The dumbest thing I heard this week was the dialogue in the new movie Amelia...
...and the best thing I heard was my boss asking me to do some creative writing for work.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Friday Sabbath: The Changeability of Human Life
Everyone has heard a story that describes some life-changing event. Examples of these events range from war to conversations to science class.
Off the top of my head, I once heard from a professor about the day he chose to be a vegetarian. He was in Biology class and the teacher pulled out the frogs for dissection. At this point in our history, the frogs were delivered alive. The teacher showed them how to kill the frog (take it by its legs, swing your arm behind you, then whack its head against a counter) and then how to open it quickly so one could observe the heart still beating before the creature expires. My professor got up, left the room, and took a walk around the school. During that walk, he made the decision to "never eat anything that had a mother or a face."
Most of us have also heard about certain spiritual personalities who have these great awakenings somewhere out in nature. Siddhartha and Thich Naht Hahn are such personalities that discovered their own significant truths while communing with the great outdoors.
Then there are horrific stories... stories that would change both the person who experienced it and those who hear about it. I have had so few actual events that would be worth explaining in terms of how they altered who I am or what I believe. However, I collect stories all the time and, for the first time in a few years, I've read one that will again change me...
I've been doing some research lately on my grandmother's homeland. I have a book comprised of a collection of stories told by Okinawan women from the war era (1940s), the occupation period (1960s-70s), and the contemporary generation. I'm currently reading about my grandmother's space in history during the war. I have heard snippets of her story from my relatives. However. reading a personal account not only forces me to think how little I asked my own grandmother, but the blind eye I turned to the very idea of her story and circumstances because it was just too uncomfortable to imagine.
According to one account, the war was not real to this particular 14 year old until March 23, 1945 when the bombing started. She and her family took very few belongings and ran from the violence. There were eight members in her family; her grandmother, two parents, four siblings, and herself. They would sometimes walk for whole days, never stopping. They ended up hiding in caves with twenty or thirty other people choking on the stench of human excretion (they had to relieve themselves inside the cave because of the bombs). They hid in abandoned houses. They kept moving to avoid the violence though, occasionally, there was no where to run.
They watched their own hearts close up. In one abandoned house, they could hear a baby crying, having figured out that a pregnant woman had given birth alone in one of the rooms in the house. No one moved to help her, and no one heard her make a sound. Eventually, the sounds of the baby silenced. The assumption was that the mother died in childbirth and eventually the baby died as well. The speaker tells the reader that motivations change from humanity to self-preservation...
A bomb went off while they were traveling at one point which caused them to separate. The father, grandmother, and two siblings remained behind (never to see the rest of the family again) while the 14 year old walked on with her mother, sister, and baby brother. They were all malnourished, living off a starch mixture called imokuzu. The mother became so weakened that she was unable to produce milk for the baby she carried, so she fed him the imokuzu as well. They hid in a shed for a few days before another bomb changed the shape of the family.
The mother walked outside one morning and her children heard a bomb fall. Sure that her mother must have been killed, the speaker sat in her place, shocked, thoughts and blood racing. Her mother walked back into the shed and her children were amazed. However, she suffered major injuries, blood poured from everywhere on her body. Her wounds began to rot and become infected (maggots eventually started feeding off the dying flesh while the mother was still alive.
One day, pale and worn down, the mother asked her children to take a nap with her. When the speaker woke, the mother had already turned cold. A man was burying his family somewhere outside the shed. She asked him to bury her mother, too, but he refused. I can't do justice to the feelings that she must have felt, that I feel, as I consider such an emotional catastrophe.
American soldiers eventually came and found the children. They were all separated... including the baby. What really killed me, as if all of this is not enough, were her thoughts on her youngest sibling:
Off the top of my head, I once heard from a professor about the day he chose to be a vegetarian. He was in Biology class and the teacher pulled out the frogs for dissection. At this point in our history, the frogs were delivered alive. The teacher showed them how to kill the frog (take it by its legs, swing your arm behind you, then whack its head against a counter) and then how to open it quickly so one could observe the heart still beating before the creature expires. My professor got up, left the room, and took a walk around the school. During that walk, he made the decision to "never eat anything that had a mother or a face."
Most of us have also heard about certain spiritual personalities who have these great awakenings somewhere out in nature. Siddhartha and Thich Naht Hahn are such personalities that discovered their own significant truths while communing with the great outdoors.
Then there are horrific stories... stories that would change both the person who experienced it and those who hear about it. I have had so few actual events that would be worth explaining in terms of how they altered who I am or what I believe. However, I collect stories all the time and, for the first time in a few years, I've read one that will again change me...
I've been doing some research lately on my grandmother's homeland. I have a book comprised of a collection of stories told by Okinawan women from the war era (1940s), the occupation period (1960s-70s), and the contemporary generation. I'm currently reading about my grandmother's space in history during the war. I have heard snippets of her story from my relatives. However. reading a personal account not only forces me to think how little I asked my own grandmother, but the blind eye I turned to the very idea of her story and circumstances because it was just too uncomfortable to imagine.
According to one account, the war was not real to this particular 14 year old until March 23, 1945 when the bombing started. She and her family took very few belongings and ran from the violence. There were eight members in her family; her grandmother, two parents, four siblings, and herself. They would sometimes walk for whole days, never stopping. They ended up hiding in caves with twenty or thirty other people choking on the stench of human excretion (they had to relieve themselves inside the cave because of the bombs). They hid in abandoned houses. They kept moving to avoid the violence though, occasionally, there was no where to run.
They watched their own hearts close up. In one abandoned house, they could hear a baby crying, having figured out that a pregnant woman had given birth alone in one of the rooms in the house. No one moved to help her, and no one heard her make a sound. Eventually, the sounds of the baby silenced. The assumption was that the mother died in childbirth and eventually the baby died as well. The speaker tells the reader that motivations change from humanity to self-preservation...
A bomb went off while they were traveling at one point which caused them to separate. The father, grandmother, and two siblings remained behind (never to see the rest of the family again) while the 14 year old walked on with her mother, sister, and baby brother. They were all malnourished, living off a starch mixture called imokuzu. The mother became so weakened that she was unable to produce milk for the baby she carried, so she fed him the imokuzu as well. They hid in a shed for a few days before another bomb changed the shape of the family.
The mother walked outside one morning and her children heard a bomb fall. Sure that her mother must have been killed, the speaker sat in her place, shocked, thoughts and blood racing. Her mother walked back into the shed and her children were amazed. However, she suffered major injuries, blood poured from everywhere on her body. Her wounds began to rot and become infected (maggots eventually started feeding off the dying flesh while the mother was still alive.
One day, pale and worn down, the mother asked her children to take a nap with her. When the speaker woke, the mother had already turned cold. A man was burying his family somewhere outside the shed. She asked him to bury her mother, too, but he refused. I can't do justice to the feelings that she must have felt, that I feel, as I consider such an emotional catastrophe.
American soldiers eventually came and found the children. They were all separated... including the baby. What really killed me, as if all of this is not enough, were her thoughts on her youngest sibling:
As for my baby brother, my sister told me he'd been placed in a separate room in the orphanage. On her second day there, she went to the room where the babies were kept to check on him, but he was gone. To this day we don't know what happened to him. I wonder sometimes if he's alive or dead. Did someone adopt him? Did he die of malnutrition? I don't know. But I'd like to believe that he lived.
-Junko Isa
Records were not well kept in this part of the world at this time. Okinawa is terribly small, but, apparently, it's big enough to lose people.
I feel as though I know something now from which I can never return to not knowing. I can't brush this under the rug. I can't pretend it isn't happening. I feel as though a whole room inside my heart, soul, mind, or something has been flung open.
My grandmother was lucky enough to have her mother come out alive during this war. My great grandmother made it just past her 90s. Her daughter flew from America back home to celebrate her mother's 88th birthday (a significant age in the Okinawan tradition when a very large, elaborate party is thrown).
However, my grandmother lost a sister. I had heard my family say, since I was relatively young, "Your grandmother's sister died in her arms." That was like telling me how many people died on the Titanic. It didn't feel real. It was such a far away thought that I just could not grasp before now...
...the way I have mourned my grandmother is so selfish. I mourned her out of my deep affection and love for her. I loved this person who made me feel valued, smart, quick, and special. What did she obtain in return... other than making me feel better about myself? I couldn't even take her life, her trials, seriously. It was all a story that I shrugged off... I just couldn't understand. It was too much.
But, now, "that too much" has caught up with me.
I know it's possible to go too deep into this tunnel... to the point where the sunshine will no longer be visible. I'll try not to go there, but I feel so heavy with what I know now... so shameful of what I ought to have tried harder to comprehend, to love someone I loved more than I can say even more because, after all this hell, she held on to the will to live... that I might know her and have a better life...
-Junko Isa
Records were not well kept in this part of the world at this time. Okinawa is terribly small, but, apparently, it's big enough to lose people.
I feel as though I know something now from which I can never return to not knowing. I can't brush this under the rug. I can't pretend it isn't happening. I feel as though a whole room inside my heart, soul, mind, or something has been flung open.
My grandmother was lucky enough to have her mother come out alive during this war. My great grandmother made it just past her 90s. Her daughter flew from America back home to celebrate her mother's 88th birthday (a significant age in the Okinawan tradition when a very large, elaborate party is thrown).
However, my grandmother lost a sister. I had heard my family say, since I was relatively young, "Your grandmother's sister died in her arms." That was like telling me how many people died on the Titanic. It didn't feel real. It was such a far away thought that I just could not grasp before now...
...the way I have mourned my grandmother is so selfish. I mourned her out of my deep affection and love for her. I loved this person who made me feel valued, smart, quick, and special. What did she obtain in return... other than making me feel better about myself? I couldn't even take her life, her trials, seriously. It was all a story that I shrugged off... I just couldn't understand. It was too much.
But, now, "that too much" has caught up with me.
I know it's possible to go too deep into this tunnel... to the point where the sunshine will no longer be visible. I'll try not to go there, but I feel so heavy with what I know now... so shameful of what I ought to have tried harder to comprehend, to love someone I loved more than I can say even more because, after all this hell, she held on to the will to live... that I might know her and have a better life...
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Thursday Kitchen: Jewish Vegetarians
It was recently brought to my attention that one of my favorite authors, Jonathan Safran Foer, has written a new book entitled EATING ANIMALS. Based on what I've read from the review, this work is a more journalist project in which Foer reflects on his own life of eating and then travels to various meat farms and records his impressions of what he saw...
...and apparently he saw some terrible things.
The website on which this review features is called The Jew and the Carrot. I believe the site was originally designed to discuss the role of food in the contemporary Jewish lifestyle, but it has become a place where vegetarianism can be discussed.
For anyone who does not know, vegetarianism can be a tricky thing for a Jewish person. The celebration of their holidays has a prominent space set aside for special food. Lamb is a popular meat to prepare for a holiday Seder (let's not bother getting into ancient laws and Biblical commandments and whatnot and stick to the culture for now). I imagine the few remaining Bubbes of our society buckling a bit under the idea of a grandchild deciding to become a vegetarian (but any Bubbe worth her salt will find something she can feed you to put meat on your bones).
I like this topic. I appreciate people trying to think a little more about what they put in their mouths... especially in this country where obesity is an epidemic (a wide-spread illness among the millions of people living in America involves eating too much... for crying out loud...). It doesn't surprise me that a Jewish writer is contributing to the conversation. One of my favorite aspects of Judaism is their emphasis on education, and with more knowledge comes more consideration of how one lives his/her life.
According to his article in the NY Times (See here: Eating Animals), Foer seesawed with his vegetarianism for many years. He had a younger sister who, at a young age, seemed to grasp the concept that a chicken was a living thing that was killed to be put on her dinner plate. Foer at that point on walked back and forth between reasons of eating or not eating meat. It was the birth of his own children that made him solidify his vegetarian lifestyle. He and his wife chose to raise their kids as vegetarians feeling that it was their something better to offer them.
While he sounds pretty down on people who try to buy and eat meat ethically, I think I'm still with Barbara Kingsolver's basic idea. These animals that we commonly eat have now been bred so much into their purpose for human beings that they would die out without our assistance. It's not like they're going to make it out in the wild anymore, so, I figure we should give them good lives and then harvest them humanely. That would require that we all eat less meat, but that could be a pretty good thing for this overweight country.
I'm actually not interested in discussing my views on how we should eat. I do, however, see that there is room for change for the better.
For myself, personally, I often eat vegetarian. Especially at home, and particularly when I'm out in a restaurant (I don't have high hopes that most places put out the money for ethically handled meat products), I try to order a vegetarian option. Like Foer, I, too, mostly dabble with the idea. I know that if I, myself, stopped eating meat altogether, that I would not be able to change the system or the hideous and cruel things that are done to these animals all alone. Even still, as I have mentioned before, the yoga has changed my body and the way it digests things, so, whatever my views, I'm in a position where eating significantly less meat works well for me.
This is not the case for everyone and I think this is a point that is missing in Foer's article. I hope that in the book he touches somewhat on the idea that some people really function better on animal protein than the alternatives. I am content to have less protein, but some people live lifestyles, have health issues, etc, that make it important for them to receive this sort of nourishment. Aside from that, most doctors will point out that we have canines... therefor, in the natural circle of life, we are predators. We don't look down our nose at the tiger who ran down the antelope for breakfast... it is the way of things.
Obviously, with our big brains and all, you'd think we'd have a heart in our hunting process. There's no excuse to be so disgusting, so lacking in human mercy and sensibility, to turn a blind eye to what goes into our Thanksgiving turkeys... to the poultry farms that harbor birds that never, not once in their lives, see the light of day, or that are bound against flying from birth to change the quality of breast meat. There are worse stories than this, and I find it lazy to ignore all of them.
I don't have the answers, though. I have no idea how this issue ought to be handled. I think people should certainly eat less meat and that great efforts need to be made to alter the way these animals are treated. In the meantime, there might be some improvement in our general health if we make peace with some vegetables...
I'm looking forward to reading Foer's book and absorbing more information on the subject. Crossing my fingers to win a copy from The Jew and the Carrot website (If I don't win, I'll just buy it... it would just be funny... I'm like everyone else... I never win anything).
...and apparently he saw some terrible things.
The website on which this review features is called The Jew and the Carrot. I believe the site was originally designed to discuss the role of food in the contemporary Jewish lifestyle, but it has become a place where vegetarianism can be discussed.
For anyone who does not know, vegetarianism can be a tricky thing for a Jewish person. The celebration of their holidays has a prominent space set aside for special food. Lamb is a popular meat to prepare for a holiday Seder (let's not bother getting into ancient laws and Biblical commandments and whatnot and stick to the culture for now). I imagine the few remaining Bubbes of our society buckling a bit under the idea of a grandchild deciding to become a vegetarian (but any Bubbe worth her salt will find something she can feed you to put meat on your bones).
I like this topic. I appreciate people trying to think a little more about what they put in their mouths... especially in this country where obesity is an epidemic (a wide-spread illness among the millions of people living in America involves eating too much... for crying out loud...). It doesn't surprise me that a Jewish writer is contributing to the conversation. One of my favorite aspects of Judaism is their emphasis on education, and with more knowledge comes more consideration of how one lives his/her life.
According to his article in the NY Times (See here: Eating Animals), Foer seesawed with his vegetarianism for many years. He had a younger sister who, at a young age, seemed to grasp the concept that a chicken was a living thing that was killed to be put on her dinner plate. Foer at that point on walked back and forth between reasons of eating or not eating meat. It was the birth of his own children that made him solidify his vegetarian lifestyle. He and his wife chose to raise their kids as vegetarians feeling that it was their something better to offer them.
While he sounds pretty down on people who try to buy and eat meat ethically, I think I'm still with Barbara Kingsolver's basic idea. These animals that we commonly eat have now been bred so much into their purpose for human beings that they would die out without our assistance. It's not like they're going to make it out in the wild anymore, so, I figure we should give them good lives and then harvest them humanely. That would require that we all eat less meat, but that could be a pretty good thing for this overweight country.
I'm actually not interested in discussing my views on how we should eat. I do, however, see that there is room for change for the better.
For myself, personally, I often eat vegetarian. Especially at home, and particularly when I'm out in a restaurant (I don't have high hopes that most places put out the money for ethically handled meat products), I try to order a vegetarian option. Like Foer, I, too, mostly dabble with the idea. I know that if I, myself, stopped eating meat altogether, that I would not be able to change the system or the hideous and cruel things that are done to these animals all alone. Even still, as I have mentioned before, the yoga has changed my body and the way it digests things, so, whatever my views, I'm in a position where eating significantly less meat works well for me.
This is not the case for everyone and I think this is a point that is missing in Foer's article. I hope that in the book he touches somewhat on the idea that some people really function better on animal protein than the alternatives. I am content to have less protein, but some people live lifestyles, have health issues, etc, that make it important for them to receive this sort of nourishment. Aside from that, most doctors will point out that we have canines... therefor, in the natural circle of life, we are predators. We don't look down our nose at the tiger who ran down the antelope for breakfast... it is the way of things.
Obviously, with our big brains and all, you'd think we'd have a heart in our hunting process. There's no excuse to be so disgusting, so lacking in human mercy and sensibility, to turn a blind eye to what goes into our Thanksgiving turkeys... to the poultry farms that harbor birds that never, not once in their lives, see the light of day, or that are bound against flying from birth to change the quality of breast meat. There are worse stories than this, and I find it lazy to ignore all of them.
I don't have the answers, though. I have no idea how this issue ought to be handled. I think people should certainly eat less meat and that great efforts need to be made to alter the way these animals are treated. In the meantime, there might be some improvement in our general health if we make peace with some vegetables...
I'm looking forward to reading Foer's book and absorbing more information on the subject. Crossing my fingers to win a copy from The Jew and the Carrot website (If I don't win, I'll just buy it... it would just be funny... I'm like everyone else... I never win anything).
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Wednesday Valuables: I watch this fall away...
There was a tower here,
with windows and curtains
all hand-dyed in the colors of our eyes.
The tower was tall,
perhaps a little crooked
with doors and steps in the oddest places.
The way up the tower was clear.
Well, the path seemed obvious to us
though others shrugged at the bottom of the stairs feeling lost.
The rooms were packed.
Each devoted to our creations
of books and pasta and art and silly hats.
We had a laboratory
in which we baked a brew
to swallow and cleanse our insides.
The visions we had of life
could alter the lives we lived
drowning our organs with kinetic energy to go ahead...
But then you climbed down.
You left a note saying
you had a brand new sort of vision.
I waited for you at our highest crooked window.
You would come and go
and go and come, each time
with a new story to tell, a new hole to mend.
Would we talk and stitch
and drink our brew again
before you took my cup, one day, and ran.
You didn't return that evening.
You didn't knock at lunchtime.
You didn't return for another 50 midnights.
You seemed someone aged,
whose eyes were no longer colored
like the cloth we dyed when tower was new.
You told no stories
and heard none of my own.
You whistled and complained that our curtains were old.
You took the fabric down
and left the dirty windows bare
and walked away for the last time that I can recall.
Soon after that day the tower died.
The whole room began to tilt
and I could swear I heard the doors and floorboards sigh
before the stones began to lose their grip and tumble down to suicide.
I ran from the falling rocks.
I left behind all of our creations
saving only the recipe for our over-baked brew.
I tumbled to the ground
and turned to helplessly to watch
as our tower crumbled before me into piles of rocks and dust.
I wiped myself off.
Shoved the recipe in my pocket.
I crawled away from the heap of all that we had constructed.
But, who knows?
I'm no prophet man.
All the materials still rest there awaiting reinvention.
(from www.turtlemom.com)
with windows and curtains
all hand-dyed in the colors of our eyes.
The tower was tall,
perhaps a little crooked
with doors and steps in the oddest places.
The way up the tower was clear.
Well, the path seemed obvious to us
though others shrugged at the bottom of the stairs feeling lost.
The rooms were packed.
Each devoted to our creations
of books and pasta and art and silly hats.
We had a laboratory
in which we baked a brew
to swallow and cleanse our insides.
The visions we had of life
could alter the lives we lived
drowning our organs with kinetic energy to go ahead...
But then you climbed down.
You left a note saying
you had a brand new sort of vision.
I waited for you at our highest crooked window.
You would come and go
and go and come, each time
with a new story to tell, a new hole to mend.
Would we talk and stitch
and drink our brew again
before you took my cup, one day, and ran.
You didn't return that evening.
You didn't knock at lunchtime.
You didn't return for another 50 midnights.
You seemed someone aged,
whose eyes were no longer colored
like the cloth we dyed when tower was new.
You told no stories
and heard none of my own.
You whistled and complained that our curtains were old.
You took the fabric down
and left the dirty windows bare
and walked away for the last time that I can recall.
Soon after that day the tower died.
The whole room began to tilt
and I could swear I heard the doors and floorboards sigh
before the stones began to lose their grip and tumble down to suicide.
I ran from the falling rocks.
I left behind all of our creations
saving only the recipe for our over-baked brew.
I tumbled to the ground
and turned to helplessly to watch
as our tower crumbled before me into piles of rocks and dust.
I wiped myself off.
Shoved the recipe in my pocket.
I crawled away from the heap of all that we had constructed.
But, who knows?
I'm no prophet man.
All the materials still rest there awaiting reinvention.
(from www.turtlemom.com) Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Tuesday Favorites: The Day the Music Died
My music of choice has always been classical or jazz. I like some old rock as well, but I am decidedly behind on whatever music is popular now. I think the last concert I attended was Earth, Wind, and Fire, for goodness' sake...
Among my very few favorite contemporary musicians is the jazz pianist and singer Peter Cincotti...
...and he's sort of a long story.
I was introduced to him towards the end of a miserable relationship by an old friend of mine. He was all of 20 years of age when she saw him perform at the Ella Fitzgerald Festival in Newport News. She played me the first song of his first cd and I was instantly hooked at the playful piano and bass echoing each other. The song lyrics had a certain... late teenage arrogance to them... but the music itself was just great, energetic jazz. He reminded me so much of myself... my inelegant habits of twisting my bitterness into braids of art. His other lyrics on the album were brilliant, sad, but striking. His piano skills are extremely impressive. And I love the sound of his voice... mostly because it's so average, but has obviously wanted to say so much. He's not trying to be Frank or Dean or even Tony... he's being himself.
He actually performed Rainbow Connection on this album... how much more simple and beautiful can you get? Just him and the piano... and a tribute to Kermit the Frog.
After hearing this cd, another one came out with an updated band, a slightly different sound. There are a few uninteresting pieces that still reflect a young man working towards adulthood, but the instrumental talent and vocal honesty continued. He wrote one of my favorite songs for this cd entitled He's Watching. This is another very simple song with his voice, the band playing softly, reverently alongside him, and some violins for the climax. The song is dedicated to his father who died a year or two before the album was released. I always felt as though we were reaching up and grabbing cloud fluff together and I would think of my grandmother.
With this music to comfort me, I survived what I refer to as "the bad year" of having my self-confidence and worth trampled upon. It was toward the end of this year that the opportunity arose - Peter was on tour. I found that I had the chance to attend two of his performances.
I went to the first one with my dear, late friend, Mister John. He had seen much of my trouble that previous year and made a gift of a trip to Morgantown, WV. The performance took place in the university theater. We sat a little further away than I had wanted... but, even from a distance, I could still tell the performers were tired. The music was amazing, but I recognized a droopiness to their moments between songs.
I blame this fatigue on the events to follow.
I saw people working their way to a back room while the bulk of the audience was leaving the theater. I curiously followed the first group of people where a widely smiling woman greeted me. "Oh, hi! Go on in! Peter will be down in just a few minutes. Grab some dessert and coffee!"
"Um, okay."
I texted Mister John asking him to hurry back to where I was... he took pictures of my stupid, nervous moments with him...
Peter walked in... seemed a little taller than I thought he'd be. Seemed tired. As I stared, Mister John poked me in the side. "What's wrong with you? Go talk to him! Save him from those idiots!" Peter had been cornered by two obnoxious girls asking him if they looked Latino to him (Gd, give me patience). I pushed my way through and Peter and I laughed together momentarily about the two girls. I asked him a handful of questions as coolly and casually as I could despite my ridiculous, adolescent, heart-pounding, butterfly feelings.
I learned just a few things... among them, concerning a ring he always wears on his pinkie finger. In all his pictures online or on his albums, he wears that ring. Of course, I considered this tacky... until I found out that it belonged to his grandfather. I pointed to the ring I always wear on my third finger. My grandmother's wedding band. The briefest moment of strangers knowing each other arrived... and went.
He also admitted that he and the band were worn out from traveling. They got off the bus and walked right on stage it seemed. I worked through my congratulations since it was still a wonderful show and mentioned I'd be at the concert in Maryland the week after. He said he'd see me then.
I talked to his bass player after I left him... now completely wired from the experience. The musician seemed amused by my enthusiasm. He mentioned that I should come out with him and the band after the concert next week.
"Well, okay."
The next week, I stayed with Anya and we ventured out together to a really interesting venue. It was a small hall in a restaurant, tables packed into the room l practically on top of each other. My table was so close to the stage, that if I reached out and leaned over, I could have touched Peter's piano bench. He played some of my favorites as well as new material he was working on for his next album (and I'll come back to that album). I wrote furiously in my journal to commemorate the occasion.
After the concert, the bass player called me on my cell to ask me where I was. He and the sax player came to the coffeehouse where Anya and I were having an espresso with a lady we met at the concert. We all walked away together to some club a block or two down the street. I could get into the specifics, but I think I'm content to leave most of that evening in my journal...
I will say, however, that Peter is different when he's rested and awake. His guard was definitely up and he was less warm, less familiar. The only honest moment I was able to squeeze from him came from a conversation I had to steal from one of the other band members. I told him I couldn't imagine what it was like to be him. He shrugged, sighed. Looked me dead in the eye. "Hell - I don't know what it's like to be me..."
My guess, after listening to his third album, is that he still doesn't.
I'm about two years behind in hearing anything from the latest album. It sounds like he took a lot of "good advice" from people in the biz... because it doesn't sound like him anymore. The great piano playing is still there, but now there's so much... stuff. He used to be in a jazz band. Now he has synthesizers and guitars and who knows what else. It's as though he's trying to be... isn't there a band called Coldplay? He's throwing his voice out... I mean, it feels like over-cracking your back. His lyrics are still bittersweet, and at moments thought-provoking... I still hear things with which I used to strongly relate... but the soul is lost. This is not what he started out trying to do. The new songs he played for us years ago are on this album... but they've been stripped of the pure, awesome jazz band sound they had that night...
I realize to a certain extent that you have to appeal to the masses before you have the freedom to do what you really want to do with your art... but, I guess I don't care. I miss looking forward to that which I knew he was capable. I looked at his new official website... it used to be clean and friendly. There were casual pictures of him goofing off with his band members in countries around the world. He was like that guy with whom you went to school who always made everyone laugh. He could have been your first love or your best friend. There was something about his earlier work, his original look, his older, pure sound that made him someone I knew... but this smarmy guy on the website with the stupid hair, the fake coquette tilt of the head, the pop-y garbage veiling his true talent...
...it makes today the day that the music which spoke to me most died.
Among my very few favorite contemporary musicians is the jazz pianist and singer Peter Cincotti...
...and he's sort of a long story.
I was introduced to him towards the end of a miserable relationship by an old friend of mine. He was all of 20 years of age when she saw him perform at the Ella Fitzgerald Festival in Newport News. She played me the first song of his first cd and I was instantly hooked at the playful piano and bass echoing each other. The song lyrics had a certain... late teenage arrogance to them... but the music itself was just great, energetic jazz. He reminded me so much of myself... my inelegant habits of twisting my bitterness into braids of art. His other lyrics on the album were brilliant, sad, but striking. His piano skills are extremely impressive. And I love the sound of his voice... mostly because it's so average, but has obviously wanted to say so much. He's not trying to be Frank or Dean or even Tony... he's being himself.
He actually performed Rainbow Connection on this album... how much more simple and beautiful can you get? Just him and the piano... and a tribute to Kermit the Frog.
After hearing this cd, another one came out with an updated band, a slightly different sound. There are a few uninteresting pieces that still reflect a young man working towards adulthood, but the instrumental talent and vocal honesty continued. He wrote one of my favorite songs for this cd entitled He's Watching. This is another very simple song with his voice, the band playing softly, reverently alongside him, and some violins for the climax. The song is dedicated to his father who died a year or two before the album was released. I always felt as though we were reaching up and grabbing cloud fluff together and I would think of my grandmother.
With this music to comfort me, I survived what I refer to as "the bad year" of having my self-confidence and worth trampled upon. It was toward the end of this year that the opportunity arose - Peter was on tour. I found that I had the chance to attend two of his performances.
I went to the first one with my dear, late friend, Mister John. He had seen much of my trouble that previous year and made a gift of a trip to Morgantown, WV. The performance took place in the university theater. We sat a little further away than I had wanted... but, even from a distance, I could still tell the performers were tired. The music was amazing, but I recognized a droopiness to their moments between songs.
I blame this fatigue on the events to follow.
I saw people working their way to a back room while the bulk of the audience was leaving the theater. I curiously followed the first group of people where a widely smiling woman greeted me. "Oh, hi! Go on in! Peter will be down in just a few minutes. Grab some dessert and coffee!"
"Um, okay."
I texted Mister John asking him to hurry back to where I was... he took pictures of my stupid, nervous moments with him...
Peter walked in... seemed a little taller than I thought he'd be. Seemed tired. As I stared, Mister John poked me in the side. "What's wrong with you? Go talk to him! Save him from those idiots!" Peter had been cornered by two obnoxious girls asking him if they looked Latino to him (Gd, give me patience). I pushed my way through and Peter and I laughed together momentarily about the two girls. I asked him a handful of questions as coolly and casually as I could despite my ridiculous, adolescent, heart-pounding, butterfly feelings.
I learned just a few things... among them, concerning a ring he always wears on his pinkie finger. In all his pictures online or on his albums, he wears that ring. Of course, I considered this tacky... until I found out that it belonged to his grandfather. I pointed to the ring I always wear on my third finger. My grandmother's wedding band. The briefest moment of strangers knowing each other arrived... and went.
He also admitted that he and the band were worn out from traveling. They got off the bus and walked right on stage it seemed. I worked through my congratulations since it was still a wonderful show and mentioned I'd be at the concert in Maryland the week after. He said he'd see me then.
I talked to his bass player after I left him... now completely wired from the experience. The musician seemed amused by my enthusiasm. He mentioned that I should come out with him and the band after the concert next week.
"Well, okay."
The next week, I stayed with Anya and we ventured out together to a really interesting venue. It was a small hall in a restaurant, tables packed into the room l practically on top of each other. My table was so close to the stage, that if I reached out and leaned over, I could have touched Peter's piano bench. He played some of my favorites as well as new material he was working on for his next album (and I'll come back to that album). I wrote furiously in my journal to commemorate the occasion.
After the concert, the bass player called me on my cell to ask me where I was. He and the sax player came to the coffeehouse where Anya and I were having an espresso with a lady we met at the concert. We all walked away together to some club a block or two down the street. I could get into the specifics, but I think I'm content to leave most of that evening in my journal...
I will say, however, that Peter is different when he's rested and awake. His guard was definitely up and he was less warm, less familiar. The only honest moment I was able to squeeze from him came from a conversation I had to steal from one of the other band members. I told him I couldn't imagine what it was like to be him. He shrugged, sighed. Looked me dead in the eye. "Hell - I don't know what it's like to be me..."
My guess, after listening to his third album, is that he still doesn't.
I'm about two years behind in hearing anything from the latest album. It sounds like he took a lot of "good advice" from people in the biz... because it doesn't sound like him anymore. The great piano playing is still there, but now there's so much... stuff. He used to be in a jazz band. Now he has synthesizers and guitars and who knows what else. It's as though he's trying to be... isn't there a band called Coldplay? He's throwing his voice out... I mean, it feels like over-cracking your back. His lyrics are still bittersweet, and at moments thought-provoking... I still hear things with which I used to strongly relate... but the soul is lost. This is not what he started out trying to do. The new songs he played for us years ago are on this album... but they've been stripped of the pure, awesome jazz band sound they had that night...
I realize to a certain extent that you have to appeal to the masses before you have the freedom to do what you really want to do with your art... but, I guess I don't care. I miss looking forward to that which I knew he was capable. I looked at his new official website... it used to be clean and friendly. There were casual pictures of him goofing off with his band members in countries around the world. He was like that guy with whom you went to school who always made everyone laugh. He could have been your first love or your best friend. There was something about his earlier work, his original look, his older, pure sound that made him someone I knew... but this smarmy guy on the website with the stupid hair, the fake coquette tilt of the head, the pop-y garbage veiling his true talent...
...it makes today the day that the music which spoke to me most died.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Monday Review: Commercials
I don't actually have cable anymore. There just doesn't seem to be anything worth watching that I can't find online or on Netflix. The only thing I actually miss are commercials.
I know that sounds strange. Who likes commercials? Daddy taught me when I was relatively young how to record and pause programs on TV to avoid wasting tape on stupid ads about feminine hygiene or Slim Jims.
But, once in a while, there's something touching or smart, and the commercial finally succeeds in its original goal: To convince you to buy their product. Most of us roll our eyes and skim over the ads that pop up online and leave the room for a bathroom break when commercials air between episodes of Seinfeld (I'm showing my ignorance for what's on TV now... I didn't even watch Seinfeld when it was popular).
So, I'll just share with you some old favorites and some new smart spots.
This first link will take you to an old Folgers commercial. I think I've heard that this one has been preserved and it is still aired during the winter holidays (probably starting now, even though we have yet to get through Thanksgiving).
Folgers Christmas with Peter
Remember that one? How simple and sweet. College boy gets a ride home Christmas morning. His little sister wakes up at the sound of the car door and runs downstairs. She hugs her brother and tells him that everyone else is still sleeping. Peter assures her that he can wake everyone up and takes her by the hand to the kitchen. Together they make a pot of coffee and the scent wafts throughout the house inspiring the rest of the household to get out of bed. Of course, everyone sees that Peter's home and then... well, admit it. We all just go to teary-eyed pieces! The feeling is so familiar for us all... we all miss someone around this time of year. Especially as we get older and our families become bigger and more spread out, it hits home so much harder to watch another family finally have their reunion with a distant loved one.
During my summer in France, I had plenty of chances to watch French TV. There are no interruptions of the regular programs. Commercials are aired between shows. There is also an entire station devoted just to the ads. I fell in love with two commercials in particular. The first one, of all things, is an ad for Tic Tac.
A guy wakes up with his buddy, George. George is an abominable snowman, a yeti. His purpose is to walk around with his human on hot days and "refresh" him by shaking his snowy fur and showering his friend with cool water drops. However, as the human soon discovers, George is not very practical for getting around in Paris. So, instead, he sends George back to his icy home and buys himself some Tic Tacs. I adore this commercial. It's just so ridiculous.
My other favorite French commercial is specific to the 2006 World Cup competition. I never really cared for sports, but in France, it's impossible not to get caught up in the passion these people have for the game. The whole world erupts. You can hear streets fill with voices and cheering whenever France wins a game.
So, we have some people hitching a ride with a Frenchman. You're not sure why a bunch of weird people are saying Allez les Bleus (Go Blues!) until you see the driver. If you want a ride, you have to cheer for his team. For the gentleman with the drum at the end of the commercial, this is obviously asking for a great deal... The simplicity of this ad, the pain of the supporters for other teams, is funny and memorable.
I like commercials that give a different look or sound to typical ads. Most of the time you hear pop music, elevator music, or bastardized classic music. You hear a voice over, see a pretty girl, and someone tells you why you need a certain product. In the following commercial, there's none of the very typical elements of advertising.
I actually went out and tried one of these... interesting little soy bars just because I enjoyed the commercial. Someone wrote some semi-funky music to play behind a plain cartoon girl walking along a path. She's not particularly pretty... you probably doodled a version of her in elementary school when you were bored in math class. This girl, who could be any average person, takes a bite of Soy Joy and feels a burst of sweet spontaneity. She joins in with some children (and their pets) for some jump rope and then brazenly kisses a perfect stranger on the mouth and walks away. Aside from the fun animation, it's a smart message to attach to any product. This healthy little snack will have you living life to the fullest in no time, so the ad seems to say...
Last, but not least, my current favorite: I saw this in the movie theater recently, so it's the only example of an up to date ad that I can share.
The best commercials don't need to say very much. They let the images speak for themselves. Here is this geeky little dog with glasses sipping Coca-Cola in a subway car and "talking" out loud. All the "talking" in this commercial is just sound. For the dog, his speech is a half-bark, half-record scratching noise. The subway stops and a gigantic muscle man comes into the car and sits down by the dog. He opens a bottle of Coke and starts "talking" aloud, too. His "talking sound" is an electric guitar. Their speech bubbles begin to blend and they clink glass bottles as friends. I like these opposite characters bonding over soda. It's a great image for us all, to find something that unites us rather than points out our stark and brutal differences. No words necessary to get the point across. Just "Open happiness."
Any great commercials out now that I shouldn't be missing? (And please, don't direct me to the weird Cadbury Gorilla... or that awful walk-in closet commercial for Heineken... Or the outpost.com gerbil cannon... ugh...)
Remember that one? How simple and sweet. College boy gets a ride home Christmas morning. His little sister wakes up at the sound of the car door and runs downstairs. She hugs her brother and tells him that everyone else is still sleeping. Peter assures her that he can wake everyone up and takes her by the hand to the kitchen. Together they make a pot of coffee and the scent wafts throughout the house inspiring the rest of the household to get out of bed. Of course, everyone sees that Peter's home and then... well, admit it. We all just go to teary-eyed pieces! The feeling is so familiar for us all... we all miss someone around this time of year. Especially as we get older and our families become bigger and more spread out, it hits home so much harder to watch another family finally have their reunion with a distant loved one.
During my summer in France, I had plenty of chances to watch French TV. There are no interruptions of the regular programs. Commercials are aired between shows. There is also an entire station devoted just to the ads. I fell in love with two commercials in particular. The first one, of all things, is an ad for Tic Tac.
A guy wakes up with his buddy, George. George is an abominable snowman, a yeti. His purpose is to walk around with his human on hot days and "refresh" him by shaking his snowy fur and showering his friend with cool water drops. However, as the human soon discovers, George is not very practical for getting around in Paris. So, instead, he sends George back to his icy home and buys himself some Tic Tacs. I adore this commercial. It's just so ridiculous.
My other favorite French commercial is specific to the 2006 World Cup competition. I never really cared for sports, but in France, it's impossible not to get caught up in the passion these people have for the game. The whole world erupts. You can hear streets fill with voices and cheering whenever France wins a game.
So, we have some people hitching a ride with a Frenchman. You're not sure why a bunch of weird people are saying Allez les Bleus (Go Blues!) until you see the driver. If you want a ride, you have to cheer for his team. For the gentleman with the drum at the end of the commercial, this is obviously asking for a great deal... The simplicity of this ad, the pain of the supporters for other teams, is funny and memorable.
I like commercials that give a different look or sound to typical ads. Most of the time you hear pop music, elevator music, or bastardized classic music. You hear a voice over, see a pretty girl, and someone tells you why you need a certain product. In the following commercial, there's none of the very typical elements of advertising.
I actually went out and tried one of these... interesting little soy bars just because I enjoyed the commercial. Someone wrote some semi-funky music to play behind a plain cartoon girl walking along a path. She's not particularly pretty... you probably doodled a version of her in elementary school when you were bored in math class. This girl, who could be any average person, takes a bite of Soy Joy and feels a burst of sweet spontaneity. She joins in with some children (and their pets) for some jump rope and then brazenly kisses a perfect stranger on the mouth and walks away. Aside from the fun animation, it's a smart message to attach to any product. This healthy little snack will have you living life to the fullest in no time, so the ad seems to say...
Last, but not least, my current favorite: I saw this in the movie theater recently, so it's the only example of an up to date ad that I can share.
The best commercials don't need to say very much. They let the images speak for themselves. Here is this geeky little dog with glasses sipping Coca-Cola in a subway car and "talking" out loud. All the "talking" in this commercial is just sound. For the dog, his speech is a half-bark, half-record scratching noise. The subway stops and a gigantic muscle man comes into the car and sits down by the dog. He opens a bottle of Coke and starts "talking" aloud, too. His "talking sound" is an electric guitar. Their speech bubbles begin to blend and they clink glass bottles as friends. I like these opposite characters bonding over soda. It's a great image for us all, to find something that unites us rather than points out our stark and brutal differences. No words necessary to get the point across. Just "Open happiness."
Any great commercials out now that I shouldn't be missing? (And please, don't direct me to the weird Cadbury Gorilla... or that awful walk-in closet commercial for Heineken... Or the outpost.com gerbil cannon... ugh...)
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Sunday Reflections: Revel in falling back
It doesn't sound like much. One hour. But "Falling Back" for Daylight Savings is one of my favorite yearly events. When you have somewhat irritable sleep habits, like me, (or perhaps this day/night inversion issue), one extra hour to sleep, that very next day, is pure bliss.
This should indicate that "Springing Forward" is my least favorite time of year (that and those months beginning with the letter "A"...). Losing an hour when I probably wasn't sleeping to begin with upsets me greatly...
...and I'm an angry morning person. Some people need alcohol or some other substance to draw out the monster within... all I require is rising before 10AM and the she-witch is instantly released! It's actually a little disturbing... I don't mean to be nasty and, often, I won't even remember the exchange with the unfortunate soul who wakes me. But, my "witching hour" has no Abort Button that I know of.
I don't do anything greatly funny or interesting when my slumber is interrupted. I think I growl a bit. I've thrown my share of pillows. I throw books when vigorously shaken or bothered. I whine like a toddler if the covers are drawn down. That sort of thing.
I've heard that sometimes I talk just before waking... though I almost never remember this. I was once informed that I said, "Oh, give me that knife! I'll cut it!" I shudder to think what it was I was dreaming about...
I hardly ever remember my dreams. And yet, it's almost as though they hold me down, a heavy dark blanket on my brain, when I'm trying to wake up. This is how I manage to hit the Snooze Button for about two hours before my alarm clocks gives up on me. I doubt I'm ever dreaming of anything really amazing like flying, or creating a new color... I'm usually in a meeting, talking someone out of doing something stupid, hiding prophecies, etc. I don't know if I'm emotionally tied to wanting closure for these situations or what.
I do know that I'd rather be flying... (Anyone have flying dreams? I've only dreamt of flying once... I transformed myself into a Harpy and forced into exile in order to save the lives of community... YEAH...)
I'm not insinuating that Daylight Savings will give me a break from the angry, heavy sleeping, but I have remembered feeling good the second day of "Falling Back' in past years. Maybe that extra hour gives me some wiggle room to find my perfect sleeping cycle. There is some amount of time between 6.5 hours and 7 hours that actually provides for me that bizarre, rare, refreshed feeling upon waking. I am almost always unsucessful at hitting this number on the nose. I either sleep too little or too much (too much is the worst... I feel like a slug all day with too much sleep... and that's anywhere between 8 and 10 hours of downtime).
I like the darkness, maybe. Summer always screws me up because it's pretty light outside until 7 PM or so. In Fall, it starts to get dark around 5ish... and with the cold air, it gets easier to see stars at a reasonable time before going to sleep. The dark and cold is also better for my frequent headaches. I know these are the same reasons some people hate Daylight Savings at the end of the year. They need light to feel awake and alive. But, I'm a creature of the night and thrive in the sun's reflection...
...makes me seem a bit like Lanford... Mokey's Night Blooming Death Wart...
(from http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net)
My brains are mushy after the busy weekend... so, sorry to pull a "Dear Diary" entry on everyone! Please, enjoy your extra hour of sleep before returning to work tomorrow! Revel in the gift of "Falling Back!"
And in the meantime, if anyone has some interesting sleep, dream, sleep-talking, or getting-somewhere-too-early-thanks-to-stupid-Daylight-Savings-time stories to share, feel free to comment!
This should indicate that "Springing Forward" is my least favorite time of year (that and those months beginning with the letter "A"...). Losing an hour when I probably wasn't sleeping to begin with upsets me greatly...
...and I'm an angry morning person. Some people need alcohol or some other substance to draw out the monster within... all I require is rising before 10AM and the she-witch is instantly released! It's actually a little disturbing... I don't mean to be nasty and, often, I won't even remember the exchange with the unfortunate soul who wakes me. But, my "witching hour" has no Abort Button that I know of.
I don't do anything greatly funny or interesting when my slumber is interrupted. I think I growl a bit. I've thrown my share of pillows. I throw books when vigorously shaken or bothered. I whine like a toddler if the covers are drawn down. That sort of thing.
I've heard that sometimes I talk just before waking... though I almost never remember this. I was once informed that I said, "Oh, give me that knife! I'll cut it!" I shudder to think what it was I was dreaming about...
I hardly ever remember my dreams. And yet, it's almost as though they hold me down, a heavy dark blanket on my brain, when I'm trying to wake up. This is how I manage to hit the Snooze Button for about two hours before my alarm clocks gives up on me. I doubt I'm ever dreaming of anything really amazing like flying, or creating a new color... I'm usually in a meeting, talking someone out of doing something stupid, hiding prophecies, etc. I don't know if I'm emotionally tied to wanting closure for these situations or what.
I do know that I'd rather be flying... (Anyone have flying dreams? I've only dreamt of flying once... I transformed myself into a Harpy and forced into exile in order to save the lives of community... YEAH...)
I'm not insinuating that Daylight Savings will give me a break from the angry, heavy sleeping, but I have remembered feeling good the second day of "Falling Back' in past years. Maybe that extra hour gives me some wiggle room to find my perfect sleeping cycle. There is some amount of time between 6.5 hours and 7 hours that actually provides for me that bizarre, rare, refreshed feeling upon waking. I am almost always unsucessful at hitting this number on the nose. I either sleep too little or too much (too much is the worst... I feel like a slug all day with too much sleep... and that's anywhere between 8 and 10 hours of downtime).
I like the darkness, maybe. Summer always screws me up because it's pretty light outside until 7 PM or so. In Fall, it starts to get dark around 5ish... and with the cold air, it gets easier to see stars at a reasonable time before going to sleep. The dark and cold is also better for my frequent headaches. I know these are the same reasons some people hate Daylight Savings at the end of the year. They need light to feel awake and alive. But, I'm a creature of the night and thrive in the sun's reflection...
...makes me seem a bit like Lanford... Mokey's Night Blooming Death Wart...
(from http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net)My brains are mushy after the busy weekend... so, sorry to pull a "Dear Diary" entry on everyone! Please, enjoy your extra hour of sleep before returning to work tomorrow! Revel in the gift of "Falling Back!"
And in the meantime, if anyone has some interesting sleep, dream, sleep-talking, or getting-somewhere-too-early-thanks-to-stupid-Daylight-Savings-time stories to share, feel free to comment!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)