And I Love Her

Brad Mehldau Trio is on the turntable (their album Blues And Ballads, not the whole band; they'd break the whole shelf) playing "And I Love Her." And I love it. 

I've poured a short glass of scotch with one ice cube. Whiskey is the only thing I enjoy slowly. Mostly I gulp and bolt things. I want to slow down but just don't. Whiskey is slow and that's what I like best about it.

Stephanie is in the shower and when she comes out can use the sink. For five days it has been plugged beyond anything I know to clear it. Anything but the plumber who took things apart, snaked a muskrat out of the pipe (might have been hair, but I saw eyes), and the water she flows again. 

The snow has melted enough that the roads are dry though riddled with potholes and bumps. We got fourteen inches Friday into Saturday, but it's all cleared and piled along the sides of driveways and roads. A clear driveway makes me happy and reminds me of Dad. 

The dog snores when she sleeps on her blanket three feet away and is intriguing accompaniment for Mehldau's jazz trio. And I love her too, though this wheezing and snoring is odd. She needs whiskey. 

Both daughters are at school tonight. One is rehearsing the musical until past my bedtime. (I've been known to be in bed by 7:30 saying I'm going to read but falling asleep before eight. I really am 87 years old and get the hell off my lawn you damn kids.) The other is at mock trial until a slightly different time than the other. Having two children means driving to and from the high school more times than I can count, though I can't count very high. Back in my day, we used to walk...

Having railed against Amazon for weeks, I of course ordered a printer cartridge from them. They had a ridiculously low price and we were snowed in pretty well when I ordered. It was so convenient! So convenient, I ordered the wrong one and will spend eight bucks to send it back. Meanwhile, Best Buy had the right one, two miles away, and get this: they match Amazon's price if I ask nicely. Had I bought the wrong one at Best Buy, I could have returned it for free. But Amazon is convenient. Place your best on when I might learn my lesson. 

I figured out that I have about 2,000 days on the job before I can retire. Stephanie says that's no way to think about it (as she took away sharps and poisons). Take it one day at a time, she said. She didn't sing the One Day At A Time theme song, which surprised and saddened me, but the message was clear. 

So I took just today, this one day at a time, and you know what? It totally sucked. What does she know? 

Brad Mehldau is playing "My Valentine" now and it might just be a perfect song the way he plays it.

I have this record, a turntable, an amplifier, and a great pair of speakers. I'm sipping good scotch. My lovely wife will come down soon. Our printer works as does most of our plumbing. The dog snores but is every way love itself. 

There's every chance I may learn not to panic every time I feel sad. I may come to believe again in possibilities for my future. I suppose almost anything is possible.

At least when Brad Mehldau is playing and Stephanie is walking down the stairs to be with me. 

The Limits Of Technology

Several nights ago I ran up against the limits of technology. I couldn't remember a song. I was in bed with a snatch of lyric stuck in my head, unable to sleep until I figured out what song it was and hear it in my head. All I had was "Crisis of faith and crisis in the Congo" on repeat. I did not have the tune, the notes, the singer,or the rest of the lyrics, and it was driving me mad. Despite the late hour, I pushed the covers back to go get my phone and figure things out. 

I charge my phone in the kitchen so I can sleep instead of looking at the damn thing.  Technology in the bedroom, beyond clock, book, pen and paper, is a mistake. I went down to the phone and typed in the lyric, expecting my answer in a Google micro-second. I got nothing. I typed different combinations, but I had the lyric wrong. Google was no use. 

I returned to bed frustrated but also happy. I was on my own. Just me and my memory. I knew the song was in there and knew I had heard it dozens of times. I played the snippet over and over in my head. It was a male singer with a weird voice. I felt like the next line was, "yeah, we heard that before" but it didn't fit the rhythm. 

My wife asked if I had figured it out. I told her, I was still working on it. She said, thanks for putting it on an endless loop in my head. Marriage is all about giving. We turned out the lights and she rolled over. 

I kept at it. It wasn't the Congo. Crisis of faith, sure, but no crisis in the Congo. I played the line in my head without words hoping to hear where the crisis was. It remained mysterious, but the next line resolved into "Yeah, we'd heard all that before." It didn't come right away but began as a vague feeling of syllables, the sure memory that it began with _Yeah_ and ended with _before_. I tumbled that until the line came clear. 

Then I heard the voice. It was nasally, almost whiny. Later, I'd apologize in my mind to the singer, but he's dead and unlikely to take offense. 

"Crisis of faith and crisis in the hmm-hm, yeah we've heard all that before," I sang in my head, and though I couldn't put the next line together, the band and singer came to me along with the tune. It was as if I had plugged an extension cord from an outlet to the faraway, dark place where the memory lay. The light came on and music played:

“Crisis of faith and crisis in the Kremlin
And yeah we’d heard all of that before
It’s wintertime, the house is solitude with options
And loosening the grip on a fake cold war.”

— "Fireworks" by Tragically Hip (with apologies for my description of Gord Downie's voice) 

Had it been Google's answer, I'd have nodded, felt comforted, and gone to sleep like I had taken a pain reliever. Instead, I put it together slowly, piece by piece, with the possibility I might not figure it out. There's something so much more rewarding about that. 

I'm not about to ditch my phone or Google, but it's good to remember the wonder of depending on my brain while I still have it to use. 

Hope Is A Good Thing?

“Remember, Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. I will be hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well.”

— Stephen King

““Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -”

— Emily Dickinson

“Everybody’s got a hold on hope, It’s the last thing that’s holding me”

— Guided By Voices

For three months I've hoped for a good thing. I have tried to keep that hope from overcoming me since things depended on other people's decisions. I applied my best efforts, showed the best of who I am, and did well, but Tuesday the funding was erased and my hopes evaporated. I had gotten my hopes up far enough that the fall knocked me pretty much out.

Austin Kleon wrote about Groundhog Day and a quote from Bill Murray's character Phil Connors:

In my favorite line from the movie, he asks his bowling buddy, “What would you do if you were stuck in one place and every day was exactly the same, and nothing that you did mattered?'

And his buddy, who’s a little drunk, looks at him and says, “That about sums it up for me.”

Yesterday, I was that drunk buddy. Such is the effect of disappointment on me. Today, I wonder am I using hope the wrong way. 

I've said that I write without the goals of getting rich or published, but maybe that's not honest. I don't believe I'll get rich by writing, but what is posting to this site but an attempt to be published? 

My therapist says it's natural to want to be heard, seen, and noticed. I asked, isn't it childish to need that? I'm caught between wanting to be known and thinking I should find worthiness from within. Needing approval seems a bad sign. She said, needing to be heard is different from wanting approval. I suppose so. 

This week's disappointment was the result of having built things up such that I was already on my way, out of unhappiness I've felt for years. I soared on that hope then crashed so hard when it disappeared that I still feel broken. 

To hell with the thing with feathers. 

Why am I even writing this? I'm trying to write without hope that it (or I) will be noticed. Austin Kleon seems to say, do the work, learn the craft, and keep going. Do it as if nothing matters. Keep writing and go through the days. But why do something without hope it will lead somewhere? How do I go forward without hope for some result? 

This week I wrote my 4,000th Morning Page. That's eight reams of paper. I've written three pages by hand every morning since July 5, 2014. After this week's disappointment, I wonder, so what? Why am I doing them? What do I hope for and expect from them? I don't have a good answer, but I'll do three pages tomorrow anyway.  

My wife suggests, instead of hoping for some specific or trying to figure out what it's all for, that I concentrate on doing one thing to make today good. What can you do to live well today? 

So I write without hoping it's enough to live well today. 

I feel I'm supposed to be more than I am. I keep hoping and when that hope fails, I lament how little I've accomplished. I'm sure I've written about being content and understanding the good life comes from acceptance, but what role do dreaming and hope play? They seem utterly not of the moment and lead to disastrous falls, but I can't imagine going ahead without them. 

About now, both my wife and therapist would suggest that it's not either hope or the moment but both at once. There are times that makes some sense. Right now, not so much. 

I want to say I'm letting go of hope, but this week of hopelessness has been too awful. I don't know what to hope for or how. Disappointment broke me. I'm not convinced hope is a good thing, that it never stops at all, or that it can hold me. As for one thing to make today good, I've written this. Has it worked? I guess I hope so. 

King Crimson, USA

I'm having the best vinyl experience. No, it doesn't involve a kinky dungeon. What's wrong with you? It's about a record I bought Wednesday but haven't had a chance to hear until tonight. It's an album I remember not liking much as a kid. I texted my best friend a few minutes ago asking, why didn't we like this?

King Crimson was a band that made gold and followed it with slop. Inconsistent? Yeah, you could say so. There were two golden periods. The first was Fripp (founder, guitars, Mellotron), Wetton (bass, vocals), Bruford (drums, percussion, god-like talent) and they recorded the best Crimson album together, Red. The second best band recorded Discipline (Bruford again, no surprise). 

On the turntable now with the volume up high enough to stop the snowstorm is USA, a live album with that first group. For reasons my friend nor I can remember, we didn't much care for this when we were kids, but it's so good. The band rocks hard, then moves through deep, quiet, emotional sections. The playing is exquisite. The recording is good. The E.G. Records vinyl is pristine though this is a used copy. Everything works. Maybe I was too young to appreciate this back then. 

About the only letdown is that they cut off "Easy Money" on side two, likely for time. There's a YouTube video that really ought to be on the album, but alas. 

I'll have more to say when I write my definitive essay about vinyl and turntables, but this experience, rediscovering a great album doesn't happen for me on streaming. I don't listen to streaming well. Usually it's on my laptop or phone. That compares poorly to a turntable, amplifier, and speakers filling the living room with me in the sweet spot and the volume knob up.

I'm not wearing any goddamn white earbuds. Screw that noise. 

Fripp doesn't allow Crimson on streaming anyway, that beautiful son of a bitch.

So great to sit through the snow storm with an album to enjoy, study, and take away all my worries. About the only thing better is live music in a great hall. 

U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! by King Crimson (a British band) because we need something to feel good about in this country while the imbeciles are in charge.