Masks

On a Halloween evening many years past, I was walking home from the local market with a grocer's bag tucked under each arm when I spotted a group of masked folks coming towards me. They looked too big to be childeren, so I assumed that they were college kids on the way to a party or something similar.

When they got closer, they stopped and one of them, wearing a Yoda mask, asked me for directions to a nearby street. My hands were full, so I nodded my head in the direction of the requested street.

The next thing I knew, I was lying face-down on the sidewalk, my groceries spilled and broken all around me. I spit up a mouthful of blood and a tooth...there was blood everywhere- it looked like someone had been in a serious fight.

Above me, I heard a window open, followed by a woman's voice.

"Are you alright?", she asked.

I tried to stand up. My head felt like a tornado of barbed wire was passing through it...I vomited blood and fell down.

"No." I looked down at myself. I was covered with blood, puke and dirt. Best costume ever, I thought, crazily.

I asked the woman if I could use her phone to call for help, but she said, no, she had already called the police and they were on the way. Then I passed out.

I was in hospital hours later when I heard the whole story from the police officer who came to interview me. The woman had seen the group of masked persons surround and question me and watched as one of them drew a pistol out of his jacket. She thought he was going to shoot me in the back of the head, but instead, he used it to bludgeon me , knocking me down with one blow.

I don't remember any of it, but she said I struggled quite a bit but quickly lost, the "fight" ended with me curled up , hands over my skull as my attackers kicked me in the head, face and body until I stopped moving. Then they grabbed my beer and ran away.

The officer said I was one of several victims of what he thought were the same thugs who were on a rampage that evening- they, he thought, were participating in a gang-based activity called "wilding"- fledgling gang-bangers would be instructed by their gang leaders to "go fuck some people up" in order to get gangster "cred". Charming.
As he was explaining this, an ambulance crew was hustling another stretcher into the ER, the man on it seemed to have four or five elbows on his left arm-I have never seen an arm as broken as that one, before or since. Another officer briefly spoke with the one assigned to me.

"Looks like they got another one", my cop told me, surveying the twisted carnage on the other stretcher, " I hate to say this, but you got off pretty easy compared to that guy."

I didn't know it then, but "that guy" had been shot as well as beaten.

It took over a dozen stitches to put my face back together. I see those scars in my mirror every morning.

Since then, I have been extremely uncomfortable around anyone wearing a mask. The idea of actually wearing one myself fills me with dread by association. I don't want anything to do with masks, period. I did sound recently for a musician who wears a mask when he performs, but I didn't have to look at him, just listen, so that was OK, although it lent his music a sinister quality that no one else seemed to pick up on.

Avoiding masks normally isn't a big deal- I mean, it's pretty easy to not wear a mask, right? In a literal sense, I mean.

Well, I just got an invitation to a party I really want to attend. All of my friends will be there and , presently, I'm in an emotional place where I badly need some friendly company...the party sounds like a blast, just the sort of thing I need right now.

But.

The party is a masquerade ball. Wearing a mask or a disguise is mandatory.

I know my fear isn't a rational one and that there will be friendly faces behind all those masks, but that knowledge doesn't help. I know that I won't last ten minutes in a room full of masks. I'll break down into a quivering panic attack.
Last night, I re-lived that long-ago beatdown over and over in my nightmares, so I know the fear is still there.

I'm sure my friends would allow me to attend sans mask, but it would be absurd to expect other people to eschew their costumes just because I'm a scared little boy who pisses himself when he sees trick-or-treaters.

I really want to go to the party but I don't want to have to explain my feelings and fears all night long- or for the 10 minutes or so before my anxiety takes over and I am compelled to leave- how do I explain that I am not the slightest bit afraid of ghosts , but that I am terrified of people dressed as ghosts?

Stylin'

Me in Montana's Paradise Valley during my Rock Star days, circa 1990. Check out the shirt and matching boots! Stylish, eh?I'm holding my mother's cat, Goofy, and my mom and her lunatic ex-BF are in the background. My brother has the car, which is still running today.

In more recent news, I just got a call from a newish coffeehouse that is becoming one of Richmond's most happening indie music venues.
They need a soundman.
I need money.
We talk tonight.

Ideally, they'll let me design and install/upgrade the PA system (and hopefully lease some gear from me)...I'd like to hang some acoustic baffles from the ceiling and in the corners, which would make the metal box -I mean the concert room-sound much better. With luck, it could go full-time and would get me out of the office world...at worst, I'll pick up some extra cash by working nights. I might not be able to blog much though...if I am not around, don't worry, I'm just workin'...

Roots of Bitterness

This is the school paper of Warren County High School, circa 1984. I was on the staff of the paper but my teacher didn't like any of my ideas, hence I rarely participated in class.

My first proposal was to change the lower-case 'o' in the masthead to upper-case and remove the useless dash between 'Co' and 'HI': WA-CO HI-LIGHTS.

It's still an eyesore and illiterate as fuck-all , but at least it's a little more symmetrical.

Better yet, we could change the name to anything but 'WA-Co' - howza 'bout 'The Warren Piece, or Warren Speaks', you know, a pun on the book...by Tolstoy...that one. No, we don't have a copy in the school library...in fact , our school library is a 'hand-me down' collection from the old, shuttered middle school and is largely comprised of juvenile fiction and textbooks from the 1950's and 60's.
I would like to do a news article about our suck-ass library.
May I do that?

No.

May I write an article questioning the validity of my 8 am American Government class? Most mornings we watch a live broadcast of the Phil Donahue Show until the bell rings. I suspect that my teacher, who is also the girl's basketball coach, knows absolutely nothing about American Gov't and I think that the student body is poorly served by her lack of knowledge.
May I interview her and find out just how much she does know about the subject she allegedly teaches?

Yes, but you can only ask her about sports.

Oh. Well, may I do a series of articles on how to play hooky without getting caught?

No.

May I write a 'fluff' piece about fuzzy animals and how cute they are?

No, because Melissa is already writing one. But that is a good idea.

Can I buy ad space in the HI-LIGHTS and use it to sell my old term papers and book reports that I wrote for my other schools?

Are you trying to get me into trouble?

No, I'm looking for a story. I don't have any assignments. Can I at least re-write some of these articles?- they are wrong. Even the layout is a mess.
(Note: This was an Honors class, not the "special needs" project that it looks like- I think the headlines speak for themselves)
Look:


Have you read this part? , I asked. It's nonsense.


This doesn't mean anything. Even in high school, this sort of sloppy writing drove me nuts...
I recall pointing out just a few of the flaws in the 'editorial' piece" quoted above:

-How can the something be both "elementary" and "not basic at all?"

-The " basic needs" are food, water and shelter. Those have never changed and they never will.

-"Thousands of years ago, Greek and Latin were the basics..."
I thought they taught History here at Warren County...'thousands of years ago' is absurdly vague, but if you were lucky enough to have been 'educated' then , there's a good chance you were instructed in Hebrew, Tibetan, Sanskrit or hieroglyphics...and isn't Latin essentially a Roman corruption of Greek, the latter being the last of the Hellenic tongues and the former being the first of the Italic ?
( Please, no umbrage from the Umbrian crowd)

There should be classes for this stuff, I opined without welcome.

- "Instead of the basic needs being reading, writing and arithmetic, we need more computing, communications and calculations to succeed."
According to my calculations, your communication fails to compute. If writing and arithmetic are NOT communication and computing/calculating, then what exactly are they?
Please don't use words to answer that question, as you obviously do not understand words.

-There is no such thing as a fractional high school diploma; one cannot obtain a "diploma in fractions."

Can we please publish some articles that don't make us look like we just fell off the DogPatch turnip truck?

I am getting frustrated with your attitude.


I was at least as frustrated as my teacher.
Every time that I said something that was true, correct, or made sense, I would be ignored , laughed at and/or shunned.

The class was called Journalism. Weren't we supposed to be concerned about facts, accuracy and truth? Boy, I sure did have some dumb ideas back then...

All I was really doing was pointing out the obvious, but that was enough to separate me from my classmates- they even did an article on me:

I didn't have many friends at that school, but I did have a mustache that allowed me to buy beer for the kids with money.

Eventually, I became bored and stopped attending class altogether and started spending my days drinking beer in the woods with the same illiterate rednecks that I mocked in my interview.

After a few weeks of absenteeism, I was called into the Principal's office , where I was told that my chronic truancy was a show of disrespect for my teacher and for the school in general.

I asked my teacher if he had ever read his own paper. If he had, he'd have seen that the Feb. 1984 issue contained an interview with me in which I insult the school, the students and the entire town- my disrespect is public record-any 'real' journalist should know that.

After that I didn't have to attend Journalism Class any longer. I was given a grade of "D-" and banned from the newsroom. I was told that I was not to communicate with my teacher for the duration of the school year.

That D- grade knocked me off of the Honor Roll and ruined my dream of writing a series of self-help articles tentatively titled: "How to Make Honor Roll Without Attending Class."

That same year, I traded my Atari video game to a classmate for a cheap electric guitar and a Boss DS-1 Distortion pedal. I lost interest in computers and starting writing angry punk rock songs about my classmates.
That trade may have been the biggest mistake of my life. Had I not done that, I'd probably be richer than Bill Gates instead of being an unemployed guitarist.

----------------------------

Next: My First Gig.

Nothing Personal

I'm walking to the bustop and I'm forced to pause a moment when a blue Toyota noses out of the parking garage to my left. The driver, a beautiful dark-skinned woman, waves at me and smiles.
I smile politely back and continue walking, but she keeps waving.
Her window comes down and she calls me by name, beckons me over to her window.

Me? You know me? You want me to talk to you? Can do!

This is exactly the kind of thing that should happen to me every day but in reality never does. Except maybe now.

" Hi! Hi! Remember me?"

Wow. She is remarkably beautiful. My IQ plunges as a dormant part of my mind rouses itself and starts searching for something cleverly stupid to say, draining resources from my already faltering memory.

I don't recognize her.
Or.
Maybe I do. Ah...it's like a mnemonic sneeze waiting to happen.

"Uh..."

" I'm Kris! From Bank of Generica! How are you?"

Oh yeah. Now I remember. Kris with a 'K'... I liked her, but we didn't work on the same "team", so we didn't get much time to chat. She looks different now, but I can't say how.
I was mortally drunk during that period, so my recall of those days is just a little blurry.
She was nice to me. I remember that much . It's a start.

"Doin' good! Nice car."

Jay-sus. That's not quite the dumbest thing to say, but it is close. There's a second car pulling up behind her, forcing her to move out of the lane and I've blown my one chance at being witty and charming. Her face is round, beautiful, her expression expectant; I look at her and I go into instant mourning for our never-to-be children. They would have been wonderful, talented kids. Our life together would have been a blissful celebration of unending love- but I have already fucked it up. Our future dies a painfully existential imaginary death.

Years into the future, I feel the leaves falling on my solitary, unvisited gravestone.
No one clears them away.

"Need a ride? I'm going towards Suchandsuch street."

"Sure! Thanks!"

Hah! So much for falling leaves and unmourned graves!

This is cool. It's twenty years in the future and we are walking hand-in-hand along a moonlit beach and laughing about the old days which have suddenly ceased to not happen yet.

But first we have some small talk. We live in the same neighborhood, just a few blocks apart.
Good.
She refers to our ex-boss as a "fucking asshole", breaking the profanity barrier and establishing some common ground.
I am so digging this.
Ha ha, yeah you are right, I agree, that dude was a major asshole. Fuckin' checklist this, ya know?

Haha!

Do I need to be somewhere? No, not really.
Why?
Sure, that sounds great. They have a patio bar, maybe we can sit outside.
Park and walk? No, I don't mind waiting on your porch while you change.
Trust me, I understand what you mean when you say it's a mess inside!
It's a gorgeous day, take your time.

She's a quick changer and she looks great in jeans, two admirable traits. We head to the corner bar.

Dude. You are rolling. Don't fuck up.

Kris orders something with Crown Royal in it. I order coffee. Kris doesn't say anything specific, but I sense that my failure to order an alcoholic drink is a minor breach of an unwritten social contract. Not a fatal error, but a sign. Of what?

Nevermind to all that. This is going really well. Kris just got a promotion, she's branch manager at a competing bank; she's pumped up about it, thinking about buying a house...I can feel her imagination from across the table and it is warm and inviting. Kris is very articulate and funny, haha- I think everyone hated the "ice cream socials" at the Bank, but no one said so- Kris tells me she despised them, I tell her that I was actually ejected from one.
That was you? Haha! Awesome!
She gives me a hi-five. Well done!

The ice cream the bank served was barely edible cheap, mushy, terrible stuff made from tainted Chinese yak milk; yet we were supposed to act grateful and obedient for having it foisted on us in lieu of raises. Ten cents an hour more would have been better for morale than bad ice cream.

Kris points this out:
"The only thing worse than having a shit job is being forced to enjoy it".
Ha! Damn, that's true.. I like women who say stuff like that. It shows realism. I bet she's a good manager.
Hello, comfort zone.

Sure, why not have dinner while we are here?

Tonight's special: filet of carpe diem served with a garden salad of earthly delights. Just don't fuck up.

Kris is very animated, I'm entranced by her delicate hands as they tell the story of how she went from temp worker to management in less than a year. She is looking at houses, thinking of moving to the country even though the commute will be long. She would like to have a greenhouse and an outdoor dog. She has a cat now and it's stir-crazy in her apartment; her fingers make scampering motions on the tabletop as she talks. Manic cat, they say.
Her talking hands are not wearing a diamond. They gesture at me.

"How did you do that?"

Do what? My exploits are legendary. She could be referring to any number of my award-winning accomplishments but I haven't even had a chance to tell her how totally fucking awesome I am yet.

"What's that?"

"The weight. How'd you lose it? I hope that's not being too personal...but you look great."

That's right! I was fifty pounds heavier back then. At this moment I feel 75 ft. tall, but in reality I am short. Fifty pounds was 25% of me. I was in terrible shape back then.
I'm proud that I look good to Kris.
Don't fuck up.

"Well, I...uh...well let's just say there's a lot of calories in beer."

Her gaze shifts to my coffee and then to her cocktail and back to the mug. Behind her bottomless brown eyes, her banker's brain is busily calculating, doing the math. She adds it up. Smart woman.

"So...you don't drink at all?"

"No."

"Oh."

She needs to tell me something. She has dated two alcoholics and they are both dead. She was engaged to the second one when he killed himself. It is nothing personal, but if I have a drinking problem, she'd appreciate it if I told her now.

Don't fuck up. Now is not the time to mention my family history of self-annihilation, yet here it is again- the past is destroying my present.

I pause, fumble around... a refill buys me a few seconds to gather my thoughts.
This is tricky stuff.
I am convinced that I will never drink again, but I can't deny that I have a drunk in my past or that a single drink might kill me. I won't let that happen but I don't know how to explain this to her. There is no guarantee. I can't promise anything to anyone.

"I used to drink. I don't anymore."

"Used to... a lot?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Again, it's nothing personal, but she can't take a chance with a drug-using heavy drinker again. It's been too hard on her and she can't go through it another time.

I can tell that she has been having an imaginary future too, and in her vision a life that never was has just ended.
It's a familiar feeling and I recognize it for what it is.
And she is right.
It's nothing personal. I've had a number of variations on this conversation over the last two years and I know the only reasonable outcome is unfavorable to me- in an impersonal way.
I can't offer up any proof that I won't drink again. There isn't any.
I can't expect her to take a chance - not after what she's been through.
If you are betting on horses, it's not wise to put money on the one with a record of falls.
Given her luck, maybe it's best to avoid the track altogether, but we are all gamblers at heart, so some chances will always be taken.
Some will not.

Like people, the better the chance, the more likely it is to be taken.

I am an untaken chance.

This is an awkward moment. The chemistry is intense but Kris isn't looking for a one-nighter and frankly, neither am I.
It wouldn't work like that. We can both tell, no use pretending otherwise.
We are both looking for a nearly identical imaginary future and that search is what separates us.
Her dream requires an absence of alcoholics , mine merely requires my own sobriety.
It's a subtle but irreconcilable difference and it brings our imaginary tomorrow to a real end tonight.

Maybe my feelings should be hurt. Maybe they will be, but I doubt it.
I didn't do anything wrong- I didn't fuck up!- but I can't ask for trust that can't be given. Watching someone you love kill themself will fuck you up, no doubt about it. I know.
Two drunks in her life was two drunks too many and there is no third chance to be taken or given.
Who wants to volunteer for a suicide mission?
I understand this. It bothers me but it doesn't destroy me.

It's nothing personal.

Respect My Disbelief

I didn't know it at the time, but in the months preceding my forced hospitalization I did make a few half-hearted and ultimately doomed attempts to "get help" for my drinking.

Jenny was one of those attempts. Jenny was a girl that I worked with during my on-again/off-again temp assignments at Bank of Generica. She was slender and bookish, keeping her long auburn hair in an unfashionable bun and wearing unflattering, baggy clothing with minimal cosmetics.

She looked like the kind of girl who would play Dungeons and Dragons with you- the sort of chick who would allocate more points for her character's Intelligence than for Strength or Charisma.

She wore librarian glasses and sensible shoes.

To me, she was hot. She was real, and it made her the most attractive woman in our department, so I was delighted when she approached me as we were leaving a meeting.

"Do I know you from somewhere? You look very familiar- have we met?", she asked.

For a drunk, this is a tough question to answer. Drunks have bad memories and worse behavior. If she 'knew me from somewhere', it was probably from me being drunk and hitting on her in some stinky-ass rock club.
Perhaps I had sold cocaine to her?
Hmmm...I like this woman. Did I know her?
I wanted to.

"I don't know...are you into the local music scene?"

Maybe she had seen me at a radio-sponsored event. Perhaps she'd even seen me play guitar or bass on-stage!
That would be cool...but the look she gave me indicated that she wasn't aware that there was such a thing as a 'music scene'.

"No...that wouldn't be it. Have I seen you at church?"

"Uh...no, I don't think so."

Church? When was the last time I went to church? I have never attended church in my adult life. I'm sure she hadn't seen me in church.

"Well, it's from somewhere...I feel like I know you..."

She likes me, I thought, but work intervened before I could follow up.

A few days later, we were working together and she picked up our truncated conversation.

"I think I did see you at church."

She named a church. Sure enough, I used to attend AA meetings there when I was on probation, but I didn't want to tell her that.

"Oh, yeah...I have, uh, been there before. It's been a long time, though."

Jenny smiled and said she was glad she figured that out- she'd been thinking about me for several days, it seems. That turned me on. She likes me, tra la la...

We worked together quite well, Jenny was smart and funny and our tedious tasks were not so bad when we did them together- over the course of our talks, I learned that she was into Jazz Dance and liked to write fiction. Cool.

She rarely drank and she didn't do drugs.

I did both daily, but I didn't tell her that.

I didn't want to keep doing those things, I just didn't have a reason to stop. I didn't even know that I wanted to quit- all I knew is that my head was full of really bad ideas and I was desperate for something...but what?

One of my really bad ideas involved Jenny.

I thought that if I could get Jenny to date me, I would find the strength to quit. I would get my courage from her, not from a bottle.
For a woman like Jenny, I believed, I could do anything- including quitting booze.
I hadn't had a significant relationship for years, and the women I did know were at least as drunk and fucked-up as me. Eightballs and benders...I didn't 'date', I binged.

One time, my girlfriend stole all my dope and then tried to sic her half-wolf/half-Shepherd hybrid on me when I demanded the return of my drugs, which she had already sold and shot.
I was the one who usually fed the poor dog-beast, it liked me a lot so it just sat and whined while we fought, but the whole scene was fairly indicative of my success in relationships.

Hey man, can I crash on your couch for awhile?

Why?

My girlfriend threw me out. She tried to attack me with a wolf.

What would happen if I dated a a girl who didn't have a coke dealer on speed dial or a wolf in the backyard?
Maybe if I dated a 'straight' woman, I'd get clean- that was my hope. At least in hindsight, I think that was part of what I was looking for- Jenny was much too bright to date a fuck-up, so I thought maybe she could magically "fix" me just by sleeping with me on a fairly regular interval and doing whatever else it is that people do when they aren't fucking or getting wasted.

That was a false and wholly unfair hope if there ever was one, not to mention a completely ass-backward approach...definitely not a moment of clarity or reason for me. I had completely bottomed-out and didn't even know it.

But the bad idea seemed like a good one at the time.

Of course, first I had to get her to go out with me.

This was really easy to do. A friend of mine was playing at a local Jazz club and I had free admission. When I asked Jenny if she'd like to go, she readily accepted.
She'd been waiting for me to ask. So we went.

We had dinner in the club's quiet dining room- when the waitress cleared our plates, I noticed that I had three empty beer bottles and two shot glasses on my side of the table.

Jenny had consumed about one-third of a glass of wine.
Jenny was aware of this disparity.

"Look, I need to ask you something and you might not like hearing it", she leaned towards me.

"OK."

"How can you be a Seeker if you drink so much? How can you find anything in that condition?"

A Seeker? What is that?

"Um...what's a 'Seeker'?"

"A Seeker of Christ. Of the Truth. I thought that's what you were."

"Uh...well...honestly, I'm not religious..."

Oh no. I can't have this talk right now, I thought. I have too much liquor in me to be tactful and I'm not drunk enough to tell lies. Why is it assumed that I am a Christian? We've never even discussed religion before.

I raised my arm- another beer and a shot over here, please.
I am not ready for this.

"You do believe in God, though. Right? Don't you?"

Make that shot a double!

"Ah...no. I don't."

"What? How can you not believe in God?"

"I just don't...I'm an atheist...or maybe an agnostic. I dunno. I haven't really thought about it much."

This was true and it still is- except for the thinking part. After that night, it occurred to me that I might stand to benefit from giving religion some thought. I figured I 'd better learn enough about it so that the next time a woman asked me if I was a 'Seeker', I'd be able to give the answer that got me laid.

That's how I saw religion. As a tool to be used to coerce others into doing something that they might not otherwise do. A means to power.
Sure, I'll pretend to be a Christian if it means getting laid. Or a raise. Or elected.
Or at least I used to think that way.

After sober reflection, I have no faith that any 'God' exists, but I do believe that using religion as a tool for manipulating people is inherently wrong. It's how wars get started and it's a pretty shoddy foundation for a healthy relationship.

The truth is, I don't really care if there is or isn't a 'God'. It doesn't much matter to me.
I can change myself , but I can't change God. Can I ? Would I even want to?

The beliefs of other's shouldn't be cause for killing.

Does this exchange make sense?:

"Why do we hate them?"

"They worship in an improper fashion."

"How do we know that?"

"Our Book About God tells us that."

"And that is worth killing for?"

"Yes."

"But our God tells us not to kill."

"Die, infidel, die."

It doesn't make sense to me, but it happens every day.

When I was dying, coughing up my shredded guts onto the cold white ER floor, I didn't pray.
I didn't think about God at all. I wanted to live. I was afraid of dying, but not of judgement.
I was bleeding to death and I needed surgery.
God wasn't a part of the decision to go to hospital instead of letting the darkness fall.
Pain was. Fear was. God was not.

Who will feed my cats? I remember thinking about that, but I don't recall saying any prayers .
I remember wanting an ice cube really, really, badly and suddenly feeling quite cold.
No praying.
Whomever said: "there are no atheists in foxholes " was wrong.
I've been in a foxhole of sorts and I didn't convert.

But that was to be in the future.

In the past, I am still talking to Jenny.

All I needed to do was to lie to her and say I believed- and I would have been in her bed, making her cry "Sweet Jesus and Amen, Hally -Yoo-Ha!" all-night long...all I had to do was lie...but I didn't. Looking back, I'm glad I didn't.

"How", she asked, "is it possible to not believe in God? How can you even live like that?"

"Jenny, I really just don't know. I guess I just muddle along. I never really give it much thought."

Jenny was a bit stunned by my revelation.

"You haven't thought about it much? That's not possible."

Maybe I should have lied. She didn't believe the truth. Maybe I should have asked what particular faith she was...not that I much cared. She wasn't a puritan or a tee-totaler, I knew that much.

"Uh...it just doesn't come up much."

This was true, but it wasn't well received by Jenny, who was Seeking Truth.

Jenny took a long sip of her wine and stared at me. She looked stricken. She glanced down at her wine. I thought she was going to gulp the rest of it but she set it down, pushed it aside.

I thought, she's ready to leave and the band hasn't even started yet.
I'm not getting any tonight.

"I respect your beliefs."

That's what she said.

"I respect your beliefs."

It was a concluding statement but I was too drunk to let it go. Mistakes were made.

"You can't respect my beliefs. I don't have any beliefs.
I know things or I don't.
Things are or they aren't.
Whether I believe or not doesn't change reality, so I choose not to believe in anything."

Of course, I was too much of an asshole to keep that belief to myself.

"Are you sober enough to drive me home or do I need to call a cab?"

"I believe that I can drive."

"Liar."

Lucid in the Sky

My dreams have changed.
I know this because I keep a sort of dream-journal.

What I try to do is scribble a few notes as soon as I wake up and then I review them after I have my morning shower- this helps with recalling the details, but it took me longer than I would have thought to notice the bigger picture- the change in framework, if you will.

It's all about the starting point. I used to begin my dreams at the bottom of cliffs; the interior of labyrinths; the doorways to tall and forboding buildings; inside strange familiar rooms with only one exit-into some form of darkness...always a daunting position to be in, one in which I felt like I was in a mad flight of escape- from what and to where was not usually clear- and when I awoke I was often more tired than when I went to sleep. All that climbing and running can wear a man out, even in dreams.

There are roughly a half-dozen fixed locales that I visit in my dreams, but instead of arriving lost and afraid and struggling to escape, I am now at the top of the Dream. There's no panic- I feel a great sense of calm when I see the people and things that I have come to expect.

And if things seem awry?

I can change that.

I'm on the roof of a tall apartment building. There's a low brick and mortar fence around the ledge and a small wooden hut smack-dab in the middle of the tarpapered roof, the sort of structure you might expect to find a pigeon roost in- or a stairwell. It has a flimsy plywood door and one of those infuriating combination locks found in Dream- no proper numbers on it, just shifting and unrecognizable characters that make it impossible to open.

I have spent endless hours fiddling with that lock.
Spin. Twist. Whir.
Yank.
Nothing.
PULL HARDER. TWIST MORE.
Nothing.

It seems as if years have passed and I still can't get that goddamned lock to open.

Well.

Like I said, I can change that.

I've spent too much time in the center, trying to solve the unsolvable. It's a waste of time and energy, which are precious commodities, even in Dream.
If I want change- and I do- then I must move away from the center and investigate the edges. What lies beyond?
Might as well take a look. My footsteps are steady and sober- no reason to fear a fall.

Wait. This is a tall building. I should be able to see other buildings from here, but I don't.
It should be loud but it's quiet.
I should be cautious when peering over the edge of the building, but I'm not.
There is no fear as I look over the side and see nothing but turquoise water, clear, deep and stretched to the horizon- which is exactly 100 miles away.

In Dream, reality extends 100 miles in every direction and then ends. I don't know exactly how I came to this knowledge, but it's true. Or it was.

For a while I watch the water and forget where I am. Right. Now I recall...
I came to this particular edge because I noticed a loose brick here during an earlier visit. It's still there, loose and wiggly as a baby tooth. I work it free and feel it's weight in my hand. Heft.
It feels right.
This brick will work.

I carry my new prize back to the little shed. I hold the brick up, it's quite ordinary-looking, but next to it , the lock on the shed's door looks profoundly delicate.

Didn't that lock used to have the word 'Master' printed on it?

I don't see that word on you now, motherfucker, I think as I smash the corner of the brick down upon the lock.

It shatters like fine crystal.

I walk back to the wall and carefully set the brick back into it's original position before returning to the shed. Behind the unfinished wooden door is a flight of solid-looking wooden stairs descending rather steeply. I could have a flashlight or torch if I wanted one, but I already know what's down there.

I've been through every room on every floor of this building, tracing and retracing my steps in a vain search for an exit and have never quite found it. That's because it's not in there. I don't live in that building and I have no business trespassing in it, even should I desire to.

On a whim, I pull the door loose from it's hinges and kick it down the stairs, where it clatters and disappears.
There.
That should make it easier for the next poor son-of-a-bitch who winds up here. I think this is my last visit, so I want to leave my mark, and I hated that locked door.
Enter if you dare, but I'm done with it.

I walk back to the ledge.

From here I can fly anywhere- 100 miles is a lot of world for one man- or I can dive and test the water. I wish that I could do both, but I only get one choice.
This is my last visit to the roof.

But I remember that I also have beaches- amazing beaches- and at those beaches I can swim as much I wish- I have gills, you know- so today I choose flight.

Up, up, and away and suddenly the roof is a tiny gray square in a field of endless azure.
Bah. Who needs rooftops?

I look around me and I see the world. It is curved, round.

It's much larger than one hundred miles.

It is forever.

I begin my flight.

Patterns

To the right is an illustration of a microphone's
pickup pattern. This particular microphone has what is known as a directional cardioid pattern -
(the term 'cardioid', aptly enough, derives from the heart-shaped response curve illustrated by the blue bands)
-in the simplest of terms, what it means is that the mic "hears" sounds that are directly in front of it
much better , i.e., louder and with more accuracy,
than it does sounds from peripheral sources...and it almost entirely rejects whatever noise is behind it.

But I'm not here to teach you about microphones. Not today, anyway.

Today, we are students and the microphone is the teacher- not the actual mic, really, but a visual representation of it's function- the graph to the right speaks to us:

Imagine, if you will, that the Front (0 degrees), is the 'Now'- that always happening moment where past, present and future meet- the Now is as close to the future as one can ever get.

Now is where the music is.
That is where you point your microphone.
That is where you aim your heart.

To the side and to the rear ( 'off-axis' in geekspeek) are sounds that you may or may not want- these might be noise or they might be musical- but what they really are, in the Now- is distraction and clutter.
Think of them as the Past and the Future. They are both friend and foe, so be careful when dealing with them.

If too many of these off-axis distractions leak into your Now, the Now becomes lost in a brownsound mudpool and you can't really hear what you are trying to listen to.
Important information vanishes into a discordant roar- think of the Beatle's Live at the Hollywood Bowl album:

What is the loudest sound on that record? Screaming.
You can barely decipher what song the Moptops are playing, but you sure as hell can hear the screaming.

That is the sound of the Past. Like any life ( life, not live- no typo) recording , it is going to include some screaming. It's part of the package. But that particular recording is all screaming and if you listen to the screaming Past too long you will be driven into madness. Ignoring it entirely presents the same risks.
We need those screams to remind us that the Past is still there, but care must be taken that it does not drown out the Now.

That's the simple part and it took me forty years to learn it.

Here's where it gets complicated and just a bit anti-intuitive:

The Future is the sound that is behind the microphone- a good directional mic will barely hear the Future- most of the sounds of the future are just the echoes of the Past and the Now reverberating off the walls of perception - and yes, Mr. Huxley, if perception has Doors, it most certainly has walls- it can be interesting to listen to, but it's never very clear what exactly it is that we are hearing.

That is because we cannot be entirely certain what the Future sounds like. We can look behind us, around us and even look forward, but the best we can do is make a guess based on what we know about the Now and the Past.

For example, let us say that we have learned from the Past that if a freight train is passing through our backyard, the sound of that train is going to bleed into and probably ruin everything we try to record while the locomotive is roaring by.

Pause. Turn off the tape deck and take a break until the train passes. It may take longer than we'd like, but it will pass. It always does.

So now we know not to attempt to record during times of heavy local railways traffic; even if the sound of a passing train does fit nicely with certain Blues, we are not looking for the Blues.
We are not looking for anything definable, really- that's part of the mysterious Future- we just don't want any more Blues Trains ruining our otherwise sparkling recording. That is one reason why we must remember the past- it helps us avoid inbound trains and their potential sonic wrecks.

That doesn't mean that we need to ignore the tracks, or worse, sit immobilized on the rails, paralyzed with fright from merely thinking about all the trains that have rolled through here. That would be surrendering to the Past and that is not a good idea, because it means we forfeit the Future.

Do you ever have thoughts like this?:

"Oh my God, I can't sing right now- what if a train comes by? My song will be ruined!"

I have. These sort of thoughts are the enemy of Art. Godzilla only knows how many masterpieces have never been recorded because of this fearful thinking- but that's the Past.

There is no train Now.

But if one does come rolling through the middle of a song in the Future, we should sing louder and in harmony with its steel-wheeled thunder, because that train might just sound really good in the mix, even if we are not singing the Blues.

It's not somethingthat can be planned- you just have to do it, take a listen and see what you have.
Either it is good or it is not, but you gotta sing first and ask questions later, because we can't know where that train is heading, but we do know it is not going to be here forever.