I have a favorite Beatles song and that seems weird to me. But I know it now, I always have. It's And Your Bird Can Sing: period. The best Beatles songs ever. They sing like four Siamese twin princes from soul space on that song and it's got that impossible guitar part. Plus, it's about rejection, which I'm sure the Beatles, at that time, must've been going through a ton of.
But, I think they're biggest accomplishment is this song Long, Long, Long, which is a George Harrison song so some people think it doesn't count. But Long, Long, Long, just like And Your Bird Can Sing sounds like it is beyond even what the Beatles could do. It's weird, weird, weird and really beautiful. And if people want to get technical with me I hear that it's only three Beatles on that song, no John Lennon who I think may have been out doing drugs.
Anyway, I can't sleep. Ten, fifteen years I've been up at four every morning wondering what to do. I figured it out when I got an ipod, and I think when I started this web-logging thing, it was the first thing I talked about...how the ipod saved my life, it got me out and running and it let me listen and be into music again AND I now spend that awake time simply listening...really listening to music...not doing anything else, just listening, like you used to have time to do when you were a kid. It's great and I've been listening to And Your Bird Can Sing and Long, Long, Long and I don't care if I sleep or not.
Sometimes, however, the ipod messes with my dreams because I do fall asleep eventually and often in my dreams I will be, say, a salesman at a stereo shop, and some customers come in, and I realize I've got the music playing way too loud in the shop, but when I go to turn it down I cannot find the knob. And the people are telling me what kind of stereo they want, but I can't hear them because of the music, and I am going to blow the sale.
That night, I had a dream that I was in the old copy-shop in Harvard Square where I used to work with Kurt. Same building, only now it was a record store. Everyone in there was singing Long, Long, Long. It was beautiful and sad and we were all a magical wonderful chorus. But then something else was going on, and we were all looking toward the door or outside the window because there was something, like a shooting, or the cops were coming, something. And I said to all the people in the record store, "What is it, violence?"
Turns out it was my mom calling out for help. I had tested the earbud thing all night. Put them on so my thoughts wouldn't drive me insane, and pulled them off at least six times when she started snoring or coughing across the hall. So, I thought it was a safe bet that I wouldn't sleep through or miss anything important and to my credit I think I heard the first call in the dream and was up as the she called a second time. My dad, too.
This time she wanted to go to the hospital. But getting her into the ambulance was no picnic. She's immobile due to a terribly messed up back, and like I said, she has some trouble expressing herself. But she was afraid the ambulance guys were going to drop her. They had her in a sitting up kind of chair to move her out instead of a stretcher, and just sitting for her is difficult. And this chair thing had no sides. I thought they were going to drop her, too.
My mom does not complain. My dad does. My sister does, and I do. But my mom doesn't. So it's hard to tell how far things have gotten before she calls out. As they were wheeling her through the garage (possibly the coldest garage on record) she simply said: "I can't take it." She was wrapped in these thin white blankets. They had kind of swaddled her in them, covered her head with them and she reminded me of Thumbelina when Danny Kaye does it in Hans Christian Andersen. Her little face sticking out, and her button eyes. Thumbelina, if she was getting ready to go into the ambulance on the coldest, darkest morning in history. Me and my dad, putting our pants on. Nobody escapes going through this part of our lives, but I have been absent for a lot of it. As grim as it seems, I am happy I was there, to be with them.
It turns out she wasn't getting enough oxygen, and we believe that caused her to panic (of course) but I can't figure out if she knew it or not. She may not have been able to figure it out, and she may have been hiding it from us, either because she doesn't want to complain or she wants to stay out of the hospital at all costs.
Anyway, I don't know how to end this particular entry. I promise that the ones that follow will have reports about fruit and more scores with me and the world going at it. I just had to process this stuff quickly, in this disjointed way.
We are hoping she just needs some of her meds adjusted. She feels better at home, with my dad taking care of her. My dad: Mr. Super-Step-Up-To-The-Plate. Hoorah for the both of them.
I am back in California. This was a working vacation, that had some complications.
I had delicious pineapple with Guy, Pam, Steve and Scotty, if that helps.
Anyway.
Dear Time,
What the fuck.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Part One
Let me update you.
The last half of my life starts with a death. My move from Boston in 1989 or 90 was prompted by a death. My move to San Francisco: same death. And my little trip to Boston last week (Cambridge, to be fair) still revolves around this one death.
Wait. I should say life, right? All of this revolves around this one guy's life, who he happened to die. Life and death. I do not want to write about them.
I wanted to see old friends, that's all. Have a reason to go out there, to Boston. Have everybody say how great I am. So I got together a party with some bands and cds. It was no big deal. But it was too much. Too many people, too little time. Even if we were all just sitting in a bar for four hours, there would not have been enough time. Forget that there was a show going on, and forget that I felt responsible for everything that was going on with the show. I had to choose between little teeny minute to minute whispery chat sessions with people or watching the show. Plus, I didn't want to get all choked up and misty-eyed, thank you. I did not think I could take it, not when I had to go sing a song. I chose the chat sessions, skipped the show, then I skipped the chat sessions, sat at the merch table.
This misty-eyed thing is weird, too. I can't ever tell if it's just because I miss someone, or how great everyone is and we're all full of love, or if it's just how great and warm and loving I am. That does not seem right.
I got this feeling on this trip that I've missed out on all sorts of stuff. I always feel that way, but this trip brought it home. Everybody, it seems has taken the last 25 years and made a life for themselves. I don't know. I came out to San Francisco for weird reasons. And I've mostly stayed out here to play music (or, to have the possibility of playing music) and because I live in a rent controlled apartment. Quite frankly, I find this town is a little too "successful" for me. Everyone in San Francisco is great and I have kind of floundered. I find myself to be kind of old, and alone, with a cat.
Cat is nice. I am happy. He does his business outdoors, most of the time.
I had difficulties during this trip. I have to work all the time but it's online stuff. So, I carried my laptop all around. I had a strict schedule and that was nerve-wracking. My mom was in the other room and I had to be in this other room working instead of spending time with her. This is nothing to complain about, I suppose, having to work. How about: I am happy I have a job. I hope I just didn't mess up my job karma by complaining. Because I've got stuff in my past that makes me extra nervous about not doing a good enough job at a job. It doesn't, however, make me do a better job.
I have secret stuff in my past, and the thing is, I can't know how secret it is, because it is unspoken. The one time, on my trip, that I had a chance to spend some real time with someone, they dredged up the secret-secrets in my past. I did not think that it could be used to help someone. I have not been able to keep score too well during this trip. It was way too complicated. But here's the first official score of this blog. My awful past used to help somebody else. Take that: Ray 1, World 0.
I was looking for a new life out in New England. I was hoping something amazing was going to open up for me, pull me along in some sort of whirlwind of energy and good fortune. It did not. I could see no openings out there for me. Not that anything was closed off out there. I was just hoping for, I don't know.
My mom is 82 and is as cute as a button. She had just gotten back from the hospital when I got there. She had some complications. That last Sunday the ambulance had to come out once but she wouldn't go. Me and my dad stayed up with her most of the night to keep an eye on her. She's got this cough and I went in and gave her a cough drop. I knew not to leave her alone with a cough drop. I wouldn't want to be left alone with one. Especially cherry. So, I got a little Johnnie Walker Red (to emulate her cherry cough drop) and we got to talk a little bit. She has some trouble expressing herself. But it was a good bunch of moments strung together. It felt like a gift, and that made me worry. I cannot take anything good without an equal amount of worry. Isn't that Newton through Murphy?
The last half of my life starts with a death. My move from Boston in 1989 or 90 was prompted by a death. My move to San Francisco: same death. And my little trip to Boston last week (Cambridge, to be fair) still revolves around this one death.
Wait. I should say life, right? All of this revolves around this one guy's life, who he happened to die. Life and death. I do not want to write about them.
I wanted to see old friends, that's all. Have a reason to go out there, to Boston. Have everybody say how great I am. So I got together a party with some bands and cds. It was no big deal. But it was too much. Too many people, too little time. Even if we were all just sitting in a bar for four hours, there would not have been enough time. Forget that there was a show going on, and forget that I felt responsible for everything that was going on with the show. I had to choose between little teeny minute to minute whispery chat sessions with people or watching the show. Plus, I didn't want to get all choked up and misty-eyed, thank you. I did not think I could take it, not when I had to go sing a song. I chose the chat sessions, skipped the show, then I skipped the chat sessions, sat at the merch table.
This misty-eyed thing is weird, too. I can't ever tell if it's just because I miss someone, or how great everyone is and we're all full of love, or if it's just how great and warm and loving I am. That does not seem right.
I got this feeling on this trip that I've missed out on all sorts of stuff. I always feel that way, but this trip brought it home. Everybody, it seems has taken the last 25 years and made a life for themselves. I don't know. I came out to San Francisco for weird reasons. And I've mostly stayed out here to play music (or, to have the possibility of playing music) and because I live in a rent controlled apartment. Quite frankly, I find this town is a little too "successful" for me. Everyone in San Francisco is great and I have kind of floundered. I find myself to be kind of old, and alone, with a cat.
Cat is nice. I am happy. He does his business outdoors, most of the time.
I had difficulties during this trip. I have to work all the time but it's online stuff. So, I carried my laptop all around. I had a strict schedule and that was nerve-wracking. My mom was in the other room and I had to be in this other room working instead of spending time with her. This is nothing to complain about, I suppose, having to work. How about: I am happy I have a job. I hope I just didn't mess up my job karma by complaining. Because I've got stuff in my past that makes me extra nervous about not doing a good enough job at a job. It doesn't, however, make me do a better job.
I have secret stuff in my past, and the thing is, I can't know how secret it is, because it is unspoken. The one time, on my trip, that I had a chance to spend some real time with someone, they dredged up the secret-secrets in my past. I did not think that it could be used to help someone. I have not been able to keep score too well during this trip. It was way too complicated. But here's the first official score of this blog. My awful past used to help somebody else. Take that: Ray 1, World 0.
I was looking for a new life out in New England. I was hoping something amazing was going to open up for me, pull me along in some sort of whirlwind of energy and good fortune. It did not. I could see no openings out there for me. Not that anything was closed off out there. I was just hoping for, I don't know.
My mom is 82 and is as cute as a button. She had just gotten back from the hospital when I got there. She had some complications. That last Sunday the ambulance had to come out once but she wouldn't go. Me and my dad stayed up with her most of the night to keep an eye on her. She's got this cough and I went in and gave her a cough drop. I knew not to leave her alone with a cough drop. I wouldn't want to be left alone with one. Especially cherry. So, I got a little Johnnie Walker Red (to emulate her cherry cough drop) and we got to talk a little bit. She has some trouble expressing herself. But it was a good bunch of moments strung together. It felt like a gift, and that made me worry. I cannot take anything good without an equal amount of worry. Isn't that Newton through Murphy?
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