Fido (Early
June, 2001. One Saturday Night.)
In how many instances do we duck behind papers and furniture, plant pots and coffee pots, pretending not to see that startling familiar face? My sister-in-law’s client is here, with the guy with green hair—the two who drove a stake through my friend’s heart—and met up with Lucky Lisp with the utility jacket, and I sat listening after she left, as he talked about her—the temptress, the enchanter. (The psycho freak.) I am reminded vividly of why I normally avoid this visibility. The reconditioned air and slushy latte make me shiver. I think of—I see—everyone I’ve ever closely known. Overhead speakers pump droning bass and oriental vocals, the same people pass our booth a succession of times, and I tire anew of my own culture. Nerves revert to the condition immediately before each cigarette three years ago to the day, stomach lining joining in the nostalgia. Everything about this city I would have planned differently, every detail of the lives of those inside. Save mine.
Cross-Hatch: In Response To The Slightest Stir (10/01)
French overemphasized from the living room, latches banging corrupt motion from the dryer, piercing then the study with a sudden shriek, the cat poising to pounce at penmanship, while between the realities of noise I arch, sore spinal vertebrae and compressed chest across pricking squares of down and shaking box spring. The cat steps steadily and subtle over scratched mahogany reflecting imperfect, dimming, swallowed light. Thick dusted cobwebs form overnight in passageway flumes, lining wasted hearths with gas-burning heaters. Allergies attack sounds from across the meadowed wood floor, and the spouse shifts templates to favor the duvet slip covering sleeping bags of blankets under no tent. The table is short and cluttered with annual bric-a-brac impossible to clear of dust, broken and reglued shakers reused for décor, but empty of content. Signs of day to day wear lie folded open irreverently as humming electrics deny their appliance heritage, calling to the outside wind through cracks and uninsulated panes that it is safe to come in. Day has retired its opposing view, offering up sacrifice with a sigh, suggesting chores left in the brief span just before midnight, when frequent neglect leaves subsequent editions unwritten, responses to provocation swallowed in deep breath, eyes gaining weight enough to crack another line just beneath partly closed scowls of ambiguity. Single words like that encapsulate, resonate, capitulate aggregate perspectives agitated by the resetting of the alarms that start the whole notion over. It occurs to me after much deliberation, as to why I live so much in future tense and am so barely here… I was never happy before. Why should I expect to be now? Or ever?
12-10-01
I can’t tolerate another five years of this mundane café work. Without hope I will not survive, hinged as it is only on talent. That is not enough. I can not fail. I’ve decided to return to school.
I near a breakdown, teetering on the rims of coffee cups and slowing steps toward doors. All day yesterday tears pelted outward, denting my contorted face in awkward bouts. Today I am constant and silent, bound by my own thoughts.
Enter the season.
Sometime
Around Christmas, 2001
I cannot resist the urge to write. Where this morning I was slicing bread, racing with vengeance the digital microwave display, nearing our onslaught of vastly ranging emotion, fearing the inevitable drying up of decaf, I now sit knees upraised on a bar chair, back to covers of half-century-old men, meeting for the first time our maid of honor’s future husband, scanning congealed faces for traces of familiarity, finding at once none and all, pace slowing with each taste diminishing through smoke into phased grins, sensual spinning glances, knowing and mischievous, yells getting louder while further away. I cannot resist the urge to write only to the mind, with no tangible evidence.
01-02-02
The purpose of this journal is to assure my productivity in measurable terms. On the first of the year I gave our home a thorough cleaning, having strung white globes over our bed, and photos of my wife in seductive poses and lighting near the mirrors on the walls. Tonight the rooms are soft and romantic and I can undoubtedly rest peacefully with my night mask on (which Marci hates, but she has the good pillow, so we’re even). I no longer procrastinate, as in applying to Belmont quickly and with determination, knowing my resolve will make me a jewel in people’s crowns. Perhaps I should begin a humility journal… or perhaps a notepad. I am withdrawing myself slowly from the thankless, unnecessary burden of café responsibilities, not in the smallest part due to self-centeredness, but because I love my wife without boundaries and commit further time to lying in bed with her. And then, ultimately, to employ myself and fall constant prey to her mercies. You have the idea. I slip out of my clothes and into her skin.
03-10-02
This is it then. Two months later I am well into the school year, having spent all of spring break neglecting everything but the house, and now gauging the microwave clock for possibilities. With only half an hour of holiday left I’ve fallen desperately behind, formulating now some insane notion that I might squeeze an incremental twenty-four hours of study into one three hour session. Instead, I will retire late and burdened into a reasonable pattern of sleep and begin anew the vicious cycle of pitting my efforts against society and time.
The house is perfect, each individual item weighed of significance, dusted and repositioned, shelves painted and hung, every loose board nailed, every shadow moved slightly for effect. I should think I would be quite eternally happy to host for my remaining years an inn or a bed and breakfast, sweeping the floors every night, tending to the details the masses assume correct themselves. I am narrowing my scope with the passage of time, more concerned with washing every dish to touch the sink than corresponding with peers.
For two months I have been a twenty-five year-old freshman, taking Guitar and Art and English and Statistics and Psychology. I’ve assimilated yet another world and adopted hundreds more contemporaries, and have to show for it an almost complete lack of writing, becoming instead an ephemeral contemporary performance artist, so subtle that even I am mostly unaware of the impact. I am the most supremely ordinary person I have ever met, and desire to be nothing more. I shall spend the next four years perfecting this medium.
04-08-02
I spent thirteen hours on Statistics homework yesterday. Thirteen hours. That made my third consecutive day not running three miles and my third consecutive month without productive guitar practice.
Todd and Lizzie came over to eat and wash their laundry.
Outside looks like a dust storm.
I’ve done well, twenty pounds lighter and nearing the end of the semester. I think I might pass.
My wife approaches.
Friday
Night, Beck & Rog’s, Fairview
Roger is late. We’re somewhere in Fairview, waiting around to go and see a bluegrass show we were told about that they hold in a barn. He shows up in tussled work clothes while we watch The Osbornes on MTV. He offers me a beer. Beck politely reminds him of our plans. “Hey Rog, do you know anything about this place?” I raise my brow when he answers, “Aww, man! I was talking to some firemen buddies of mine, asking if they ever went, and they said it was closed.” “What?” Beck asks. “Yeah, there were too many people. There were like four hundred people packed into this tiny little room with only one door, so they had to shut it down.” I start laughing, “Seriously?” Roger replies with a drawn out “Yeaaaahh, maaann. I’m sorry. I forgot.” He hands me a beer. I guess we’ll stay in tonight.
Saturday Afternoon, Broadway
Music Consignments, Nashville
The walls go thirty feet up, but gear’s been slow coming in this season, so the guitars only hang from about ten feet off the ground. By the door is a bulletin board covered with posters and ads and business cards—“Vocalist Seeks Band” type things. Two thirty-somethings work behind the counter, dressed down in jeans and tees. Tim was giving directions to a family when I walked in. He knows everyone’s names, even mine, because I worked with him years ago in an old café down in Franklin. I find out later that he only works here two days a week, while he builds up his own side business making pedals and technical things I know nothing about. Faint instrumental and classic soft rock plays interspersed through white noise in the corner. “We’d probably rather consign this,” Tim says to the man whose tiny, cheap guitar he holds up. The man answers, “Oh, I was just hoping to sell it. I was only looking for like thirty or forty bucks.” Tim shakes his head a little and slightly winces, “We’ve honestly had one here since ’97.”
James walks in—a regular, checking on his gear. Every so often someone picks up a guitar and plays a lick or two. They check the amps. Everyone who walks in gets immediate recognition—at the very least a “Whahaat’s uuup!” “What am I doing inside on a day like today?” Tim says. It was rhetorical, but Steve answers, “If you wanna work on my yard….” Tim launches into a story about a band he sold gear to in Minneapolis. Customers keep walking in, a few with drinks from the coffee shop in the back room, some leaning on the glass cases, scanning the wall for cords or strings, or outlet adapters or whatever. Everyone interrupts everyone else. Some people are in a hurry, but most are on breaks from any of the studios on “The Row”. Neil, the other worker, picks on Tim like a six year old and they play fight frequently, manufacturing their own ninja sounds as they do.
Tim explains something about a signal pass to someone who tries hard to understand. They mention internet a lot—E-bay, buying and selling, updating, waiting, checking, posting. There is a kind of lull for a moment. Tim talks to the same guy about building another amp, using words he assumes are common knowledge; he uses terms like driver tube, reverb, tremulo-something, talks about how a Marshal can sound like a Princeton. I assume most of the time he’s referring to manufacturers. He talks fast, rattling off things about speakers and cabinets and matchless something-or-others, then switches quickly into recent shows or upcoming gigs. I feel inadequate and slightly retarded when I can’t keep up with his prototype design for a “gritty” pedal made from a tuna can, which somehow outputs true bypass fuzz…. At least I think that’s what I heard. Tim continues telling Steve about his website where you can click on the pedals and hear how they sound. They discuss contracts and legal plans, thrown in with a little unrelated banter about Nick’s rack mount. I’m completely lost.
Another guy walks in, glancing around nervously, carrying two cases, and says to no one in particular, “I was gonna try and sell this.” Neil takes it, gives it a play, while Tim’s talk of subsidiaries and power supplies fades into the background. Neil goes over a few thorough details and sends the guy away to think about his offer. He goes back to sidework, eating something while thumbing through a notebook. Neil doesn’t have quite as many answers to things as Tim does, and I start thinking after a while that he and the owner must just be good friends; it seems maybe they go to the same church.
I fixate on Tim again because I want to know what the hell he’s talking about. He seems to know every trick. He tells someone how to hook up gear to serve alternate purposes—GCX footswitch instead of MIDI cable. “You can set the levels….” It’s more like they’re trading ideas about hookups then dealing in equipment.
A family walks in, probably shopping for a first guitar for the oldest boy. The mustached father picks up a bass. All the kids start touching instruments. A man looks up from a half written check; “How much?” “Ten grand a piece amps” they talk about. “Marty Stuart’s guy has two of them.” Customers interrupt their own questions with accessories and side thoughts. Half the customers wear athletic gear—sweats, running shorts, sneakers; the other half wear denim and roadie shirts. Neil looks slightly irritated and mildly amused. There is another short lull. Neil and Tim talk about the lack of good coffee since I left. It’s nice to be remembered.
Saturday Night, Todd & Lizzie’s,
Sylvan Park
Venus Hum’s singer sits out with us under the canopy for a cigarette. Modern Zero are huddled by the stereo listening to their own disc, just finished. Annette talks about London. About a dozen of the people here now are guitarists, but nearly everyone is in a band—even Chris’s wife. Jay had to leave early to work at a coffee shop by his house. Someone mixes a gin and tonic while the women with babies head off with a “See ya in church in the morning.” Todd chimes into Annette’s story with details about Venice. He wears women’s jeans and a leather jacket, with a fluffy pink hat pulled low. I pass through the living room on my way out, and everyone is crammed around the VCR watching Atticus Fault’s first video, fresh out of post-production. Kevin Clay seems quieter than usual, almost as though he’s a little jealous. He slips someone his latest “Viva Nash-Vegas” CD.
Thursday Morning, Second Story
Café, Green Hills
Dell takes up counter space, leafing frantically through the phone book. “William Morris Agency… why can’t I find that?” I laugh at her for always being so melodramatic. “Hey, you know people,” I start. “Do you want to give a guitar survey to some of your friends for me?” She looks up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll fill one out myself, because I play, and I’ll give some out. I’m glad I can help. How many do you need?” None really, I just think you people are terribly interesting.
Friday Night, 12th & Porter,
Nashville
It turns out Modern Zero and Atticus Fault are playing 12th & Porter together, so Friday night we’re there. By a bizarre coincidence, Modern Zero’s manager turns out to be Christian, who used to work with my brother back at Rocketown when he wasn’t playing for All Star United. He also turns out to be dating our next-door neighbor, who insists on buying us a round. Nashville might just be the smallest city I’ve ever lived in. Anyway, Smirnoff in hand I turn to the stage to give Modern Zero a shot. They’ve got the typical setup—shirtless, tattooed drummer back and center, the as always overlooked bassist on stage left, the lead screamer with his enormous ear things dressed in all black and trying to grow some kind of facial hair, and in this case, a pretty average, too-loud lead electric guitarist.
Atticus Fault starts the set with “Maybe”. This is the first show they’ve played in town since reaching the No. 1 most requested song on The Buzz over a month ago. A woman in a Merlin shirt offered me a mixed drink when I walked in. Most people take shots or drink bottled imports. Heads bob. Feet tap. People clamor for the good seats. We find ours in the balcony. Marci makes the rounds. We know about a fourth of the crowd—at least by sight. Molly and Angus take a video. Taylor plays along invisibly with Jay’s guitar. Jay switches pedal effects while shaking his guitar violently in front of the monitor to manipulate feedback. They launch into “Too Late”, which would have made a much better single than “Mars”. My wife lights a cigarette, sips a cider, and tickles my side.
Taylor closes his eyes and dances to himself, Jared comes up with a fresh drink. Lizzie runs the merch table downstairs. It feels like we’re all melting. Higgie hits my pen. My wife crouches on the floor and bites my shirt. Smoke lifts from beneath us. Jason wears flares and a Stones shirt with the sleeves torn off. He spins in circles amazingly not getting tangled in his cord. My wife goes crazy when he hits the first note of “1000 Years”. Jay and Todd both play electric, though most of the early writing was on acoustic. They’re both shaved bald, Jason intense and nearly anorexic. I break for a cigarette. Someone mentions Waffle House. Jared holds up his cell phone to leave a message for a friend that stood him up. Higgie tries to read my journal by the light of his palm pilot.
Jason switches guitars between every song. The feedback is all him and all intentional. They play “Soundtrack” and Marci screams “Pink Floyd” in my ear. More drinks, more smoke. Jason’s muscles and veins bulge as he takes a solo. Every part of his body plays. Todd leans his head back as if in worship; only one arm moves. Taylor mimics it beside me. They save “Mars” for the encore. Jason thanks someone, as is his custom, for the beer. Marci and Michelle dance together like lesbian groupies. Angus gets it on tape.
Friday Night, En Route To Beck
& Rog’s, Fairview
On the way back from the supermarket for snacks, we pass by “The Barn” that was supposedly shut down by the Fire Marshal’s orders. It apparently didn’t take, because the place is packed. Those animals. Those musicians.
Saturday Night, Beck & Rog’s,
Fairview
Mr. Bungle plays on the stereo. Rog’s boot is displayed prominently in the front window. A black acoustic leans in the corner. The Mary Kay wife mixes me a drink. I fall asleep in the comfy chair and nobody minds—or nobody notices.
Jeff and Leslie are in the kitchen when I wake up. Jeff wears camo shorts that show a leg-full of tattoos. Rog’s own tattoos are not as large and colorful. They obviously never think about them. Talk is all about pets and food and surgery. The Mary Kay husband says to write down that the house is possessed. He’s a medical guy. They talk about suicide and homicide; they have to make light of sick deaths. They’re a lighthearted bunch, drinking Southpaw when it occurs to Roger that he should introduce me. They have serious jobs. Jobs no human should be exposed to. They tell stories beyond horror movies. The music switches to jazz.
After about six hours James picks up the black acoustic—he’s always the one to start. He’s a scraggly, balding twenty-something who sends inappropriate e-mails to his best friend’s wife. He walks around while they all make up verses on the spot. As Jeff and Leslie leave with beer, James is alone in the living room, playing to himself loudly enough to be overheard. The songs last about a minute each, until he loses interest and the next song refrain starts. Rog calls from the smoking porch. Time to go.
Wednesday Afternoon, Broadway
Music Consignments, Nashville
A little more stocked than last time. Everything is colorful and in perfect rows. Someone’s been cleaning. Traffic outside is busy, but only Dana is at the counter when I walk in. He listens to praise music over speakers from the corner. A shrill phone ring interrupts the calm. A few customers trickle in.
Lyle is on the floor now. He’s the owner—a tall, thin, Laurel-&-Hardy-looking gentleman. Neil walks around holding someone’s credit card, looking down at paperwork. Dana is frequently on tour, so this must be off-season for that. Lyle fiddles with the sound system while Neil puts a few calls on hold for him. The merchandise is all tilted toward the front entrance, where the bright city street flashes strobe effects off the shiny surfaces. Neil hands a customer an electric drill to take a component apart. He flashes it around like a rapid-fire handgun, spewing sound effects. He kills a few spare moments to come shake my hand, doing his cross-eyed retard impression. I small talk at how orderly everything looks and he nods proudly at his work. “Yep… did all that last week.”
They spend a good twenty to thirty minutes with each customer, practically escorting them around. Lyle’s youngest son, probably around five years old, saunters around running into equipment, repeating the names of whoever is on hold until his father picks up.
When a customer picks up a guitar to test it, they generally start with a familiar lick, and then run through scales to check the range of tone. Neil looks down from the loft office, detailing invoices over the phone. Someone gazes up at a few hanging electrics, then walks out before Dana can greet him. I mentally inventory a few things to come back for when I have money. Sonic Flood’s guitarist walks in and Dana shows him an article in The Onion. He laughs inaudibly. Neil walks around looking for his next joke. I decide to come back later, as their food discussion raises pangs in my stomach.
Tuesday Night, Belmont University,
Nashville
Jeremy opens the door steadily and floats in. He carries, in addition to his hard plastic guitar case, a large duffle bag full of playing and teaching items. First he sets up a music stand, flipping through his notes to find what page in Allan Shearer’s book, “Learning the Classic Guitar”, they left off on. He flips with one hand while fixing a six-inch footstool into position with the other. “How’d practice go?” he asks a young girl. She launches into a meandering explanation of why it went so horribly. He tries to hide his frustration.
Thursday Morning, Broadway Music
Consignments, Nashville
Coffee cups irreverently settled on dusty equipment. Old eighties guitar rock overpowering to conversation. Dana’s euro-hairstyle ages him an unintentional decade. Lyle backs a car to the side door to unload. He’s dressed up today. Way up. So is the obvious executive, except for a wallet chain. These are all just old men. Mostly sad, disillusioned old men, following the same dream they’ve had since starting out as their younger mirror images decades ago. There must be a life of its own in the instrument itself—a life these poor, sad, stagnant, overgrown children still hope to find. Neil pulls a lute off the wall and reminds himself of the simple beauty of playing.
Dana comes back for his coffee. A musician never forgets his drink.
This time the whole building lies depressed, recessed into dry, busy streets for wanderers looking for the dream to stumble into on a solitary, pointless day. “Mornings are generally slow, then midday gets a little crazy,” Lyle tells me. He lightens my mood a bit. He loves what he does. He loves the people. Every customer. Individual. By name. He’s the perfect balance of solemn businessman and jovial good fellow—it’s bad wording, but it makes sense when you stand caught in his wide smile.
I mention it seems stale. Neil and Dana lift their heads and eyes, giving that look—that look of “if you only knew.” Neil, especially, sighs with tired eyes. I talk to him a bit without taking notes. Sometimes I have to close my journals to hear.
07-08-02
Allie, Eden and Emma are in town for the week. I’ve taken on a supplemental job in the adoptions program at Catholic Charities, and continue working at Davis-Kidd. Now I’m sitting in Physical Science at 7:30 in the morning. Mancy just walked in—John from the bookstore’s wife now. (You may remember her from a handful of entries years ago.) The website is up and running, and I’ve lost another ten pounds, teetering now around 140.
Hmmm… the class fills up and the teacher—the only other male—has walked in. I should mention, for the sake of remembering it later, that Marci and I finally made it to Hawaii last month. The highlight is having said it.
Corresponding to the
first day of class, 07-02
Obviously, we should begin a stress journal with classes starting again. Specifically for me, the known constant stressors are financial, educational, professional and social. More particularly still, my job at Davis-Kidd is horrendous; my social calendar is filled, giving me less time to work on my website or publication; my wife is also in school; I start my second job this week at Catholic Charities; and all this week Marci’s friend Allie will be staying with us, with her two very young daughters. My car has no air conditioning, or working windows or doors (or radio). I cannot practice guitar while the girls are here, the refrigerator is shutting itself down, and my exercise regimen had slipped since our “vacation” in Hawaii with the in-laws.
I rather think I take on inordinate amounts of stress at once in hopes that I can check it off my list of “bad things to come.” Perhaps my negativity is my downfall. I always though it was discipline. I really should try to sleep, as I left work after only an hour today on the verge of a breakdown.
Also, the text for this Exercise and Stress Management class is mind-numbingly dull. Still, I’m glad to be in these two Phys-Ed classes because I hope to rethink my exercise habits, with a little better background.
Corresponding to the
second day of class, 07-02
Fortunately, my two Phys-Ed classes draw a great deal on last semester’s Intro to Psychology, as Dr. Loftin’s main concern was with promoting a low-stress lifestyle. I don’t know how well that took, because I think I merely transferred what I obsessed about. Rather than poetry, my focus since January has been on my body. So I’m actually quite glad to be under the instruction of two physical trainers who know a good bit about how to exercise correctly. It felt good to be in The Wellness Center, having been unable to exercise since the girls arrived. I really very nearly broke down Wednesday night, so I left work to rest and work on the website a bit. I’ve been smoking more than usual because we’ve had more company than usual. My other coping mechanism is cleaning, which is also impossible with a visiting four-year-old who should very clearly be paddled occasionally.
I suppose I should see what my other classes require for tomorrow. Oh, but one other thing I just thought of… another great relief this week has been my Lemony Snickett book. I think reading must be nearly as therapeutic as writing.
Corresponding to the first
weekend, 07-02
“The company” left Saturday evening just as I arrived home from work. I spent the remainder of the day cleaning… a definite attempt at purging the week from my system. Sunday I woke early to finish uploading the corrections to the website. I’ve noticed lately that my right ankle nearly always registers some discomfort. I wonder if perhaps it hadn’t entirely healed from that nasty sprain before my overkill on running since February. I’ve had to almost entirely stop my treadmill exercise in favor of Pilates. All I really wanted to do was tone my stomach. Instead I dropped thirty pounds, but still have no definition in my torso. I’m trying very hard to rewire myself for moderation. The thought of food is quite repulsive to me, but we have garbage left over in the house that I’ve found myself picking at. I’m trying to drink coffee instead of beer, but I suppose tomorrow I’ll get around to juicing those carrots—although they taste a lot like dirt.
I frequently wonder how many dysfunctions I really do have. I suppose I’ll read before bed. I’m anxious to develop a workout regimen.
07-15-02
The refrigerator is making sounds like leaking. The car’s front right tire is losing air. Marci stayed home sick and overwhelmed today. I slept only three hours last night, and now I’m not sure the website will ever be quite impressive enough to suit me. Our next-door neighbor, Shelley, the hostess of some new TV show, has our stereo hostage. The cat is attacking something large and plastic in the other room. The electricity has always flickered, but is getting progressively worse.
My 7:30 class let out by eight, so I had two hours to kill before Health and Fitness. I tried to eat fruit, but still had three large cups of coffee. I considered buying cigarettes, but thought I would rather be able to breathe deeply and not be winded taking a staircase. Marci bought me some small t-shirts and women’s size seven jeans. I find I’m more likely to exercise if my clothes fit tightly. It makes me feel skinny and I’m psychologically pressured to maintain it.
My ankle has still been bothersome, so I only walked the track at The Wellness Center. I don’t know yet what proper exercises I should do, so I’m keeping things light while I’m in these classes. My obsession with running earlier in the year was undeniably detrimental, so I’m reading through this combination of textbooks to try and develop a workable routine for the fall.
My other conscious effort was to drink water instead of Diet Coke… although I had three more cups of coffee at work when my head kept bobbing and eyes kept shutting. Now I’ll attempt more homework.
Supplemental for 07-15-02
I should note that the school’s scale weighed me at 144, rather than my 140 at home. And according to the One-Mile Run test, I am in excellent shape.
That’s all fine and good, but if I keep defaulting to running, I’ll soon be walking with a cane again.
07-19-02
Class on Thursday was the best one yet. Wednesday was a sufficient warm up to it, as I tried out most of the exercises Tara suggested (she is my Monday and Wednesday instructor). But Thursday was genuine progress, as I was taught ab-specific reps, only to reinforce that I am in worse shape than I assumed. Angie (my Tuesday and Thursday instructor) really got involved and convinced me that she really is there for us. She won me over, where I’ve never had respect for athletic types before. Maybe I really am changing.
I plan to start Sunday on editing my tenth book, as of yet untitled—something along the lines of “Of Course I’ve Still Got It”, since my output has been so minimal since registering the copyright for “The World Wants Me To Fail”. I want people to see the clear progression of a healthy human being. I can no longer simply point things out; I now feel a responsibility to offer a few solutions.
07-22-02
Running on two hours of sleep. In Physical Science right now. Adrenaline rush. Been working on queries for publishers.
Fifteen exercises later, after classes and working both jobs—nearly fell asleep on the way to Davis-Kidd—it is nearly one in the morning and I want to go to bed. Marci is impatient with the computer. I just want to sleep. I have homework first.
07-28-02
My time is not my own. After Thursday’s class I took the weekend off from exercising… and I feel the repercussions now. My Physical Science class stresses me more that anything else. Not because the class is anything challenging, but because I loathe having to work in a group with that horrendously uptight nursing student. Forcing groups is a poor social practice, in my case counterproductive. Oh well, just one more week of two hour sessions of hell. It’s wearing me down to go from school to work to work to social gatherings. My only time off, which I plan for projects, gets sucked up by friends. Not really even my friends—I pretty much have my wife, and that’s all. So I never get any closer to publication.
At least I have, for the first time ever, a job I enjoy. Caring Choices is wonderful. I wish I could be there full time. I hate my customers at the café. I hate the first-timers, I hate the occasionals, and I hate the regulars. They’re all getting fat. Another piece of me is eaten up like cancer each time I step foot in the building. I never want to see any of them again. I want to leave the city. I hate Nashville.
I want to work with computers. I want to be obscure. I want to see fewer than ten people a day. I want to see birds and trees and rain clouds, and exercise in private and eat almost nothing and write and read whenever the inclination hits. I want to be in bed before midnight and up with the dawn. I don’t want to think about money and grades and people and time constraints. I want everyone but my wife to leave me alone. I’ve adapted for too long, submitted myself too wholly. I deserve my break. I’ve worked hard. I earned it.
Where is God’s grace today, when I am overwhelmed?
07-29-02
Just failed a Physics test. It’s too bad… I really like the teacher. Just don’t have time to do the math. Coffee hasn’t been enjoyable for years. I’m listening right now to the children chatter. They’re all so serious. They know so very much.
Right now I miss Grammy Skippy’s air conditioning vents. I was a peaceful kid. I was quiet and good, and acted and made up songs to myself. I loved my mother and always drew pictures.
The teacher has arrived.
08-04-02
I can’t tell if this is a stress journal or not. All of my journals are a way of dealing with stress. I’m afraid there have been noticeable gaps in entries, but I can justify that by claiming priorities. Anyway, last week was impossible to chronicle because I had a major Physics project (a group project) due, I had to keep track of everything I ate for one of Tara’s labs, I had to learn how to open adoption cases at Caring Choices, and I consistently have to deal with the Davis-Kidd regulars. (I want to tell them that it’s unhealthy to eat out every day, the lazy gluttons.)
Anyway, the summer semester is nearly over, so I’ve got six more hours out of the way. I’ll take the two-week break between sessions to query publishers, now that everything is finally pulled together. And my schedule is all planned out and ready to be implemented. Next project, please.
08-20-02
Fall semester begins. At ten ‘til eight I’ve already been to the gym, and am mentally arranging my schedule when the youngish looking teacher walks in wearing a newly bought and ironed shirt and a stiff tie. I’m assessing my method in the class as I sit in the far corner in the back.
There is an enormous bruise on my arm. I don’t know from where.
09-17-02
I have decided to ease up. I am too hostile, too aggressive, too intense. It does not serve me. I wonder if I have ever enjoyed anything. Rain falls lightly, straight and intentional, spread across the length of planking turning gray beneath me—Indian style; as if Indians do not use chairs. Someone has burned, and someone else stapled, the trash can beside me, and it tucks its shawl into its hood to prepare for a cold front. My glasses are off to avoid eye contact, but a voice pauses at the door and hovers congenially for a split second of discomfort. Soon the classmates will begin arriving and I will be forced by attention to collect my spread of material and turn myself inward once more.
What I really want is to empty the house. I want to be rid of the accumulated media, the heaping drawers and cupboards of utensils and too many ceramics. I want the files cleared, and mail thrown away daily with receipts and capfuls left of cleansers and lotions. I want no more bags of chips or cookies, no more soda and excessive beer piling beneath the sink. I want no more TV or music or photographs or posters. No schedules or printed backups. I am so drained of pallor, so tired of putting forth the effort. I am appalled by society and over conditioning.
As I predicted… they have arrived.
Undated
Entry
Stupid, stupid world. Whatever it is, my kindreds, I cannot, I’m afraid, agree with you. Influential and indistinguishable begin the same, perhaps end the same—who knows? This world is so stupid I can hardly bear it. Everything. Everyone. Everything is against me. Everyone misunderstands. Kava-kava will not make me pleasant. I will just barely pass my classes. I will just barely make a living.
I cannot breathe properly. I need cigarettes and beer. I am sexually frustrated. I sleep at exactly the wrong times. I cannot provoke appropriateness.
Right now there are protestors, my favorite cousin among them, while another cousin just returned from Guam. Activists are undoubtedly the least productive, least effective people on earth. The A.C.L.U. are idiots. Protestors aren’t worth protecting. Not one of you—yes, even you, dear readers—deserve to know my leanings. You are too stupid to understand. You pretend to listen, but delude yourselves. Fans are the worst pitiable creatures of all. Let no one comment on my art. Ever. You will be wrong. It is not even for discussion.
It is so unbearable.
ENG
110: 04/08/02, Dinner Music For the
Homesick Restaurant
In Dinner At the Homesick Restaurant, Anne Tyler’s deliberate use of music reiterates each major theme throughout the novel, going so far as to assign each main character an appropriate theme song, and even suggesting resolution to each individual’s memoir. The underlying preoccupations of the story are threefold: how did the Tull family begin, how do they fare in the present, and what will become of them—what will future generations make of their family history? How each individual character deals with each of these questions is clearly illustrated by the suggested soundtrack, even when the content of the songs can not be found in the book. The course the music takes throughout the story ultimately ties together the loose ends and redeems the account with an optimistic outlook.
The main problem the Tulls face, which indeed sets the tone for the entire course of events, is that the real life family never lives up to the idealized visions in their heads, most poignantly illustrated through Pearl, who never stops worrying that something will go wrong. One of our earliest exposures to her thoughts is a flashback to a dance, where she is too uptight to turn her back even for a moment (18). Her neurotic behavior carries through the years, to the point where she is jealous even of the peaceful sound of her children asleep, provoked to her mundane tasks by a neighbor’s piano playing “Chattanooga Choo Choo” (17). “She wore me out,” Beck later concedes, adding that he couldn’t deal with “the grayness of things” (300, 301). Jenny, whose life in significant ways mirrors Pearl’s, is pensive from the very moment it occurs to her—most likely mid-song, as Cody observes that musical notes fill her and Ezra’s heads to overflowing—that Beck has left (41). Even Ezra, reading his mother’s diaries years later, finds real life “plotless,” unlike novels, unlike the comic opera Burt Tansy escorted her to (268).
In the mundane immediacy of life, the Tulls—and even Ruth, who becomes a Tull by marriage—find their existence unsatisfying, scored with melancholic notes. For Cody this is recurring, succinctly embodied in the Edith Tabor incident, when Ezra once again wins the girl, in this case because of a recorder, a “goddamn whistle” (56-57). Jenny’s jealousy is revealed in Ezra’s misplaced nostalgia, when he misses the restaurant more than listening to The Cities Service Band of America with her (71). Ruth is worn out by Mrs. Pauling’s theories and gripes regarding Arthur Godfrey and Perry Como, feeling with increasing intensity that life itself is “constant pain” (161-162). Cody revisits this sadness on the train with Ruth, with an uncharacteristic moment of compassion for Ezra, when a whistle catches him off guard and he thinks, just briefly, that he hears “a little scrap of melody floating by on the wind and breaking his heart” (166).
The music chosen to represent the young lives of Cody, Ezra, and Jenny has an innocent quality, but carries the same somber feel as that found later; it holds the faint but foreboding tone that something is slightly wrong. “Mairzy Doats,” for instance, is a children’s favorite and a classic, but historically it is a wartime song; its popularity was due to the public’s need for relief from the terrible reality of the day (288). It is an ominous presence as Jenny’s favorite song while she is eight or nine years old, knowing Beck has left, but singing along, hesitant to vocalize her underlying concern (41, 288). “Le Godiveau de Poisson,” mentioned three times as the tune on young Ezra’s pearwood recorder, becomes the theme for The Homesick Restaurant itself—a fish recipe in fact, not at all common, but incredibly important for its dual ownership, Ruth humming harmony as they contemplate the menu, and Cody irate that Ezra can be so carefree—brooding over it, in fact (106, 143, 146). On Cody and Ezra’s hunting trip, the two have a typical fallout, with the oldest child once again seething while the “golden boy” sings “Mister Rabbit” (a song about enduring with what limitations one is given—a definite Ezra parallel) off key (133, 146).
In addition to providing a soundtrack for the substantive content of the novel, Ms. Tyler gives us insight also into the philosophies of each character by her use of very particular, well placed theme songs, adding depth and humanity to what already seems a familiar, sympathetic cast. Pearl’s theme, “In the Sweet By and By” is a traditional hymn—as most of her associated songs are—which speaks eloquently about heaven, promising to reward faith, shedding light on her discipline and toil while painting a picture of her overall optimism that time will in fact heal all wounds (21-22). The song is an interesting choice in that its equally famous parody, “The Preacher and the Slave,” written as a protest against the Salvation Army, deals largely with food—appropriate given the significance of food as symbolic nourishment throughout the novel. This secondary implication toys with Pearl’s obstinacy, her refusal to admit that there is anything wrong or to ask for anyone’s help. Meanwhile, “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen” is Beck’s somewhat self-righteous anthem, sung over beer most evenings, until he finally gives in to despair and abandons his family, leaving Pearl behind to analyze and agree with the old words, “Nobody knows but Jesus…” (8-9).
Cody is an exception, intentionally lacking a song of his own so that when the need arises, as when he and Edith are walking together, he ends up whistling one of Ezra’s favorites, “The Ash Grove,” of which most versions lose their love and grow forlorn in the second verse, foreshadowing Cody eventually stealing Ruth (54).
Ezra, having lost “The Ash Grove,” is assigned “Greensleeves,” a song wrought with desperation at being cast aside by the object of the author’s affection—there is no more fitting song for Ezra’s eventual situation, and it resurfaces regularly until he retires his recorder altogether (42-43, 82, 133). This is the turning point of the novel, the most glaring division, once Cody courts and wins Ezra’s fiancé; it is when Ezra’s heart breaks, the conflict reaches its darkest moment, and the music dies for nearly a decade. “Ezra arrived—not whistling, oddly quiet, as he’d been since Ruth had left…. (He) no longer played tunes on his recorder” (171). There is a long silence, during which Pearl grieves for her youngest son (171).
Although the Tull family will not see resolution until every theme has played itself out, there are occasional moments to refresh us with a glint of hope. A shining example of this is when Jenny returns home and feels at peace, when she longs for Pearl’s tea, prepared while humming a hymn and looking “almost pretty” (101).
There are other hints within Jenny’s daily life of music eventually resurfacing, mostly through those surrounding her; she harbors the sounds of her children, her childhood, and even Sam Wiley, culminating in “Let It Be,” which is attributed also to the older version of Ezra (208, 266). The significance of Jenny’s staggered music is that it reflects her scattered and hurried life—Slevin’s tape recorder, Becky’s radio at night, toy trucks and xylophones; even so, it all fits together in a workable fashion after her breakdown (195, 206, 210, 213). The connection between Sam Wiley, “the one she’d loved the best,” and Ezra, who, as we said, share “Let It Be,” is that the attributes she had found appealing in her second husband were those same “liquid” qualities she longed for in Ezra—the nostalgia she felt, the love and need for her family (166, 207-208, 266).
Life and sound are reintegrated when the grandchildren are old enough to bring the adults nearly full circle, once again filling the air with music. Slevin listens on headphones to Janis Joplin, to “Me and Bobby McGee,” which suggests an affinity with Luke, an understanding that running away is appealing when parents can’t make their marriages work (193, 230). Luke’s runaway experience is encapsulated in Billy Swan’s hopeful, eager, “I Can Help,” after being driven out emotionally by Cody’s poor reaction—his misplaced comparison to Ezra—upon hearing “White Coral Bells” chime out from an old tonette (225-226, 230).
In the final scenes, the days just before and the day of Pearl’s wake, music, again and for the last time, plays its succinct narrative role, resolving as only it can the jumble of memoirs Ms. Tyler set out for her readers. In remembering the softer, tender side of Pearl, Ezra reminds Cody of the soft-shoe they used to do, astonishing Beck at her diversity—the depth he had not known (295). Ezra is in this position from having lived his entire life at her side, in the later days of her blindness reading to her from her own diaries. Where they left it, in perfect resolution and peace, was an entry where Pearl had been weeding, with piano scales softly in the background and a bottle fly buzzing around, where she wrote, “I don’t care what else might come about, I have had this moment. It belongs to me” (277). At her funeral, the mourners sing “We’ll Understand It All Bye and Bye;” what could say it any better (286).
ENG
110: 04/02, Ethnography Prewriting
Why I Chose Guitar
Culture & Broadway Music Consignments
Writers have animosity toward nearly everyone—themselves even. We especially look down on people who are unable to write. We assume it is this lack of talent that causes those unfortunate souls to take up instruments. I loathe the sound of most guitars. I turn the radio when I hear it. More so, I loathe guitarists, those self-centered wanna-be rock stars. They elevate themselves to gods without being able to eloquently pen a lyric or passionately sing a song. Oh, that’s the other thing… I’m also a singer. That part of me detests instrumentalists even more than the writer part. Guitarists so infrequently know when not to play. They’re very inappropriate. And all they really want is to get laid. It’s just so needy, so pathetic.
Nashville is the very last place on earth I ever wanted to live. God plopped me here as the setup for some twisted joke. Here I am then, the polar opposite of the city’s core, the antidote to the glossy, overproduced, over-advertised state of contemporary music. That’s shooting high, I realize, but give me a few years—I’m young yet.
Nevertheless, these people are my friends. Or rather, their circles touch mine in unexpected ways, and to be fair I should try to find some merit in Nashville’s guitar culture—at least the part of it I will undoubtedly keep running into as a writer, or else I shall make my life quite difficult in the future.
My Plan of Entry
That’s where Broadway Music Consignments enters the project. My “in” is that I used to manage a coffee shop in the same building. We shared a lot of clients—you know, someone coming in for coffee and leaving with a $3000 mixing board, or vice versa. Here it is nearly two years after we shut Union 5 down and Broadway is still going strong. I step in briefly, very occasionally, when I need something like a metronome or a windscreen. I think it’s about time I invest myself enough into Nashville’s heart to at least appreciate it for what it is. I’ve simply been too self-centered to look past my journals to tolerate what is for a good number of my friends the most supreme reality.
A Time Management Plan
Tracking this culture, though may prove challenging, as it is liquid, flowing into wherever it is invited at its own pace. Uhh… let me say it clearer. Guitar culture doesn’t end at the retail outlet. It follows through to the daily lives of the guitarist. In most cases, it may be the same unspoken sort of foundation as my poetry journals; it may be that guitar dictates when and where it will surface, and it is my responsibility to recognize when it does.
For the most part, I am already an ethnographer. Poetry is about observation. That’s what I’ve been trained to do. My challenge, then, is to pay closer attention to the prevailing theme of Music City, the bits and pieces of its makeup that I had turned up my nose at and ran from before. Let’s say this is my attempt to step out of my comfortable writer mode and participate in daily life—albeit briefly. My task then, is to force myself to socialize when the opportunity arises. Believe me, it is a stark contrast from what I’m accustomed to and content to do. Broadway will be my starting point and home base, but musicians are out in the town playing, and I shall have to follow them to a few of those places if I am ever to consider myself well balanced and a good friend to my Music City neighbors.
What Is My
Expectation?
I’ll admit, I hate this project. It’s time consuming and has a lot more to do with Sociology than English. I’m old. I’ve met my quota of people I wanted to know. I had resolved not to ever meet another person when I decided to go back to school. So much for those plans. But if I shall proceed, it will be with full intention and fresh perspective, so wholeheartedly I delve into the culture surrounding that horrible instrument, the guitar. I honestly don’t know if it will reinforce my aversion or if I might find a new respect. Most likely I will be disappointed. And that will undoubtedly spur me to another resolve, but we shall have to wait to see what that is.
ENG
110: 05/06/02, Ethnography Artifact
There is only one thing in the center of a guitarist’s universe. His guitar. Everything revolves around it. It creates entire worlds for itself, in which it can reign supreme and dictate commands with its powerful voice. The guitar is something to be respected, revered even; it enslaves its owner and always gets its way.
The guitar promises at first to be simple, individual, a loner, but it is a liar. The guitar knows that it must not remain alone. It needs a bed—the guitar case. It needs a stereo, a metronome. Classical guitars require the company of footstools. They ask for the companionship of books, and then bookstands. Before long one case isn’t enough; the guitar would like a hard, plastic case for heavy duty moving around and a lightweight, cloth case for slinging conveniently across the back. Soon the cases are not quite as helpful as those more easily accessible stands with the yellow rubber arms.
Plectrum guitars need picks, and those picks need to be in every pocket alongside the lint and loose coins. They need amplifiers. They need stickers across their shining bodies. They need straps, and suddenly a lineup of pedals with every conceivable effect. They need cords and pickups and tuners and capos. Eventually they need duplicates of themselves with just a few minor variations—at once as similar and different as the Hoth figure of Luke Skywalker and the one from Tattoine.
Guitarists were seduced by their instrument. They were promised fame and fortune and love and respect, but now they give constantly as if in an abusive relationship—they have never finished giving to the guitar. It always needs more. Now it even more time. At first it was content to be strummed and flashed around as a trophy, but with time it grew envious of other relationships. It grew jealous of the girlfriend; it wanted him to ditch her, not pick up the phone, stay ho