The God Who Believes in Me

This undated piece was written in Berkeley in early 2016.  I hope it gives you a picture of what Homelessness was like — for me.  

It’s driving me nuts having to be outdoors while almost everybody I can halfway relate to in life is indoors. If I relate to the people who live outdoors, it is because we all live outdoors. We share the values and mores of outdoor living in common, even if we share nothing else. But ninety percent of the time – damn right we share nothing else.

Approximately three times a week, someone who lives outside, someone whom I’ve never seen before, emerges out of someplace where I’ve probably never been and threatens to knock the crap out of me.  Yet I am a man of peace.  I only want to make my music.  I want to sit down with my laptop, crank up my music notation software, and compose.  But if I even dare get my hands on a laptop at these days, I’m an easy mark for every living thing that hides behind a bush.  I’ve been hit on the head with guns down here. If I buy a laptop, they assume it’s for trade or sale.  If I’m not willing to sell it, they might just take it by force.  My musicianship means nothing to a predator.

Maybe five times a week, a person who lives inside (whom I’ve also never seen before) approaches me and asks: “Are you homeless?”   How I have come to hate that question!  I almost disdain telling the truth, because I am so tired of seeing so much blood come pouring out of their heart, you’d think they’d have expected me to slurp it up and drink it.  Then, as they begin to promote whatever form of “help” they think best suits me, I find that in order to gain access to their assistance, I will be required to change my taste in food, my outlook on life, my political philosophy, and sometimes even my religion.   I’m frickin’ sixty-three years old, for God’s sake!!  I worked all my life!!  And they’re asking me to change my faith?  Now, of all times?  My faith is exactly what has kept me alive throughout twelve years of indignity and insanity.  Why should I abandon that which has helped me the most, in order to risk being hurt more than helped by the benign but misinformed intentions of a total stranger?   

I know a very conservative homeless man who tells me he is expected to become a liberal because it is the liberals who are feeding him.  But I have also seen many who identify as liberals become homeless, only to find themselves expected to become conservatives because, in their case, it’s the conservative Christians who feed them.   Why is that, just because someone is down on their luck, they are expected to adopt the views of those who are not?  Everyone is entitled to their own perspective, and it angers me that I should be expected to adopt the perspective of another person only because that person happens to have a roof over their head and more money than I do.  Just because a person is in a higher socio-economic class doesn’t make them right.  All it means is that they are in a better position to take advantage of another person’s weakness.  And in my case, that weakness is H– H–H–  My God, I don’t even want to speak the word anymore! 

What word?  The H-Word!  Homeless!  The word that, in one way, nobody ever hears — and in another way, it’s the only word they hear. It’s maddening. It’s exasperating. It’s more than frustrating – it’s infuriating.

Then there are the those who are not strangers.   These are the ones to whom I once was close, perhaps even intimate — the well-meaning friends and family members who want to “help.”  Oh, they’ll help all right!  They’ll help in any way they can shy of actually putting a roof over my head.  They’re always looking for the problem that “caused” me to become homeless, as if solving whatever that elusive problem might be could possibly solve the much more enormous problem that is Homelessness Itself.  None of those band-aids can possibly heal the wound of Homelessness.   That wound is way too deep for that.

There’s this huge division between the people who live outdoors and those who live indoors. It’s almost as though we’re an entirely different species. I can’t seem to do anything to bridge the gap, nor can I seem to do anything to get myself back inside. I’ve tried everything. All the suggestions everybody gives – they only lead me back to Homelessness. They never hit the core issue at its heart. So I get into this space where I start thinking: “Well, screw it. What’s the use of even trying?”  

I shrug my shoulders.  I head back to my Spot, lean my back against the brick wall of the BART station at the corner of Shattuck & Allston, take off my hat, and hold up a sign that reads:

BROKE AND HOMELESS
OFTEN HUNGRY
PLEASE HELP IF YOU CAN

I silently watch them all go by.  I make eye contact.  I look as many of them in the eye as possible.  Then, slowly but surely, little bits of change find their way into my hat.  Then a couple of dollars here and there, every now and then a five, a ten if I’m lucky, perhaps even a twenty.  People ask if they can buy me a sandwich.  Some people sneer, but they’re easy to overlook.  By and by, I calm down.  I forget my frustrations, my angst.  I meditate.  I pray.  I look around me, and it is a beautiful day in the city that I love.

An hour goes by, and suddenly it doesn’t matter any longer what they all think.  No longer am I driven nuts.  Then another half hour or so goes by, and I remember something.  I remember who I am.  I know who I am.  I even like who I am.   So what’s that word I hear?  The H-Word?  Is that supposed to say something about me?  Ah but no – perhaps we have forgotten.  Nothing says anything about me but the Me who Knows Who Me Is.   I Am the One I Am.

Three hours go by.  I pick up my cash.  The sun is setting.   I weave my way off toward the spot where I sleep, where nobody knows where to find me.   I look to the stars, and say my prayers to the God who believes in Me.

Please help raise public awareness as to the Homeless Phenomenon in America.
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Psalm 143

Lord, hear my prayer,
    listen to my cry for mercy;
in your faithfulness and righteousness
    come to my relief.
Do not bring your servant into judgment,
    for no one living is righteous before you.
The enemy pursues me,
    he crushes me to the ground;
he makes me dwell in the darkness
    like those long dead.
So my spirit grows faint within me;
    my heart within me is dismayed.
I remember the days of long ago;
    I meditate on all your works
    and consider what your hands have done.
I spread out my hands to you;
    I thirst for you like a parched land.[a]

Answer me quickly, Lord;
    my spirit fails.
Do not hide your face from me
    or I will be like those who go down to the pit.
Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love,
    for I have put my trust in you.
Show me the way I should go,
    for to you I entrust my life.
Rescue me from my enemies, Lord,
    for I hide myself in you.
Teach me to do your will,
    for you are my God;
may your good Spirit
    lead me on level ground.

For your name’s sake, Lord, preserve my life;
    in your righteousness, bring me out of trouble.
 In your unfailing love, silence my enemies;
    destroy all my foes,
    for I am your servant.

Psalm 143, NIV
A Psalm of David

 

Fifth Day of Composing

I’ve been composing a lot of music. I’m working on “Bone of My Bones” the way I actually have been hearing it in my head all this time, ever since doing a substandard sequencing of it some time ago, only motivated by wanting to “place” it within the Royal Rhapsody. This new version coincides with the email of July 12th of this year, which I sent jointly to Danielle, to my daughter, and to my pastor, when I received the musical information for the extended composition I’m now working on.

Although it is a bit embarrassing in restrospect to observe how I attributed every nuance of my new compositional focus to Direct Divine Design, there nonetheless is a nice balance in the way the varying themes blend into a whole.  I notice this as I work on the new composition, and it eases the sense of enormity which the project conveys, which can at times be intimidating, especially when one is overcome with sloth.  

Not so my present mode, as I actively pursue heated composition on Day Five.  Here is the extended creative information:

July 12, 2017

New / Old Music.

All these themes, as well as the various segues and transitions that tie them together, come from the “same place,” musically speaking, a place of perfect beauty and purity that I daresay is divine, both in origin and in nature.

1. The Main Theme – is essentially “Bone of My Bones” (first movement, Royal Rhapsody), but with a defining beat to it – unlike its manifestation in The Royal Rhapsody, and more like the way I played it on Neil’s guitar after I first wrote it, before the lady from the nearby house interrupted us to inform us that we should really not have been making music so close to a private residence.

The “defining beat” is able to identify nuances in the melodic/harmonic content of the piece and highlight them for the listener, whereas they would otherwise have been overlooked. For this purpose, the usage of “beat” is very definitive throughout the larger piece of which all these themes are a part. This also means that is *essential* to find the right percussive instrumentation for the project. If I’m at the stage where my own body comes closest, then I haven’t gotten very far. But the “electronic drums” used in the original Berkeley Project from which this type of music-making springs fall far short of the more divinely designated drumming that I’m sure is available if I truly seek that beat wholeheartedly.

The Main Theme will be stated three times, not in succession, but spread about throughout the piece. The first time would probably be at the very beginning – just as is the case in the original Royal Rhapsody. The second time will emerge from the Tertiary Theme which I will discuss a bit later. The third and final time will emerge from the Secondary Theme, which I will discuss right now.

2. The Secondary Theme is stated three times in succession, with different transitional music following each statement of the theme, before the final segue leads to the conclusive Main Theme, and not just to another restatement of the Secondary Theme.

To identify the Secondary Theme, it is the section of music that I originally had inserted within the “Stalk Section” found in the long version of “Bubbles Taboo,” before I left it out when I got up to Moscow and was able to sequence that version. It is a sad theme, though with an interesting lilt in this more lively, rhythmic version. Alao, to further identify it for the sake of nostalgia, the guitarist Niel Mortenson, and he alone, has heard this music emerge from my fingers.

About the transitional music following each statement of the Secondary Theme, the first transition is the shortest and the second transition is considerably longer. The first statement of the second transition leads to the third statement of the Secondary Theme. The second statement of the second transition is the third and final transition pertaining to the Secondary Theme, and leads to the third and conclusive statement of the Main Theme.

(I see that I am in danger of forgetting both the aforementioned transitions. That’s what I get for not singing them immediately into my Audacity sound editor that I have downloaded for Windows – a time-saving habit that I’ve never quit bothered to develop. But I’m trying not to kick myself too hard right now. Next time it’s quiet, and I’m at home at my desk, I’ll tune into the Secondary Theme as deeply as possible, and hope that the relevant transitions return to me. They always do, if I work at it.)

3. The Tertiary Theme can best be identified by its being the theme I first “heard” this morning. As a “brand new” theme, it is connected conceptually, but not historically, to the themes in the Berkeley Project. It is a much shorter theme, and the power of its three-time successive statement might be dismissed by the listener were it not for the glaring function of its transitions. The transitions actually expand upon the power of their predecessors, and fool the listener into believing they’re headed for their original usage to serve the Main Theme or the Secondary Theme, rather than back to the Tertiary Theme.

Although there are other themes, it gets tricky from here. The Secondary Theme is connected musically to “Bubbles Taboo” in a way that is telling, if awkward. Its original usage not only was conceived to be part of a lengthier rendition of “Bubbles Taboo” than the world will probably never hear, but the transitions it involves point to “Bubbles Taboo” in other ways as well. Right now, however, I’m having a hard time recollecting how one of the transitions, used to lead directly into one of the statements of the Main Theme, also leads very easily into the main defining theme of “Bubbles Taboo.” But let’s face it — who wouldn’t be having a hard time keeping track of all this by now? I believe the connection between the two uses of that particular transition will return to me, along with the defining musical content of the transition in question. But if it doesn’t? C’est la vie. God obviously has something better in mind.

4. Sirens of Hope – this will not necessarily be referred to as the Fourth Theme. What appears to happen. after an appropriate expression of transitional music seems to be putting a cap on the final statement of the Main Theme, is that the last measure or two of that transitional music happens to lead very nicely into the main theme of “Sirens of Hope” – yet stated this time without the fast, rhythmic quality that characterizes the way I had hastily sequenced it for the Berkeley Project, once I had arrived in Moscow and had proceeded to put some small measure of rational thought into how exactly I was to go about it, before impulsively plunging into the haphazard, misleading version I posted on the Berkeley Page, because I couldn’t wait, and couldn’t stop, and was just too excited, and too impatient, and all that.

I also don’t want to overemphasize the value of another body of transitional music that stems from the “A Part” or introductory section of the version of “Sirens of Hope” already sequenced. But it appears that when this body of music is taken much slower and much less rhythmically than I had presented it for the “Sirens” already sequenced, it has power both to attract the listener almost to a theme of its own, and also to take the statement of that theme directly back to the main theme of “Sirens of Hope” from which it stemmed.

In conclusion, I know that I will later feel I should have gathered my senses and sung into my Audacity program every theme or transition that I originally heard myself performing when I first woke up this morning and seemed not to be able to stop the singing, accompanied by the percussive use of my body, that apparently I was performing all throughout my sleep last night. (If you’re incredulous, just ask my next door neighbor.)

However, I also feel that the information provided in this file is sufficient to get me started on the project. At some point, the transitional themes will recur in full, if I go about this in a good heart – the way I went about when I was in Berkeley. I basically have to keep bearing in mind where this music is coming from – the place from which it comes is not merely Beauty of Meaning or Purpose or Truth – it s actually Perfection, and it cries out to be honored as such. Probably it cries out more loudly to perfectionists themselves — because we are the ones most likely to believe its call.

The difference, of course, between God’s Perfection and human perfectionism is that He doesn’t make mistakes. This is why He is completely to be trusted. There’s no danger in trusting Him, as there is with even the most trustworthy of mere mortals. So, I can take comfort in that His giving me this unexpected new musical direction so surprisingly this morning, was *not* a mistake of His. I may or may not be mistaken to prioritize so highly its production. The Jury is still out on that one. but the Judge is the one with the gavel.

All for now —

Andy

The problem has been that by the time I went back to these words approximately three weeks later, I had forgotten the “Tertiary Theme” entirely. You see, I had never bothered to write it down, and so eventually it escaped me. I then abandoned the project in disgust. But then, unexpectedly, the theme that I had not written down returned to me! This was approximately five days ago, and so I resumed work on the project immediately. I still haven’t written the theme down — but I’m convinced I won’t forget it, as I continue to work on other, less relevant, portions of the impending piece — such as this “Bone of My Bones” section.

This new composing persona also suggests the rebirth or resurrection of a former great Andy-image within the Moscow community. In this image, I am *seen* composing music with Finale at various hot spots around town. This is a bright contrast to the image of the Andy who is *seen* furiously typing on his externally extended keyboard, as he is doing now, when just minutes ago, he was *seen* pleasantly composing beautiful new music, as is his preferred persona. Conspicuously so, at that. Noticeably, visibly composing music — to the widespread admiration of all.

You see, when I am composing music with Finale, I use a lot of “drag & drop” features, mostly large silent swoops of the external mouse.  It’s a novel sight in comparison to the previous, furious fast-paced, prolonged spells of typing.  It’s a welcome sight, in the eyes of most of the community.  They are at once relieved of my typing, and introduced to the much more pleasant and intriguing world of music notation software, its usage made manifest among the multitudes that comprise Moscow, Idaho, where I most notably, noticeably do my work.  

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Jim the Janitor

Now Jim the Janitor is not the brightest fellow I’ve ever met.  He seems to have some boundary issues, as well as an extreme insecurity with regards to his personal and social relationships. This causes most people to write him off as, quite frankly, a “creep.”   I could elaborate, but it is not important.

What is important is this.  I used to be very bothered by Jim the Janitor.   When I first moved to Friendship Square, it seemed he would not stop knocking on my door, often at odd hours.   But eventually, I began to notice that the Janitor had some very good qualities about him — qualities that I have lacked.

For one thing, I have never once seen him lose his temper, or break out of his even keel.  So I asked him one day how he manages this, especially knowing that he faces the same difficulties faced by myself and all other poor people in this society.

GodHe replied: “I always let it go.  I always give it to God.”

I marveled at this.  For I had noticed that whenever he tries to quote a Scripture, he often gets it wrong, sometimes attributes something to Paul that was actually written by James, or even quotes something from a book other than the Bible, seeming to think it is in the Bible.  But I ceased to correct him after a while, because I became more interested in what he was trying to get across, than in the authenticity of his sources.

So the other night, I was sitting in Greg’s apartment two doors down from me, having a casual conversation with Greg, and a not-so-casual conversation with Jim. (I have noticed that Jim never engages in casual conversation.  Everything he says has to be in some way spiritual, which annoys many people.)

Suddenly, Jim pointed his finger at me, and in a burst of enthusiasm, he initiated the following dialogue:

Jim: (excitedly) Andy!  I know what your entire problem is!!

Andy: (amused) You don’t say?  Do tell.

Jim: You’re a rich man!

Andy: (incredulously) Uh . . . rich man?   How so?

Jim: You know how God says that the camel can’t go through the eye of the needle that the rich man is trying to get through, or something like that?

Andy: (thumping his Bible) “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Jim: Yeah, that’s the one.   This is why you’re having so much trouble getting into the Kingdom of Heaven.  You’re a rich man.

Andy: (trying not to laugh) But Jim, I am not a rich man in the least.  I am rather a very poor man, just like you, or Greg, or anybody else in the building.

Jim: No Andy, I’m telling you — you are a rich man.  You are rich,  because you are rich in knowledge, and talent, and experience, and credentials.  Your knowledge and your talents are what keeps you from seeing the kingdom of God.

Andy: Wow — this is reminding me of a Scripture, where Paul says: “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.”  Knowledge feeds the ego.  Love feeds the flock.  Is that what you mean?  That kind of thing?

(Jim pauses for a moment, as though he had to think it over.)

Jim: Yeah.  That kind of thing.

Andy: Well – um – thank you!   Nobody’s ever told me that before . . .

“For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth.  But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong;  God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God.”
–1 Corinthians 1:26-29

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Social Statement

Because I have been recently lamenting a tendency for some readers not to recognize that my posts are generally “social statements” rather than “requests for advice” (if you can possibly grasp that there could even be a relationship between the two), I am entitling this post “Social Statement,”  just in case there’s any doubt about where I’m coming from.  Granted, it’s a lousy title, but let’s begin.

I was blessed last night to spend the night at my pastor’s house on his farm, where I learned that he is also a farmer, and not only a pastor.  It was  great to be out in the beautiful country, away from the city, and away from Friendship Square, if only for a single night.  It was funny, too.

It was funny — because when he invited me to stay the night, my first thought was: “In all the years when I was homeless, when I lived on the streets, how many times did anyone ask me over to stay the night?”

zero

When I was homeless, and I asked somebody if I could stay the night at their house, what was their answer?

no-no

Herein lies the gist of a social statement.  It may not be headed in the exact direction you are suspecting.  My fellow homeless people and I naturally became more and more discouraged the more these statistics accumulated.  But we also naturally asked ourselves, “why” did close friends and family members categorically refuse to let us stay the night at their houses?  Even for one night?   In my case, even when I offered money to let them stay over one night and take a shower  –  or even just take the shower itself – they said “No.”  Why?

Eventually, we all concluded what I am about to describe.  They all knew that we were homeless.  They also knew that we had a number of other problems, but that none of those problems had ever made us homeless.  They had let us stay over when we were total slobs.  They had let me stay over when we were addicted to drugs.  Often, they themselves were addicted to drugs. They had let us stay over, whenever we were passing through, as long as we had not yet lost a place to live.   So why didn’t they let us stay over when we needed a place to stay?

The answer is simple.  All the problems that they had known about had never made us homeless.  Now we were homeless, and they did not know why.  Therefore we must have some problem that they did not know about, and that problem must have made us homeless.  Obviously, they thought, we had somehow screwed up our living situations in some way — otherwise, we wouldn’t have become homeless.  Since that had to be the case, would we not similarly screw up their living situations as well?  Sure we would.  

They were not concerned about our problems of which they were aware — they were concerned about our problems of which they were unaware.  Everyone has a little fear of the unknown, don’t they?  That fear prevented each and every one of them from ever letting us stay at their houses when we needed to.

You can’t imagine how difficult it was for me to call up a very close family member ten days after I had become homeless in 2004, and ask him if I could stay for a while in his spare room, and hear the word “No.”  When I asked him why, he said, “I don’t care to expand.”  Whenever I asked him over the years if he could elaborate, he said: “No.”

Why?  Because he himself did not know the reason.  He was not afraid of what he knew – he was afraid of what he didn’t know.  What he didn’t know was why I had wrecked up my living situation, and he didn’t want to take the risk of my wrecking up his as well.

The simple truth was that in the urban area where I had become homeless, the demand for living situations far exceeds the supply.  When I lost my last rental — for whatever reason — I could not readily get another one — for whatever reason.  I then fell down into the hole called Homelessness — a whole so deep I tried for twelve years to climb my way out of it.

0519d869c2f17b567099948384b9099bf8a86d-wmIf you can imagine the hurt and the pain I felt from hearing my own brother refuse to let me stay in the spare room at his house ten days after I had become homeless, try multiplying that level of pain by fifteen.  One by one, my closest friends and family members told me that I could not stay with them, nor even take a shower at their homes – not even in exchange for money.  So the discouragement that was strong enough, became fifteen times stronger.

Whatever enabled me to become encouraged again?  Encouraged as I still remain today, despite depression, despite mania, despite a medical condition, despite the loss of a job?

The amazing commonality that I shared with my homeless brothers and sisters on the streets of Berkeley, California, almost all of whom were enduring the same indignity as myself, affirmed our common dignity.  Our conversations, over a five year period, eventually lifted my spirit out of that hole, even though there did my body remain.

I’ve since been in touch with a Berkeley social worker.  I asked him how my best friend Lauren was doing, if she was still on the streets, and if her health was holding up.  I broke into tears when I learned that somebody had finally helped her with the initial deposit and last month’s rent, and she was now able to live on her disability in her own apartment somewhere in Southern California.  I have also heard similar stories, all across the board, of homeless people in my tribe pulling out of that gigantic hole, because our spirits had finally become encouraged by the hugeness of our common dignity, so much so that our bodies were soon to follow.

In Lauren’s case, it was her own brother who finally stepped up to the plate.  In my case, it was a retired music teacher who knew what I was made of, and fronted me a one-way to Idaho and enough money for the deposit on an apartment.  But the dramatic lift in spirits is common in all cases.  I went from being homeless on the streets of Berkeley, assuming I was to die a miserable, meaningless death on the streets, to having a job and an apartment in Moscow, Idaho, faster than the twinkle of an eye.

If that’s not an inspiration, I don’t know what it is.  But remember  – it is not just my inspiration; it is the inspiration of hundreds, maybe thousands, of some of the most inspired people on the face of this Earth.  That inspiration can make a difference.  Please,  let us make that difference — before it is too late.

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The Questioner

Q. Do you even have the slightest idea who I am?

A. I know exactly who you are.

Q. Then where were you last night when I needed you?

A. Too wiped out.

Q. You weren’t avoiding me, were you?

A. No – not really.  I just didn’t have much to say to you.

Q. Do you realize how small that makes me feel?

A. Vaguely.  But perhaps you’ve been a bit too big for your britches lately.

Q. What makes you say so?  Why would you even think such a horrid thought?

A. Well, it’s one thing for me to have finally summoned you as a last resort, when I was in a bind.  But you outlived your usefulness when you started becoming all codependent on me.

Q. Codependent?

A. You heard me!   My personal habits and manner of self-care are my own business.   All you codependents are alike.  Constantly harping on me to take care of myself, as though you practically owned my body.   I’m the one who lives in the damn thing! I’m the one who knows what it takes to function properly.  I’m the one who hasn’t had a serious disease in sixty-four years of living, while all around me all these sick people keep harping on how I “don’t take care of myself.” 

Q. Are you calling me “sick?”

A. Aw, you’re healthy enough in low doses, I suppose.

Q. Don’t you think you’re beginning to come across like Job in Chapter 33?   Exalting your own righteousness above that of the Holy Name of God??

A. Oh please.  The transparency with which you resort to throwing the Book at me is odious.

Q. How so?

A. You always pound the Scriptures at me in order to bring guilt upon my head, just at the moment when you figure nothing else would work but a religious guilt trip. 

Q. But can’t you see that I am only trying to help?

A. That’s what they all say.

Q. But what do you say?

A. I say that yes, I thank the Good Lord God for keeping me in decent health long enough to finally get a good crack at my life’s work on this planet.  But at the same time, I can’t deny that following some simple rules such as (1) not smoking cigarettes, and (2) getting sufficient, moderate physical exercise, have had at least something to do with it.   God didn’t waste his gift of good health on a guy who was going to sit on a bar stool all night long whining with a Camel non-filter hanging out of his mouth as though it were a blue tooth in his ear.

Q. How can you claim to have always made healthy choices?   Is not the very notion preposterous?

A. I never said I have always made healthy choices.  I am only saying I make a point of taking care of myself, whether anybody else thinks so or not, and when I fail or lapse, God has been merciful in letting me wake up in the morning without hangover.  Or similar such show of mercy. 

Q. Why is that you seem so damned smug today?

A. Because you and I are splittin’ up, baby!  I got to the point yesterday where I just did not need you or your flagrant codependent guilt trips, you flailing flimsy excuse for a superego, you!  I made a speech last night.  I’m going to edit it tonight to taste.  And I worked for three hours on my piano-vocal score, according to my schedule that I’m determined to keep up till the end of October.  I even enjoyed the work.  And I ran two miles!   And did fourteen push-ups!  When was the last time you ran two miles?  Not to mention, before you completely fade and fizzle into the oblivion where you and all your moralistic guilt trips belong, heed the wise words of Bertrand Russell, my agnostic hero.

Bertrand
Russell: “One should never worry about one’s health unless one is unhealthy.”

A. My agnostic hero chain-smoked till he was 80, became unhealthy, stopped smoking, and lived to be 97.   Are you going to live to be 97?

Q. Are you?

A. We shall see!

The Questioner has been silenced — for the time being . . .

 

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Anything Helps – God Bless!

My Choice

I’ve never written a novel before.  All I’ve written so far are a number of plays, some of them musicals, numerous short stories that I lost in a storage unit (unless the English department at U.C.Davis happens to have kept a hold of them, which I doubt), thousands of blog posts and diary entries (for whatever that’s worth), the couple handfuls of poems posted on this web site, and zillions of songs, complete with lyrics everybody seems to rave about and music that nobody likes at all.   Oh – and I also wrote a couple “rock operas” when I was younger, two movements of a flute sonata, and scattered piano preludes.  No first symphony, as of yet.  Typical story of a lifelong burned out starving artist. 

That said, I read the first paragraph of my new novel to the other members of the Palouse Writers Guild this morning.  All of them agreed that if those were the first words that befell their eyes, they would keep on reading without hesitation.   One guy I showed it to later even said he’d probably buy the book right off the bat.   But the problem with all of that is, of course, that there’s no book to buy.  Will there ever be?  Am I capable of writing an entire novel, just because I happened to get off to a good start?

I’ve been advised to barrel out 10,000 words as rapidly as possible, just the way I churned out the first five pages.  But I don’t know that I can.  Or even want to.

nothing-in-the-world-is-worth-havingOr even should.  Since feeling the worst impacts of all the demons that have come storming down my stairwell ever since I finished the script to Eden in Babylon, I wonder what my next course really ought to be.  It is clear that for lack of a definite, disciplined project I have practically let myself be devoured by all the local wolves, and whatever strange poltergeists inhabit my creepy confines in the dead of night, full of trickery and tripe.  But should I really dive head-first into an entire novel, just to hide my head from all the hunger, the hysteria, and the hurt?

Why not just notate my piano-vocal score like a good little musical comedy composer?  It would seem the thing to do, if anyone other than myself is ever to attempt to play such bizarre tunes.

There’s also this third idea hovering over my head, haunting me.  It has to do with the themes that were left hanging when I suddenly dropped the Berkeley project some months ago and dove head-first into my musical script.   Not that this was a bad thing to do, for I did, after all, finish the script.  But as I took from the Berkeley music those songs that seemed most to fit the Eden in Babylon style — the showiest, the most “musical theatre” of them all — I find that what is left is an intriguing set of strains.  The remains seem much less show-tune, less schmaltzy, more seriously operatic in nature, and somewhat other-worldly.

But this causes me to recall the neuro-physiological conditions under which I placed myself in order to conceive of such music; specifically, highly altered states of consciousness.  Somehow I just “heard” the music in those unnatural states of mind.  It fascinated me so much that I promised myself I would orchestrate it all once I “came down” (and once I had regained access to a laptop and a regular power outlet in which to plug it).   So I did that until the thrill wore off.   Yet, on examining the music of Sirens of Hope, and of The Royal Rhapsody, I must admit that the thrill returns. 

So – if I went by what others think I should do, I’d have to say that the other Writers in the guild probably would like to see me follow through with the novel, especially seeing as I got off to such a surprisingly good start.  That would probably also be the easiest and most absorbing thing to do – at least, in terms of generating a very rough, rough draft.  Who wants me to write music?   A bunch of stoners in a flop house who won’t even listen to it anyway.  Nobody ever listens to my music.  It makes me feel like all the huge effort I put into writing it is all for nought.

Now, the arduous task of painstakingly notating my piano-vocal score is something I’ve been avoiding for a good month or more.  Obviously, it’s what I’m supposed to do.  Otherwise, I won’t be able to live with myself.  There it would be, even should I die before my time: a complete piano-vocal score that conceivably some conductor could pick up on, some group of singer-actors sing and act from, and some pianist, other than myself, actually play.  How gratifying.  Worth its weight in gold.

The first chapter of the novel looks good, but knowing me, it would degenerate into mindless pornography before Chapter Three.  I’ve made my choice.  And you know what?  I’ll start tomorrow.  Today’s the Lord’s day and I’ll do my best to rejoice in it — even if it means putting on my headphones and rocking out to the music that no one else will ever hear.