Nothing Says

I've been blogging for well over four years and from the very first day, I've experienced what I've come to call "deletion ideation"- the powerful, unsought urge to erase my entire blog. Sometimes there is a "reason", sometimes not, but it is a recurring pattern. There was a period when I was creating new blogs almost weekly and deleting them before I became attached to them...a lot of this activity coincided with periods of prolonged boredom and isolation at the workplace, a problem that I'm currently experiencing in a profound and distressing way.

A great many friends and relatives have either recently lost their long-time jobs or have found themselves in tenuous positions, waiting day-to-day to see if they are among the latest wave of lay-offs and it makes me wonder how much longer I will have my job- after all, most days I have absolutely no work to do.
None.
When I am given an assignment, I finish it as soon as possible because that is my habit. I don't know how to drag work out so that it fills what would otherwise be empty time- that is what blog is for. I can drag the hell out of blog. Were it not for blog, I would probably be very, very good at Minesweeper right now...I would also have considerably fewer friends and my life would be poorer for that.

So why the urge to quit? I don't know.

Part of it, I think , is guilt. Sometimes I feel that I am a "bad blogger" because I don't visit or leave comments as often as I feel I should. I often visit blogs where others have left long, multi-paragraph comments and the best I can manage is a weak "hello" or "that's cool"...blog is a reciprocal thing and sometimes I feel as if I can't give back enough to warrant asking anyone else to care...but when I hear others express similar sentiments, my first instinct is to tell them not to worry so much, it is what it is and no one should "keep score" or feel virtually obligated.
Hypocritical? Bass ackwards?
Sure. It's part of the human condition.

There's another factor and that is commitment. My childhood was nomadic, to put it mildly, and I was often keenly aware that I was an unwanted, burdensome thing, pawned off on the grandparents or left to the care of schoolmate's families...in retrospect, the time I spent with my friend's families -one black, the other Jewish- provided some of the most important formative lessons on tolerance and humanity that a child could have, something that it's taken a lifetime of adulthood to even begin to appreciate.

On the other hand, those years of uncertainty have made me leery of forming attachments to people and places because I know that those bonds can be shattered at any moment , for any or for no cause, and experience informs me that I have a difficult time "letting go" of those attachments. If I invest a penny, I''ll usually invest a pound- as a result, when the market crashes, a Great Depression is likely to follow. I have been depressed before and it is no way to live...but it's very difficult to get out of. At times- when I had insurance- my doctor tried treating me with different anti-depressants (the kind that take a week or longer to work) and those pills just made it much, much worse, leading my doctor to conclude that my depressive periods aren't chemical in nature, that they are situational, usually tied to some sort of loss- the death of a loved one, a lost job, a broken heart- sometimes, I have thought I would be better off if I lived in total isolation from the world and it's occupants- I mean, if I don't have anything to lose, then perhaps I won't become depressed, right?

Wrong.

That's the kind of thinking that made me drink myself to death. I still have those thoughts, but I recognize them for what they are- the voices of Depression and Addiction. They have nothing at all to offer me, yet they make compelling arguments and at times it's difficult to resist them, but I know I must. It is my responsibility to deny those voices the foothold that they seek. My survival hinges on it.

That doesn't mean that I can't look for help, even though it's not in my nature to do so...I recently borrowed money from my Twin so that I could be reunited with a very special friend that I met right here in this virtual space. Even with a full-time and a few part-time jobs, I can't afford the lifestyle I used to have - who can?- but I can't afford to shut myself off or give in to the fear of what might be. Chances must be taken. Thoughts must be shared. If there is pain, so be it. It's part of life, pain. It's when one goes numb that one needs to worry, but it's hard to worry if one is numb- it's the vicious circular trajectory of Addiction and it works it's insidious words into the most sober of moods, how easy it would be to be free of these thoughts, it whispers to me, just one drink and you can delete everything forever. Isn't that what you want?

No. That isn't what I want at all. I want to spend my days sharing words and music with as many friends and strangers as possible and my nights making love with someone I deeply care about.
I can't do those things in a vacuum. Sitting and staring idly into space might seem harmless when done for a few relaxing moments, but when it becomes the default emotional state, something is wrong. It might not be as drastic or as rapid as say, drinking a fifth of vodka per day, but it is just as lethal; a slow death caused by not living.

I'm not having any part of that. I quit drinking on my own terms, I didn't follow a program or any specific advice, I did it for myself and by myself. It took time to adjust-still adjusting, in fact- but once I felt free, I started finding other things, new and old, to replace the all-encompassing void that I left behind.

That void is still there, it sometimes slips it's way into my mind even without alcohol or pills, it tells me to do things like delete your blog or quit your radio show or don't take a chance on another human ...it knows that if I give in to those suggestions, then sooner or later I will have nothing left to lose and I will have no reason to preserve myself. I'll drink-and die- and those evil little voices will have won.

I'm not giving them that satisfaction. If I have to listen to voices in my head, I will choose to listen to the ones that tell me to keep trying, keep plugging even if it does hurt- especially if it does hurt. You can't crawl out of a briar patch without getting cut and crawling out from underneath the bottle is more like sliding naked over twenty miles of concertina wire and broken glass- but it's infinitely better than Depression.

When-if- I quit blogging , or radio, or music, it will be on my terms, for my reasons. It won't be because a mean little voice tells me to. Life is already too short and I've worked too hard to throw it all away over nothing.

And that's what the nagging, whining voice of Addiction is: Nothing.

Security

I wonder what would happen if you tried to carry this aboard an airplane? I'd wager that you would miss your flight. I forget exactly what it is , but I do know that it's a harmless device, some sort of audio relay/processor. But how could you prove that to an over-zealous TSA security guard? You'd hear dogs barking and the sinister snapping of latex gloves.

I know what the object below is. It's my Boss BR-8 Digital Recording Studio. If I ever forget what it is, all I need do is look at it. It's labelled in print that isn't as blurry as this pic:

I also know what will happen if you try to bring this object on-board an airliner as carry-on luggage.
In fall of 2002, I flew to Chicago to visit my brother. Due to illness, I hadn't been able to play guitar for nearly two years and I was thinking I'd start again while I was on vacation, so I brought my portable studio. I was quite aware of the post 9/11 airport hell, but I figured, what the heck, I'll just stand in line with everyone that has a laptop. My device is pretty much the same size and shape as a laptop and is in a laptop case. It's got writing on it that explains what it is.

I reached the checkpoint and unzipped my bag. The guards went silent , save for the quiet gasp of the middle-aged woman who was checking bags.

"What...is...that?" , she asked, drawing her hands back involuntarily, as if afraid to touch it.

"It's a portable recording studio. You use it to record music. See, you plug a microphone in here,
and an instrument here and record just like on a cassette deck."
I helpfully pointed to the inputs that were labeled "mic/vocal" and "guitar/bass".

"That..is not a tape deck"

"No, see, it uses computer discs, it has a Zip drive."
I may as well have said that it was a remote control device for piloting 757's.

The red-coated woman used her radio, requested assistance. She waved a burly male guard over. The man escorted me aside and opened my suitcase, checked the contents.
He examined my shoes and waved a wand over me. He didn't seem frightened of me, nor did he act mean or abusive.
He just seemed bored. I had dull luggage and my shoes were less than thrilling.

He then escorted me back to the checkpoint where there were a half-dozen TSA guards and -get this- a soldier in full uniform , complete with assault rifle. They were all looking at my BR-8, except the soldier, who was instructing me to stand back.

Hoo.Boy.

I was afraid of being marched off, searched and interrogated, possibly deported or even covertly executed. The rest of the passengers were looking at me with suspicion...why do they have that guy standing over there, under guard?, I could feel them wondering.

Suddenly I heard one of the guards speak up. It was a youngish black man with his hair in neatl- arranged cornrows and wearing a necktie. He , unlike the other TSA personnel, looked competent. He was my savior.

"Hey. I know what that is. I have one at home. It's for music."

Ohhhh....whewwww....Ok...went the other guards. They conferred briefly, the young kid nodding a few times, pointing at my device. The soldier beckoned me forward.

I made my flight with five minutes to spare.

My BR-8 hasn't worked properly since that day.

In Search of

Saturday becomes Sunday and I know it's going to be one of those nights.

There will be no sleeping. I have taken as many pills as I feel safe with and they haven't done anything.
I get out of bed at 3:30 AM and make coffee- not so strange considering that I usually get up at 5:30 on Sundays to do my show- when I turn on the radio I hear the same goddamned Mix Loop that was playing last week- it's what plays when the 3am-6am DJ doesn't show up. Drums n' Bass 180 BPM headache, I can't even shave with it playing, much less think.

Well, if I don't like what's on the radio, why don't I change it?
Good question!

I get dressed, grab some extra records and head to the station to do exactly that.


PART ONE- 5am - 6am:

Gong -Vive Gong, Gong est Mort - Sides A and D
I have some wiring to work on and it's much easier to work when there's no one else in the building- I put a record on each turntable and attempt to 'un-spaghetti' the cables behind the console. This is probably the best Gong record ever released, it's gets me into my zone.

Atomic Rooster W/ David Gilmour- Hold Your Fire
This isn't as good as I was hoping- I have a Pretty Things CD from around the same period (2001?) that also features Gilmour and he's not especially good on either one.
Oh well, it's 5:45 am and it sounds OK to me.

Cop Shoot Cop- Last Legs
I love this band. This is not a very nice song. Too bad.

Hawkwind -Master of the Universe
I think this is the first song that I ever learned how to play on bass. One of my bands used to do a cover of this and I was always too stoned to recall the lyrics, which was OK - "the winds of time are blowing through me/It's all a figment of my mind", it always worked out somehow. We used to play at parties in Park City,Utah - mushroom tea was served at the door, so we could be a little sloppy, if you know what I mean.

Billie Holiday- Lady Sings the Blues/Come Rain or Come Shine
I love Billie, but have a hard time working her into my regular show. There's a Gospel DJ coming in at 6AM, so I start toning it down with that it mind.

Anuna - Invocation
This Celtic choral ensemble are the second-closest thing to Gospel that I ever play...Hawkwind's Live- Space Ritual being the closest. (That and Aretha Franklin)

The 6 o'clock guy is here now:

"Dude! What are you doing here? Was that you playing all that space-warp music?"

"Well, I took a couple Ambien, went to sleep and when I woke up , I was here, playing records."

This is true- except for the sleeping part. I drive to a 24 hour pancake joint and have breakfast during my one-hour intermission. Mmmmaple syrup...mmmmaple syrup...
I'm tired.
Can I get two large coffees to go?

What, you don't have large cups?

Make that four coffees to go then.


PART TWO:
Spoon- Believing is Art
If there is Spoon that I don't like, I haven't heard it yet. The title of this track says it all.

Thin Lizzy -Johnny
This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands...there is exactly ONE person that knows why I'm playing this song. I'm hoping that they are in the audience, thinking: " He is playing it just for me!", because in this case, it's true. Plus I like Phil Lynott, he's seriously under-rated. Irish rockers rule!

10 CC- Worst Band in the World
Godley and Creme make me laugh...but they weren't even close to being the worst band in the world.

Uriah Heep- Roller
This is as close to the worst band in the world as I feel like getting. They aren't the worst, but 10CC was better.

Funkadelic- Cosmic Slop
Oh man, I was watching an interview with Bootsy Collins, he was talking about playing with James Brown and how you gotta get it on the 'one'- ONE 2,3,4 -ONE, 2,3,4...this, for me, is a very suitable Mother's Day song.
"I can hear my mama call, I can hear my mama call"

Ray Manzarek- Bicentennial Blues (Love it or Laeve it)
This is starting to become my favorite album of all-time. I bought it thirty years ago and it just keeps getting better. At the end of this song, Ray slips the organ riff from "Light My Fire" into the vamping...did he used to play in some famous band?
(You may gaze upon the fish-eyed majesty of Ray Manzarek's superlative sideburns here)
"Guess I'd better get out"

King Crimson- Heartbeat
I saw this tour. It was awesome...the contrast in style between Fripp and Belew was a joy to behold- Fripp sitting on a stool, staring at his floor pedals; Belew up front , whanging his twanger...ahhh, you shoulda been there.

Fiona Joyce- Cry Over You
I wrote about this song last week. Today, it reminds me of someone that I used to know.
No more tears, but I wonder: where are you?
People are looking for you.

Led Zeppelin- Ten Years Gone
Ten Years After-Once There Was a Time
For Mom.


The Wipers- Window Shop For Love
"I feel like a piece of cold ice forming inside a chamber of lost illusions...maybe the ground below will ease the pain- a perfect landing might just ease the pain, ease the pain, ease the pain...loneliness is such a drag"
Next Valentine's Day, I'm putting this song on a loop and playing it for 24 hours. Actually, I probably won't do that, but there was a time when I would have.

Hey, I left my Gmail chat open and one of my favorite bloggers (semi-retired) has tuned in!

"Play Misty for me", she asks, a request that I cheerfuly deny. I don't have the Kinks song she wants either- I usually do, but not today dammit!- but I must admit being called 'Mr. Fantasy' is kinda sweet.
I'll find something for ya...doing dishes, are we?
Gotta find something bouncy...

Joe Jackson- Sunday Papers
Oh yeah! Bouncy, subversive and it mentions Sunday. This could be my show's theme song!

XTC- My Weapon
I have no idea what this song is about.

Bill Nelson's Red Noise- Substitute Flesh
Does this relate to the preceding song or the one following? I don't know what it's about either. The word 'penetration' is used a lot.

The Kinks- Artificial Man
Need Kinks? I got Kinks.

Jethro Tull- Too Old To Rock& Roll, Too Young To Die
Yeah, I used to think that too.

Frank Zappa/Capt. Beefheart- Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy
This song makes me think about The Liberator.
"She put a Doobie Brothers tape on/ I had a Roger Daltrey cape on"

Flaming Groovies- Teenage Head
One of the best rock and roll records of all time.

Eleni Mandell- Dreamboat
If Tom Waits was a female punk rock caberet torch singer, he might sound like Eleni Mandell.

Eleanor Shanley- Road To Glory
Did you know Dublin was founded by Vikings? It was.

Nina Hagen - White Punks On Dope
Pure guilty pleasure- a Teutonic Tubes Tantrum! I love this! I think I'm the only one who does, but it's my show. Suffer! Love that guitar at the end...

Gary Numan- Film
Gary was singing about YouTube before it existed. Gary was way ahead of his time.

Wire- Ambitous
Wire were way ahead of their time.

Damien Dempsey- Celtic Tiger
Damien, where are my CD's? I wrote such a nice letter...well, if he won't send them to me for free, I'll buy them. New and at the 'import' price. I like the guy's work that much.

Paw- Seasoned Glove
I finish my Mother's Day show with a song about the world's worst father. Mom would be proud.

Salt Free

Everything is bright grey.

Bright grey?, I wonder to myself as I look through the bars of my cell. Is there even such a color as bright grey?

And what am I doing in a cell? I have never been here before, I know that much.

I look around and I notice that it's not really a cell at all- it's an apartment, one of many inside this building. Nicely furnished, soft furniture in dark colors.

Through the bars and across what is probably a street I see another building, the facing wall has been removed; I am reminded of the bombed-out buildings of Baghdad or Beirut, but there is no rubble or jagged edges- it's as if the wall were never there in the first place.

Inside the neatly-partitioned apartments people are moving.

Look: There's a fat man shaving. He's nicked his lip and he's desperately trying to staunch the blood with bits of tissue paper...it works on the third or fourth try, but it's a bit undignified to look at. I laugh, but I hope no one else does- I hate shaving cuts.
Good luck, Fat Man, I think. Rub your belly, maybe you'll get your wish.

Look: There's a woman undressing. She's talking to someone in another room as she pulls a sweater off over her head. No bra.
She looks over at me and we make eye contact, which is odd, since I am staring at her breasts. Oh, of course.
She's got eyes in place of nipples.
I've seen this before and it's not nearly as frightening as it sounds.
Her left nipple winks at me. It's OK to look, it says.
I blush anyway.

Look: There's a family of four sitting at a table, two adults and two children of grade-school age.
They are waiting for someone to pass the salt. There's untasted food on their plates and I can feel it growing cold from here.
Pass the salt!
Nobody is moving, all four are waiting.

I look around some more. I could use some rubble right now- I'd like to throw a rock at the family and get their attention:

" You haven't even tasted your food yet! How do you know that it needs salt?"

Christ, I wonder how many perfectly good meals have gone to waste because some fool waited too long for salt that wasn't needed in the first place?

Behind me, a man speaks.

"Is this what you're looking for?"

It's my friend Scoe. He's got a book in his hand. Scoe has given me many books in the twenty years we have been friends and every one has been a winner. I bet he can help me out.

"Damn. I'm glad to see you. I need a good brick and I left mine in my other dream."

"Here."

He hands me the book, which has become a baseball. I take it from him and I'm pleased to find that I still remember my two-fingered pitcher's grip. Oh, yeah, this thing was made to be thrown.

I go into my wind-up and throw a perfect strike into the family's dining room but they are gone already and my effort is wasted. The ball bounces off the inside wall and rolls back towards me, falls off the edge.

I hear a splooshing sound. I look down and see that there is no street between the buildings, only slow-moving dark water.
I wonder if baseballs float?
I wait, watching to see if the ball bobs to the surface.

It doesn't.

"Hey, man, did you see that? That family. Where did they go? "

But Scoe is gone too, and gone with him are the fat man and the woman with the winking nipple.
I'm alone now.
Below me, the water is visibly rising, moving thickly.
It's only a few feet below floor level and it's black as pitch.
I laugh at my own horrible pun and wish that I hadn't thrown my baseball into the water.

I reach for the bars in front of me.
They are made of smoke and the motion of my hands blows them away.

I steel myself, reach down and extend a finger into the dark , roiling liquid which is now just a few inches below. I expect it to be blood, or even the ichor of some long-forgotten demon, but it's nothing but cool, clear water.

The darkness is due to depth, not pollution.

Ka-pap! Ka-pap!

That's the sound of a baseball bouncing off concrete.
It's behind me. Has Scoe returned ?

I turn.

It's not Scoe. It's the woman with the chest that stares back. She's wearing one of my t-shirts. Why be modest now?, I wonder without panic, the water is rising and we are going to either swim together or drown apart; in any case , clothes aren't gonna help.

She reads my mind and smiles. The shirt is gone but she's got a clean white sphere in her left hand, tossing it up and down, following it with one eye while the other three study me.

That's mine but it looks good in your hand.

More telepathy and another smile, this time accompanied by laughter and a single word.

"Catch."

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.