to be cast aside because of a decade of personal indiscretion and legislative malfeasance.  They deserved a proper farewell.  For real, this time.

My departure from State College was marked by two farewells: my home for five and a half years and my job at the Cinema 5.  When it became clear that my days in town would be numbered, I cherished every moment.  Nights became longer, conversations weightier.  I completed my quest to visit every establishment in town.  At work, every shift was a celebration.  Ken and I wore pieces of the “American Wedding” tuxedo donated by the rental shop nearby, completing crosswords gained significance, and Mr. Thompson was never far from sight.  In fitting tradition, near the end of my final shift (but not before it was over) we had a free Guinness at the G-Man and reminisced about the money we’d made together.  Everything was in my control, beautiful and excruciating.  The inevitability of my return beyond my comprehension, each event was filled with gravity… as such, each time I have found my way back I am filled with disappointment.  The memory so carefully ingrained altered by evolution, and I a dinosaur.

Non-smokers are always ready with awful suggestions for quitting… most of these derived from internet headlines or Glamour articles.  What no non-smoker appreciates is that for most people, smoking is not a habit, like twirling your hair or popping bubble gum.  Smoking, for smokers, is like a nationality… it’s like being Swiss, really… if the average lifespan in Switzerland was 55.  Fantastic perks, great camaraderie, high taxation, and a guaranteed early death.  And just like changing nationality, only a careful consideration of the risks, benefits, politics and peer pressure will result in a successful transformation.  Gum, patches, exercise, knitting… these are all replacements for an identity?  That doesn’t sound right.

In Act 3 of La Boheme (or RENT for you heathens), Mimi approaches Marcelo and mentions that Rodolfo has been ignoring her.  Rodolfo tries to convince Marcelo that Mimi has deceived him but later confides that Mimi is ill, and he can’t bear to watch her die (she overhears this and understands).  When she approaches him and tries to say “Goodbye,” he recalls the good times they’ve had together, and insists that they remain a couple for the winter.  This is the approach I have taken to my nationality.  I’ve acknowledged that I can’t let this continue, but a few months to appreciate the glory of this magnificent creation can’t hurt (“Vorrei que eterno durasse il verno!”).

My greatest goodbye came with one of my greatest friends as I was leaving State College.  During a visit to Zeno’s, we acknowledged each other across the room and quietly came together, discussing our lives at the moment.  While my friends left to watch a movie at the theater, I walked her home, and we continued our conversation.  In her new apartment, we looked through her books, still in boxes, and simply appreciated each other.  When I was ready to leave, we embraced, kissed, and upon leaving I whispered to her, “Please don’t let this be the last time we say goodbye,” knowing the prayer would not be answered.

Addio senza rancor.

I generally detest people who say, as a blanket statement, that they “have no regrets.”  This traditionally means there have been plenty of missteps, foolish and thoughtless, but they’re fine with where they’ve ended up.  It by necessity disregards all “close calls” and life-changing opportunities, all the individuals affected by their carelessness, and accepts as fate the situation they have found themselves in, which is of course ridiculous.  My god, I have hundreds of regrets; poor choices that left friend hurt, unfair wordings of criticisms, grand decisions or non-decisions that had dozens of people pulling out their hair.  My regrets are not on my behalf, but on behalf of people who cared for me or trusted me.  While I do not specifically regret joining this society, I know that if something happened to me because of the silly indulgence, I would die with the regret.  No thanks.

I have loved cigarettes, and my love for them has been well acknowledged, their benefits cherished, but now it’s time to move on.  Unlike other farewells, for the rest of my life I will see them on the street, outside my home, at work, and our future relationship will be as painful and rewarding as any I’ve known.  I don’t need pills or affirmations, advice… I need time to let this sink in.  I need time to say goodbye.  For real, this time.

Undead Friends

Recently, I have (privately) expressed disgust that, in my advancing age, brilliant memories from just a few years ago have begun to fade into the haze of my collective wisdom. I have a napkin, emblazoned with the trademark symbol of The Blue Monkey, a martini bar in Birmingham, on which I scribbled several months ago, "I'm beginning to lose things." It was prompted by a discussion I overheard a few tables away in which someone made mention of "group showers," which of course led me to remember Simmons Hall group showers, flip-flops, pretzel rods, tunnels... beautiful, beautiful moments, tragically forgotten until that fleeting eavesdropped instant. The trigger was so arbitrary and entirely out of my control that I began to panic, as though I was holding a dying friend...

When I was twenty-one, I had gone home one weekend to visit a bar with high school acquaintances. Just before I had to leave my house, I found a bottle of cologne my dad had bought me in the spring of 1998. I sprayed it into the air above me, and, like a magic carpet, it carried me to the bleachers behind my high school, hand-in-hand with my first girlfriend Amy before the first night of the Spring Musical. I hadn't thought about her in ages. I think the pain of our non-breakup had obscured her whole existence for the previous two years, but this was nice. It was a beautiful day in a bottle, dangerous if used in excess, but a quick, occasional cure for the common cold of my early twenties.

In the past, I have extolled this same virtue in music. It was one of my talking points. I explained that I loved listening to OK Computer, feeling as I did one evening in 1998, driving home from the Poconos with that same Amy, listening to the album. I loved that listening to Rhapsody in Blue reminded me of roller-skating in circles in my basement with the lights off, conducting the orchestra. I loved that the Weezer's Buddy Holly made me think of walking my dog every day, listening to the same mix tape.

The problem with singing those particular praises at that particular time in my life, of course, was that at that particular time in my life, my life was not particularly complicated.
When you break up with someone, you traditionally remove reminders of them from your life. Pictures, birthday cards, stuffed animals, handcuffs... Anna used to dance around our apartment, dusting to the sounds of Amnesiac. 'The Luckiest,' on Rockin' the Suburbs was our song. She loved Beth Gibbons and Aimee Mann. And when I hear any of them now, I'm filled with this kind of tender sickness that I can't ignore and I don't want to ponder, so I turn off the music.

It's not just Anna. I was listening to Fashion Nugget when I had a CAT Scan for my elusive brain tumor. I was listening to 'Femme Fatale' on The Velvet Underground when I was in my car accident. I listened to Born to Run the following day. My pulse races and pupils dilate when I hear Brian Eno. Funkadelic. Rufus Wainwright. Beck. David Bowie.

Part of the problem was that over the course of three years, my record collection expanded from thirty to over three hundred. At this rate, I was listening to each album for just enough time to associate one event with it and move on to the next one.

Even pleasant memories... on bi-monthly trips to New York, Tyler and I would listen to bands from New York. We listened to Rolling Stones albums on our way to and from their concert in Pittsburgh. Roustabouts. Even my bands in State College, every cover song... amazing songs, all of them, but... have you ever just wanted to listen to an album without any baggage, without any memories?

I'm not one to dwell on the past. And I hate when friends get together for the first time in years and can only discuss things they've done together, how drunk Terry got that one night... you know exactly what I mean. As though it is their youth and exuberance rather than the individuals that keeps them together. I wonder if perhaps the stereotype of older people listening to music of their younger years is related to this, if it is not the music itself but the memories that hold the attraction. Needless to say, this is not how I feel.

At the more contemplative pace of my present existence, if I wish to listen to any of my albums, it is like stepping into an antique shop I haphazardly stocked, misfit clowns and music boxes, ancient currency and artwork, notebooks, relics of moments, anything in my immediate vicinity. And I still see the value of this. But unlike the bottle of cologne, tucked neatly in my drawer, I can not control when I need to listen to Nick Drake. Music is the healthiest addiction I endure, but I wonder for how much longer... I fear that I've ruined much of it, I really do.

Some memories have their place, and as seemingly unconnected wisps, fleeting, dying friends, perhaps, for me, they belong.

Pride and Patience

I was almost killed at work today. Stepping outside to return my sister’s birthday greeting phone call, I was nearly cut in half by the rotating door at the employee entrance. And it’s not just today. Every other time I try to leave the building, I feel like I’m jumping onto an out-of-control carousel. Now, I don’t mean to sound uptight, but I fail to see the necessity, or fun, in giving the bar one good last shove after stepping out of the door’s radius of death. You’d think people were trying to jump-start a fucking turboprop engine. I’m sorry if I sound bitter… I can still taste the adrenaline.

I’m beginning to understand, or try to understand, that it’s nothing intentional or malicious: it’s just symptomatic of a fundamental lack of patience. In everyone. Alright, it’s not fair for me to say that. I suppose for every handful of madcap souls, there’s someone like myself who’s hesitant to cross a double yellow line to pass someone in order to get to the red light first. Or who won’t pelt your car with coins if you need change at the toll booth. Or who will refrain from laying on the horn if you’re more than five feet off the bumper of the car in front of you in a construction zone. Or if you stop next to a school bus with flashing lights. Or for the elderly in a crosswalk, at a stop sign. I had a difficult ride home.

The problem is, of course, that for the slightly less high-strung (if more verbose), like myself, it is frustrating, and difficult, to not rationalize behaving in the same way. I admit, part of me enjoys being the straight man, if only because I… well, I’m passive aggressive and it’s a great way to extract revenge on individuals of whom I’m much too smart to confront about their anger issues. I’ve actually considered that my being… call it measured… only makes the less measured more reckless, but someone needs to keep society from degenerating to a scene from Naked Lunch (“So long flatfoot!”). Or at least be steady enough to document it. Or at least slow down the revolving door when there is someone walking behind you whom you KNOW will be coming through after you.

I will admit, I haven’t been immune to the hurrying trend. I’ve found myself walking faster lately. That’s right, walking faster. I don’t even notice unless something happens, like I drop a pen and before it hits the ground I am twenty feet away. But it’s distressing… the best compliment I’ve ever been given was from Kate Dailey, who told me she loved that I took long, slow strides… she loved the way I walked. And since then, I have too. I’ve always walked slowly, observing… never in a hurry to get where I was going. But lately, and I swear it’s because everyone around seems so unpleasant, I haven’t found much of interest to observe. When I’m comfortable, with friends, I don’t say much because it’s so nice to see people acting civil towards each other, I just swim in it. It’s wonderful.

But that makes me wonder… maybe I simply haven’t gotten to the point where I am so tired of miserable humanity that I speed through every intersection, every revolving door, just to get someplace I’m comfortable, where I can float on pleasantries… or maybe, hopefully, I have just enough tolerance to smile sadly and shake my head without becoming part of it. Because the world is beautiful, faces and potholes, and when I remind myself, I can slow down a step, even wait for the door to stop before passing through it.