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Florence, Firenze, on a Thursday. the day, like all the others before, had been maddeningly hot. wherever we went, thousands of tourists were crammed into whatever shade whatever giant cathedral or baptistery or museum provided, leaving half of a plaza desolate.
i was sweaty with the weight of a backpack filled with the unnecessary weight of the trusty old D200 Lauren was letting me use for the trip. i had stopped looking for good shots hours ago–too hot, too crowded, too rushed: the theme of a European tour via Mediterranean cruise. in my head, i was already crashed out on my cabin’s bed. no more weight on my feet, my sweaty tanktop on the floor, the balcony door sealed shut to trap in the cool, conditioned air. then back to reality. Ponte Vecchio and Piazza Signoria rolled past in a wave of fluttering heat like you see emanate off the hood of a hot car. we trudged on.
i hated that it was happening, but Florence was becoming just another old city with pretty old places. i’d have traded it in a second for a gallon of ice water and a massage.
we entered the Basilica di Santa Croce to see the tombs of Michelangelo and Macchiaveli (how’d the birther of lie-laced, ruthless ambition get buried in a church?). while Ignazio, our tour guide, was asking if any of us could sing, i could only think about how i had to cover my shoulders with a scarf, raising the temperature of my body another few unbearable degrees, so as to not offend God, or something.
get me out of this city.
our last stop of the day was at Cappella dei Pazzi, the chapel at Santa Croce–another cavernous space adorned with prophets and columns with a dome on top. Ignazio went on to explain the geometric perfection of the structure which made the chapel an acoustic wonder. to illustrate, he walked away from us to the other side of the huge space and whispered, “can you hear me?” his voice rolled across the curve of the dome and floated into my ears like he was telling me a secret, but everyone was nodding their heads.
“where’s my singer?” Ignazio asked. a stout African American woman from Austin stepped out from the crowd, only a little shyly. her eyes scanned the space, maybe a little nervously, but mostly with a glint full of wonder.
“will you sing a line or two?” Ignazio asked.
“what should i sing?”
“anything you want.”
the woman nodded her head just slightly, looked around the chapel once more, then closed her eyes and took in a breath.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…
Florence went silent as her sad, deep gospel voice slowly filled the marble room. i swear i saw the walls shiver just slightly as they inhaled the sound, and then they exhaled together returning her voice to us in thick, rolling waves. i closed my eyes, and i felt the entire world tiptoe inside the chapel to hear what was happening. we all held our breath together.
the singer whispered, more shyly than when she started, “should i keep going?”
“please…” Ignazio whispered back.
That saved a wretch like me…
the sweat on my arms went cold as the waves of her song seeped into my skin. suddenly, we all weren’t just in Florence. Florence was there, but so was Austin and Mumbai and La Paz. the world turned inside out, without boundaries, a breeze across our faces.
I once was lost, but now I’m found…
the painted prophets were there, too, holding breath i didn’t know they had, straining their ancient ears as to not miss a note. then the moon and all the stars arrived. time crumbled and the heat together with any cold in the world vanished. we were suspended, all of us, hanging there together inside the cupped hands of some vast, unfathomable…
Was blind, but now I see.
it happens sometimes when i’m not paying attention. memories creep in from distant places. the smell of Chapel Street early this morning; steady rain on the windows after the sun goes down; Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea from the ipod on shuffle; tu me manques on the tv. bystander details from an innocent June day saturating all the photos i didn’t save or never took.
in my head i found you there and
running around and following me
it may not be much of an image, sometimes not even a face. sometimes it’s just a presence filling the space like in a dream where a stranger is pictured but you recognize them as someone you know in real life. sometimes it’s just a name written in someone’s particular script in the air in front of me.
but they’re there, and they don’t notice me. and of course that’s all i want. i want them to look up from their faraway lives and say hi.
that’s why i’m writing, of course.
i want them to remember me like i sometimes remember them. that ride home from the Valley, that photo taken on the Turnpike, that storm over Seaside Park.
but i suppose the best i can do is wave to them from here, whether anyone is looking or not.
i haven’t forgotten you, and i don’t think i ever will.
baker baker baking a cake
make me a day
make me whole again
and i wonder if he’s ok
if you see him say hi
cross-posted from facebook. (i know, i’m a huge slacker these days.)
the rules per fb land: Think of 15 albums, that had such a profound effect on you they changed your life. Dug into your soul. Music that brought you to life when you heard it. FIGURATIVELY socked you in the gut, is what I mean.
here are mine, chronologically, sort of. (defining song from album in parentheses.)
Pearl Jam – Ten (Porch)
in junior high, i fell asleep to this album on high volume in my chunky headphones every night. i could program my discman in the pitch dark to play six songs, culminating in Release. for some reason, i’d always wake up during Garden, a little petrified from the darkness of the music and a little awed by the depth of it. this was the first album i fell teenage sloppy in love with.
Toad the Wet Sprocket – Fear (Something to Say)
this was the first cd i owned. my dad bought it for me for Christmas, and it was sort of his nod/wink to me that we could be on the same page. this was the album of my adolescent’s discontent. i’d listen to Something to Say (he drops hints but he won’t tell you what’s really on his mind / but you know if you look it’s easy to find) a thousand times, trying to figure out this one girl and why she was on my mind so much. i’d fall asleep to Pray the Gods, waking up during the dreamy round of angel voices at the end.
Tori Amos – Little Earthquakes (Tear in Your Hand)
my own revolution. i learned how to hear music when i heard this album. Katie Swingle played Silent All These Years on my stereo at home, and i was hypnotized for the next ten years. i could pull out every layer out of every song and play it alone in my head. i knew the harmonies and tended to like them more than the melody. my love affair with Tori grew stronger with the next three albums, but this was my gateway drug.
Violent Femmes – Add It Up (Kiss Off)
i drank in high school like a freshman fratboy, and this was the soundtrack of every illegal drop that went down my throat. this album went the way of my party nights–from a slow, slightly off-balance bus song to building sloppily and with many mistakes to the desperate end until you pass out during the loud, live stuff. there’s not a better alcohol poisoning anthem than “eight, eight, i forget what eight was for! nine, nine, nice, oh and i lost count!”
Dave Matthews Band – Under the Table and Dreaming (Satellite)
in high school, Dave Matthews somehow reassured me that better things were to come. i felt mature when i listened to it for some reason. maybe it was how so many uncool instruments–a fiddle with a saxophone?!–fit together so purposefully. it was what we listened to in Jason’s car, and Jason’s car was one of the only places i felt at home in that goddamned Wyoming town. every song had its place over the course of the day. Rhyme and Reason when we were escaping for lunch, Ants Marching on the way to soccer practice, #34 just before bed.
Miles Davis – Kind of Blue (the whole damn album)
at Wax Trax in Denver, i asked Jason to pick out two cds for me to buy. Kind of Blue, he told me, was essential. when i thought jazz, i thought that cheesy smooth jazz you heard in waiting rooms or on the local access channel. Miles assured me otherwise. i’d buy red wine because i knew we’d be listening to Miles at dinner. i’d lie on the couch at dusk with my eyes closed for the entire album and feel the light fading through the music. it might be my deserted island pick. maybe.
Read the rest of this entry »
…and didn’t see this on facebook:
1. i was born and raised in Darth Vad-, i mean Dick Cheney’s hometown. everything is named after him–the courthouse, the (other) high school’s stadium. it makes me want to become a vandal.
2. i love wasabi peas. a great salty substitute for chips.
3. the part of my body that i am most proud of is the giant scar on my knee. makes me feel tough. i’ll show it to you even if you don’t want to see it.
4. i’ve driven across the country (North Fork of Long Island to Los Angeles) twice, roundtrip. the first time: from NY to WY by myself, from Casper to Las Vegas with my grandma, and the rest of the way with random girls from Belgium (don’t ask–it’s a long, boring story). the second time: with my ex. i also did the CT to WY drive quite a few times.
5. i am unabashedly unashamed of my love for facebook.
6. i’m not afraid to ask you for your money if it’s for something i truly and passionately believe in.
7. i can’t think of one thing (besides Lauren) that i would be absolutely devastated losing if my apartment burned down.
8. i think my love for beer is fading. i’d rather be drinking white wine. i’m not cool enough for red.
9. the last time i was in love with an entire album was In Rainbows by Radiohead. the last time i was in love with a song was Scott Joplin’s Bethena (A Concert Waltz).
10. i regularly miss my old friends and can’t understand why we can’t connect better. and i readily admit that it’s probably my fault.
11. i ADORE furry animals, but they make me seriously ill.
12. i am often reminding myself to practice what i preach.
13. in college, i dreamed of writing for the New Yorker, but now i just read it every week.
14. i tend to believe i’m in pretty good shape. before my knee dissolved playing soccer last month, i was running 5k a few times a week and working out. now i can only make it 2.5 miles until my lower leg starts doing this burny numb thing.
15. i never thought i was very good at soccer.
16. i love that Lauren just gets me. and when she doesn’t, she lets me be me anyhow.
17. i deplore the “funny before nice” philosophy.
18. it was a tie for my favorite Christmas gift between the Iron Gym and the UConn hoodie.
19. i didn’t realize until i was an upperclassman in college that i was totally crushed out on two girls in high school.
20. i’ve had three nicknames in my life: skins, sprout, and bear.
21. i’m currently reading “Everyday Zen” and “Why We Hate Us”.
22. i lost at least two “best” friends when i came out.
23. i was most unhappy when i was living in the most beautiful house in one of the most beautiful places in the country.
24. i don’t understand why East-coasters say ore-gone. it’s ore-gun.
25. i once went camping with one of my favorite singers, and i spent more time having a blast with her son than hanging out with her.
i read an article about Will Oldham (Bonnie “Prince” Billy, Palace, Palace Brothers, Palace Music, etc.) in the New Yorker a few days ago, and the piece has somehow stuck with me ever since.
Oldham was one of the first people in the lake, and others wanted to know if it was cold. He looked thoughtful. This was not a simple question. “I found it cold, but there are others who are not finding it cold,” he said. “My body temperature dropped right before I went in—the world became cold.” He conjectured that maybe the water felt cold to him only because he was anticipating the cold feeling of getting out of it.
i like the slowness of his reply. he didn’t want to mislead anyone, so he qualified his responses: these thoughts and feelings only apply to me so please don’t use them as a basis for your decision-making. in the softest way possible, he made everyone responsible for their own actions. it was his challenge to the world: jump in and feel for yourself.
The idea, all along, was to erase the person making the music so that listeners would focus on the music itself.
there’s something beautifully pure to me about that idea. these days, we tend to revel in the description of the experience rather than actually having the experience. we read People and watch the Travel Channel. we wait for someone to tell us what’s relevant.
but Oldham just plays and hopes you’re listening, and that’s the particular beauty of his music: no one is telling you that you want it–you have to be looking for it to find it. he doesn’t do much, if any, publicity or marketing for his music. he has released an album without his or any artist name on it. he barhops about Louisville, playing anywhere that will let him for people who have no idea who he is.
he doesn’t want you to come see him play, because it’s not about him. he just wants you to listen to the music.
i’ve been busier and busier with every passing week this fall, so it’s been tough to find a second or two to write. rather than trying to put together something vast and profound (the pressure i usually put on myself), i’m just going to type and link and chatter.
–
as most of you know, Lauren was in Malawi back in July on a trip with Save the Children. she has a photo-chronicle of the trip over at her blog here, here and here.
two of her travel companions, Billy Lehman and Dana Goodyear, donated $50,000 to the organization to build a school, and they’ve created an entire website dedicated to their experience in Africa. i won’t try to describe it. just go check it out.
i mention all this again because i’m stuck on a video on Billy’s and Dana’s site. the women of one of the villages they visited are sending off their American visitors with one of the most hopeful, most joyful songs. i can’t get it out of my head.
i can’t believe Lauren was there listening to it with her own ears.
–
as she tends to do, Wendy sent me her Buddhist wisdom this morning, preempting it with her own words: “When asked to offer a prayer from my tradition, which is often a reason for me not to tell people too much about me, I usually say the following. I hope it means something to you too.”
Let us rise up and be thankful,
for if we didn’t learn a lot today,
at least we learned a little,
and if we didn’t learn a little,
at least we didn’t get sick,
and if we got sick,
at least we didn’t die;
so, let us be thankful.
-The Buddha
i suppose those women in Malawi, barefoot on a dirt ground inside a school with no walls and no running water and no bathroom, have that thankful thing down. you’d think it’d be even easier for us.
it’s been a few days since i’ve been able to string together more than a few minutes in front of a computer (a blessing, really), but now i find myself alone in my spacious apartment (also a blessing) with little else to do than take my vitamins and listen to music.
i’ve yet to do the first, but Radiohead is filling the latter requirement. NPR posted their full live show from the Santa Barbara Bowl and it really is perfect Sunday morning music. do yourself a favor: click here and check it out. now.
so i mean for this to be a catch-up post. sans the political. i’ll resume my issues assignment on a weekday.
(we are accidents waiting to happen)
have i mentioned that i love New Haven? i think i have… i was nominated graciously by my boss to attend a leadership program for the city. i was cynical at first–team-building with a bunch of corporate and non-profit overachievers looking to network, network, network didn’t sound like a whole lot of fun. but after spending two loaded days with the group–yes, team-building but also together sharing an adoration for a city with a lot of secret corners–i found that hokey trust exercises requiring blindfolds and post-activity therapy sessions can be such an eye-opening study into how people respond to problems so vastly differently than i do; and more importantly, that sometimes their responses made so much more sense. and even more importantly, that i found myself willing to listen and bend.
that’s not what makes a good leader, it’s what makes a decent human being. in fact, if i’ve learned nothing else from this two-day hyper-study into decision making, it’s that a truly decent human being usually makes for the best kind of leader. be decent and fair and willing to listen, and people will trust you. when people trust you, they’ll follow you.
i’m not saying people who lead by fear (Hitler, Robert Mugabe, the awful people i worked for at my last job) don’t get big things done. i’m just saying that they usually go down in a giant ball of fire. or suicide.
(i want to be someone else so i’ll explode)
seriously, if you’re not already listening to the Radiohead show, go get it now.
i drove to Worcester, Mass yesterday. that’s pronounced Wooster for you non-East Coasters out there. the leaves are already turning up there. my Swedish friend and i watched at least a dozen grown men pilot remote-controlled sail boats around little orange buoys on Lake Quinsigamond for a couple hours. i hadn’t seen my Swedish friend in nearly nine years. we talked mostly about Coors Light and soccer as a Life Flight helicopter came and went from the nearby UMass medical center. it was perfect.
(it’s on again off again on again)
it’s the year of old friends. thanks, facebook.
(this place is on a mission)
and now, another packed sunday. the last day of summer. grocery shopping. a mandatory meeting and a potluck. no tv news. nothing about lower Manhattan falling into a financial black hole. no attack ads. just the rest of this Radiohead show and the bright sunshine making up for the cool air.
hope your day is as good as mine.
(for a minute there, i lost myself)
except all the radios agree with all the tvs
and all the magazines agree with all the radios
and i keep hearing that same damn song everywhere i go
maybe i should put a bucket over my head
and a marshmallow in each ear
and stumble around for
another dumb-numb week for another hum drum hit song to appear
that’s it. i’m done. time to load up the car with Radiohead cds and hot mixes from strangers. time to turn off NPR and CNN. i can handle print for a little longer. at least i can put words down and pick them up again later. at least words aren’t fat men screaming at me or angry ex-sportscasters spooning out steaming sarcasm or a hot, fundamentalist woman with a goofy accent and stylish glasses trying to fumble through her lack of knowledge about the Bush Doctrine.
as soon as the conventions start, presidential elections turn America into an endless episode of Grey’s Anatomy for three months. one second we’re talking about abortion and the War on Terrorism, the next we’re fucking in a supply closet. then the news day ends with some dumb joke about Obama and lipstick or Palin and peep-toe pumps. (McCain didn’t appear in this week’s episode except in some stock 9/11 footage.)
don’t get me wrong–i like Grey’s Anatomy as much as the next person…for one hour a week with commercial breaks. i also like how i can turn it off and not think about it until next week.
Am i headed for the same brick wall
is there anything i can do about
anything at all?
so i’m eagerly awaiting October baseball and hurricane coverage. i’m looking for books–fiction, preferably–that will consume me for hours at a time. i’m brushing up on my cursive. i’m picking up and putting down the New Yorker as needed. and i’ve joined a (gay man) bowling league.
no more mass email fodder. no more arguing with my (red state) relatives. just the quiet that comes with having the Red Sox game on low. maybe some road trips to the Pioneer Valley when the leaves change. maybe a revival of The Moon and Antarctica and Figure 8.
dig deeper this time
down beneath the impossible pain of our history
beneath unknown bones
beneath the bedrock of the mystery
beneath the sewage systems and the path drain
beneath the cobblestones and the water mains
beneath the traffic of friendships and street deals
beneath the screeching of kamikaze cab wheels
beneath everything i can think of to think about
beneath it all, beneath all get out
beneath the good and the kind and the stupid and the cruel
there’s a fire just waiting for fuel
time to get back to the things that actually matter.
[Fuel - Ani Difranco]
i had a brief but beautiful daydream while i was running my 3.2 yesterday:
Another Pearl by Badly Drawn Boy starts to play, and i hold my hand out in a goofy, chivalrous way to Lauren who is sitting at a long table, wearing a long, white dress that shows her smart little body off in a perfectly hot, perfectly feminine way. her face goes deep red, but she smiles sweetly–a smile that comes from the eyes first and then trickles down to the lips. she doesn’t want to get up at first, but i give her that faux sad with the puppy dog eyes look, and all our friends are pushing her towards me, both verbally and physically, so she finally stands up (she’s wearing heels!) and takes my hand.
it’s not exactly a slow song, but we dance like it is: heads close and bodies swaying together. our faces are more in tune with the music, though, and we’re both smiling these big, dumb, sincere grins, our foreheads touching like the night we met.
her mouth forms the words, “i love you,” but no sound comes out. the song is too important to interrupt with our voices. though we know all our friends are doing the “awwwww” thing, we can’t hear anything but the music.
which is where the daydream slowly fades out and the trees and asphalt of the trail come back.
i follow its memory down a couple other thoughts and eventually find myself at a less bright place: would it really be like that? Read the rest of this entry »
Lauren and i spent the weekend at her family’s amazing cottage on Highland Lake in Winsted where there is nothing to do but read, write, swim and eat. i forgot to bring my phone and there is no computer connection, so the rest of the world was silenced for awhile. for two full days i wandered around in my swim suit top and a pair of baggy shorts, sunk into my dorky Lord of the Rings, dove off the dock when the sun got too hot and snacked on fruit salad. no showers, no chores, no rain.
highlights included (chronologically):
- cruising down Rte. 8, blasting my love mix for Lauren that goes from Gwen Stefani to Brandi Carlile to Death Cab for Cutie to Sufjan Stevens all in the same 80 minutes (and it works!).
- Lauren’s octogenarian grandfather calling me his partner in calimari.
- using the word eyrie in a game of Scrabble that i lost because Lauren hit a triple letter score with the word zit. i would have rocked that game otherwise.
- night swimming by myself during the boat parade. my cannonballing silhouette could be seen against the dark water lit up by boats decorated in the shape of Christmas and Margaritaville. or so i’ve been told.
- Sunday breakfast at the Winsted Diner, home of the Ra-Doc-A-Doodle sandwich. one long bar, 12 stools, one waitress, and one cook who fries eggs, potatoes and pancakes on a griddle you can reach out and touch. all in one boxcar.
- the arrival of many friends. within five minutes, we were cannonballing into the lake each in our own fashion.
- the friends brought guitars and a djembe drum. the impromptu lawn concert came right after the food. the whole crew bellowed a very messy version of the Piano Man followed by everyone singing their own wrong lyrics to 4 Non Blondes’ “What’s Up.”
- my favorite song came towards the end of the afternoon, though, right before we all packed up to leave. i closed my eyes and just drank in the moving air as Tiff strummed and sang.
I feel home when I see the faces that remember my own
I feel home when I’m chillin outside with the people I know
I feel home, and that’s just what I feel
Cause home, to me, is reality and all I need is something real
