The Subtle Art of Getting Lost.

Photo by J.Cole

My morning is met by the usual routine of getting my daughters out the door to school and plotting which home project needs the most attention. I feel completely unmotivated and really have become so disconnected from the illusion of the “American Dream” that I desperately seek a way to entertain the silence of the empty house after nine am. I only turn on the TV briefly and it’s more political analysis of who said what and did what in the world yesterday. I cannot find the remote fast enough ….. . *click*

Something is no longer completely satisfying in acquiring things and subscribing to conclusions to this existence. The formulas no longer satisfy a thirst I once found through philosophy, religion or political leanings . I have lost something but at the same time gained something mysteriously essential again buried deep in a mind that longs to be protected at all costs.

I find myself now instead of suppressing uncertainty letting it run wild but you know what else I noticed about living out loud in this “ either/or ” society ? An immediate resistance .We don’t like questions very much…. in fact at all. We have pledged to wanting answers and certainty above all else. The terrifying conclusion to all this for the person I thought I was is ” there’s no arrivals here.” I keep evolving in front of my peers and I get stage fright but the universe seems indifferent to my pleas for relief. It had been there all along coming out in brief moments of curiosity. Looking back now I see the reoccurring theme. When are you going to own your shit Jeff ? When are you going to stop pretending your not terrified, lonely and well…. lost ?

Every group or belief system or political ideology and institution I ever tried to be part of eventually showed me the door because I had too many questions. Yeah , yeah perhaps I could have not been such an arrogant ass in my attitude about it but hey losing your beliefs is pretty scary. I mean after all ….who will you be after that ? I sometimes admire and respect those who can look around at their own tribe and try and ” own their shit” but it’s very rare these days because lets be honest….. bias is just damn good marketing.

Half the time I don’t know how I really feel about many things but I try and think very deeply and timely on them. I’m not going to fake it just to fit in and get along. I’ve done that to my dismay. I don’t want my kids to waste years living in fear of seeking who they really are because of what someone else thinks. It’s hell and not worth it. I want them to be brave. Even brave enough to get it wrong because the alternative is just too exhausting.

I suspect we were meant to be pioneers in this life. Curious. With that also comes the terror of uncertainty, looking foolish at times, awkward transitions, loneliness and getting lost. Kind of like the first time I asked out that girl I had a big crush on when I was in high school. My cool was purely fabricated and she defiantly saw through it anyway.

Sometimes I think about explorers and my ancestry who just set out on vast open oceans and lands with no GPS or guarantees of safety to build a new life. Can you imagine just packing up your family into a wagon or ship and heading out thousands of miles to a strange unfamiliar territory ? I can’t because I’m too ridiculously conditioned for comfort.

Everyday I’m reminded through social media of the horrors of society out there but that’s not even the worst part of social media. The worst part is the addiction I see to certainty. It’s worshipped like a ten thousand foot idol of titanium. People post ramblings and end with ” wake up” as if their the only one who has the REAL truth. Each side of political spectrum takes the worst behavior of the other and claims….”SEE ! This is who they really are!”

I guess it’s what we do as humans who are desperately seeking to belong to something bigger than ourselves but it doesn’t scratch the surface of individual evolution. It can’t because it appeals to never changing. Being certain. Protecting who I think I am. Pure ego. Being right. I believe there’s salvation though in asking ” but what if I’m wrong?” When I first became increasingly aware of it there was a deep uneasy feeling. No one wants to feel that . It’s uncertain wandering creates a feeling of being lost. Humility is brutal. Painfully electric but also incredibly aware. It’s isolating and demands silence but it also if I let it creates kindness and empathy. Something humanity is in desperate need of.

“First remove the plank from your own eye before removing the speck from your brothers eye.”

I hear the best son a father could have said those words two thousand years ago. He said a lot of things people didn’t like to hear and eventually the story goes he got killed by those who thought they had it all figured out. It’s one of his more unpopular sayings. I can see why.

Ouch !

My grandfather years ago when I was kid said ” you got two ears and one mouth because you should listen twice as much as speak . “

When I listen to those who share their experience beyond mine . I feel lost . Good ! Listen ! And change your perspective.

What Fishing Has to Teach Us on Our Ideas of Success.

The sun was blistering down on me by mid morning. I did everything one should do as far as sun protection but it was becoming too hot to stay out on the lake. I had one bite ( probably a small bait fish ) and my mind began to go into a battle of calling it a day or trying one more spot on a particular rocky shoal a few hundred yards away. I set my kayak in that direction.

Sometime in May I began to become interested in bass fishing. Living near the largest reservoir in Georgia certainly helped but it seemed more like a need for something deeper or the sheer distraction of a global pandemic. Talk about your social distancing. It’s a fifty eight thousand acre lake.

My first attempts were naive as I just threw any lure into the vast open water expecting a fish. Then I watched several YouTube videos on where to throw on the lake and what kinds of different lures there were. Times of day matter along with weather. It can make your head spin at the amount of info you need to become more efficient.

I don’t own a great kayak or fishing rod and reel. I didn’t even know the difference between types of rigs or the vast array of class of lures. I knew the lake pretty well from just kayaking around the southern end near the damn. There are several parks you can launch from and I’m always seeing fishing going on from the banks, boats and kayaks.

I saw a guy one morning reel in a decent size bass as I tried to fix a major bird’s nest ( extreme tangle ) about 50 yards away. After a few four letter words of outrage at my reel dilemma I rowed to shore and loaded the truck and went home disappointed. More study was definitely needed but after a few beers of course.

I diligently studied lake maps to find sudden drop offs in depth of water and wandered sporting good stores in search of  better line , lures , rods and reels. I learned various rigs and kept hitting the lake trying different techniques. I was getting big bites now and then but still couldn’t seem to land them or set the hook. I would occasionally catch a glimpse on my phone of someone on Facebook or Instagram take pics of their latest prize from various waterways. UGH ! More reading , more studying.

Then , one morning in mid-July while camping I hauled out to a point across the cove in the lake with a rig I had practiced with for weeks. I determined the drop off by the change in color of the water. Casted here and there , nothing. Then to the rocky shoal. A few snags and lost rigs later and a few bites, nothing. Heading back disappointed again feeling like a failure that I would never get this I rowed back to the previous point. Casted and BOOM! A big bite that took me by surprise. It was on and it was a 3 pound beauty. I got the largemouth bass into the kayak and was incredibly elated with joy. I took a pic of course. Then I felt an unbelievable peace and sense of accomplishment.

When I saw that guy pull in that bass weeks ago it seemed like he just threw that line and landed that bass. I was wondering if there was someone just starting out who saw me do the same that mid morning. What it doesn’t show is the weeks of trying. The crappy days of not knowing what we are doing. The study and hours of no bites. The dash of hopes after being so confident that “today is the day ! ” only to be disappointed again. The many days of failure and frustration which turns out are the very thing that successes are made of.

We live in a social media frenzy of accomplished feats through pictures and perceptions of instantly arrived goals. I too contributed by posting a pic but I’m thinking wouldn’t we all benefit too from the other pics ? Like a selfie posed in a firm jaw uttering swear word , sunburn from missed sunscreen spots , warm Deer Park waters rolling around in the hull , warm cokes , crushed Cheez- Itz crumbs , hooks in the thumb , snagged lines and constant ” one more cast and then I’ll go” lies. It wasn’t all bad though as I also managed to see some beautiful sunsets , go for a swim , see some wildlife and find much needed solitude.

I’m still no expert by a long shot and there is so much more to learn. One fish after several weeks of trying. The pay off on paper looks small. It’s an investment I might have passed on but what it taught me about what I can still put my mind too was priceless.

Leaving Las Vegas

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Somewhere in the dessert of my mind is an oasis of fantasy and wonder. Hopes and dreams abound there with the idea of instant gratification of a life mastered by skill and good fortune. Which is why is it so hard to stay present when it’s so good for us. It’s why salads look far less appetizing then cheeseburgers and fries. It’s probably why we sit in cubicles and wait desperately for our vacations months away with the impatience of a seven year old on Christmas in early December.

Obviously it makes sense to me that a margarita on the beach of some tropical island on a dreary January Monday makes perfect sense of bliss. It’s also painfully obvious that I find meat and potatoes in any form superior to vegetables but that’s not to say I hate vegetables either.

There in lies the rub.

There’s a peculiar component to patience that seems to get hidden in the nobility of it’s virtue. Skillfully accepting there is only now. I’m always waiting for the next best thing like football season, summer backyard parties, trips to Epcot International Food fest and concerts but also the rarely talked about endurance of trials and personal ordeals of life’s monkey wrenches.

Many of us can’t remember a random Tuesday in February of 2007 but for others events of greatness and tragedy tend to lend themselves to perfectly etched stone markers. For this conversation though I’ll stick with the latter of hanging on till the next great thing.

If we took apart the year it would seem the majority is mildly uneventful grey mind numbing bouts of dealing with difficult people and situations , family squabbles and political work environments of the usual obstacles of imperfect humanity peppered in between stretches of boredom and internet fixation.

We post memes at seven am on Facebook of beaches and mountain landscapes with cleverly written memes to remind ourselves and others of the fondness of our favorite destinations and they’re therapeutic value usually before work. They sure beat the hell out of political ones I’ll give them that. Surrounded in and about are also the inspirational memes like vast paragons of virtues we aspire to but can’t seem to arrive at and thus the call for the humorous brash ones that are in good order for a chuckle.

Oh the irony of being human.

I am reminded of that feeling when the vacation is over. When your boarding the plane or putting the last backpack in the car in-between the hugs goodbye and one last pic of the beach or mountain in the background . There’s the memories made about the time you had with the hum of the plane or car ride back to our homes creating a prefect backdrop of unbiased soundscape . It’s a big ordeal sometimes with the family but maybe it is a sense of adventure found deep within our DNA of our ancestors. Well although maybe not as life threatening but adventurous nonetheless.

What if we could reverse the mindset a bit ? What if instead of hanging all our longings into getting away we could fill the gaps of life with taking the time to become really present of our put off desires. What if we finally took up that painting class or started picking up that instrument we have put down since the days in the band. Maybe there’s a blog you’ve wanted to write or car that needs restoring. Is there a house project that you’ve been putting off ? Maybe your finally going to get serious about your health and lose weight or eat better and learn to cook with passion.

My point is yes, it’s great planning vacations and parties and going to events but real life is happening all the time and I fear I’m aware of so little of the opportunities while it’s passing by.

And also yes, the world is mad and Vegas looks good about now but it always has been. There isn’t a time in history that doesn’t show humans acting to their most insecure ability . We need to stop being bullied by our thoughts and the thoughts of others by courageously moving on from a distant oasis of fantasy about a false idea of what happiness ONLY is. Sure , I get it…being rich would be awesome and honestly it would most likely make me happy. Yeah I said it. But again waiting on something without practical integrity or action to get there isn’t happiness either. It’s the opposite.

Your perfect life is the only life and is now within the available opportunities of action. To express yourself so that when getaway time does comes to sit in that chair on the beach with your favorite beverage your grin will say it all from a very deep place within.

How A Song is Manifested From Thought.

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Years ago I heard it said that ” The song will tell you how it wants to be written. ” I’ve been writing songs for about 30 years now. I never charted a top 40 hit or had a career in music but since the odds of that are a gazillion to one it still doesn’t mean we can’t learn a craft of the select 1% who have.

My first songs were straight forward and I could always hear every instrument and where it traveled to. Collaborations can be a little hard for me due to I really like controlling all the aspects of the beat, drum fills, bass lines and arrangement. I learned quickly though that having other’s input gave a nice mix of other styles and patterns I wouldn’t have thought of. Still when it comes to writing there’s nothing more I love then sitting down in the studio and tackling the whole process myself.

The first part is the thought of the song. This can happen either by hearing something in your mind or just fooling around on an instrument. Usually guitar or piano.To me it is one of the most inspirational parts of the process. You hear some chords chaining together. They can move you very quickly into a loop of deep fondness of wanting to create something that feels deeper than words.

Next you may here a melody by the voice or a guitar. Maybe a beat and a bass line. I even get to the point where I hear the backing vocals and some words. You keep playing it over and over changing a piece of it here and there. Like sculpting clay. Perhaps then a phrase comes to mind. Before you know it you have a strong desire to begin recording.

It is usually around this time that the process gets sticky. I can feel bullied by a need for lyrics and arrangement. The natural flow of creative fun turns into a wild maze of possibilities. Sure the song has natural direction so far but at this point is where the real structure haunts you.

Lyrics can be tricky. Too flowery a suggestion can make the whole point ring hollow. Writing lyrics is not rocket science but writing really good ones set to rhythms and melody are the real mastering of songwriting . Usually they start on napkins, sketch pads, back of store receipts and even speaking and or writing them into my iPhone. I still prefer a legal pad. This way you can see all the words and crossing off phrases that don’t work constantly visualizing the content. It may take days of coming back to them before they are set to melodies which forces them into a rhythm of syllables.

The verse is where most of the lyrical magic happens. You can be witty and create obscure poetic references about your topic here. It can be either flowing like refreshingly smooth pub tapped beer or chewing cheap overcooked steak. Some people write to make a specific and persistent point. They want the listener to get it right away and tend to stay in the literal topic lagoon of shallow simplicity. This would be your pop variety of songs. Then there’s the mystics like me who want you to work for the meaning. We tend to write in the deep end of the pool and wax symbolic about life’s mysteries. Sometimes you can combine both. The Beatles had this knack and did so brilliantly. They went from ” She Loves You YEAH YEAH YEAH ” to ” I read the news today oh boy..” Sometimes they would write just for themselves with no attempt at a meaning to be understood. Bowie, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin are others who wrote brilliant lyrics in deeply colorful tapestries of concepts that could reach in and grab the soul and make you ponder. Those are the lyrics I love.

When it comes time to record the next hurdle is finding the right beat and drum track. Today you can buy a completely recorded drum kit in loop or full several minute multi-track performance. A “loop” is only a few seconds and can be made to be played over and over giving a firm backbeat to play on. A fully arranged drum multi- track is usually about 3 minutes long with various parts that you can cut and paste in a recording software program. It can be daunting trying to arrange like this but the results are well worth it if you have specific parts in mind.

The arranging of the song can change and usually does for me several times. Most songs have an intro, verse, chorus and bridge. Arranging is my least favorite part. The air of enthusiasm and momentum can really quickly go out of the balloon here. This is where songs can wind up in a junk yard of riffs and sections to be used later if the process gets tiresome and unsatisfying.

 

After all the parts have been added and performances mastered then comes my favorite part of the whole process. The mixing. Mixing is a true skill. Getting all those instruments and voices in the right frequency of band width to layer and knowing when and when not to use effects is a real challenge. I cannot listen to music anymore since I learned this with out a critical ear. Just because it’s on a cd or iTunes or the radio doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion about the level of the snare drum or the guitar sound. This process usually takes another week and to be honest I never really feel satisfied by a mix. You can mix and remix and take it out to the car ( my favorite listening monitors ) and hear something needs boosting or needs to be compressed . Maybe the vocals got buried or the bass and drums are not in their own space. Guitars can get brassy like tin foil or as thick as Mississippi riverbed mud. Vocals can shrill and untamed bass end can suck all the energy out of a mix. Which is why it is crucial as a songwriter to learn equalization and compression.

One of the trickiest parts of the songwriting process is to know when to leave it alone. Parts may not be played to perfection but have more feel. To me this is more important then being absolutely technically on. A lot of music today is compressed to the point of not being able to breathe for the listener’s ear. Far too many overdubs and compression. An overdub is when an instrument is recorded again and again to ” fatten ” the sound of it. If you listen to older music they didn’t have the luxury of unlimited tracks. A track is one channel for an instrument or vocal. Imagine having 128 tracks . Now imagine the 60’s when The Beatles had only 4 tracks. They recorded Sgt.Pepper on only 4 tracks. Much of the early 70’s was recorded on 8 track. Yeah so I have more technology and tracks available on my laptop then Pink Floyd did on Dark Side of the Moon. In my opinion technology is a wonderful thing but at the same time perhaps we’ve overlooked the desire to have less choice in defining the equal sum of the whole by that which must be defined by critical placement of it’s parts.

 

Moon Age Daydreams

 

Did you hear ? Willy Wonka passed away. Who is going to run the factory now ?

Oh yeah…he gave it to that Charlie kid. He’s got to be what by now , in his 50’s ? Just like me.

So Willy Wonka moved on to the next great unknown. My hope is it was just like when they opened the door to the heart of the factory. A world of unimaginable color and sweet goodness opening before you. I’d imagine that they would even play that song upon entering .

As night falls on a particular corner of a suburban matrix of America I call my home I am desperately exhausted. I suspect not from physical effort but from something I can’t quite put my finger on . In the dimly lit room the anxiety is being filed away and I’m ready for nightly meditation of clearing the mind. Slipping down below the conscious threshold descending into a deep black hole of subconsciousness.

I am transported back to 1972. Every moment is preserved for observation. But why am I here? A likely cause is the death of Gene Wilder has interrupted a circuit in my brain and shaken it loose to the surface. It’s only inevitable that icons of my childhood will meet the end of their physical time here on earth as I grow older too. As I am immediately transported back to being that age , I can almost smell and feel the weather and hear the sounds. There is the sweet , almost iced tea /citrus like smell of the rain of an instant thunderstorm as it hits the sidewalks of that summer. The honeysuckle on the edge of the field of an undeveloped lot held back by a half fallen rusted chain-link fence as my dad and I walked to the local 7-11 to get a baseball cup large sized Slurpee. I’m so aware of my senses. I’m so aware period!

Growing up in the 70’s in a Philly suburb was a range of perfectly themed and colorfully abstract emotionally charged mental images that I cannot do justice to it in mere word but I’ll try. The first thing I notice is I can see the plastic woven lawn chairs and the really awesome cars. Well except the Pinto and Vega parked along side of those beautiful muscle cars. There’s a weird round vehicle coming down the street. Oh my YES!, It’s a mosquito truck spraying DDT on our street as we rode our Schwinn bikes with banana seats and sissy bars through the fog that made cool effects of tapering swirls of amber colored illuminating light and smoke. Probably not the healthiest of activities but our parents didn’t seem to care or mind as they watched from the curb.

There’s my parents laughing and conversing sitting in the courtyard of our apartment complex. They look happy as they hangout with the neighbors playing Wiffle Ball and there’s another group playing Lawn Darts over there. I can hear a Phillies game being broadcast from a black leather covered radio with a pictured world dial chart on it. Roaring out of the background is the newest rage of toy called ” Big Wheels”. Look at all these people just hanging around enjoying a Saturday late afternoon. Men with cigarettes dangling out the side of their mouth and endless fashion nightmares of plaid shorts and black socks and sandals. Schaffer and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer being hoisted in the charcoal saturated air coming from Hibachi grills on the ground. The scenery is interrupted by the neighbor Charlie barking” Who wants a dog ? Burgers are coming like Christmas.”

The next image I see is my dad in his big fat striped tie and navy blue suit , shades and big red mustache calling me for dinner from the balcony of the building. If ever there was a Dennis Weaver doppelganger, my goodness. Every parent had their own call for dinner and every kid knew that call. My dad had a certain whistle then a hardy ” Let’s go ! ” when it was time for dinner. Our building overlooked the playground and pool area so it was a good bet I was somewhere in that area. My dinners were usually of the convenient frozen variety. My parents both worked so there wasn’t much time to prepare your typical American cuisine although we managed to have spaghetti on Wednesdays. Probably why I am a food snob today. I remember the first time I tasted real butter. I thought it turned the dinner rolls into a religious experience of unexplained wholeness to a secret food nirvana.

Entering my apartment building you could smell the different dinners being made in between the powdered laundry detergent aromas bellowing from the basement storage areas that always filled the hallways. News was on at six and we would gather round the TV with those landscaped scene trays. You know the ones…….with the waterwheel house sometime in fall with some random pheasant in the weeds? Yeah…those. At some point my dad would make reference to the guy upstairs who walked very heavy…” Hey lead foot !”. Harry Reasoner would keep us informed to updates on the Vietnam war and at some point my dad would finally have had enough of the depressing updates and we would watch To “Tell the Truth” or “Jokers Wild”. This was usually followed by desert of a Libby’s fruit float or a Drakes Ding Dong in real blue foil.

Friday night television was the “Brady Bunch” followed by the “Partridge family”. If you could make it past “Room 222” to the grand finale of “Love American Style” without claiming that you were only ” resting you eyes ” you were now in big boy territory of TV land and time of day. This was all followed by Saturday morning. The most religious time of a kid’s week. Slouched on the sofa with a bowl of Count Chocula till noon or Johnny Quest.

I run outside seeing breaks in the clouds after the remnants of Hurricane Agnes as it passes by and hear “Stairway to Heaven” coming from an upstairs apartment window . I am hypnotically captured by the fingering on the guitar and haunting voice as my friends and I are sloshing around in the temporary lakes and stream that were previously a parking lot. I pass a lower level glass patio door up on the hill towards my apartment building and catch a glimpse in the reflection of a dorky awkward blonde bowl cut kid with a peculiar squint and teeth too big for his mouth. He’s drenched in his Planet of the Apes tee shirt beat up Keds and baby blue Sears Toughskins. I am all at once at peace yet anxious to grow up. There is a clarity about this world. The lines and angles are sharp and not manipulated.

This was my Life on Mars, my childhood. Don’t get me wrong. The Ziggy Stardust era was far from perfect , which begs the question. We’re the times actually better then or was it something far more elusive to see ?

 

 

The Power of Nostalgia

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My actual childhood according to creature comforts was certainly much harder then my kids have it now. It wasn’t exactly clean and litter was everywhere .There were chemical factories belching God knows what into the air that you could see as you drove by and it was just common practice rolling up your windows from the pure almost unconscious stench on any trip into the city or crossing of a bridge into New Jersey. A lot of lakes and streams were not exactly swimmable. School bullies were rampant and some of my friends suffered unthinkable abuse as I later learned at the hands of some horrible evil grownups and there was certainly statistically speaking higher crime rates. We always seemed to be on the verge of World war 3 with China or Russia. Vietnam wasn’t improving. Unemployment, inflation and the gas crisis were beginning to bloom and Watergate was the talk of the town. My parents fought often because there was little money and products became cheap and disposable. Food became “convenient ” as our lives became increasingly busy. As people who love good nostalgia stories we tend to gloss over these things when talking about ” the good ol’ days “and for good reason .

So why is there such a fondness when talking about these times ?

After some thought I have a theory on why nostalgia is so powerful . I think it’s because all of this was the foundation of a life of observation to such contrast. Little did I have the slightest clue then that the music being made would be “classic” staples of eternal rock godlike pillars for all time. Little did I know that the forces of the universe were trying to warn and communicate a message so deep and rich that I needed nothing but pure gut instinct to relate to it. In reality I would draw on this time not for the sake of nostalgia per say but the richness of experience unto my own senses that would guide my perspective. I mean my goodness “The Godfather” was in the theaters during this time. Talk about your peak of artistic pop culture.

I now strongly believe that our timing is crucial to our being of what we are here to express and do. But “what exactly” is the real illusion I think that gets lost in the mask of “purpose” ? As a kid I didn’t ask of purpose. It wasn’t even a thought. Maybe because it was like I was just a being completely known and unknowingly complete.

Last year as I’m driving down the highway “Take the Long Way Home ” by Supertramp comes on and I’m instantly filled with emotion. I am taken back to such strong reflection and introspection.” When you look through the years and see what you could have been …?” I don’t know about you but at 50 something that hits really hard. At 17 this song didn’t make much lyrical sense but now is really relevant. I also went to see Paul McCartney a few years ago and as he started into ” Hey Jude” I was fighting to hold back tears. Slightly embarrassed I look around and find other people and other guys my age doing the same. That is a pretty powerful force. That is something deep inside desperately trying to speak up and get out.

But what ?

I think it’s the idea that we really don’t want to give ourselves the credit we deserve. I think we know were pretty damn resilient .We have been through a lot and were still standing. It’s like bringing up the pure essence of that kid in the faded polaroid collecting dust in a shoebox in the shelf of the coat closet that I forgot about. Full of wonder and who appreciated the mystery of this life. Who sensed no lack of being and so aware but later would be sold so many ideas about coping in the big bad world.

The guidance of the arts , these artists of music and film were like modern day prophets to me that seemed to know of the trials I would encounter. The perplexity of life and of being on the cutting edge of something natural. They hinted of the nearly impossible battle of staying genuine. Where to draw the lines of being true to oneself and it’s relation to others and did so without preaching. THAT is what makes me feel included, welcomed and inspired. Knowing ultimately it’s a one person journey through this life and yet not feeling alone in that idea.

So when I hear that old song and drift away ” I say cheers ! “and sing along and appreciate the reminder of the pioneer I was meant to be.