I Gotta Be Me! I Just Gotta Be Me!

A long time ago in Guitar Center (yes, I shopped there, wipe that horrified expression off your face) I heard on the overheads what sounded like a Paul Simon tune. It was so far back in my consciousness as I plinked keyboards and examined cables and hefted mic stands that by the time it had picked its way to the front row of my brain the song was nearly over. “Hey,” I thought aloud to the bored cashier.  “Is this Paul Simon?”  

I liked it too. It’s not exactly what he brought to the table with his Simon and Garfunkel stuff, and certainly not what he brought with Graceland or Rhythm of the Saints, but there was something, some flavor, some clearness that caught me.

Lately my struggle has been with understanding my place in the musical universe.  What am I really saying? Does it matter? Is anyone listening? I’d started thinking that real music was wrung out of bearded young guitar players pouring out their spirits into tin cups on dirty sidewalks. Struggle equals depth. Starving equals raw beauty.

As I listened to Mr. Simon explain the differences in the way a life is lived, based on choices--so beautiful, or so what--I began to understand what this life of music has made of me. There have been times when music has held the place of honor at the table, and others when it’s been relegated to the junk drawer, tarnishing slowly until unearthed once more in a random spring clean. Always present though. Always percolating somewhere, doing something, growing perhaps sideways, in dimensions I couldn’t see or feel until I actually pulled a song out and sang it, cold after so many years, yet possessing a new layer that I didn’t remember adding.

Those young musical creatures. Geniuses, and something like pasta primavera. They sing with a pop and a sizzle that comes from the very young. It isn’t something you hold onto forever. You don’t really want or need to. It’s just a thing that comes with youth, like the ability to get drunk and pop up out of bed next day, fully refreshed, after only two hours of sleep. It’s fine while it’s there, it adds a flavor, and then something else comes along to replace it.  

Me, I sing from years of just plain singing. From feeling the river of sound travel through my body. From the feel of my hands moving across the keys while floating my voice over it.  From getting my ass kicked musically by life. From forcing myself to be brave enough to sing in front of people who weren’t listening, and, sometimes worse, those who were.  Going from that hot flushed feeling when you hit a bad note to more of a “huh. sour note. now it’s gone” feeling. From raising a child while simultaneously trying to keep all my other channels open. I try to write the stories that come from what I have learned, from the other side of each decade as it comes, unbidden and unwanted, but now at least not feared. They have a different flavor than the songs of my spring chicken fevered youthiness. They’re just ... different. Not better. Not worse. Trying to tell the truth, rather than be cute. So many more things to think about than broken hearts.  Trying to see what really is there. It parallels what is happening in my life. An acceptance of myself, of the world, of music. Less self rebuke.  

In energy class there were three ways of running energy: pull, push, and allow. That’s self explanatory, right? Allowing seemed to be the most used, and perhaps the most important. Just standing there. Allowing. Breathing. Not reaching or forcing, but just being.    

Perhaps that’s the biggest lesson I have learned, and somehow have to re-learn on nearly a daily basis. Just stand. Just be. Open your mouth and let the song fall out. There’s no other you, and no matter how hard you try you can’t be someone else. It just doesn’t work.

Martha Graham said it so beautifully: “There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.”

And so I keep learning the lesson. Be me. Be me. Just inhabit my skin, and be me. It’s how we all came in, as babies, until we learn manners and social acceptance and how to conform. That’s fine, until the day we reach the point where we just can’t do it anymore and our true fiery selves come bursting out of the protective covering we’ve so carefully constructed. Yeah. That day. That’s a really good day.

The Maryland Metamorphosis

Growing up in Maryland, we were plagued by big black water bugs. Shiny and slow, they ambled away from sudden light and scurried under refrigerators and stoves. They were so gross. One year they got so bad that all the neighbors were taking extreme measures to eliminate them. This including spraying, wrangling, roping, and of course the cheapest but crunchiest method, foot stamping. This sometimes happened inadvertently at night while stumbling, barefoot and blind, to the bathroom. The resulting skid and accompanying scream successfully woke the community for blocks around and led my father to join the fight and buy a bug bomb.

We all went to Hechinger where my sister and I were delighted to receive a chunk of 2x4 each. This is before home improvement stores got smart and installed candy aisles. (I'm not kidding. We got chunks of wood and nails and we were ECSTATIC.) While my father set the bomb, guaranteed to kill any insect within hailing distance, we industriously hammered the nails to our bits of lumber. Once the fogger was going full blast we were all herded out of the house. But when we returned home after the prescribed four hours the smell still loitered, and seemed worse in the bedrooms. It was so strong that we couldn’t sleep, so my father dragged our mattresses out into the living room, opened all the windows and set up a fan.

This seemed like an adventure to us. (Before you judge our pathetic joy, remember, this is before God invented the internet, cell phones, and cable. All he’d given us at this point was electricity and the wheel. A lucky few also received scraps of wood and nails.) We excitedly climbed under the covers, the scent of bug fog still drifting lightly around like some Arabian Nights dream. Gentle sleep descended.

The summer sun woke us, as usual, at the crack of daybreak. I rubbed my eyes and yawned as my sister threw off her covers. There was a short, electric pause and then her screams yanked me out of my sleepy bliss. Her entire small body was outlined in bugs, who’d crawled into the warmth of her bed to die. I pulled off my sheet to discover my own fan club, cuddled right up next to me. Lying on their backs, legs in the air, some still feebly kicking. I added a high soprano harmony part to my sister’s screeches. 

My dad was, of course, the first responder. He came blasting into the room (my mother a close second), assessed the situation and grabbed us each by the front of the shirts then airlifted us straight up out of the beds. I can’t even remember what happened next. My memory, clearly so good at recounting the hideous details, somehow stops short of recalling the extra ice cream, chocolate bars and perhaps even trip to the toy store with which we were most likely comforted. At least that’s how I’m going to remember it.

Full Moon and Yoga Grump

It’s five ten. I scan the yoga schedule at the local studio and realize I can make the new five-thirty class. Ahh. I envision my body gracefully flowing from pose to pose, exuding serenity and compassion. Good plan.

Thirty five hot sweaty minutes later:  I am in down dog, searching for my inner smile but only finding my inner snarl. “Why?” I ask the air, lifting my right leg as requested and feeling sweat slide from my upper lip into my left nostril. The instructor floats around the room, lilting instructions. My arms and standing leg trembling, I attempt to ease my breathing as suggested, inhaling slowly and exhaling even more slowly. My lungs, fearing deprivation, decide of their own accord to take approximately seven breaths to every one of the instructor’s. “If you are too identified with the discomfort in your body, try to be something else,” the instructor says soothingly. “Be the floor.  Be the ceiling.  Be the air.” I try to be the air, but the image of a giant Toblerone bar rushes into my head and makes short work of that. 

Desperately I force my mind back into the sauna of a room. Serenity now, goddammit, I yell internally. Now we are holding horse, thighs screaming, butts quaking. The instructor drifts through the room, high on yoga. Has she forgotten us? I wonder as she gently adjusts another student, spending at least twenty seven minutes or so speaking softly as she lifts an elbow, runs a finger down a spine to illustrate proper posture. My body suddenly and incomprehensibly chooses this moment to activate every single sweat gland it owns. A furtive glance around the room reveals glowing yogic faces, nary a drop of dew on any. My body, embarrassed, heroically sweats even more and then threatens to fart. Good lord.  

Now we are in frog, now pigeon. Holding each pose, my mind begins to relax its grip on societal norm. It takes nearly the whole class, but I finally feel my thoughts unclench and my body evolve from a fist to an open palmed flower. By the time we get to sivasana I’m all wrung out, peaceful, and ready for pizza. Ya. Got my yoga on.

We Have Always Lived In A Palace (apologies to Shirley Jackson)

Entry One.

It’s been a long journey, and after the long march we were weary, but we have finally begun to create the new palace. Because there are so many of us, we project the building to be completed in seven days. (That may be a little optimistic, but we'll see.) We're all still a bit depressed that the gods allowed the Great Natural Flood to ruin our old palace, but I'm trying to find the silver lining. So far no luck. One thing is certain though, we’ll sleep well tonight. 

Entry Two. 

The work continues to progress. I met a new guy, Shala, and he has some interesting (translation: crazy) conspiracy theories. He believes in alien life, and even thinks that we’re not alone on this planet. Rubbish! I’ve lived long enough to know a nutter when I hear one. 

Entry Three.

Shala is starting a meet up. Some of the younger guys find him fascinating and try to get work shifts in his section so they can listen to his rants. I kind of thought he was cool too at first but his tone has changed somewhat. Now he’s such a Debbie Downer. The end of the world, natural disasters, we’re all going to die, blah, blah, blah. He’s so obsessed with these imagined scenarios that he barely does his share. 

Entry Four.

Jeez! Shala continues to do little but wax poetic about dumb shit. I’ve spoken to the foreman about it but he seems immune to nonsensical spouting and refuses to take action. Whatever. It’s starting to get hot, too. We need to get this palace built, and fast. I hope I get my own room so I don’t have to listen to Shala anymore.

Entry Five.

One of the scouts discovered an amazing food source. It was just laid out for us like a picnic. We rushed the site and took all that we could carry, although once we were discovered several of our party were murdered in cold blood. (Shala was not among them.) The rest of us managed to get away with a good deal of supplies, and we’ll return under cover of darkness to retrieve our fallen comrades, and perhaps steal more. The only thing keeping our spirits up is that we finally sleep under a solid roof tonight and we have tons of food for our upcoming Summer Banquet. 

Entry Six.

The palace is nearly complete now and it’s GORGEOUS! I’m not sure why we chose brown again, but the slope of the walls is breathtaking. Much nicer than the old digs. There are those who preferred the old pre-flood palace but I think this one is so much better. Updated, modern. Clean lines. I don’t think I get my own room, though. :( 

Entry Seven.

Everyone seems to have gone off Shala, including the younger guys who thought he was so cool. I kind of feel sorry for him. He just works alone most shifts, but still spouts his theories to any hapless listener. BUT the palace is finally done! We finished right on schedule.

Entry Eight.

Today, just as we were putting the finishing touches on the celebratory banquet table, Shala rushed in, breathless, claiming he saw an alien. He screamed that it was heading towards us, but everyone ignored him. He’s always hearing things. I started carrying out some trash and to my dismay noticed two flat long red and gray spaceships bouncing off the ground one at a time, moving directly towards the palace. Shala was right! I sounded the alarm and we all rushed for cover. From our hiding places we watched in horror as one spaceship landed directly on the roof, decimating the beautiful lines, the sloping eaves, the banquet hall. The second spaceship landed next, crushing whatever was still standing. Heartbroken, I dug deeper into the foliage. Someone was wailing nearby and I sidled up to him, glad for the company, but to my annoyance, it was Shala. We cowered together, wondering what had happened to everyone else. I heard a loud rumbling sound coming from the spaceships, and a higher pitched one after that. For a moment it actually sounded like they were conversing. Shit, I thought. We’re going to have to move again.

Loud Rumbling Sound: Ma! There’s an anthill here! I’m stomping it.

Higher Pitched Sound: James Christopher Anthony Muriel Hopkins! You get away from that dirty anthill. I just bought you those sneakers and I will not have them ruined. 

MIRIAM AND HARRIET REDECORATE (a micro play in one act)

Setting: An I Dream Of Jeannie style living space. The room is beautifully furnished in a moroccan style. Velvety couches and throw pillows for miles. Patterned walls and soft lighting. French music is softly playing. Harriet is draped listlessly across a purple couch. Miriam enters.

MIRIAM

Whatever is the matter, dear?

HARRIET

(Moodily) Oh, you know, ever since she got into her early forties it’s felt like there’s just nothing left to do. She’s reached her full height, her BMI is at a workable 20.5, and her hair is lustrous and full. 

MIRIAM 

We did a great job with her, didn’t we? 

HARRIET

Yes, but it seems as though we’re not needed anymore! I’m young! I’m creative. I’m full of brilliant ideas and have no way to execute them. To quote Toni Morrison, I’m an artist without a medium. Nothing to do but eat ice cream and get fat.

MIRIAM

Come now. Surely we can think of better things to do. She’s beautiful, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean she’s finished.

HARRIET

What do you mean?

MIRIAM

Well, now that the structural engineering is done, the fun starts! We can start thinking outside of the box.

HARRIET

You mean like … redecorating?

[Miriam pulls out a giant cardboard box from behind the couch.] 

MIRIAM

I’ve been collecting these over the years. Christmas is right around the corner, what say we put some of these decorations up?

HARRIET

(Claps her hands joyfully and starts digging in the container). Oh, an anomaly! Where shall we put this? I was just in the eastern hemisphere and noticed a little bare patch; that might work. 

MIRIAM

This little tusk will go nicely at the heel. There’s so much wear and tear in the area perhaps it will shore things up a bit.

[They work busily, pulling out various treasures, exclaiming over them, then running from the room to place each item.]

HARRIET

I think a little more shrubbery on the philtrum? Where can I get some?

MIRIAM

Try the upper ocular ridge; there’s plenty there. In fact take it all.

HARRIET

There’s a small tangle in the left vestibular that needed sprucing up, so I hung tinsel and draped the ends out the window. This extra areola looked smashing on the right wall, but this teratoma is just a little too plain, don’t you think? 

MIRIAM

Well, we could festoon it with a sprinkle of hair and a chipped tooth. That’s what my grandmother always did and it was hugely popular; in fact, many of her creations became part of traveling exhibits—did I ever tell you that?

HARRIET

Only thirty-seven times. [Turns the box upside down.] Hey, that’s everything. [Both stand with hands on hips and survey their handiwork.] Now THAT’S what I call beautifully decorated. Wait till she wakes up. She’s going to be thrilled!

[Camera zooms outward, out, out, out, to reveal a stretching, yawning forty-something woman. She crawls out of bed and screams when she discovers a tooth sprouting from her heel, she has a fine new mustache, there is now a third nipple on her hip and her eyebrows are gone.]

END

Reversal of Fortune

A few years ago I booked a summertime party with my trio, at a swanky beautiful Park Hill Home. The backyard was a modern concrete multileveled wonder, with a long thin swimming pool, carefully covered with a tarp to discourage cannonballs. 

After telling the client that no, we could not haul our gear up to the balcony level using the ornate metal staircase, and no, we would not set up on a raft in the pool, we settled on a location near the patio door, tucked into the corner of the brick porch. Naturally, it being summer, I wore giant platform sandals and my entire focus whenever we broke was NOT FALLING DOWN. I teetered into the bathroom on break, but I Did Not Fall Down. We were offered party food (sushi), and I did not gallop to the table, which have inevitably meant falling sideways, then Down. I didn’t trip on the nest of cables surrounding the stage. I didn’t turn an ankle as I smiled and extended a hand to a guest. Not one bandmate sprayed food while talking. The music didn’t suck. We got compliments. We ran out of business cards. It was a great night, and I Didn’t Fall Down.

At the end of the evening I switched to my load out dress (in the car, because the bathroom was occupied) and realized I’d neglected to bring a pair of flats, so I had to break down the Bose tower and load the keyboard, stands, and bench in my giant shoes. I took fewer pieces and made more trips, and I Didn’t F. D. After the car was packed I returned to the courtyard, thanked the client like a grown up, joked a little with some guests, and paid the band. I even drove my stick shift home wearing those beasts. 

Still marveling in the afterglow of that perfect night, I clomped into the house and kicked off my heels, then caught sight of myself in the full length mirror. The shimmer of well being, the rosy glow of a job well done, and pride at impersonating a real live grown up all simultaneously cracked heads and shattered like poorly formed ice under a Zamboni. I looked behind me in the mirror to be sure, but yes it was true. My dress was inside out.

Poncho

One morning in fourth grade my classmate Lisa Mansfield sashayed in wearing a poncho. I’d never seen one before and marveled at it. Was it a scarf? Was it a sweater? On top of being an engineering miracle, it swung to her hips, was adorned with buttons and fringe and even had two slits for her hands. It was the color of buttermilk. With every swing of her pom poms Lisa rose through the ranks, and by day’s end she was in mortal danger of social ascension.

I rushed home and demanded a poncho of my own, knowing full well the futility of such a request. Ours was a purely functional situation. Gifts were dispensed at birthdays and Christmas, and other than those two days any swag received came from those who didn’t know any better (aunts or uncles who did not know the rules) or our own tiny allowances. My lack of financial savvy never allowed me to save up for anything larger than a pack of Bazooka.

Even while asking, in the space before my mother’s eyebrows went up, there wasn’t any real hope in it. I didn’t even wait for the “no” but simply bleated my futile request, more as a matter of formality than anything, and retreated to my shared bedroom.

Amongst other immigrant traits (including photographing every new piece of luggage) the knack for sewing had followed my mother into the new country like a cold virus and inflicted its results on us. She collected Butterick and McCall patterns and showed them to us. “Aren’t they nice?” she asked, but the question was purely rhetorical. We knew that shortly there would mysteriously appear from the fabric pinned to the tissue two new dresses, the wearing of which would set us further back on the school social hierarchy. And there was nothing we could do about it. We walked the earth like the scary hallway twins from “The Shining”, except we weren’t scary at all. We didn’t even have that going for us. 

Now I listlessly began to pick at the laundry I had been tasked to fold in my bedroom, when suddenly I brightened. Pulling a homemade dirndl skirt from the pile I inspected it. Elastic waist, not too long. Yes, it would do.

I called out that I was going to the playground across the street and before the answering query regarding chores could come I skipped out and headed for the swings. I slipped the skirt over my head, allowing the elastic waist to bunch loosely around my throat (it was a fall print, with little leaves on it and no pom poms, but you take what  you can get) and arranged it neatly around my shoulders. I thought I looked pretty damn good.

There were two other girls on the playground. I walked right up to them and planted myself in an adjoining swing. They both stopped talking and stared. “Hi,” I said lightly, walking my feet backwards to initiate the first swoop. I let my feet go and started pumping to gain momentum. 

“Why are you wearing a skirt around your neck?” asked one of the girls. I laughed carelessly. 

“It’s not a skirt, it’s a poncho!” I, said importantly, pumping harder. They looked at each other and one girl mouthed “SKIRT.”

“It’s a poncho!” I insisted. “My mother made it for me, that’s why it looks a little different.” I stopped swinging so I could list its features. “See? It has pockets.” I awkwardly snaked my hands up from beneath the hem and parked them jauntily in the inset pockets, which were unfortunately located directly below my neck. The two girls rolled their eyes and moved away to the jungle gym. I swung a little more then decided to chalk it up as a failed experiment and went home. 

Lisa wore her poncho a few more times to school but a couple of weeks later Shelley Cobham came in with white go-go boots and that was the end of the poncho craze. Side note: go-go boots are much harder to replicate at home. Suffice it to say that the tin foil did not go over big with the girls on the playground.