On Hardness and Temper

It's been a busy week.  One of my commutes was in the neighborhood of 3 hours long, and I believe my total for the week was just shy of 16 hours in the car which, to me even, seems a bit much for a non-vacation total. But such is life.

I was lucky enough to see Stephen King speak at Tsongas Arena in Lowell, MA on Friday. Mr. King is someone who has been with me for long enough to say that I can't remember a time when he really wasn't. From age 9 or so, he's been in my life in one way or another. And I finally had the chance to see him speak in a very casual setting that was appropriate for his conversational style. He suffered an interview for about half of an hour before sharing a deliciously "King" short story never seen before called "Afterlife". The following Q&A was fun, but short as these things tend to be, and the night was generally a great success.

The one rub was Andre Dubus III.

Introduced as "bestselling author of 5 books, and professor at UMass Lowell's English department", he wore his shirt open, collar wide, and his glasses low on his nose. At one point my impression was of Alec Baldwin in Beetlejuice, but that might elevate this commentary to full on bashing if I say that too loudly. In any case, he was more "Look at ME" than respectful of Mr. King. There was some familiarity between them as King had been part of a benefit for AD III's dad years ago, but even that felt forced and insincere. The camera used to send the stage video up to the jumbotron spent a lot of time on him early on, even when Mr. King was responding to the banter, and in my cynical, steeled eye I wondered to myself if he had mentioned something to the camera operators before the show. He was CO-SPONSOR of the event, you know.

But the rub, the abrasive, grating rub came when  Andre's forced laughter loomed thick behind Mr. King's comfortable voice. Stephen King welcomes you in to his home, he sits you down in the front room and helps make you comfortable before sharing his words with you. He receives you as an old friend and treats you with respect and honesty before plunging headlong into the story he shares with you. It's one of the endearing qualities of King's work that drew me in so long ago. His writes his introductions just for you, the reader.  I didn't truly expect his voice to have the same cadence and delivery when reading a story. I'm not sure what I was really expecting, but it was a lovely surprise that he read as I heard his voice in my head so often. But there, on cue like an actor in some horrible B movie, was Andre Dubus III's forced chuckle over and over again. Like a laugh track to Mr. King's auditory feast. His head leaned forward, his eyes closed, then, at the exactly right moment, he would throw his head back and laugh.

It's Stephen King, not Cracked Magazine for fuck's sake.

But there is was. Over and over, that laugh. I thought to myself later that King might actually put that into one of his books at some point. It seemed like one of those habits that a King character would have, so I'm going to keep my eyes open for it.


This leads me to look into my own life.
I've been a little less upbeat lately. I've been a bit more of my darker self. Edgier, grumpier. Less positive about things. I've let it creep in bit by bit. It's the commute, I think, or at least partly. I want to get home. I want to just get the fuck home and be able to unwind from my day, but I can't every night. Even when I'm South, my 32 minute commute becomes upwards of an hour. And that sucks.
It'll get better. I will make sure it does. I will accept that the traffic is what it is going to be. I'll dig out some books on tape and listen. I'll record my stories on tape or something and type them up later. I'll try. I can't be that guy again.

Not again.

To those who I impact with my negativity, I'm sorry.
Time to get back on the stick, as someone I love says.

And did anyone get the metal reference in the title? Just wondering.

The Second Free Thanksgiving

Already? It's here already?

How quickly the wheel of the year turns when you are busy living.  But here we are again, looking the holiday season squarely in the face and scratching our heads as to how it arrived so abruptly. Wasn't it just July? No matter. Another Thanksgiving means another blog entry, and you just never know how this is going to end up.

Seriously, *I* don't usually know how these things end. I have a little seed, I blurb out an idea or two, and I sit to write. It comes out of my fingers almost magically, and usually in a single stream of consciousness. My Muse grabs my brain and squeezes out words that seem to string together into sentences and paragraphs with little input from my waking mind. Where was I really, though?

Ah. Thanksgiving. 

It's been a year since I wrote my first entry from freedom. It's been a year since I thanked all of you for your friendship, your kindness, your love, and (if you are in the military in any way) your service to the country I love.  It's been a year since I returned to my own family's table and shared the meal without drama or worry. Last time, I shared a memory about my grandfather, and how he carved the turkey every year rather than my father. (just in case, it's here ). My mother explained why later that day, and I laughed when she did. My mother reads my blog. Oh my. 

Let me get back on track here, Muse. You are dragging me around town like a cab driver going the long way.

---

I have so very much to be thankful for this year. 

* My son. Oh, my son. Growing up and living in a world I bet he never thought he would ever live in. He's learning, though, and that's important. When he is older, he will look back on these times and know that they helped build him. I hate to see him go though such hardship, but I know he will eventually rise above it all. Strong and smart, but kind in heart. I'm glad he calls me now and then, too. It's nice to hear his voice.

* My daughter, resilient and growing. She's a beauty. The most Trumpet-playing-ist, Gymnastics-performing-ist, Hot-dog-ist daughter a guy could ever have. She's arty when it's art time, and she's dancy when it's dancing time. And best of all, she loves me. What more could a Papa want? She's bright and fun, and listens when it's listening time. 

* The family I'm actually related to, and the family I am not actually related to, including the families I am connected to through my loves. Even the family I don't see much (or barely at all, other than Facebook, and that's even hard to come by for me these days). I am thankful that they are still with me, and are still able to come together at the table. Old and new, and everyone in-between. You are all a part of me, as I am of you. For those I don't see nearly enough, please know that I want to see you, but our lives are so different that I truly don't know how. No matter, we sit together today, at different times and in different states, as one. 

I am going to single out my mother here. She's going to read this blog eventually, and I want to make sure she sees this in black and white. I am thankful that my mother does all that she does for her family. We give her a hard time, and we tend to say things like "You don't need to do all of this..." but deep down I know that she does. It makes her happy, and I like to see her happy. I am thankful for the chance to help pick up some holidays to host, but they will never be the same as what she put on.  Not better, not worse, but certainly different.  

* My car. My glorious chariot that carries me back and forth whenever I ask. Krähe could kick the crap out of Kitt and never even break a sweat. She connects the dots of my life. She is the pencil to my Funpad. She keeps me safe and gets me home, no matter where that happens to be.

* A steady job, and the ability to actually DO the work needed. 

* My Kittehs. All of them. Toady, Harpo, Pooper, and Meower. Ain't cats cool?

* For that particular person who got me to write all those years ago. That person who taught me about friendship, and  later about hookah. To you, I am ever grateful. (And I hope that you and yours have a grand day today!)

* And as always, My Loves. My beautiful, smart, strong, creative, caring, kind, daring, wonderful loves. They keep my heart safe, and my smile bright. <3

To anyone or anything I have omitted (not by intentional exclusion), I am thankful for you as well - Every single thing I have, every single thing I can do, and every single thing I can give.

---

I hope you all have a wonderful day no matter what you do. And I hope you know that no matter what that is, or where you are, you are at the table with me and mine today. We are all a part of each other. 

And I am thankful for that. 

Eyelash

There you are

Now you’re gone

There you are

Where... Where did you…?

There you are

Come here, my sweet

There you are

Closer, closer

Closer still

There you are

Wait

Where did you go?

There you

No.

Gone again.

There you are

I’m holding you now

There

You

Are

Gone

Gone

No

There you are

Right there

Right here

Where you belong

Gone

Here

There you are

Yes

Here we are

Blink

Are we real?

Are we here ?

Are we?

Yes

Blink

Yes

Here we are

There we are

There you are

Here

Blink

Not gone

Not there

Right here

In my arms

Never gone

Never there

Always here

Right here

Right where I can see you

Blink

I can see you

I can touch you

Blink

There we are

In my heart

<blink>

There we are.

Together. 

Alone in the dark, with myself.

I could not see in the dark, but I could sense the nearness of the thing there. I could hear the low drawing of breath, and could almost feel the bristled fur against my skin. How long should I wait before reaching out to it, before stroking it? How long would I last in the darkness against such a fearsome and ancient creature? I steeled myself against it, and rose to my feet.

There, in the dark, I touched something fearsome. There, in the dark, I braved the chance of never seeing the light again.

There, in the dark, I let ran my hand over the gnarled flesh, feeling the framework of bone beneath. I let the fur run between my fingers like blades of grass. I imagined lying in the sunshine, warm and sleepy, with my arms outstretched. I could almost smell the earth beneath me, could almost see the blue skies above. I remembered the feeling of slipping away into slumber, unburdened by fear.  But that was a long time ago. I had let the fear grow into this that lie before me – A beast of its own, fanged and clawed and dangerous. I came down here when I was feeling comfortable in life, stroking the fear awake and watching how it still writhed in the greasy black. Fear, and nothing more.

In the gloom, the fear was almost beautiful. A glorious, wretched thing I nurtured and tended in the depths of my mind, now vibrant and powerful. Fear without reason, without cause. Fear that had no logical place in my life, yet it gathered and formed with a ferocity that surprised me.  Now you have these fears, too. They might not be the same as my own, but they are formidable beasts all the same.  Do you venture into that night and stroke them? Do you wander bravely into their lairs and coax them out into the brightening sky?  I do. I need to understand them.

And they need to understand me. 

My Dog Has Fleas

There is something very interesting about picking up a musical instrument. Some you can simply pluck a string, or tap a key, and a sound comes out that might be pleasing, might be ghastly, or might just be a noise. Some instruments come alive in your hand, while others lay there, waiting for you to DO something. Like so many of you, I'm sure, I have often picked up instruments and had no idea what to really do with them. I can strum a guitar, I can bang away on piano or keyboard keys, and I can even blow into a horn of some kind. But make music with it? Hardly.

Things have changed, these days. I was given an ukulele as a birthday gift, and fell in love with the simplicity of the instrument... 4 strings are easier to make chords on than 6, and the ease of fingering the frets is much more inviting than a guitar of any kind that I've ever played around with. I strum. I pick. I make music with a few chords that I learned, and I am happy with what I am hearing. For the first time in my life, seeing the fretboard is not intimidating. Actually being able to play along with others, once told what chords to play, is fairly simple, and honestly - it's not hard to fake.  I can't read music, never could, but I can play chords, and I can see the relationships between some of them now... and that makes me happy, too. I can sit under the shade of the porch, listening to the world go by while I strum a few chords into a simple little melody. I can make music. It's not like I'm any good at it, but I think if I stick with it, I could be.

We'll see.

But music, well... it makes me happy to be able to play. And I play everywhere. In airports, in the park, hell, I even play in my car when stuck in traffic.   When all else fails, I just strum a finger down those lovely strings...

G
C
E
A


And if that doesn't work, it's C Am Dm G... Because YMCA is a hell of a lot of fun to play.


I wonder how many people I can get to sing that in a bar?

28

I held your hand as you picked your way 

          through the sand in your high heels

You stumbled and smiled

And we were free for a while

Our laughter like thunder in peals

That loving glow grew fast and deep 

Your eyes bright upon your face

No matter how often I drive past that sign

I'll always remember our place

For where we've been. 

And where we want to go. 

I love you. 

Bump in the Night

Here's a little piece of my soul.

Somewhere in the neighborhood of 1976-1978, my wonderful parents took the family to the Lonsdale Drive-In movie theater. We were there often enough during the summer, and it was just another weekend. I don't have much recollection of the first film, but the second was a real winner originally from 1974 called "It's Alive".  This was a film about a killer baby.

Yes. A killer BABY.

Now, allow me to point my finger back at the year (okay, range of years...).  I was 6 or 7 or 8.
'Great Moments in Parenting', are you listening?

I'm not sure how big a box office hit this movie was, but it was no award-winner.  Of course, I watched most of it hiding on the front seat floor.  Laughable or not, I was scared. Really scared. The kind of scared that makes you run up the cellar stairs, hoping that the long fingers won't catch your ankles. Yes.  THAT scared.

I spent too many nights in my parents' bed after that, and for years after, I would never sleep unless I had the blankets wrapped around my ears, protecting me from the monster baby. I was a mess.  Daytime was fine, but when the sun went down, and I had to start thinking about ... you know... sleeping, well... yeah, I'll pass, thanks.

Fast forward to 1979. Oh, what a great year. I turned 9 that year (for those of you keeping track...) and was still scared of the night. I remember very distinctly going with my parents to see the movie "Prophecy" at the beautiful Four Seasons movie theater. Another great move, Mom and Dad.  Just fabulous. I managed to be terrified enough to watch most of this film through the porthole in the door to the theater. From the Lobby. Alone.  Shaking.  Get the picture?

So now I was afraid of (wait for it...) Killer Babies and Mutant Bears.

Laugh. You know you want to.

Go on. I'll wait.


<whistling>

So, done?
Moving the story along...

Great Moments in Parenting  leads my mother and father to take the family back to the drive in... this time to see that great family film by Ridley Scott... you know... Alien.  Compared to killer babies and mutant bears, this movie is pretty tame. Except for the part where the astronaut fucking explodes from an alien in his chest... that sort of stuff.

So I wrestled with sleep as a kid. I wrestled a LOT.

One day, I decided to get the hell over all of this. I decided that I would no longer be that afraid ever again, and vowed to myself that I would find out how it was all done on film.  I started to read magazines like Famous Monsters of Filmland, Fangoria, and Starlog. I took makeup books out of the library.  I read a lot, and experimented where I could. In the end, I learned way more than I ever thought. I debunked the mystery of the darkness that gripped my soul. I learned so many secrets that there is still little wonder in film for me.

I mastered my fear, and finally let myself sleep. I found a way through, and I stripped a little magic from the world while I was at it. All those movies no longer held any power over me, at least not in a way that was really meaningful. The flip side was that I was now no longer scared of any movie. None of them. I could watch anything and point and laugh and say, "This is how that is done..."

There is something to be said for fear. There is something to be said for not knowing how the lady gets sawn in half... cinematically or right there on stage in front of the magician. There is something to be said for sitting back and just watching the film. And that was something I traded away for being able to sleep.

As I grew older, I found myself able to actually DO makeup effects for things like haunted houses and really gross costumes. I was that guy, and it made me kinda cool in the right circles, but I think I would have traded some of that for being able to have a better time at a movie, you know? So I learned that there must be a fine line between being terrified by a movie and being terrified by what the movie represented to me.

The killer baby? Well, come on. I was like 6. I was scared of my own shadow at this age, and killer babies don't help.  I'm sure it influenced my life in ways I simply cannot realize, but you know... that's life.
 The mutant bear? That was a part of my fear of what's out there... in the wilderness, waiting to eat us. It could have been a normal bear, all pissed off and running after campers and it still would have had the same sort of effect on me, I think.  Alien? Ridley Scott is a genius. The pacing of that film still feels perfect. It's a long, slow march to a startling finale. My hat will always be off to him for this beautiful piece of cinematic fear.

But all of these events also helped shape me. It rewarded my curious nature with mastery of my fear. It taught me to continue to dig deep into my own soul even after I felt I found answers. It proved to me that I could overcome fear with knowledge. I am who I am today partly because of these images of horror and dread. I love that my parents brought me to see these films. To this day I am a fan of the genre, and I do believe that I have an appreciation for what goes in to a great horror film because of my thirst to know what was under that hood.

 I love what others fear.
And I am happy to be this way.



How about you? What scares you when the lights go out?