I went for a walk today in my "new" sandals. They're the new pair I bought for our trip to Greece. That was almost ten years ago now. Still, the sandals seem new. They aren't falling apart like the pair I had just before them-- the pair that I decided to leave behind when we left our hotel in Samos. Not that I threw them away-- I left them at the baseboards, where another person could find them and use them. That was my intention, anyway-- to leave them for another traveler. I'm pretty sure they were trashed by the staff that prepared the room for the next guests. But I was thinking along the lines of making connections with my fellow man, and tossing a coin into the fountain, so to speak. Leaving behind a pair of sandals to me seemed to be handing off a part of my story to another power, one that would find use in the universe for my un-needed shoes. A gift left behind, instead of trash. Or forgotten or lost items. A gift.

There were a lot of things creatively metaphorical in my head that day that we left Samos. My mood disorder had been decompensating, unbeknownst to me, my wife, and all of my acquaintances that we were traveling with. That is to say, I was sick and getting sicker by the moment, and nobody really knew it. I can see it now, now that I've gone through treatment, had numerous other stays in the hospital, and attended lots of group therapy sessions. But I was none the wiser at this particular point in time, setting off our return to home after a wonderful vacation.

I can remember now the first point that I had some cause for concern. It was anxiety that popped up while we were out with Neal, Armand's grad school buddy. Neal had some things that he wanted to ship home so that he'd have more room in his baggage, so we stopped in at a postal office and waited in line. Suzy and I wanted to get some stamps too, so we could send postcards to a handful of folks back in the States. We waited in line, listening to the conversations in Greek, trying to read the emotions and body language for some clues as to what was being communicated. It can be kind of unsettling not knowing what is being said and not knowing what is going on.

I got anxious when it came time for Neal to post his package. I noticed it was a small box, maybe six inches square. It looked to me like he stuffed a pair of socks in it and was closing that up to send. It didn't make sense to me that someone would ship a pair of socks home or somewhere-- what a waste of time and money! But this was turned inward, somehow. My incredulity with the situation undermined my sense of well-being, and I began to question my own sanity. Was what was happening kind of crazy, or was it just me? I felt a rush of anxiety flush my head as I shuddered to think and feared the answers to my questioning mind. Rapid fire doubt sprinkled into the mixture of thought and I began to focus deep within myself with fear and anxiety.

I remember turning to walk out of the post office, staring into the eyes of those who would make eye contact with me. I was searching for a grain of truth to nourish my faltering self concept. As Suzy and I stepped outside into the sunlight, I regained some of my composure and noted to her how I had just lapsed into a sort of spell. I tried to explain it, as I've tried to do again here, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I likened it to a feeling that I had when I was having a "bad trip" on LSD. Suzy reassured me and said that we would keep an eye on things. This was well before I had trouble sleeping, or had the recollections of her miscarriage that made me emotional. But it was "real" in how it felt-- infinite helplessness, frozen with fear.

It would happen again as I decompensated further over the course of those final few days. It didn't help that I was unable to sleep. I had tossed and turned for a while, then decided to take a walk. This was the night before we were to catch our flight out of Samos back to Athens. I walked down to the beach and stood at the water's edge, noticing the slight breeze at it tickled the leaves in the small trees. I stared out over the calm water. I felt a slight draw, as if the water was pulling me towards it. The hotel was built into the side of a hill, and there was a fairly steep grade sending everything towards the water. I imagined a story of a lady walking calmly down the grade, into the water, and disappearing beneath the surface. I considered making that walk myself.

Instead, I reached down and picked up a few pebbles from the beach. I felt a calmness overcome me. It was as if suddenly I was no longer questioning anything. I became aware of my surroundings and I felt a presence that was greater than myself. I again looked to the horizon, and flipped a pebble into the water. Out on the horizon, a light flashed. Taking this as a sign, I flipped another stone into the water, and then another, in rhythm. One. Two. I looked to the horizon. The light flashed in time: One. Two. This answered every question for me that I could think of. I had seen the light, in more ways than one.

I climbed back up to our room and sat out on the balcony, awaiting the sunrise. As it slowly got lighter, my mind lead me to various places, many of which I don't remember. But I remember revisiting the whole scenario of our miscarriage. And I finally wept for the first time for the loss of our unborn child. I had been trying so hard to be strong and supportive for Suzy that I hadn't actually made time to go there. The day that we found out that she had a blighted ovum, I had actually been encouraged and optimistic, because we finally had proof that we could conceive a child, after a lot of trying to no avail. I had taken the news in the best way that I could, but I hadn't allowed myself to fathom the grief or the loss that we had suffered as well. So here I was in Greece, months later, finally approaching the concept that we had lost a life, and so I cried for what she may have been, what she might have done. All the things that could have happened but didn't.

At some point, I became overwhelmed with the notion of loss and started to fear losing Suzy. What if she doesn't wake up? What if she's been taken from me as she slept? I feared going back into the room, but I had to. I had to crawl back into bed and see if she would stir. Would she just lie there, motionless? I could not bear to think of life without her. Please, Lord, don't do this. Not now. I can't take it.

I rustled the sheet a bit. Suzy didn't move. I climbed closer to her, praying that she wake up.

Suzy took a deep breath and rolled over. "You're not sleepy?" she asked, through a yawn.

"No," I squeaked. "Just waiting for the sunrise."

Getting a Live One

Enough messing around. Let's get busy.

It was the last day that we were in Samos and I was tired. I had been manic earlier due to lack of sleep and was currently crashing down. I remember wanting to just lay down and sleep, but we couldn't because we had already checked out of our room. In fact, we had already been to the airport and been told that our flight was cancelled, so we returned to the hotel to hang out in the lobby. When that got old we rolled everything down to the pool bar. I remember my wife saying something to the effect of "let's see if we can wake this guy up a little," referring to me and the use of alcohol.

Now, usually, this would have meant a joke, as in ha ha, Michael needs to loosen up and have some fun. But this was also long before I was diagnosed as bipolar. We had no idea what could happen. Indeed, we had no idea what would happen.

Suz and I went down to the pool bar, and I was inside my head, not talking much at all. I was really tired, but there was no sleep to be had. I suppose I could have stretched out on one of the chaise lounges at the pool, but then I wasn't really capable of relaxing enough to sleep. I was tired and anxious-- anxious to get on the plane and get going towards getting back home. I wanted to get home, but I didn't want to leave, either. This was such a paradise, and I'd had some powerful, moving experiences here. I didn't want to leave and go back to the daily routine and work. But I wanted to get out of this purgatory, waiting for the rescheduled flight, too. So there was a tear in my psyche. I had no idea I was to be ripping up entirely by night's end.

While sitting down at the pool bar, every song that came on the canned music overhead seemed to hold a message for me. I can't recall the exact songs-- it's been almost ten years now-- but I remember the magical thinking. Like "A-ha! That's why this is playing," or "That's what those lyrics mean!" I'd be curious to know what my wife remembers from that time. We'll be talking about it again, I'm sure.

Getting back to the "wake him up" comment-- I remember thinking that this was all magical. Somehow, all the times that I'd heard about references to sleep and death and all things related were cued up and ready to augment any theories that I could come up with about what was going on in this altered manic reality. The times I had heard someone refer to themselves sleeping like they were dead-- lead me to magical thinking that I had died and was being brought back to life with potions and rehabilitation. Let's go get Mike a drink and see if we can breathe some life into him.

The death scenarios were enhanced by the happenings of the trip-- Milt's near death experience with the fractured skull, coming back to rejoin us on the trip after a hospital stay. Milt had magically appeared at the airport and assisted our group in getting the details ironed out when the flights got fouled up. In my state of mind, I likened this as a renaissance, a rebirth of Armand's fallen father, resurrected to assist us through this portal in life. As if our plane was to deliver us to the promised land. Or something like that.

So. Back at the hotel pool, I remember feeling as though I was awakening from an illness. And in a way I was, but I had no utility to fathom it at the time. I was in between states of mania, in a depression of sorts, making my way in my manic sleep deprived mind. I remember feeling like I was in a rehabilitation facility of some sort, that I had been detoxing off some drugs or something and was "coming back to life." So out of these thoughts was born the idea that I needed to be sober. This was probably a good idea, but it perplexed the others around me at the time, because we had been drinking buddies for most of the trip, and we were still partying, after all. But I was reacting to deeply thought out patterns from my overactive mind that told me different things about the reality that I shared with these people. This is how psychosis occurs-- warped thinking develops into thoughts that seem factual. It feels common and acceptable, though it is wacky and crazy.

So I think we may have had a beer or two, actually, down at the pool bar. What else would we have done? I don't see myself as ordering a diet soda. We were in Europe, after all, so they wouldn't have had Diet Coke. It would have been Coke Lite or some such manifestation. So we killed some time (again with the death) and eventually made it back to the cabs to make another go of the airport ritual. Little did I know how sick I already was. And it wasn't the beer, either.

The second go of the Samos airport was a little bit smoother. This was when Milt showed up to arrange for us our departure and unwrankled a lot of nerves in our group. At least, that's how I'm remembering it now. Suzy can help me out with the details. I remember when Suzy and I reached the check-in desk, I said something like "I'm a complete nutcase" and Suzy said "And I'm a nervous wreck." Neither of us new how poignant we were being.

Once on the plane, I settled into my own demented thinking. I closed my eyes and imagined that I could control the plane with my mind. This would lead me to thoughts that magically ushered me in as god-like. After we took off, I settled into the rhythm of the engines and closed my eyes. I imagined that I was controlling the plane, and that I made it take a nose dive into the ocean, a half hour or so into our flight. I imagined that I had to do it, as God, to take life away just as I create it-- out of my whim. I knew that this was somehow incorrect, on some level, because I opened my eyes and the plane and all its passengers was still there. But the thought lingered, probably because I was manic, or maybe because I hadn't slept. Whatever reason, my mind was not operating correctly and I gave equal parts reality to those god thoughts as I did my perceptions that flew in contention with them.

One other thing-- when we were getting on the plane in Samos, I remember thinking that I saw a different plane that Armand and Melissa were getting onto. They had different travel plans than Suzy and I did, so this made sense metaphorically. They would be taking a different plane than us. But my imagination ran with the idea, showing me an Armand that was a jet-setter type of person, rich and famous, darting off with his wife to save the world under the watchful eye of his following fans. The idea was that He had already realized fortune and fame to a degree that I could only dream about, and that they had made time to see us but had to get back to their jet-setter lifestyle now. All of this was in my head-- Armand and Melissa were just getting started in their lives back in the US, just as Suzy and I were, really. But the brush with Susie Buffet had accented the fortune telling in my brain (pun intended) and lent justification to the idea that the Hatzidakis' were of a different tax bracket entirely.

Maybe it was a bit of jealousy that lit the fire of these thoughts. Coulda been. Family relationships with billionaires are difficult to come by, I would think. But what they actually mean was being romanticized, dramatized in my head. And the idea that a doctor and a dentist just starting out after school would be rich and famous is laughable in reality. But reality wasn't what I was dealing with, obviously. Obvious, at least, now that I have the perspective. Now that I know that I'm bipolar and what that entails. Now I know a different bunch of things to think when my thinking starts going weird places like that. Now I know a few more ways to check myself and realize better what reality is. And I realize how far gone I was at these points already. I hope to catch myself earlier, now that I know.

Still, it's a struggle. How do you really know? You can't know all the time. So don't try. But you can build in check points, and check people. And you can make it work.

That's the life I'm trying to live now.

Reincarnation: From Stuff to Stuff

Some things crossing my mind the last several days... I have Corey Hart's album. Still. On vinyl. Along with a lot of other vinyl. I cannot justify why I keep these things. But it is just the tip of the iceberg. There are other things I'm hoarding: A box full of Writer's Digest magazines from the late 1980's. An assortment of metal scraps that I've collected over the past several years. Shelving. Hundreds of cd's that I never listen to (because I have iTunes and an iPod now). Christmas lights and assorted decorations. Stuff. It's what America is all about. I've got books that my parents used in college. Books that I've inherited and not read. Books that I've tried reading but never made it through. I've got magazines and old newspapers (weeklys and dailys) that I've yet to read. Or that I've partially read and kept to share with others. Or that I have no reasoning as to why I've kept. I've got a foot locker full of mostly such publications. I have trouble letting go. I want to be perfect and remember it all. I want to be nostalgic. I plan to reminisce. I guess. I've got a lot of t-shirts. A lot. I could make several blankets with them, if sewed together. Tons of photographs, not even in albums. More dress socks than I'll ever have a need for. But the greatest excess I'm sporting is not all that. It's not even my gut. It's the glut of stuff in my head, constantly swirling around my attention, bargaining for its preference. I've got so many words, concepts, songs, thoughts... boggling, it is. Downright bogging in fact. Again I'm reminded of the concept of latent inhibition-- the condition of having a collection of unimportant data lodged in one's mind. Like trivia without the game's utility. But is it this condition that provides the fertile soil from which great ideas grow strong and vibrant? Does a glut of apparent waste give birth to the dormant seed? Or does that seed exist despite the glut? Perhaps the seed is fed by the waste, but exists fully encapsulated: a beautiful flower only waiting to be fully realized. Now that spring is sprouting all around me, be it blooms or weeds, I'm once again enticed by the rebirth to organize, clean, prune, and pare. Is this a constant for all human beings? Are we all compelled to nest and regroup, rehash, and renovate as this season erupts beneath us? From the discarded, decomposing detritus of winter's fury comes life, born again. And in glorious, technicolor fanfare. Billowing euphoric blooms light up the daytime, reflecting the sun and beaming a rejuevenating energy to our brains. And right along side of the beautiful tulip blooms the nagging weed or sticker bush. It's all a part of the balance of life. Our perspective my drift and wonder, gathering inertia for its theories. And briefly we may think that there is more this or more that... but there is only the one. The One. It is all. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. As one dies, another is born. It is the way. But it still doesn't explain all the vinyl.

Writer's Creep

I am not blocked; I am merely slowed.

I am editing as I go here. Well, here too. And here.

Should have edited that last paragraph...

I am slowed by a concern that I won't write something significant. Enough. That it won't measure up to something worth reading.

Slows me down, but I am not stopped. I can keep going. And I will.

In theory, at least.

"I'd rather be sleeping" is the bumper sticker for my car. Rather than do just about anything. Certainly rather than writing. But writing serves me better. And it serves others.

That is, as long as I get some sleep. Sleep is important medicine, especially for me. I've just been taking too much medicine lately.

At least 12 hours a day. Not by prescription, but by default. Can't hurt anything if you're sleeping. Can't really feel all those painful, yearning to feel good thoughts. Dreams are a crapshoot, but they're better than depressed reality. At least there's a chance you'll feel good. And feel really good.

I've had a few dreams lately where everything feels in place. Like the puzzle of my life has all its pieces and are fit comfortably together. All feelings are good and genuine, not fabricated by medications. And the world, the universe, et al is at peace, in congruence, in accordance. The dream does not make sense to the awakened person, but it is in full sense for the awakened mind. It feels right, logical, perfect. It is.

To try and capture it in words is to chase one's tail. The words splatter and sputter, missing the mark. It's impossible to catch the flowing river. Even the water slides through your grip.

Life is dynamic, organic. Growing, moving. It's not static like a photograph. Words trip and fall when they try to run along side of reality. They cannot run with the river.

But we try anyway. We long for that rush of endorphins that comes with riding the wind, that we feel as we approach the evasive, morphing truth. So we parse the images and flavors that we remember, and try to recreate the perfection that we tasted in the moment.

I remember something about a wise individual stating that life is about chasing three main shadows. And then he demonstrated, pointing out subtle shifts in lighting conditions, how we follow these changes, both intuitively and mechanically. There is meaning which entices us along our path. We choose the path, but it chooses us as well.

So why must we chase these shadows? Why are we even interested in them?

The mystery is what interests us. We ask questions. We want to know the truth. Our questioning stokes the fire that burns, the fuel in the locomotive engine. The all powerful Why? The almighty How? We want to know. And how.

So we scratch. We stretch. We ponder. We wander. We wonder. We try to ascertain. We come up short.

But that doesn't stop us. Not for long.

Sometimes, it feels like you're stuck. But then you breathe in, you breathe out, and you realize you're still moving. The electrons are still swirling at amazingly hard to fathom speeds. There is change on so many levels it's astounding.

So even when you choose to check out, stop off, wind down, nap out... you still are churning. You're still working.

You don't have to prove it to anyone. As long as there is life, there is movement. And if there is movement, there is an avenue for change. If you're alive, you can't be blocked. A block is but an imagined prison.

You can imagine yourself a key to unlock the cell door. There's always a way out.

Let yourself go.

In need of map(s)

So I misplaced October. Yeah. Well, if that wasn't enough...

Been away from the proverbial pen for awhile. Did a writing exercise earlier today and got the blood flowing. Creaky bones, stiff joints... Still plenty of punctuation going on.

Went to a writer's conference in December of last year. Seems like years ago now. It was in Big Sur, that transforming, magical place. It feels like I've written about it. Hell, I may have. (Do tell what you know.) At any rate, when I got back, I had been transformed. Too much me, unfortunately, for the world to take. So I landed back in the hospital.

That's twice in a few months. And while I was in there, I went and had a seizure. In all likelihood, it was due to the change in medications that I was taking. But regardless, I now find myself unable to drive for the immediate and foreseeable future. Thanks.

So I've been woe-is-me-ing for the better part of three months now. Doesn't help that you get your ass knocked down in the dumps as part of treatment for this disorder. Go manic and you're gonna pay for it with depression once you're done "playing" in the uptick. But that's just how it goes sometimes.

I really thought I was onto something, coming back from Big Sur this time. I'd met some amazing people, made some connections in the writing world, learned a whole lot... I had directions to turn to, to strive at, to drive towards. I was going places, and it all felt right and good.

Alas, it was too much for my mind to take, being on top of the world like that. Even if it was just my little world I was on top of. Feeling good breeds mania, and mania punches my ticket for the hospital.

At least, that's how it seems from this perspective. I'm left wondering if I can ever really feel "good" again, without it leading down the path to un-wellness. Can I be happy ever again without the sneaking sensation that I'm about to be riding my shorts up a flagpole?

The doctors don't want to talk about it. The way that we treat bipolar disorder is to try and organize and structure our lives around a schedule and regulate what we can to that end. We use the Social Rhythm Metric, tracking bedtimes and mealtimes and interactions with people. We don't talk about how emotional highs are to be shunned. Because nobody wants to admit that it might be true. Nobody wants to sanction our glee.

But it might very well be true. Here I am, fully indoctrinated with treatment, having gone to bipolar group therapy for years, having been on a slew of meds and talked with countless doctors and therapists about the finer points of the disorder, and I still got all swooped up in the feel good and landed my ass back in the hospital. Not once, but twice. In a matter of months. So danger on me if I should start to feel better.

Should I start to feel more like myself and at peace with the world and my mind and have my faculties at attention and the like, look out. Not because I'm about to conquer the world and succeed, but because I'm about to find my way back to the ER.

Seems to me that I should invest in a harmonica and frequent the street corner, cuz the blues is my only friend.

Of course I realize that I may be overstating things a bit. But what would you have me think? Last couple of times I remember feeling "right" with myself, like I was in my right mind, was just before I landed back in the looney bin.

Add to all this that I'm still unemployed and you've got yourself one pitiful customer. Can't drive, can't work, can't be happy. Pleasure to be around.

Please, keep reading.

I'm not exactly attracting the type of people I want to be around. I'm lucky enough to have a wonderful wife and supportive family, or I'd likely be living under a bridge somewhere.

Anyway. I'm bipolar, and I've got capacities to realize a lot of "out there" stuff. So I spend some time "out there" and beyond. It's just what I do. Not all the time, of course. But periodically. It's a gift, really. The ability to see beyond the horizon, to imagine into the fold of the paper and out the other sides. It's unbridled creativity. The engine of life itself.

And yes, it's a struggle. And nobody savors struggle. But if you can, it saves you some energy on the other side of it. Like Churchill said-- "When you're going through Hell, keep going."

Much like this exercise. I want to get to the bottom of this, so I must keep going. Keep trying. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.

So that's what I do. Believe it or not, I'm trying. I'm trying to feel good, but not too good. I'm trying to work, get better, learn. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to regulate my moods, my sleeping, my eating, my drinking. And I'm doing a good job. But it doesn't always pay dividends in the way that I'm hoping it will. And I gotta believe that that's okay, because it's going to balance out somehow, someday. It's just gotta. Energy is conserved.

So I am conserved, too.

Giving Thanks: Serving Thistle

The more you try, try to organize, the more that you come up with problems. But eventually, you can find a path. Find that path. There exists a path. A repetitious cycle running, running through your head. And you can sing it, or you can write it, or you can fight it until it’s dead. But death ain’t so bad sometimes, cuz birth happens too.
Birth happens. Sh*t happens. Death happens.
Jazz. It happens. Moments of brilliant strokes. Spontaneous art occurring at the point of combustion. One man’s conception is recontact. Giant Steps. Constant yearn, burn, want of the path. Wearing out the soles of their shoes, their souls, walking the path. A religious pilgrimage to the Sound.
Art. Many forms, many shapes. Many ways to approach it’s formation, it’s conception, it’s organization. One man’s way is to liberate the masterpiece that already exists deep within the block of marble. Not to organize the block to a pre-conceived notion of beauty in his head, but to illicit and liberate as the beauty makes itself evident to him. His job is to ease its passage into existence. The great Life/Death transcendence into existence. Creation.
Thistle once wrote a poem about the human need to organize. He wrote it on a credit card receipt as he was trying to drive. Steadying the keel with one hand, creating with the other. Many other drivers sounded their distracting disapproval of his somewhat meanderous driving. But he kept going, down the road, on with his writing. Following his path.
Fiction. It happens. People don’t believe it like they do their reality, but trust me. It happens. Sometimes an author writes of a completely unfounded, unbelievable, and very fictional experience, and the next day, it happens. Cosmic convergence. Extremely interesting.
Sometimes an artist can sit down in front of a blank sheet of paper, take a pen, and just start openly scribbling and fervently scratching ink all over the page, and after some time, a window is opened up to creation, and an image is brought to life. It happens. Very Interesting.
And sometimes a saxophone player can pick up his horn, prepare his lips, close his eyes, and blow. And what you hear is unrelenting, unprecedented, and unique beauty. Created at the moment, experienced within its moment of conception. Again. Interesting.
Is this a place where God resides? Is he present in the questing practices of the artist? Is he the One, the awareness, the beauty that the artist liberates from the marble, from the blank page, from the mind?
Man. Where do I start?
Nevermind that. Just talk.
Major breakthroughs tonight. I realized that I still can’t really type, but I also realized that that will come, is a transient reality. That I can push through it and recreate beyond it, in spite of it. The skill will come. With practice. Much practice.
Like Coltrane. You actually think that he just picked up the horn one day, set his fingers on the keys, and just blew out a solo faster than a train through Detroit?
No. I am pushin. Pushin. Pushin forward back.
The Muse. The Music. It intertwines. The infinity knot. A crossover. Cycllical. circular. Tape loop. Cliche. “Oh, that’s all been said before.” Yes, but for a reason.
Truth. Get to know it. Pass it on.
Coltrane’s Sound. An album I own. A path that I research. A sound that inspires a visual imagery, a colored picture in my mind. I look inside and see what I’m hearing. What’s John saying? Can words keep up?
Sound is fast. Express. Much more efficient. You hear several sounds at once. Soundscapes. Landscapes. You can only hear one word at a time. And understand. Understanding is slow. Takes more time. If you try to listen to more than one word at a time, you can get confused really easily. But harmony is sweet.
Thanks to my friend, a new acquaintance in my life, I have found a path that connects a segment of my improvisational writings to the core of my being, the core of my projects as a writer. It’s within the cover of Coltrane’s Sound.
“When Ernest Hemingway died, Nelson Algren in a moving tribute from one great novelist to another assessed Hemingway’s importance, saying, ‘No American writer since Walt Whitman has assumed such risks in forging a style…they were the kind of chances by which, should they fail, the taker fails alone; yet, should they succeed, succeed for everyone.’
“That is–from where I stand–a perfect description of precisely what is going on with the tenor saxophonist John Coltrane.
“Coltrane personifies the young jazz musician who, in searching for personal style, in striving to establish his art as valid and individual and real, takes chances in forging a style which, by definition, challenges the form of tradition while remaining loyal to its essence, and assaults the conventional and the orthodox.
“Jazz musicians like Coltrane are linked inexorably with those creative artists such as Joseph Heller, Ken Kesey, Lenny Bruce, and others who are searching for what Kesey (in a recent issue of Genesis West) referred to as ‘a new way to look at the world, an attempt to locate a better reality.’
“And it ought to be noted about such jazzmen that they not only represent the improvisatory aspect of our society, but by the very nature of what they do, take more chances, even, than Hemingway. For the jazz musician such as John Coltrane is improvising, making it up right now, creating, instant art in the supermarket of the jazz club, which is like writing poetry in the men’s room at Grand Central Station.
“And they perform this improvisation without the chance of revision, with the knowledge beforehand that what comes out may be good or may be bad; it depends. But in any case they can’t change it, it must rest where it is and be judged as it came out.
“In the process of this striving, a creative jazzman such as John Coltrane may very well annoy and antagonize in exactly the same way as Joyce and Stravinsky and Bartol, in their times, have annoyed and antagonized.
“Coltrane plays long solos in which he frequently eschews the melody of the tune and embarks on a long volatile series of flagging improvisations. He plays with a hard tone in a rushing, dynamically aggressive style that sounds as if he might be angry.
“For this he has been criticized as ‘an angry young tenor.’ Coltrane’s reply is interesting. ‘The only one I’m angry at is myself,’ he says, ‘when I don’t make what I’m trying to play.’
“What is he trying to do?” is the question frequently asked about Coltrane and constantly hurled at musicians and critics by irritated listeners who feel their good will toward jazz frustrated by what they find to be the inexplicability of Coltrane’s playing.
“He has a simple answer. ‘The main thing a musician would like to do is to give a picture to the listener of the many wonderful things he knows of and senses in the universe.’
“Once he remarked on his fascination with harmony. ‘When I was with Miles, I didn’t have anything to think about but myself, so I stayed at the piano and chords! chords! chords! I ended up playing them on my horn!’
“From his association with some of the most famous and most individual performers in jazz, such as Miles and Monk and Dizzy, Coltrane finds a similarity underlying their work. There’s just ‘one thing…remains constant.’ he says. ‘That’s the tension of it, that electricity, that kind of feeling. No matter where it happens, you get that feeling and you know. It’s a happy feelin,’ he adds.
“Coltrane, a mild, soft spoken and highly introspective man, says of his own music, ‘Sometimes I let technical things surround me so often and so much that I kind of lose sight…basically all I want to do would be to play music that would make people happy.’
“The long solos, the unorthodox ‘cries’ and the sheets of sound, the hard tone, the swift changes of mood from the lyric to the turbulent urgency of his modal improvisations, indicate a restless nature. And Coltrane is still unsatisfied with his own playing. He is searching. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ he has said, ‘something that hasn’t been played before. I don’t know what it is. I know I’ll have that feeling when I get it and I’ll just keep on searching.’
“There’s a story told by Cannonball Adderley who worked with Coltrane in the Miles Davis group. ‘Once in a while,’ Cannonball says, ‘Miles might say, ‘Why you play so long, man?’ and John would say, ‘It took that long to get it all in.’
That’s a pretty good summary of what motivates and inspires and directs the life of this jazz man. His music is all-encompassing; his vision of life so packed, that he does, indeed, sometimes have trouble ‘getting it all in.”
Ralph J. Gleason wrote that. There’s a little more, but I don’t think I need it repeated here.
Just extra notes.
So. The path. Yeah– find that path. Improvise and explore and discover the way. I hear it, see it, attempt to write it. Still, I need practice. I pound and pound as if a blacksmith, shaping my thoughts into a functional machine. But it takes more than brute strength. Afterall, I’m not making horseshoes. It takes finesse. Patience. Mindfulness. Perseverance. Open-mindfulness. Resolve.
My path crossed that Of John Coltrane’s tonight. I also ran into Arrested Devlelopment. Fishing for religion and just preaching a beautiful message. What a good. Plenty more quotes to come.
Made me think. I have mentioned Sinead O’Connor in past writings. Why did I connect with her so? I think that I heard her where a lot of others did not. Maybe her message was a little too ambiguous and easily misinterpreted, but I felt that at the base of it was not hatred, but love. A similar message to Speech’s. There are lies that we must push through, dismantle, tear up on national television. The better reality is there– it has to exist, or how could we think of it? If it doesn’t exist, then what is it?
Do you follow? The path leads to science. Michael Chrichton. Chaos Theory. The stability of science– it’s predominance in our time. Science as religion. Science as a lacking description of reality. Science as myth. Robert Pirsig’s scientific “ghosts.”
The scientific orientation of the twentieth century mind creates our reality. What doesn’t connect with the theory is said to be invalid, wrong, unreal, etc. So these things don’t exist? Even though by the powers of our observation, the same powers we trust in formulating our scientific theories, we are able to sense and feel and experience things unexplainable by scientific postulation– is this a limitation of the observed event, or the observer/observer’s tools?
It’s all bottled up in the stew. Somewhere in there, Thistle’s digging in the dirt, throwing up little shards of glass and petrified wood, trying to communicate his story.
It is obvious to me that Thistle exists. If only in my mind, as a thought, He still exists. I flesh him out more and more as I write and talk about him. His dream is to bridge the gap between scientifically defined non-existence and existence. He’s played the gig of predicting the future. He’s looked through walls in bus stations, restaurants, theaters. He looked through walls put up by people to protect them from things. He’s seen through walls constructed by theory. He’s watched infinity pass by hundreds of times. He imagined living in my body. He’s imagined being one with me and sitting down at the computer and writing out his life’s story. But he can’t seem to bridge the gap between the stew and the Elsewhere. He can’t pass through the cauldron intact.
He exists as a thought, swimming in the stew of the unconscious, or the sub-conscious. He exists as much as an invention exists in the mind of the inventor before he materializes it and creates it from the raw materials at his disposal. And the cauldron which holds the stew, keeps the stew from running all over the place, holds the stew in place, static, restricts him from moving outside of the stew, the subconscious, into the Elsewhere, the open air of the cabin, out into the fire which burns below, cooking the stew. The cook does not stop to think of Thistle as he stirs the stew every hour. Even when Thistle imagines himself crawling up the cook’s spoon, peeling back the food stained cuff of the sleeve and biting the stirring cook’s wrist, the cook goes on, not noticing.
But the writer notices. Somehow, we are projected to the same space. We see through enough of the same walls and connect on another plane.
It all starts with a belief. I believe in Thistle Penn, and he is born.
Voila. Bon appetit.
Dinner is served.
Turkey anyone? And with your mashed potatoes– some philosophy, perhaps?

Driving Me Crazy (Rhymes with Miss Daisy)

Friday I had a training class for the volunteer position I’m doing for Relay next year. I had to go to Oakland. I chose to go to the afternoon class, not realizing what lay ahead for me after the class was through.

That’s foreshadowing, my friend.

Got up to Oakland earlier than need be, but that was okay– I was hungry for lunch. Parked at a garage where they shift the cars all over the place like a puzzle or life size game of chess. Found the place I was to go for the class. Equals less anxiety, more time to enjoy lunch. That I did, at a place called Spice Monkey. I had The Best Turkey Burger, and it lived up to its name. Nice place, next time you’re in Oakland (!)…

Class was good, learned a lot, didn’t take ANY notes, cuz it’s not like I’m getting paid for this… And then, it was time to go home. So I wandered around between Oakland and Alameda for awhile, trying to find the onramp to the freeway, before I finally did “luck into it” (not before a double tunnel ride that was cool– didn’t honk–) and landed right in the middle of my circumstance.

Interstate 880. A beast at best. One of the most overused, underfunded, undulating surfaces known to man. And I had come upon it willfully.

My folly started to slowly present itself. Very slowly. As in “crawling, stop and go traffic.” And it was 4:00 pm, the earliest of beginnings for the commuting adventure. Add to that– it was Friday. Getaway day. People leaving work early, jockeying for position in the classic hurry-up-and-wait ritual. AND… it was raining. So now we’re dealing with advanced math– exponents, anyone? Accidents by the rainbarrel-full.

I started to tense up. More than I would have had someone stuck an exacto knife in the nape of my neck. Rashes and other side effects, for sure. I was riding a hyperbolic wagon in a handbasket on its way to Hell.

As the situation revealed itself to me like the layered linens of a homeless wanderer’s psychosis, I felt a bit deranged. I was actually enjoying this! And with the realization that indeed, this could be worse– I hacked up a maniacal chuckle that echoed in the padded cell of a truck cab. The water, coming down– tears of someone’s sarcastic joy–pooled on my windshield like the fluids pressing against the walls of my bloated bladder.. Yes– the watery imagery was suggesting that soon, I would need to pee. My conscious addition of the number of sodas I’d had in my immediate past seemed to have a compressing effect on said bladder. But I was already in the matrix of commuters– there was no getting cute now. No exit turnoffs for me. I was committed to the travel. The bladder would have to wait.

So I adjusted my attention to the road savvy driver in my mental makeup and pressed ever so lightly onward.

As I was saying, the water had begun pooling on my windshield, and as the sky was dark, my vision diffracted off the droplets in a kaleidoscope of headlamps and brake lights.

And here, we have the denouement.

The darndest thing– my windshield wipers stopped working. AT ALL. Like an unplugged radio. Turn on, turn off– nothing. No movement. No clearing of the lens to ensure my safe passage. Dead. Again, possible foreshadowing.

But no. Being proactive, I heartily laughed. Laughed until I almost saw stars. Hysterically. Afterall, why should I wait for a time for the “someday” when I could look back at this and laaaaugh? I did it NOW. I concentrated on driving with what I had. It was a godsend, actually, that it was stop and go traffic. I couldn’t imagine traveling at the speed of highway in the rain without properly operational windshield wipers. I did get a chance to try it, though, as the traffic picked up at times. But there was no stopping this. A juggernaut was I. I used my peripheral vision to help steer around the hazards mounted before me.

And I laughed. This may have been the most important part of the adventure. I laughed to stay alive.

And so, after about a half hour, as I reached the San Mateo Bridge turnoff, I tried the wipers again, and they started working. An ovation erupted in the soundtrack of my life. I cheered them on as the images de-blurred and I stopped having to drive into a Cubism painting. My bladder renewed its pleas for my attention.

No way, San Jose. Or bust.

Not literally, bladder.