Jim Baumer's Blog, page 11

Changing Lanes

A lifetime of work experience leaves many of us adrift at some point in our “work careers.” I love that phrase in that it glorifies what’s basically a soul-killing enterprise.

After freelancing and being primarily self-employed since mid-2012, I’m back in a work environment similar to the previous world I once inhabited. Working at home seems romantic to many who haven’t done it for any significant period. The reality of staying home and working remotely is pretty isolating. At least I found that to be true, especially since Mark was killed.

I did spend the past two years being out five nights a week, tutoring at a private school. That gig helped pay the bills and I did get out of the house. But the students were difficult, save for a few that I felt I might have made some small difference with. Then again, I might be deluding myself. The tutors I worked with and saw every night aren’t people I’ve remained in-touch with.

Find your lane and stay in it.

I’m in week four of a new job. It’s the “honeymoon” phase, so my expectations are minimal. They pay me, so anything more than that will be a bonus.

In truth, as jobs go, my commute isn’t too bad—it’s 20 miles, all highway. I do have to navigate the traffic mess on the turnpike and then take 295 through Portland to the edge of the peninsula where the campus where I work is located. Fridays are my longest day for the week. It also means that returning home has been a mess each time I’ve trekked back south to Biddo.

I’m enjoying having a day off during the week. Monday and Wednesday are shorter days, although I’ve worked over a couple of times already. I guess that despite hiring a bunch of new people, my work site is still short-handed. At least we seem to be, at least at times.

A couple of co-workers that had their onboarding the same time as I did, and then, went through the two weeks of training with me are interesting people. We seem to share similar values and I actually have something to talk about with them. I’ve also made a conscious decision to “dial it down” in terms of putting myself out there and being my old gregarious self at work.

I’m learning to “stay in my lane” because that’s the way my employers wants things to be. I have no urge to buck that expectation. Expecting little or nothing means that being disappointed is less likely.

Lamentation (for David Berman)

[from the New York Times, Aug. 7, 2019]

With wry songs full of black humor, his band became an underground favorite in the 1990s, and a new group, Purple Mountains, was set to tour.

David Berman, the reluctant songwriter and poet whose dry baritone and wry, wordy compositions anchored Silver Jews, a critically lauded staple of the 1990s indie-rock scene, died on Wednesday. He was 52.

  His death was announced by his record label, Drag City, which released music by Silver Jews and Berman’s latest band, Purple Mountains…A law enforcement official who spoke on condition of anonymity because he wasn’t authorized to speak on the matter said that Berman was found on Wednesday in an apartment building in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, and pronounced dead at the scene.

  A spokeswoman for the city’s medical examiner said that Berman had hanged himself, and ruled it suicide.

Another artist has left this world-David Berman [NY Times photo]

—————————–

To spend hours, weeks, months, and even years with people and then have them so profoundly reject you at the hour of your greatest need is demoralizing at the very least. The act of abandonment becomes deeply personal and affecting. You internalize it and adopt methods of moving through and beyond it. It leaves you scarred, however.

The more methods we have for “connecting” with others, the more our choice not to affects those who remain out of contact range. To be rejected in the age of Zuckerberg’s bulldozer is a particularly cruel form of loneliness.

Meanwhile, another sensitive soul decided he’d had enough of this world. After years of people paying lip service to his work and genius—yet another artist living only to experience the pain and rejection seeing their art and creativity devalued—he decided that he’d had enough and died alone in a world that’s weaponized isolation.

A friend from my past—someone who somehow managed to disappear without a trace just before digital subsumed the rest of us—often said to me, “the masses are asses.” I can’t disagree.

I try to stay away from Facebook. Whenever I spend more than a few minutes there, I always see someone celebrating and spending time with other people. The other people inevitably aren’t me.

Across my life, I’ve developed work-arounds to most of my shortcomings—from ADHD, through procrastination, into anger management—to name a few of my personal peccadilloes. I’m not perfect by any means. To live as a “ghost” has been a challenge like no other.

Short of real-world relationships, I find solace in books, music, guitars, local beer, and early-morning walks across a new spot of geography. What else is there to do, save to end it all? I continue to fight that battle, daily.

When I heard that David Berman died, I wasn’t surprised. I’d read somewhere that he was depressed. Who isn’t possessing a heart and a functioning intellect? During his time on this earth, he strove to explain (in music and words) the dissonance of American life.

I wonder how I’d feel if Mary left me? Probably even more alone. Berman and his wife, Cassie, were separated, according to some of the articles I’ve read following his death. My own wife probably feels like I’ve become more “alone” over time: at least since our son was killed.

Last night, I climbed the stairs from our basement and walked into the kitchen. I’d been playing guitar in the cellar (what I refer to as “my bunker”). I was greeted by the smells from what might have been one of her best culinary creations. I told her, sometime, you should kiss my amp and guitar—they’ve managed to “keep me here.” She nodded. She understands. At least one person in my life does.

I hardly know what to write these days. I’ve poured my heart out as a blogger. I’ve written intelligently across a host of topics. I no longer feel the same urgency to delve into my personal travails like I used to.

Another friend, someone I no longer remain tethered to, once told me that her best decade was between 50 and 60. I thought, “hey, maybe that will be the case for me.” No, drawing nigh to the end of that decade, I can say that it’s been one that truly “sucked” like no other period in my life.

A song from another creative soul. His death was ruled, “accidental” overdose.

Going With the Flow

If you don’t know how I feel about people who sow hate and division (like our president), you’ve obviously never read more than a post in passing. I’m not going to bother to summarize my politics or ideological leanings. I’ve left plenty of bread crumbs to follow.

I’ve written about playing the guitar. I continue to play.

The recent move cut into available time I had with my guitars. I missed the familiar rhythm I’d cultivated over the prior nine months of playing nearly every day.

We’re settling into a new place that feels right for us. We like the neighborhood and being within walking distance of an ever-evolving-and-vibrant downtown district is another perk to being in Biddeford.

I’m in week three of a new job. It’s been awhile since I actually enjoyed reporting for duty. My co-workers have been welcoming. One of my managers is a music aficionado and we share a similar interest in bands/artists, including Deer Tick. She was actually impressed with that one.

When I worked at Moscow Mutual years ago, the “mentor” I was matched with was a lousy trainer. She was narcissistic at best. I swear to this day that she purposely sabotaged my training for whatever reason. At the most basic level, she wasn’t a very nice human being.

The woman who I’ve been shadowing and who I’ve spent the lion’s share of time with in my new position has been fantastic. She makes learning fun and she regularly catches me doing things right. She is also an empathetic person of the highest order with customers, both internal and external.

Enough of work and real estate. I’m here to talk guitar yet again.

Apparently, music and playing an instrument promotes what’s known as “flow state.” This state is neurologically-based. Scientists are still learning about its mechanics. Without getting too scientific (which I rarely am), it’s a place where we are capable of leaving behind irritations, dissonance, and other negative psychological elements. Like anger and hate.

I’m not a psychologist. However, from my attempts to embrace mindfulness, I know that it’s possible to be less angry and less agitated. In a country that’s riven with anger, where many have an irrational fear of people of color, as well as a paranoid kind of politics like no other place, being able to dial down negative emotions is worth exploring.

According to Hungarian-American psychologist, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, our “best moments in our lives are not the passive, receptive, relaxing times…The best moments usually occur if a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile.”

It was Csikszentmihalyi who found that people achieve genuine satisfaction during a state of consciousness he refers to as “flow.” In this state they are completely absorbed in an activity, especially an activity which involves their creative abilities. During this “optimal experience” they feel “strong, alert, in effortless control, unselfconscious, and at the peak of their abilities.”

Csikszentmihalyi’s seminal work, Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, was written in 1975. He’s not someone looking to cash-in on the latest “flavor of the month, or recent interest in mindfulness, either. I plan to pick it up and read it. I’m fascinated by flow state, being “in the zone” (common in sports parlance), or any other way to transcend the ordinary and often, the ugliness of the everyday. Interestingly (I think) for Patriots’ fans, Tom Brady has mastered much of what Csikszentmihalyi wrote about, yet this was years before Brady began flinging footballs on some Pop Warner field in California.

It was last fall when I got out my acoustic guitar and began trying to play for 15 to 20 minutes daily. As I began to play and learn a few simple songs, including the lyrics and singing and playing, I’d inevitably feel better after a few minutes. After a session of playing three or four songs (or more), I routinely began experiencing joy for the first time since Mark was killed.

Not only did I feel better, but playing every day (our at least five out of every seven days) began to promote improvement in my guitar-playing. The more I played, the better I played.

Wednesday morning, I picked up my electric. It wasn’t plugged into an amp. I simply began strumming a chord progression. It was a simple one, but I wrote down the chords and even added a rudimentary chorus before it was time for my commute.

Later, when I arrived home and had lunch (my shift on Wednesday was 8:00 to 1:00), all I could think about was my new “song.” I ended up playing for more than an hour. I have been working on lyrics. I should have something in another few days. Maybe I’ll even post a sound file, soon.

Additionally, I’m also working on “Interstate Love Song,” by Stone Temple Pilots. It’s always been a song I’ve had an affection for. One of my favorite online guitar instructors, Marty Schwartz, has me ¾ of the way to being able to play it, at least in a perfunctory fashion.

I’m aware of what happened last weekend. Hate and mayhem suck and cause others to grieve over losing loved ones. My wife and I know this from personal experience.

Jumping on Facebook or consuming cable news about the shootings would only make me agitated. I’ve chosen a minimalist approach to the news. Local weather in the morning, the NY Times on weekends. I’m still “in the loop.” But I’m also not angry all the time.

Southbound

Moving is a lot of work. Transitioning stuff 50 miles might not seem like much, but it is.

The last time we made a major move, we sold a house we’d been in for 26 years. We found a place we thought would be a good placeholder until we figured out whether we wanted to own another home.

Then, less than two months later, the floor of our lives opened-up: Mark was killed.

Living in Brunswick was tarnished. It became a place where we experienced the horror of losing our son. I guess the house by the cove was as good a place as any to grieve and deal with our loss.

Brunswick is a nice community. Mary always loved their farmers’ market. Curtis Memorial is a terrific library. I enjoyed downtown, visits to Wild Oats, and walking around town with my friend, Paul.

I also found living outside of town lonely and isolating—not as much as Durham, but Brunswick never felt like home for me.

In 2015, I stumbled upon what was beginning to ripple in downtown Biddeford. I ended up pitching a story and ultimately writing one about city’s mills and their redevelopment for the Boston Globe. I was proud of my work.

When we began actively looking to buy a house, Portland was too expensive. There were also things about Portland that I’ve never loved. We broadened our geographic horizons and began in earnest to look in Westbrook, then Saco, and eventually, Biddeford. Westbrook did nothing for either of us. Saco is a nice community, but we found a place we both liked in Biddeford.

Biddeford’s downtown has really blossomed. Some have taken to calling it, “the Biddessance.” I like that.

Just after we closed on the new house, we attended the Saturday artwalk. We walked along Main Street, ending up at Pepperell Mill. An artist from Richmond, Jim Decker, was painting in the mill. I’m not an art connoisseur in any measure or form. However, when I came upon a recent work called “New Beginnings,” it “spoke” to me. I bought it. I think this is the first painting I’ve ever purchased. He was also working on a piece of a man and a son, walking along a path. I look forward to that one when it’s finished.

Jim and I had a beautiful conversation. I told him about Mark, our move to Biddeford. He shared some of his own pain in losing his wife to cancer. I am honored that my first painting is one of his.

For the past three weeks, we’ve been trekking an hour (one way) back-and-forth between two houses. Mary and I have shouldered this mostly by ourselves. Why wouldn’t we? We’ve been forced to as our unit of three lost a key member and the soul of our family. Mary’s sister graciously assisted with painting prior to moving into the house, giving up two off days to help Mary with a task I hate. Me, I’m “the cleaner.”

New Beginnings (Jim Decker)

It’s been an incredibly busy stretch for both of us. This is Mary’s hectic time of the year working to supply schools in her role as a sales rep for a national office supplier. Me, I am taking a summer session course at USM where I’ve just completed four papers in five weeks, about 10,000 words worth of essay-writing. I just submitted my final paper and posted my exit blog, due Friday. I also completed certification with the National Safety Council to teach defensive driving courses in the fall. I even started new job a week ago, too. Phew!

The moving truck will roll up to the house on the cove Thursday morning. The “big stuff” that remains along with a host of boxes and other items we couldn’t or decided we wouldn’t move, will journey south on 295 to Biddo.

We like the idea of being in southern Maine. Downtown is as vibrant as it’s been.

Lucy likes the house, too!

Moon Shots

Tomorrow is the 50th anniversary of the moon landing. Being old enough, I can actually say I was alive when it happened. I don’t remember much about it, though.

I imagine it was a topic of conversation in the house where I grew up. Did my parents watch it on their black and white television console? I don’t know.

This summer, I’m more apt to learn about current events from music, or related to the music I am listening to. I think it beat my former method of news consumption, relying on cable’s 24/7 cycles and never-ending Trump coverage.

Most Fridays (at least for a few more weeks), I’m usually at home, streaming Jon Bernhardt’s “Breakfast of Champions” slot on WMBR. I don’t know Jon, but by the kind of music he programs, I’m guessing we both have an affinity for mid-90s indie and that our interests in current bands/artists is informed by that period of time. I could be wrong.

The Moon And Back – One Small Step For Global Pop by Various

Bernhardt featured a compilation called, The Moon and Back: One Small Step for Global Pop, along with a host of other songs related to the moon shot. Like most of his shows revolving around a theme, it was pretty cool, coming from a former DJ who took pride in putting together a radio show back in the day. A few songs into the show’s setlist, I figured out that there must be an anniversary related to the first landing on the moon.

The compilation tracks I’ve heard thus far are really good. I especially like The Nameless Book’s “AS-506” (track #13).

Along with the music, I found this article that I thought was well-written. It delves into why we fixate on things from the past and get all “geeked out” about anniversaries like these. The past does actually matter. Who knew?

I’m a bit like Larry Norman when it comes to celebrating the moon landing and nostalgia about it. Back in 1969, Norman was non-plussed about it and wrote “The Great American Novel” that touched on the waste or resources that the moon launch represented. Norman’s song creates a snapshot of that time that in my opinion is as powerful as anything Dylan wrote about the late 1960s. Unless you ran in Xian rock circles like I did for a time, you probably don’t know his music. Norman launches it with this line:

I was born and raised an orphan in a land that once was free

In a land that poured its love out on the moon

He goes on from there to offer a critique of a country that still gets its priorities upside-down, or worse.

Changing Shifts

I’m going to miss swimming at the Bath Y. For more than three years, I’ve driven north on Route 1 to Bath to swim. Swimming has been one of a few things that kept me centered during the most difficult period of my life, both emotionally, and a year ago, when my SI joint flared-up.

For the past year, I’ve tried to swim three mornings a week. I’m usually there Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I tend to arrive after 6:00 (the pool opens at 5:00 a.m.), which allows me to get up at 4:45, have a cup of coffee, watch the weather with Mary, and then throw my bag in the backseat and make the 12-minute drive from where we’ve been living in Brunswick.

My arrival usually corresponds with a “shift change” of sorts. The group that arrives when the facility opens is usually wrapping up and the locker room most mornings is full of talk and camaraderie. Having played team sports throughout high school as well as coaching, the energy in a locker room is a special kind of thing.

Auto workers leaving the General Motors Powertrain plant in Warren, Michigan (2008)

I’ve written about Richard in a previous post. He’s still coming. There are a host of other regulars that I see three times a week like clockwork.

When I first met Richard and shared my story with him about Mark in 2017, it was during that patch of grief where the need to tell others about your lost loved one was strongest. I was struggling with how to cope with grief and loss. Sharing this with people—even random strangers—filled some need.

A year ago, I stopped telling people about Mark. Occasionally the topic would come up, but I didn’t go out of my way to let anyone know that I was a father without a son. Suddenly, the script was flipped: sharing my woes of being a grieving dad was more work than it was worth. How many more times did I want to hear another perfunctory utterance like, “I’m so sorry,” or the other grating superficialities that I’ve learned are all-too-common.

Oddly, yesterday morning, I struck up a random conversation with a guy I’ve exchanged greetings with but little else. He’s a member of a contingent of 40, 50, and 60-year-olds that do a vigorous workout five mornings a week upstairs in the weight room. They are part of the “changing of the guard” I referenced above. They are always so lively and energetic in the morning. Often, I’ve caught myself breaking into a grin at some comment they’ve made, usually “busting someone’s chops.” It’s all in good fun, and I could tell these guys genuinely care about one another. At times, I was envious, wishing I was part of their group.

Exiting the shower, Eric and I began talking about people at the Y and how this particular location had something that other workout facilities don’t. He shared a horror story about a local racket club where I once took some tennis lessons. I was not impressed during my brief time there, so I wasn’t surprised. Would it be cliché to say that not much surprises me anymore?

For some reason, I’ve made several connections with returning vets over the past 18-24 months. Last summer, one of them committed suicide. Another acquaintance has been battling PTSD for the past year and isn’t doing well. I need to call him today.

Eric told me he’d done two tours in Fallujah. I told him about Mark. He told me that he could relate: he’d lost brothers on that distant battlefield. Few Americans really understand the toll that our never-ending wars take on returning vets and the fallout they and their families live with afterwards.

It’s ironic that Eric lives just down the road from me in Brunswick. I’ve biked by his house numerous times. I’m sorry I didn’t make an effort to connect with him before now.

Mary and I are in the midst of another relocation. This one offers a “fresh start” for us that Mark’s death never allowed Brunswick to be for us. Plus, the 295 commute every day isn’t a pleasant one for Mary. Heading south makes sense, especially since our lease is up at the end of the summer.

I’m going to miss the Bath Y. I’ll join a new Y in the city where we’re headed to. I’m sure it will be great. I hope I connect with a new Richard and this time, I’m going to make sure I introduce myself and cultivate a fitness friendship at least with the new Eric.

Mark shared with me how he’d read that cultivating relationships with other people was good for you, health-wise. After a tough year in 2014 after breaking-up with a longtime girlfriend, he’d become withdrawn for a time. I didn’t figure all of this out until after he’d been killed and I was reading a manuscript that he’d written back then.

The last two summers were lonely ones for me. People tend to forget about parents who’ve lost their children after the celebration of life. Some family members have been great. Others have been “meh” at best. Other than one true blue friend, most people are too self-absorbed to reach out and include me in their plans, or think that maybe I’d like to leave the house once-in-awhile.

Rather than dwell on the past, like Mark, I’m going to be the instigator in cultivating some new acquaintances. The place we’re moving to seems to lend itself to that. I’m looking forward to connecting with new people and some people I wished I’d been better at getting to know in the past.

I’m even going to make a point of dropping by Eric’s when I visit Brunswick. I’d like to learn a bit more about his story, as we only scratched the surface during the 10 minutes we shared in the parking lot.

Desert Guitar

For a time, guitarist Matt Sweeney had an awesome job—traveling around and gigging with other guitar players for Noisey. Apparently, the spots are no longer being made: the last one was posted on the “Guitar Moves” site late in 2017. If you dig these like me, check out the rest of them. This one was with Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age.

When we went out to California the spring following Mark’s death, we spent time near Joshua Tree National Park. We weren’t far from Rancho De La Luna, where Homme and a host of other musicians have recorded. This studio shows up in the episode with the late Anthony Bourdain filming his No Reservations show with Homme. The desert is where Homme’s roots run deep. Bourdain talked about the mystical elements of the California high desert. I clearly felt that energy when we were there.

While we were staying in the town of Joshua Tree, I thought of heading over to Pappy & Harriet’s to catch a show, but at that point in my life—being overwhelmed by grief and loss—keeping it simple was the plan. Being able to make it through another day and making it back to our rental in the desert after spending the day out in the natural world was the best Mary and I could do at the time..

I’m enjoying learning how guitarists do what they do. I’ve heard the pentatonic riffs Homme is talking about with Sweeney countless times over my life loving rock and roll. I recognize them whenever I hear them, but now I’m thinking about how to play them, as I continue my journey with the guitar.

I love how Homme talks about how much fun he has playing the guitar, too. It’s nice to know that a professional musician still finds joy from doing something he dreamed of doing and that the “bidness” of rock and roll hasn’t stolen it. Because in the end, for me, finding a little joy in life is what it’s all about right now.

Oh Mercy

No desire to write a long blog post this week, either. Maybe I’ll never write another one of those TL;DR types of efforts that I used to pour so much energy into. Why? No one cares about what I’ve written about, so why not simply write whatever I want to write?

It’s possible that I feel this way because I just finished up a laborious technical writing project. I’m pleased I was able to get through it, learn some new things, and yes, buy a new guitar with some of the money.

Writing 200,000 words about my dead son also might have taken some of the starch out of me. Being a non-celebrity, “grief journals” are no way of currying favor with agents in today’s world of publishing.

I also have a bunch of writing to do for a summer session course I’m taking at USM. I’m saving my words for that. Oh, and I’m once again acquiring yet another certification to do something brand new later in the summer. Insurance wasn’t really for me. The new project seems to be a better fit and offers a better return on my time spent studying.

Lastly, I’m using my free time to play guitar instead of writing. In the past, it was always my writing that took precedence. I’m really digging the guitar.

In lieu of lots of words, here’s a song by Mark Eitzel. If you’ve never heard of him, you should check him out. He’s a talented dude. His music and some of the interviews I’ve read with him make him seem like someone that I’d enjoy having a conversation with.

He was featured because WMBR has been highlighting music connected with the LGBTQ community. This is because June is unofficially recognized as Pride Month. The historical tie-in is that the last Sunday in June is when many Pride events take place to commemorate the anniversary of Stonewall.

This song by Eitzel has a refrain about being a “ghost drifting by.” I am able to identify with that.

Oh mercy, oh mercy, don’t look in my sore eyes

I just want to believe, honey, the road will rise

Who, who, who, am I?

Oh, who, who, who, am I?

I’m a gho-o-o-ost drifting by

I’m a gho-o-o-ost drifting by

Yeah, who, who, who, am I?

Oh, who, who, who, am I?

I’m a gho-o-o-ost drifting by

I’m a gho-o-o-ost drifting by

One of the Cool Kids

Once upon a time, everyone wanted to be one of “the cool kids.” I’m not sure what today’s kids want.

I love that WMBR’s “Breakfast of Champions” show always features a Band of the Week (BOTW). Often, it’s one I’m less than familiar with. Or like this week’s selection, Cloud Nothings, one I’ve forgotten how damn good they are. Take that qualifier with a “grain of salt” since we are now living in a post-rock world.

Cloud Nothings are from Cleveland, Ohio, the city immortalized forever by the anthem, “Cleveland Rocks.” It does (and has before), which may be why the Rock &  Roll Hall of Fame resides there. Another rock history footnote: Cleveland was home to Raspberries (not, The Raspberries), too.

Here’s the video for Cloud Nothings’ “Hey Cool Kid.”

Music more, write less

Some people begin blogging to write exclusively about a passion they have. Music is that kind of topic.

A blog like When You Motor Away is a great example of blogging about the thing you are gaga about—which in their case is music—specifically, the kind of off-the-radar indie pop and rock that I’ve been following for more than 30 years.

Since Mark died, this kind of music has been one of a very few sources of joy for me. When they say that music speaks universally across our differences, I’d concur.

Radio stations like WMBR have served as stand-ins for friendships I’m lacking. I’ve memorized the program schedules of numerous stations and particular DJs. Like I know that Friday morning at 8:00, Jon Bernhardt will be playing bands, like Monnone Alone (who get written-up nicely via WYMA). Bernhardt opened his show today with another Australian gem, Possible Humans, playing a 12-minute “screamer” from their latest record. Pitchfork likes them, so there you have it. For someone who cut his musical teeth reading rock criticism, writing like this review about Possible Humans’ prior record (see the first paragraph) carries forward the torch left by prior rock journalism luminaries like Lester Bangs, Griel Marcus and others who once wrote for Rolling Stone, Creem, and even, SPIN.

I’d guess that most of the people who I could list as acquaintances don’t know Pitchfork and their role as an arbiter of musical taste. Another reason why I need a new life and Rolodex.

My preference for my guitar over sitting in front of a screen and tapping out words and sentences continues. When I see my blog stats, I’m realizing writing and blogging less is a smart choice. Subsequently, the more time I devote to assembling chords and scales and make songs, the better my playing gets.

I’m pretty sure the name of the music blog I reference above comes from this Guided by Voices song, which happens to be another fave of mine.