Time, It's Time

I have been in the midst and throes of a rather long-winded move, which was a bit complicated for several reasons, and has been drawn out over the span of the past month or so.

Every day I always felt that I had to be "doing something" with regards to the move, and at times I would just stand amongst the boxes and papers and rubbish heaps of things I needed to get rid of, and would just stand and stare, overwhelmed, feeling that "it would never end." Though this was small in comparison of scale to the move that I did when we moved across the Atlantic, it felt rather draining all the same.

Tonight is the first night then, that I don't have to be "doing something" for this move, as for all intents and purposes, it is done. Some blank spaces on the walls to be filled in, but for the most part, it is done.

As my daughter is with her mother this weekend, I am alone, sitting at a desk that I bought many, many years ago, in the hopes that it would be my "writing desk." Sadly, it has not been for those many, many years, until now. Because of the new configuration of my apartment, I have a splendid view out the window of colorful tree-lined boulevards and a true sense of space.

I remember having this feeling in Austin when I was settled into an apartment there as a student. Though it was not my first apartment, it was the first one that I felt that sense of Space, which I do now. I remember just sitting there in my couch, listening to music all evening, doing absolutely nothing, but like the king figure in Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence video, I just enjoyed it.

Another song that makes me feel this way is Talk Talk's "Time, It's Time," because, well, it is Time that I feel this sense of Space again. Though I enjoyed my last apartment, it was not my Space.

This is.

It is Time.

Take the Time to just listen to the Autumnal song...like the butterflies and moths on the picture, it has a hypnotic effect.

Fashion Goon Squads

If you know me, or rather, if you have known me long enough, you will see that I don’t have a specific “style” of dress, in fact, it is rather an antithesis to having a style, and that has been true all my life.

Currently I am wearing a white linen “hippie” shirt cut low enough to have my Buddha necklace pop out from my chest hairs, with 501 jeans and leather sandals. Yesterday I was wearing cords, a “rodeo-style” button-down, long-sleeved collared shirt with rather conservative leather walking boots. Or, I might one day be wearing lululemon shorts and work-out t-shirt, or another, a hand-made silk paisley shirt from India with hemp pants, or if formal, an Ike Behar silk tie, Hugo Boss shirt and Brooks Brothers’ slacks with rather expensive hand-stitched Italian shoes from Bologna. This is not to pat myself on the back, but rather to say, depending upon the day that you meet me, you may get a hippie, a yuppie (though I am pushing the “y” on that one…) a jock, or a fashionably dressed man.

In Jr. High and High School, I was considered both the best and worst-dressed person, at the same Time! My nickname was “slob” on the swim team as I would wear my Uggs (as in the original ones, 25 years ago) down to holes in the sole, and toes sticking out and ripped shirts and sweats to swim practice at 5am, though also wore a skinny tie and parachute pants with spiky hair later that day to High School.

Am I fashionably schizophrenic then?

I have known people for decades who look exactly the same every day, in every picture, and yet, when I look back at pictures of myself, it is literally like looking at someone different every time. Although I have been somewhat conscious of doing this, though not as a “statement,” but now that I am in my fifth decade of life, I have left quite a wake of fashion mistakes and triumphs behind me.

My facial hair is no less dramatic. I have had a Nietzsche-style moustache that looks like I have a hamster on my upper lip to a quite unassuming soul-patch, a Van Dyck goatee, a full “grizz” beard (already in 11^th grade, getting yet another nickname…) or a pencil-thin John Waters-esque moving to a Salvador Dali twirl-able stache as well as being clean shaven for years at a time.

Hair? From shaving it down to the scalp with a bandana when I took my PhD comprehensive exams (freaking most of my colleagues out when I walked in) to have a ponytail when I played college water polo at UT-Austin. Spiked, gelled, and even bleached with peroxide at one time out of vanity.

Body hair? I like to think that I have “just enough.” Luckily I did not inherit my dad’s hairless chest, but rather from my maternal side where all the men have a decent v-shaped shrubbery, though not excessively, and thank god, no real back hair save for some stray hairs that I bend into contortions to pluck out every now and then.  When stressed or excited, I can literally “flash” a 5 o’clock shadow within the span of a day, so my shaving patterns can be adjusted within a few days to have a goatee, beard, or clean. And, being a swimmer, I have been shaved my body from head to toe numerous times…

So, who the hell am I?

If it came down to fashion, hairstyle, facial hair, or what?

The Goon Squad is definitely coming for me I fear if it comes down to the Fashion Police.

It makes me wonder then, how do others “see” me on any given day? Given Malcolm Gladwell’s concept of “Blink” I could be a million different people to anyone whom sees me, and who wishes to make a snap judgment, they might get quite a different blink from day to day..

So, what stays the same?

The Eyes, I guess.

When I was in college, on the swim team, there was a contest on campus for the “eyes” and I was voted “Mr. Eyes” for the team and my “eyes” were used to represent the team on campus for the contest. Though I did not “win,” I guess that is the one thing that really has not changed on me. I have gained weight, lost weight, changed fashions, but, the windows to my Soul, I think, really are my Eyes.

And, if you know me, or as before, if you know me long enough, you know that when I look you in the eyes, I am present, and I am listening to you, and it really doesn’t matter what I am wearing, or what my hair looks like, or if I have a beard or clean shaven, the true test of a person is simply, can you “look someone in the eye?” If someone can do that with me, then I really could not care less what you look like. Next time you talk to someone, really, deeply look into his or her eyes, and try to forget being part of the Fashion Goon Squad.

Be-ing Human.

Emotional Echoes

Well, there is a Time, and there is a Place for all things.

Over the past few weeks I have gone through many, many thoughts, and have been here and been there with where the future may go.

Today, on Studio Brussel, the Flemish station from the multi-lingual capital of the EU and Belgium had a Facebook-off between two songs, and Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" won out. I was driving around Antwerp in my "new" used car and it just really hit me.

My mind has been wiped clean of so much emotional shit over the past couple of years that that line stood out so vividly. Echoes of emotions within my brain...

Where my life will lead me in the next year, I don't know. So very much has happened that I cannot even begin to imagine.

Though, whatever I do, I do know that I am not "in control" of things, meaning, there are such greater powers at work.

I am just happy to be here for now. I hope that you are too....

Stop A While With You

There is one person I know for sure whom has understood this message and song since I was quite young, and I am grateful for you, Teresita, for your friendship many years ago, and again this past year, when I really needed a friend.

Thank you. I hope you know what this song means to me, though I know that you do...thank you...

Symphony

Of the many one-hit wonders out there, this is one of my favorites, and for some reason it has been on the air quite a bit lately. That, or that I am listening to the radio more than normal, so perhaps it has an already heavy rotation here. Neither here nor there.

But, the Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” is right up there on the top of my list as one of those songs that just nails it. There has been controversy about the song with regards to plagiarism and counter-plagiarism, but in all honesty, I could care less about that since the Verve’s version is inspired.

However, I also heard from the DJ on Studio Brussels that the lead singer said that the likelihood of the Beatles having a reunion was better than the Verve ever getting back together. Well, pretty strong comparison, but too bad. However, it is interesting that a band, even with dissonance amongst themselves can at times produce such symphonic consonance.

I will always be fascinated by music and the creative drive behind it and am so grateful that there are musicians in the world and those people who truly are gifted with making it. I know that my life would be lacking so much without the symphonies in our lives that make the Bittersweet easier to take.

At times I do feel like a million different people, so it helps to know that others have felt likewise and had the vision and ability to make the music behind it. Hats off.

Bright Eyes

When you write about someone’s death, you may think of it as a memorial, a eulogy, a requiem, an obituary, an oration, a valediction, or many other ways. In short, there is no one good way to say good-bye to the one audience member you are not sure is hearing your message or not.

There’s the rub.

For whom the bell tolls, and for whom the words flow. Is it the survivors, or for the departed?

I received an email today from a former student informing of the death of a mutual friend, a man who had grown from the kid that was in my class to a very troubled person, though in some ways, was all too clear. Unfortunately, this email did not come to me as a surprise. There are those we know will burn brightly and shatter into the night as quickly, for some reason, we know. I knew this of Joshua.

Joshua was a visionary, but he was also deluded by some of his visions, and those visions both comforted and haunted him, guided him and derailed him. His visions were of Love, and what is Love, and is that not the guiding principle behind everything?

Yes, and No, dearly departed warrior of the Soul.

Joshua contacted me on Sunday, two days before he died, asking about the true definition of Love from Plato’s Symposium that he could use. The Symposium, which literally means a “drinking party” is an extended ode to the god Eros, or Love, and all his attributes. My response to him was that, it was just that, a sym-posium, and that all of the discourses and paeans to Love were collective, not distinct. Parts for the whole, the calculus of the unknown.

Although Joshua suffered from certain afflictions of the body and mind, his Soul was pure. Some may argue that how can that be, but those some would be all too arrogant to say that he or she knew the Truth.

Life is not a tick-the-box scenario, where we can say, “yep, you got that one right, nope, that one is wrong.”

My heart and Soul grieves for Joshua, his family, his friends, and the unfortunate driver of the truck who ended his life, and whose life was in turn invaded and tormented by the tormented Soul of a stranger.

Joshua had a message, a message of Love, one that was all-encompassing, but perhaps the world cannot encompass that message at our stage of existence. Why does the greatest power of Life, that being Love, become our undoing at times? It is a mystery and a struggle, and a power that we may forever strive to know.

Farewell, Joshua, may you have found the Peace, the Love, and Beauty that you so desperately sought to find.

Namaste,

Robert

Doctor Who...

Seriously? Dr. Who?

Yes, seriously. Dr. Who.

There is so much background on this particular posting that I am actually going to stick to the basics. Meaning, there will be more to follow.

Dr. Who, the BBC series of the Time Lord's escapades, known simply as the Doctor, has in the past decade become part and parcel to much of my thoughts about Life. A serious Tom Baker fan, somehow swooned by a seriously charming Matt Smith, is not one to relinquish the role easily, but I have become a fan of the old and the new.

However, it was a weird search of mine to find ways to reproduce the opening sequence of Dr. Who, which you can do, and the whirring of the Tardis that lead me to this.

And, then I realized how many soccer, er....football games have been innocently or ignorantly jamming to Dr. Who.

I Love IT....!

It really doesn't get much better than this...as a geek...

You Are A Tourist

Recently coming back from Austin, a city that was so near and dear to my heart for so many years, I left with a pretty empty feeling, and was reminded of Death Cab for Cutie's song below.

I have fought with the idea that I left too soon, and not early enough to both prolong and prevent certain  aspects of my life that Austin both fed and fed off of.

Cities are strange, and I have so many strange affinities for many of them around the world. Some I want to embrace, others I am intrigued by, but only superficially, and some I am down right intimidated and in awe of.

With Austin, it feels so provincial, and that can be comforting, but also disconcerting. Going to the same coffee house and seeing the EXACT same people as from 20 years ago is great, but also creepy.

I leave Austin each time with less nostalgia and more analgesia. You just don't move me any more, baby. I love you, but, our time has passed.

So, I guess, now, I am, sadly enough, when returning to Austin, a Tourist...sadly.

Tattooed on my Mind

Amongst many things, I am rather particular, much to the initial amusesment of people, which usually dissipates to tolerance, then followed by annoyance of my particularities. As such, I don't have many friends, and, well, I probably wouldn't be so keen on myself either. But, I am stuck with myself.

One of my things that I am rather particular about is covers. There is nothing like a good cover, but a bad one, well, I have no mercy. Furthermore, not just a cover, but an acoustic rendition of a song can be beyone painful. Coming from one who has no musical ability whatsoever, but pure appreciation for everyone who does, I do give credit where credit is due.

Hands down, without a shadow of a doubt, the BEST cover I have EVER heard was on piazza San Stefano, in Bologna, by a guitar-slinging guy who belted out "Black" by Pearl Jam.

I have seldom been in awe of acoustic singing, outside of Sinead O'Connor, and a very small number of others, but this kid nailed it.

Why am I thinking of "Black"? Well, been discussing tattoos of late and it did cross my mind, as well as a discussion about covers and the further merits of Eddie Vedder versus Cobain, etc. Well, ol' Eddie V. is tops for me amongst the Grunge crowd, so I guess the combination of the memory and the tribute came together, hand over hand.

Sleepwalking Through it All

To be present seems to be the hardest condition for humans, to really, truly be present in a situation actually takes effort, which seems quite absurd when you think about it. But, there's the rub, when you think about, you are no longer in the Present, but somewhere else, thinking about it.

The way we speak and communicate also has much to do with it. As a lover of languages and amateur linguist myself, I have been fascinated by the issues of Time in all of the languages that I have studied, and how that is so integral to our very thinking and communication. Some languages will avoid certain tenses like the plague, while others will be highly conditional or literally stuck in the Past, English being one of them. We are nearly conditioned to be conditional and to use the Past more than most modern languages that I have encountered.

I believe that the conundrum about the glass being half empty or half full, depending upon one's disposition towards pessimism or optimism is largely linked to how one view's the Past, Present, and Future.

If you believe that the glass is half empty, most likely you are stuck in the Past, dwelling on what has been lost, or what  you could have had, or could have been, and not what you are.

If, however, you believe that the glass is half full, you may have placed too much stock in the Future, and may not even realize what you have right in front of you. Although superficially it seems that it is better to do so, to view the Potential of the situation is still vastly inferior to viewing the actuality of the situation, which is the Present.

We are prone to sleepwalk through life, always looking backwards to the Past or forwards to the Future, all the while, the Present slips away infinitesimally by us, passing through a gossamer filter from the Future to the Past.

Thinking about this, I am reminded of Gotye's recent "Eyes Wide Open" video and lyrics.

Give it a thunk.

This City at Night

I love to walk, whether in a large Metropolitan city, out in the county, along a beach, up a mountain path, or sometimes in circles as it often feels. But, there is something special about the Walk.

And, there is also something special about walking a big city at night.

Last evening, after dinner I took the Tube down to various stops near the Thames and did some walking. I was nearly alone. Partially because of the more business aspect of the area and there is no residential, and partly because nearly the entire city was packed in all of the pubs watching the Soccer match, from which you would sporadically hear roars of frustration, jubilation, or anger.

So, I had a chunk of London to myself, almost literally for the span of nearly an hour. I felt like I was in  a story such as Cormac McCarthy's The Road, in which I was walking through a post-apocalyptic urban waste land, devoid of much human contact.

But, it was a fitting last night for this particular visit to London, which was different in many ways than the previous ones.

I did have Snow Patrol's song in my mind at times, and it was rather fitting.

Not as Dirty Ol' Man Anymore

WIth the recent ruling against the former Penn State football coach, Sandusky for 45 counts of sexual abuse, this title is a bit sensitive, I am aware.

However, this has to do with something else. Currently, I am in London, and was reminded of Faithless's song "Dirty Ol' Man," which is likewise not about a pedophile or lecher, but about big, urban cities, such as London.

What strikes me most about being in London again for the fifth time in 25 years or so, is that each time, like Manhattan, it becomes less and less dirty. When I first came here as overwhelmed teenager from America and London being the first European city I had been to, (though depending upon whom you ask, London is or is not European), I remember how DIRTY it was and all of the visceral, urban smells I had not been familiar with in places I had been before in the States.

This time, however, I am truly struck with how CLEAN central London is. Granted, there are still very dirty parts, to be sure, but I am really amazed more and more how these very large urban centers continue to become cleaner and cleaner in the past 10-15 years.

Of course, Kensington and Notting Hill Gate are not what one would think of as dirty, though I have been in several much grittier and "real" areas in London, but here is a sign from Dawson Place, part of the tony neighborhood around here.

Holy Crap! And, I mean, that must be one Holy Crap, because that is one helluva an expensive Dog Poop. For us Yanks, that is more than $1500 dollars for a doggie cigar misplaced.

When I first went to Antwerp in 1990 or so, you could not dodge the innumerable dog poop piles on the streets. Now, in 2012 Antwerp, you would be hard pressed to find any. Not that I WANT to be dodging doggie bombs, but the difference is pretty amazing.

Having lived in Madurai, India and visited Varanasi recently, there is not much I would be surprised to see in a city, and those truly are about as dirty as a city comes. In fact, not sure I want to see if one can be worse. And, perhaps that perspective has permanently changed my views on dirt, filth, and the human condition in a city, but still, the urban centers of London, NYC, Dublin, Paris, Antwerp, and so forth are definitely not the "dirty old men" cities of merely 25 years ago that I once saw.

What was interesting is that about 50m from this sign, there was a pile of vomit, most likely from a heavy night out of drinking, which was not cleaned up. I wonder how much that would be fined?

Yes, I'll Play

The dichotomy between James Joyce and Samuel Beckett could at times be so implausible that it seems like they were fictions of their own fictions.

Joyce, perhaps the most verbose writer who has ever lived and may ever live and could arguably be the simultaneous progenitor of Hyper-Realism, Modernism, and Post-Modernism. That is a broad statement, but one that can be backed up by the author of Dubliners, Ulysses, and Finnegans Wake respectively. Joyce was a polyglot, polymath, and polygraphic on a scale that may never be seen again. Nearly 80 languages have been identified in Finnegans Wake at some level, to give one such example. There are entire concordances of Joyce's neologisms and centers, such as the one here in Antwerp devoted to deciphering his volumes and volumes of scripted notes, that also happen to be in various handwritings, including Beckett, who for a time helped Joyce scribble his notes due to a hobbled eyesight that left Joyce nearly blind.

Beckett, who was perfectly bi-lingual with French and would actually translate his work back into English, was a minimalist by comparison. With not many more words than one would find in a Dr. Seuss book, Beckett would break the blank page with a turgid laconic method that has also yet to be matched.

Partly due to their mutual Irishness and partially due to exile in Paris and perhaps in part due to other external circumstances, Joyce and Beckett did have an interesting relationship, one that was further compounded and complicated by Joyce's mentally-ill daughter, Lucia, having a sexual fascination for Beckett, much to his and Joyce's discomfort.

Joyce and Beckett find themselves being put together for a variety of reasons at conferences dedicated to Joyce, or Beckett, or topics such as Modernism, Post-Modernism or archives with such fine scholars as Antwerp's own Geert Lernout and Dirk Van Hulle leading the charge.

Some years ago, on Bloomsday, someone sent me this video, though I am blank to the page about whom right now, but I remember being at the Harry Ransom Center, a treasure trove of Joycean materials where I was a curator and Joycean collaborator with international conferences and research, and I remember perhaps literally falling off of my chair when I watched this video. To me, although most lightly Joyce was not so boisterous, unless he had too much to drink as he was known to do, this is pure comic brilliance about capturing two protean and enigmatic Irish and worldly writers as Joyce and Beckett.

This is a Joyce geek-out for me.

Enjoy.

So, who is Radiohead?

I have a few, and by that mean, a handful few indulgences when it comes to television, and to the naked eye, they seem even more trivial. One of my old friends I have recently been in contact with was humored to imagine me watching American sitcoms here in Belgium. Many of the days Justin and I spent together were mired in "all-too-serious discussions of life and the meaning or lack thereof," so to send him a short list of the shows I actually watch here was rather funny, in a middle-aged, "ha ha" epiphany kind of way. I think.

The one show I did leave out on my list for him, however, was "The Big Bang Theory," which is a Chuck Lorre production, though without Charlie Sheen in it. The Star, or at least by default of the show is the über-genius Physicist, Sheldon Cooper, portrayed by Jim Parsons, who is the most misfitted misfit in a world of misfits. I remember first watching the Big Bang a few years ago and just could not stand it, but over there years, like stinking Limburger cheese, it grew on me, and I became endeared by poor Sheldon and his plights of not fitting in, and knowing that feeling all too well. Raised in Texas as the story goes, and as Parsons was, Sheldon just never fit in and eventually found his way into the big leagues of Theoretical Physics.

When I was at Amarillo High School, intermittently, though ultimately graduated from there, there was a true genius amongst us, Andrew Chamblin. Ultimately, Andy, as we were wont to call him, proved his mettle on the world stage, being a protégée of both Roger Penrose and Stephen Hawking at Oxford and Cambridge respectfully. If you are not familiar with the gravity of what that means, it is beyond rock-star status. It is like Bono calling you up one day to sub in for U2 because he has a sore throat. Something along those lines.

Andy was on the cutting edge of Theoretical Physics, like Sheldon, though there was a difference, one that may have been fatal, yet at the same time opened him up to the world, giving him a broader perspective upon things.

His main field of interest, last I could ascertain was the domain of Branes and multi-dimensional models of black holes and the pressing question of what exactly the universal constant means, not to mention being involved in the sexy science of String Theory.

However, Andy is dead now for several years. Complications connected with living a life outside of the  experimental cage led to some fatal complications in Andy's health, and his untimely death at 36. To put into perspective of what he did, he has a bust at Pembroke College in Cambridge next to Sir Isaac Newton, and has memorial dedicated to him each year with a physics lecture in Cambridge with the likes of Brian Greene and Paul Davies, (the latter with whom I was fortunate enough to share high table at in Pembroke for one of the memorials) and a musical recital dedicated to Andrew in Oxford, each year. Not bad for a kid from the sticks of Amarillo.

I was in contact with Andy in the last months before he died, but did not know he was so sick. We were tossing around ideas about collaborating on physics-based short stories and he had sent me a short "screenplay" of sorts to review about Amarillo. I sent a heavily edited version back to him at one point, and never heard back. I thought he was offended, or had just moved on. I inquired further and learned that he had died.

One thing that Andy was amazing about is that he had a huge range of interests, well beyond physics and math, despite being an off-the-charts genius in both. He was also human in that he was known to be a horrific cheat and liar on the golf course as he was on the golf team. Yet, he also built a home-made harpsichord in high school and was one of the very few people who enjoyed word play and literary references as much as I did. We shared Calculus class and every day Andy and I would bore the entire class with endless puns and obscure references, as I still seem to do with people. It made high school bearable for me.

I was not a big fan of education, and the fact that I became involved with education was a direct result of my not wanting to be part of the problem, but in my egotistical way, to be part of the solution. I wanted to be an educator who did not ignore the human component.

Tonight, watching a re-rerun (all we have here) of The Big Bang Theory, I was reminded of Andy and of how he was not like Sheldon, when Penny asks Sheldon, "So, Who is Radiohead?" after Sheldon had just proclaimed that because he studies physics he has the keys to the universe. By his patented dead-pan blank stare, it is clear that he has no idea who Radiohead is, thus temporarily giving Penny, the "uneducated" waitress of the Cheesecake Factory the edge.

Some, like Dr. Chamblin, do seem to be tapped into a higher order of understanding, and I don't think that they are products of education, as much as I love to think that good teachers do it all. I was fortunate to have many good, if not great, teachers, but, there is something more out there.

We still need to know who Radiohead is, or the equivalent, no matter how high the ladder we climb, or fall from. Andy did know such things, and he is a model for me to realize that life is precious, life can be fleeting, and if we are not careful, we can become mere Paranoid Androids.

Rest in Peace, Andrew, may we never become mere unthinking Androids, at any cost...

Taking Responsibility

Well, I purchased Led Zeppelin's least, and I mean least by millions of listener's favorite's albums recently at the Juke Box Shop on Anspach Blvd in Brussels, which specializes in psychedelic, soul, and "song's." The latter I have no idea what they mean, but they should also have classic rock on that list on their take-home plastic bag. Anyone need a good translator, copywriter???

That aside, this LP is incredible, and so sadly undervalued.

The cover art, and the fact that this was the turning and turning off point for so many people for Zeppelin is interesting. Similar to the saga of Rush and the album Signals, things just were never the same in the marriage of the fans and the band.

However, it is often the dustbins of our relationships that we find what is most interesting, and unfortunately for many, the least likely to be talked about unless tossed out there on the floor  with an extended dust pan in one hand and broom in the other and go, "what the hell is that?" And, either you can sweep it under the rug, or you can deal with it and actually talk it through. A novel idea for the modern world and an idea for a novel in the modern world.

Outside of the pool that I swam (and regularly swim under the airborne toxic event across the river) at on the Linkeroever of Antwerp today, as I was unlocking my bike, I was listening to a commentary about a book that I need to look up about the ultimate emergence of technology into the world of a "world of its own" and not on a philosophical plane, but simply, it is coming to a theater near you, just that theater is your life, and what will we do when that day happens, and it will. Not in a James Cameron way (though that is highly plausible), but in a discreet, simply, suddenly Susan 3.0 kind of way.  I personally have a computer story about such an event that I hope does not manifest itself as it gives me the creeps to think about, making the Matrix and Terminator pale in comparison, trust me, though we are closer and closer to that image that I have in line more with Lev Stanislaus or Daniel Denett. Spoiler alert, I won't spoil the alert, but when I write it and post it, don't say I didn't tell you so...

Regardless, conversations about such things can make us uncomfortable. Conversations on a daily basis are usually so mundane and banal as to not even phase us, nor to turn our heads, nor such to make us wonder. However, my personal philosophy is that at least once a day you should have, initiate or engage in a conversation that does make you uncomfortable at some level. That is how I used to teach classes, whether yoga or in the actual "classroom." I have thousands of student witnesses if you think this was not a "presence" in my classes. We talked about very uncomfortable things, and not as shock value. Anyone can shock. Boring. Can you Engage? When I taught Yoga, we got into uncomfortable positions and had to find the Integrity of the Pose. However, most teachers don't engage, they just ask the students to do the heavy lifting, sit back, drink a coffee and wonder how they ever did it. I was never one of those teachers.

That is wrong on so many levels. If you engage, you must also engage.

If you are willing to ask another, whether a friend, student, lover, son, mother, father, or complete stranger to engage in a state of "Presence," then, it is Nobody's fault by your/my/his/her/their/our own and it is one that you better be able to follow through with with words, but more importantly, with a compassionate, though guided and if necessary, critiquing ear.

Know your audience. Sometimes, the audience is at fault sometimes the one who delivers. With "Presence," I find nothing wrong with the message, nor the delivery. It just didn't work with many. So, whose fault is it? Nobody's but mine. Take responsibility people.

I Triple-Dog Dare you not to watch this in its entirety. Look at Robert Plant's gaze at about 2:13, he is wondering what conversation he has engaged, that is my wager.

Exit, Stage Left

Although this title may evoke memories of the cartoon dandy Snagglepuss delivering the lines like Thurston Howell III of Gilligan's Island, for me, it is the live album from Rush that was one of the vehicles for putting them into the limelight from the Great White North down to the US and the rest of the world.

"Exit, Stage Left" as an album was revolutionary in that it was not only a moving portrait of a band on the run, but was an escalation of the band as independent maestros of each of their respective talents and instruments: Peart on percussion, Lee on Bass/Synthesizers/Vocals and Liefson on lead guitar. In other words, it was the turning point for the band and for establishing a live watermark for many future band members of other bands to caution. If Rush could do these things live, then the studio question was simply out of the question. Rush has been accused (and sometimes rightly so) for their static performances. However, the reason that they cannot be bouncing around the stage is exactly tied to their art and craftsmanship.

"Closer to the Heart" comes from "A Farewell to Kings," an album that has strong affinities for me for many reasons, and although it became a mainstream hit, it does highlight the Rush of the "Exit, Stage Left" era quite well.

It does beg many questions on a philosophical level as well. What does it mean to be a true craftsman or woman at what cost? We prey upon the faults of others at the market place when they fall below our standards, but often they are just trying to crank out a living as we are. In the Republic of Plato, Socrates in his ironical way of being naive suggests that a "perfect" society would involve everyone doing one thing really, really well and leaving the rest to those who do other things better. Novelty or a novel idea, there is something that rings true. However, in modern society, that sort of excellence comes at a cost. Should we abandon the rest of life's duties to become the "best that we were born to be?"

In either case, I believe, as with the song, that if we produce, with our hearts and with our attention, we can produce the best that we can, and indeed, whether Plato was selling us a Noble Lie or not, it could be better for all of us.

Give it a thunk.

Killer Kitties

I spent a few hours today in Brussels, perusing the vinyl shops that are to be found in this mosaic city that no one can really put a finger on about liking or not. Regardless, I got some real gems today that I am sure I will be writing about in the near future.

However, for this post, it is what it is not that is what it is that is what I am interested in, namely the paradox of image and sound. The disjunct between perception and reality on one level and the reality of perception on the other.

I did purchase Led Zeppelin's "Presence" today at the Juke Box Shop on Anspach Blvd. in Brussels, but the video that was in my mind with LZ could not be more different, or could it?

"Presence" was the turning point, down turn or turn off point for legions of Zeppelin fans around the globe. It just didn't make sense as to how the creators of a stairway leading to the heavens of rock or the physical graffiti of a generation could create this? It was a conundrum and enigma for many, enough so to signal the prophetic Swan Song fall of Icarus from scaling the heights of the heavens with his waxen wings of glorified human ego. The higher they fly, the faster they fall...

The dynamics of "Presence" notwithstanding, one of the most "serious" sounding tracks from Zeppelin could arguably be the "Immigrant Song" from Led Zeppelin III. It deals with the tragically-laced history of the Norseman Vikings coming southwards, leaving a trail of pillage and rapacious destruction in their wake. The second-most "serious" song might be "Kashmir" from Physical Graffiti, though incorrectly cited by Damone in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" as the second side of Led Zeppelin IV (also known as Zoso or "Symbols" on which it is not).

However, there is a video out there that makes me smile, irrespective of the source, and the "seriousness" of the content, kittens from Valhalla just make me laugh out loud. Sometimes taking the unfamiliar, filtered through the familiar and then re-filtered through the unfamiliar to the mundane can have quite an effect that is something more than mockery and can just be good fun, such as the Viking Kittens.

LIfe on Mars?

Without a doubt, one of the best live music performances I have ever seen was David Bowie for his Sound+Vision tour at the Frank Erwin Center in Austin. It was one of those situations where I decided to go about 30 minutes before the show, walked up to the arena, no ticket in hand and purchased one from one of the entrepreneurs who are wont to be found in front of such events, and I took advantage of their sense of emporium skills and bought an incredible 3rd-row floor ticket to see Bowie.

At the time, 1991-2, the acoustics of the Erwin were reprehensible at best, but to be about 20 feet from Bowie was worth every nails-on-the-chalkboard miscue of the PA system, or lack thereof. I knew that I was truly in the presence of musical genius, which Bowie is.

However, as with many things in life, it is often much later that we find out the details of events and the oddities of Space and Time begin to show through in Low moments or again in epiphanies and revelations.

What struck me so odd of all about Bowie, someone whose work I have admired for many, many years, is that I didn't even look into him until somewhat recently. I just liked Bowie. I knew that the curious eye discrepancy was due to a youthful encounter, disfiguring his vision for life, though probably enhancing his quest for sound as well.

But, only quite recently did I look up the "meaning" of "Life on Mars" and found that it is somewhat of an Alice in Wonderland perspective of a young girl listening to the news. Now, the song makes perfect sense. Having a daughter of my own who is beginning to be quite aware of the world around her, and its imperfections, the detail of what the devil this song was about became crystal clear, like a diamond bullet through the forehead, if you will.

The world is a mysterious place and the world of adults is quite as mysterious for children as it is vice versa for adults to remember the world of our youth. J.D. Salinger's "Nine Stories" is akin to Beethoven's Ninth (as interpreted in the movie Immortal Beloved) of bringing this troubled connection of youthful innocence and adult folly into focus.

Bowie's "Life on Mars" does so likewise, and suddenly a song took on a whole new meaning for me.

Pondering Poi Dog Pondering

If you have not yourself purchased, received, or dreamed of receiving a digital-reproduced delivery of LP's to your computer, then, well, perhaps you are quite a bit younger than I am. However, a couple years ago I was given a turntable apparatus that could translate the LP to digital and I was over the moon, so to speak. Unfortunately, there was a discrepancy  between my computer and the register of the LP in question, and for some reason, I could not connect my computer to the phonograph, for a couple of years.

In the meantime, I have purchased a new laptop after more than a decade of devoted service, and low and behold, the new laptop supports my LP-conversion program.

And, I am in heaven.

I have been listening non-stop to John Denver, Kiss, Rush, Pink Floyd, Blondie, ZZ Top, Marty Robbins, Bach, Manfred Mann, King Crimson, and a whole host of others that defies explanation.

In short, what can we say about the LP?

First and foremost, it calls for patience, something that for sure is a lost art/virtue. We want it now, and we want it NOW. Not a few seconds ago, but NOW!!!

Yikes.

And, it suggests imperfection. How many times did I have to "persuade" the needle to move forward in all of these LP's? Quite often. And, it made me realize how intolerant we have become with regards to  reproduction of sound and entertainment. We want everything perfect. We want life to be perfect.

Wake Up.

Life is not Perfect.

Listening to Kiss Alive II, it is not perfect.

Pondering Poi Dog Pondering, I was moved to wonder about their existence still. I have their eponymous LP here and have been listening to them and remember so much. Liberty Lunch and Poi Dog Pondering defined the end of the 80's and beginning of the 90's in Austin.

So, I looked them up and found this video from that time period. If I am not mistaken, and I am about 90% certain if not more that I am the blonde guy with the red shirt and god-forbid-white shorts in the video as I am pretty sure I remember being there that day for this recording as I was a bit of a Poi Dog junkie at the time and followed them quite closely. I used to be in many places in Austin for "events" and am pretty sure that is me, and yes, I did once possess such white shorts,... the horror, the horror.

But, the fact of the matter is is that there is nothing better than just living the moment, as this video tries to portray. These were times in Austin well before SXSW was even an event to be known.

Not to knock that as it is great that Austin founds its way upon the map of discovery, but this video reminds me of the humble roots it used to have, or like Gotye, like someone I used to know.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XC4Vu1hofU

enjoy.

Walken the Line

There is a curious attraction to the unattractiveness of Christopher Walken that to me defines a nation.

Mr. Walken is beyond talented and can make the best of us winch when it comes to being creeped out. And yet, there is an strikingly familiar and comforting feeling when we see him. It is almost like a constant of Chaos in the storm of Chaos.

Something that CW, if I may, inserts into his movies is an element of dance, as he is, not unlike many of his contemporaries and those before him in showbiz, multi-talented and singing and dancing is one of his clauses that he chooses to include into various manifestations, not to mention an off-Broadway rendition of the "The Dead," which ironically I did not see, though another did, and Walken apparently shined in that twist of Dedalus as well.

Why am I thinking, then, of this video right now, tonight?

I do not know.

But, for some reason, it was so appropriate. Maybe it is for you as well, your...weapon of choice.