S.K. Waller's Blog, page 17

Rap Session

“Hey, man, do you remember that place you used to live?”
“What place, bro?”
“You know the one. That crappy little place on Stanley Avenue. Back in 1969.”
“Yeah, I remember it.”
“Do you remember all those nights we spent getting wasted? Man, we had some high times in that apartment!”
“Yeah, it was pretty cool. That was a decent time in my life.”
“Me, too. Weren’t you still in school, man?”
“It was my last year at the university.”
“What was your major? Wasn’t it philosophy or some shit like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that was some wasted bread, wasn’t it. Hope you didn’t take out any loans on that degree, man.”
“It wasn’t wasted, bro.”

“Who was that chick you were seeing back then?”
“Which one?”
“You know the one. The blonde chick. Man, she was wild!”
“I don’t remember that.”
“What? You don’t remember her? Man, she was foxy!”
“Oh, I remember her very well. Her name was Sunshine.”
“No way! That wasn’t her real name.”
“No, but it’s what she was called. I don’t remember her being wild, though. She was a vegetarian and did yoga and shit. Pretty mellow, really.”
“She did a lot of acid, man.”
“Well, we all did that.”
“Wonder what she’s doing these days.”
“She died a few years ago, but I don’t know the story.”

“Have you seen that building lately, man? ”
“No, I quit driving through that part of town years ago.”
“I heard someone wants to move all the homeless out of there and remodel it as loft apartments.”
“It was a ratty place back in ‘69. I can’t imagine what it’s like now. Full of ghosts and memories, I imagine. Ghosts and memories.”

“Do you remember the fridge, man? It was so loud, it kept us awake all damned night.”
“When we were wired and couldn’t sleep.”
“I miss my long hair. Man, I miss even having hair! What do you miss?”
“Hm, I don’t know. Just being young and healthy, I guess.”

“Do you remember those roaches, man?”
“I thought we always smoked them up.”
“No, man! The cockroaches in that place! Shit, they were so huge, we used to call them the Furniture Movers. One night on ‘shrooms, I swear I saw your cat using them as roller skates!”
“I never had a cat, bro.”
“No way, man. You had an orange cat.”
“I never had a cat.”
“Yes, you did, man.”
“Dude, I never had a freakin’ cat. I’m allergic.”
“But that’s one of my favorite memories!”
“Sorry. I never had a cat.”
“You had a cat. Do you remember how thin those walls were, man? Just lathing and plaster. There was a hooker living next door. She kept us awake a lot.”
“Good thing I had that noisy fridge, huh, bro?”

“Heh! Remember that time Ronnie tried to change the bulb in that ceiling light and he nearly broke his neck when the chair rolled out from under him?”
“Nah, I don’t remember that.”

“Hey, man, if someone gave you a time machine, would you go back to 1969, and that apartment?”
“Hell, yeah, bro. Sometimes I just lay in bed trying to will myself back there.”
“Would you move that chick in with you? That Sunshine chick?”
“Definitely.”
“Would you take me with you, man?”
“Sure, bro. Why not?”

“This place isn’t too bad. Not since you moved in.”
“Yeah. Here we are, the Woodstock generation, all in nursing homes, just waiting for the drug cart to come around.”
“What I’d give to be back in that apartment of yours, man, doing the shit they give us here!”
“Me, too, bro. Me, too.”

Mag 210


Copyright © 2014 SK Waller

One Small Time

"One small time," (as my mother told me I used to say when I was a very small child) when I lived in California, I used to be visited every Friday night by my circle of friends (La Boheme) whether I was in the mood or not. This meant a night of drinking and of waking up the next morning to see several bodies strewn around my living room floor.

Of course, the things that irritated us in the past become the stuff of nostalgia when we're older and are no longer living the life we knew. Things we took for granted become the things we most long for. Nearly every Friday evening takes me to that wistful place in myself...
But tonight will be different. Tonight, friends are coming over for a little "no-occasion" get together. Not really a party, it'll be a blue jeans kind of affair with easy munchies instead of "horse douvers", and precious little organization. The only thing I've worked on in preparation is the musical play list, and that hardly counts. Okay, I confess. I hand washed and towel dried all of the wine glasses, something I never had to do back in the day because they were used so frequently.

So whatever you're doing tonight, if you live in the area and know where I live, do pop 'round. You're more than welcome!

Self-Flagellation and the Work Ethic

Even today in the 21st century, our Protestant work ethic continues to set the standard of how we define ourselves both as individuals and as a society. (Don't panic—this isn't a political post. Not entirely.) Based on the Calvinist tenet that hard work and self-sacrifice is necessary to our calling, success, self-esteem, morality, and social acceptability, the Puritans considered it to be a visible sign of the salvation of their very souls, their "rightness with God." Even atheists and non-religious people pick up the cat-of-nine-tails and flagellate themselves into a bleeding state over the sanctity of the work ethic...

"The Protestant work ethic, as every first-year sociology student knows, is what made western capitalism so (for want of a better word) great. When it comes to accumulating profit, what could be more perfect than hard work, self-denial, plus the threat of eternal damnation for the lazy? Then, when Europe got too comfortable, the Puritans left for America to work even harder and self-deny more vigorously, culminating triumphantly in the corporate culture that brought you the Furby, aerosol cheese and Crocs. These days, if you consider yourself lazy or a procrastinator – who doesn't, in some area of life? – you almost certainly share some vestige of this moralism and use it to chastise yourself. Effort is key. Even failure is acceptable, so long as you tried your hardest." Oliver Burkeman

I'm not talking about laziness. I've never been the sort of person who does a job to get it over with, I do a job to get it done correctly because I want to be proud of whatever it is I've attached my name and reputation to.

Everywhere we go we are bombarded by the specter of the work ethic looming darkly over our heads.

"Hard work spotlights the character of people:some turn up their sleeves,some turn up their noses,and some don't turn up at all."
"It is a belief in the moral benefit and importanceand its inherent ability to strengthen character."
"Work hard, stay humble."
"If you work really hard and are kind, amazing things will happen."
"Jesus is coming. Look busy."
And so on.

When I was young I gladly bought into this. I took it seriously and, yes, I felt darned good about myself as I worked two and three jobs and put myself through school, all as a single parent. The concept of doing what one loves and loving what one does was foreign to us back then. We worked because it was the right thing to do. The American thing. I was happy to do my bit, and like other artists, I carved out precious moments for my creativity during my lunch hour, in the evenings after dinner was over, the dishes were washed, and the kids were in bed, and on weekends. I was young. I still had excess energy, and my whole life was ahead of me. "Plenty of time," I thought.

The ugliness of this myth appeared, however, when I could no longer work due to illness and aging. Suddenly, I found myself thrust out of the hive, abandoned by the system I supported all my adult life (I began working, illegally, at 15). Now, I am (along with too many other people in my situation)  referred to as a user, slacker, a liability, a socialist.

How dare I try to claim the SSI they unflinchingly stole from my paychecks? How dare I expect medical care after they broke my back? I may have put in 36 years, but after I'd been muscled out because I didn't "fit the profile" (too old, too fat, too ill, too gay, too whatever), I was left adrift. Invisible. Worse, the blame for the country's economic woes fall on me, the hardworking American who lived paycheck-to-paycheck, paid taxes, took care of my elderly, raised my young, and followed the rules. You will forgive me when I state my revulsion at quotes like, "Don't share my wealth, share my work ethic." Most of the 1% have never changed their father's diapers and colostomy bags, scrubbed their mother's shit off the bathroom floor on their hands and knees, or lost sleep because their autistic child had nightly screaming fits.

In 2008, after I faced the fact that I could no longer take part in the work force (largely due to wearing my body out as the family caretaker), I did my best to create work for myself. Believe me, working from home, generating jobs and income, is much harder than showing up at a cubicle every morning. My family needed me to go to work. I wanted to go to work, but after three weeks I had to give in and admit to myself and everyone else that I just couldn't do it anymore. Talk about self-flagellation!

If believing in one's dreams and abilities always brought about desired results for everyone who believes, if hard work always brought success to everyone who works hard, I wouldn't be writing this entry. There would be no hungry children and fewer homeless people.

I think I'm rounding a corner. Where I once wrote, composed, and created in the quest for recognition and recompense, I'm now coming to the place where I may have to shove all that aside and do these things simply for the doing and to leave something behind for family not yet born. Trying to create to meet a deadline, fulfill a bucket list, or to be a best selling author has become too hard for me. My health just can't manage it. This is harder on me than I can articulate; it's unspeakable, really, but I know that the self-condemnation for simply getting older has to stop. That, I believe is truly what growing old gracefully is all about.

"We don't correlate our sense of responsibility with what we are actually producing. We correlate it with how hard we are being on ourselves. The Puritans had a strong work ethic, but they also burned witches at the stake. We need new role models." Dan Pallotta

The Gypsy From Kenya

There once was a gypsy from Kenya,
Who traveled the world, even India,
With lute and with wine,
He crossed paths with a lion;
Well, I'd rather have seen ya than been ya!

Mag 209

(Sorry, I'm just not feeling very serious today.)

Copyright © 2014 SK Waller

Lumbergh & the Cat's Ass

Some time ago I set up the dining table as my writing desk. This was a good move because the dining room of this cottage has an old world feel that inspires me. It is, in fact, my favorite room in the house. Everything I need is here: books, the piano, photos of everyone who means anything to me, my guitars, a china hutch full of wine glasses...

The table itself  is heavy wood, solid with no leaves, and seats six. It reminds me of the antique partners desk I used to have in Ventura, before my ex sold it out of spite after I left her in 1999. For some reason, though, I couldn't settle down here and just write for long hours. Something was amiss. I put all of my favorite things on it, but it didn't seduce me. Last weekend I decided to place the chair facing the room rather than the bay windows. Bam! That did it...
Although I no longer have the morning sun shining in my face, there now is a glare that makes it impossible to see my computer screen from about 9:00 am to noon. Easy fix: sun-blocking liners behind the lace curtains. This also assures me privacy late at night when cars drive past. Not that anyone is looking in, but I don't like having my back to windows and doors. Even in restaurants I sit facing the door. I've no idea where that comes from.

So now I have this tall "boss" chair which has great, adjustable support for my lumbar area. Our family being as word-happy as we are, immediately picked up on the "lumbar chair" thing and renamed it the "Lumbergh Chair". That my nickname since about 1986 has been "The Berg" was not lost on these people.

Another issue is the cat. Within seconds of my getting my desk set up, she planted her butt in the middle of it and gave me a look that said, "Thank you. This will make an excellent dais from which to reign..."

I wouldn't mind if she plopped herself off to one side, but it's right in the dead center.

Still, I have to admit I rather enjoy her company late at night; I used to have a cat who slept on top of my piano when I composed. There's something soothing bout having a cat as an office manager.

Such Stuff

The numbers must be in the tens of thousands, maybe higher. Although not every squealing Beatlemaniac in the Sixties developed a genuine love of Indian classical music apart from George Harrison's contributions on the Beatles' albums, many did. His three instances of adding sitar (Norwegian Wood, Love You To, and Within You, Without You) only granted a tiny bit of exposure to a music that was so alien to our ears; we either loved it or hated it. Our parents certainly didn't get it.
A great many Beatles fans didn't get it, either, although it didn't really pose any real threat on Rubber Soul's Norwegian Wood. It wasn't until Revolver that pink, teen-aged ears, as yet unpierced, pricked up. Was this a new trend with George? Where does it come from? Will he ever go back to writing songs like I Need You and You Like Me Too Much? And the hair—especially that facial hair—wasn't going to stay, was it? George's sitar was okay for a song or two as long as it remained obediently in the background of Lennon and McCartney's radio hits, but full tracks of Indian music? For the love of God, no. That's not our Beatles.

We were talking about the space between us all,And the people who hide themselves behind a wall of illusion;Never glimpse the truth, then it's far too late, when they pass away.
But some of us loved the hypnotic strangeness of it. Some of us connected with the deeper subject matter. Years after the incense burned out, the flowers wilted, and the Nehru jackets had been donated to charity thrift stores, some of us went on to learn more about, and appreciate, the classical music of India. That's only one of the important influences George Harrison had on the largest generation to ever inhabit our small planet. The other is meditation. Before George, most of us had no idea what it entailed, or what a mantra was. Yoga, meditation, and vegetarianism were things we'd had no contact with and no interest in.

If George's legacy is anything, it's not in his being a Beatle for a few short years. It's in his hunger for spiritual enlightenment and his lifelong search for God. That we were able to follow along as we did, that is, as spectators and fans, is such stuff as karma is made of.

Indian Classical Music on Pandora

Creatrix

Poets's Sleep by
Chang Hong Ahn, 1989Unborn characters die and decompose,
empty skulls bleaching in the sun.
Hollow sockets, gaping jaws;
I sleep on,
dreaming, dreaming.

Their spirits try to wake me by throwing pebbles,
shattering the windows and lining the sill.
Like stones on grave markers;
they whisper,
don't forget, don't forget.

When I die they shall crowd around me,
holding me accountable for their premature expulsion.
Howling voices, accusing eyes;
didn't you know,
We could have lived, we could have lived.

Mag 208

Copyright © 2014 SK Waller

Someday, the Knife

Someday, when I've completed my current writing projects and I have nothing to do (hah!), I'll go through each of my 50-odd journals and redo them. I'll buy some of those bound, black sketchbooks and I'll transcribe the good stuff into them, adding more content, photos, drawings, watercolors, and all that sort of thing. I'll also take an X-acto knife to some paragraphs and drawings and paste them into the new volumes. Then I'll throw the originals in a barrel and burn them...
Oh, I hear the gasps and shrieks of my friends, but it's something I've always known I will, and should, do. Not everything that happens and is then written about is fit to be read; there are some private aspects of my innermost thoughts that I really don't care to pass down to those who will come after me. Revised, annotated, and illustrated journals will be so much better.

There are those who believe journals and diaries should remain in their raw state, but most famous diarists didn't agree. Anaïs Nin extensively and painstakingly revised hers. Some of the people she wrote about say she out-and-out lied, but, really. Who cares? Anaïs Nin wrote about you! Get over it! I won't go that far; my journals were never about my angst over other people, they were about my ideas, personal growth, creative processes, and impossible dreams. What I want to edit out is the drivel.

Of course, it's the organizing that will take the most time; even transcribing the entries by hand won't be as arduous. I have thousands of photos to choose from, but they might as well be paired with the events that inspired them instead of being lost in a shoe box somewhere along the line. Left as they are, they're sure to be found by a grandchild or a great-grandchild who won't know who all of those people were.

I admit that the original journals are a bit sacred to me. I took them with me everywhere I went. Every concert, every rehearsal, every party, every dark and gloomy night... They were there.

As I say, someday.

1962

bitter end
bitter cold
cheap chianti
cheap cold water flat
music n poetry floatin
over west 4th street
sh
dylans writin

Mag 207




Copyright © 2014 SK Waller