Lost in the Atmosphere

The night before my journey to Portland, my friend Lyn cooked a send off dinner for me. We ate and drank and watched “Son of Rambow” (great movie by the way). As is usual for us, the movie was paused many times for little vignettes of talking. We rarely get through a film, and if we do it is usually in the wee hours of morning. This evening was no exception. We didn’t finish the film and I passed out around 5 am. This was extremely foolish behavior as I had a lot to accomplish the next day for my trip to Portland.

I rose wearily at 10:30 am mildly but persistently hung over. I took my cat to my Mom’s house and jumped in her pool hoping that I could shake the mind fog to no avail. Getting back home and washed my dishes and cleaned the house up a little. I finally succumbed to the urge to catch a catnap before packing. I figured I would be ok when I got to Portland because I would just catch up on some sleep on the plane ride.

Sitting in front of me on the plane to Portland is a man in his sixties. His big melon noggin bald save for a small square soul patch on the back of his head; a small plot of soft short white hair. The kid next to me points it out. I joke that he probably doesn’t even know it’s there, but almost in answer to our query his wife’s hand slides up to the back of his neck and begins to stroke the small arid patch delectably.

The bald man also has two earrings in his left ear. One is the standard gold diamond stud. The second is a tribal black curly-q, like a sharp worm impaled in his fatty lobe. He wears glasses and has a generous goatee. He smells like an old-time barbershop.

The kid sitting next to me is named Kyle. I guess him at about 14. He is a friendly.

“Hey bra, what kind of music do you like?”

“I like lots of different music, how about you?”

“I like lots of different music too, you like Eminem?”

“Yeah some of it.”

“What about Green Day?”

“Yeah I like Green Day.”

He flips open his CD wallet and starts digging.

“Which album do you like best?”

“I don’t know…’Dookie’, ‘Insomniac’, whatever.”

He pulls out ‘Dookie’ and put it in his CD player. He messes around with his ear buds, stretching them out and straightening the wires. He hands me a bud.

“Here bra.”

“Oh no, that’s ok.”

“Come on bro, it’s better when you share music with someone.”

How can I refuse such and invitation? He isn’t making this offer the guy sitting on the other side of him. I put the bud in my ear and the volume is full blast, all the sounds distorted. I decide to endure it. I hadn’t listened to ‘Dookie’ in probably nine years. I don’t think this kid was born when it came out. Soon we are both nodding our heads and drumming on our tray tables.

After six songs I’m done. He is done too. I pull out my notebook and start writing about the bald guy in front of me. He pulls out a notebook and starts drawing. As I glance over at his picture I can see that he is completely engrossed in drawing this tribal design with a large eye as its centerpiece. After a few minutes he stops and admires his work for a moment.

“Awesome!”

He continues to draw, stopping occasionally to look and verify its coolness. When he is finally done he proudly shows it to me. The final product looks like a giant eye with wings and claws.

“What do you think?”

“Pretty cool, I wouldn’t want to meet it on the street.”

“It’s just a design dude.”

“Yeah well I still wouldn’t want to meet it.”

“Tell me a design you would like me to draw.”

That’s a tough one. How do you tell someone a design to draw? I sit and think on it for a while. His eyes are upon me and I can tell his patience is wearing thin.

“I don’t know man, why don’t you make a coat of arms for yourself”

“I had to do that one time in my history class, I hated that.”

“Well that was an assignment, this is just for fun.”

“That was supposed to be for fun too.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, my first suggestion and you hate it.”

“Ok.”

He goes back to drawing and I go back to writing. After about five minutes he pushes the picture my way. He has drawn a literal coat and put symbols on it. I recognize musical notes, a game controller, and a key.

“Tell me about this.”

“Ok so it’s a jacket, you know a jacket of arms, I thought that was funny.”

I smile encouragingly.

“So this is a key because every coat of arms has to have a key for some reason. This is game controller because I love to play video games, and these are musical notes, because I love to listen to music, play music and compose music. I compose music.”

“Really, what do you play?”

“Piano…want to hear one of my original compositions?”

“Sure that would be great.”

He shuffles through his CD wallet again and produces a CD with a picture of him playing the piano printed on it. I listen through one ear bud to a simple little song with a drum machine, cheesy strings and piano. He explains as we are listening that the strings and the piano are playing against each other to make it sound more realistic. I nod and smile and listen. The song is over in two minutes.

“That was good, I liked it.”

I never mention that I used to make music or that I ever played in a band. I figure I will let him be the man of the hour.

The stewardess comes by to get our drink orders. He orders a ‘Monster’ I order club soda. The stewardess tells him its $3 and then goes over payment options, cash not being one of them.

“Wow.”

“I’ll come back for the payment later.”

“I don’t have any money!”

“Ok then.”

Ten minutes later she comes back with our drinks. Sure enough she gives him a ‘Monster’.

“I bought it for you hon.”

“Thanks!”

The kid is a charmer and he doesn’t even know it. Thank goodness for that. I think it is his still child-like response to the world. We became friends in only about two minutes. Adults don’t do that. I usually smile at my travel mates, pull out my pillow and fall asleep. Even with my friendly companion I wanted to sleep. Something about plane engines makes me almost unnaturally sleepy. But that wasn’t going to happen on this flight.

“You wanna play a game?”

“Sure, what kind of game?”

“You pick a letter from the alphabet and then you pick a subject like ‘animals’ and then you try to think of the most ‘animals’ that start with that letter.”

I get out my notebook and pick the letter D randomly from pointing my finger in a book. We start with animals. After naming about 14 animals we are stuck.

“What about a dingbat?”

I laugh.

“I don’t think so.”

We move on to my specialty, band names, and we are really tearing it up. Do you know how many bands start with the word “death”? We get up to 24 band names and he tells me this is record number that he has never been a part of before.

The captain comes on to tell us that we are landing and I can’t believe how fast time has gone by.

Stay tuned for the next installment, “Fear and Sleep Deprived in Las Vegas”.

A little ditty

Joplin has a little secret in May's Drug Warehouse on 7th Street. They have a lot of really cheap stuff, the greatest liquor deals in town and the best Muzac in Joplin. Seriously it is really wild. Not only are the tunes diverse but the volume is pumped up. Somebody really cares about music there. Now I'm told that sometimes it is country but I have yet to hear any. Today when I walked in Pete Shelley's "Homosapien" was playing! Pete Shelley in a Joplin retail business? That was followed by Terrence Trent D'Arby's "Wishing Well" which is surprisingly refreshing after all these years. Following that, Prince "Delirious" and The Fixx "Secret Seperation". Yes I was there for a while. The thing about Mays is that it has all this stuff kind of randomly placed everywhere and there is hardly ever more than two other customers. It reminds me of an old Ben Franklin or Skaggs store. Just a little of everything, everywhere. I find it strangely comforting.

I have this love/hate relationship with my house right now. I love my house, but sometimes I just want to put off coming home. Such is the lonely life I lead right now. I know what is going to happen when I get home because I'm in charge and that means I get my way, no surprises. Well no surprises is boring sometimes.

I do try to mix it up sometimes. I dance for my cat and she either approves or runs and hides. I read in the tub. I manically clean a part of the house. I sit outside and offer my flesh for the insects, which they greedily indulge in. I cook enough food for a family.

Last week I had my nephew Gabriel for four days. I was thinking it would cramp my style to have a seven year old around the house all the time, but to the contrary it was quite agreeable. We had a great time. I high-lighted his hair, which he was very patient with, and it looks awesome. I will post a pic soon. I taught him chess, which I'm not sure he is overly enthused about, but we did play four games of it. I read to him and he read to me. He built cool stuff with Legos, Lincoln Logs (their small, their awesome, their wood), and Tinker Toys (god I love all of those toys, I play with them when he isn't here) He made balsa wood dinosaurs. It was great. After he went to bed I still got a little me time and it was just enough.

So there is a blog of no real value but a little something. I have got to get back into the habit. It is good for me.

Please subscribe if you like reading. It puts pressure on me to continue.

Coming up soon:
The banality of modern communication.
Censorship examined.
A New Writer's Group
How You Can Change America
AND
How I grew up and quit worrying about the end of days.

Thanks for reading.

Poetry in Motion

So in my never-ending desire for a degree I am slowly whittling away at it by taking night classes. I can't get money for college anymore so it is coming out of my pocket entirely without any assistance. So this semester I'm taking Creative Writing:Poetry. On the side I have been trying to get the university more involved with all things Spiva. I mentioned to my teacher that it would be a cool idea to use our current photography exhibit for an experiment. She jumped on the idea immediately. The students came to see the exhibit and based poems on the photos in the show. Then we had a reading of the poems in the gallery with each photo being displayed behind them on a screen as they read. It was a huge success beyond my greatest hopes! So here is one of the poems I wrote. If you all like it I will post the other two. I'm not sure if people respond to poetry on my space or not.


Inspired by Family of Origin: Skiers

Here they were:

Grandpa with a crew cut,
strong arms and a barrel chest,
the kind of physique you only see in old films
when men were still men.

Grandma thin but healthy,
legs tanned and tight,
wearing a full body swimsuit that shows off all her curves,
back when women were supposed to have curves.

The kodachrome color makes all these memories obscure;
world and past become unreal.
These can’t be my grandparents
they don’t belong to me
they don’t belong to my memory.

Sure they have told me stories of their life,
stories I knew were connected to them.
But it always seemed like they were relating a movie they had seen.
I could never place them in the stories.

Grandpa a puny boy with asthma,
the runt of the family,
the unloved and unfavored son.

When I was younger all the stories were of hardship
and personal glory at overcoming all obstacles of being underestimated.
Stories of outsmarting the smart guys with his sixth grade education.

He once showed me a picture of him as a boy with his brothers.
He pointed at his two older brothers and himself.
“Like stair steps” he said, “I’m the bottom”.

One day all the boys were dreaming of the future
A future away from the poverty and dirt roads.
Harvey was gonna be a doctor,
Warren was gonna be a lawyer,
Grandpa didn’t know what he was gonna be,
but what ever it was, he was gonna be a millionaire.
His brothers laughed and jeered at him.
Grandpa pauses in the telling, smiles slightly and says,
“Yep, they both ended up working for me”

It wasn’t always pride that was showing through,
it was vindication, not only had he survived,
he had shown graciousness in his triumph.

At the age of nine he was plowing a field
a boy, a plow and horse alone in the searing sun.
Having plowed from morning into the early heat of noon,
he took a break and went for a swim in a spring-fed pond.
His oldest brother came along and scolded him
jerking him out of the water and whipping his bare butt with
a blackberry briar.

That brother got a milking pail upside his head later that night.
That brother worked for him and they were close for life.

I have seen other pictures.
Pictures of parties,
everyone with a drink in one hand
and a cigarette in the other.
I recognize the sloppy smiles and half opened eyes
of the half lit.
They never told me stories about these times.
I recognize my Grandpa and Grandma in these cocktail parties.
The top shelf still has dozens of bottles even now
but I have never seen them ever once drink from any of them.

The kodachrome color makes all these memories look staged
from a Hollywood flash-back scene.
This can’t be my grandparents.

2009
Shaun Conroy

Art and Murder: The Musical

A while back I foolishly said that I was going to regularly write about day-to-day events in my life. I wrote two entries and then didn’t write anymore. In fact, I haven’t written any blogs for months now. I feel really bad about this for some reason that I can’t quite understand. I guess I feel that I let myself down. I know that there aren’t a whole lot of people out there chomping at the bit for my next entry. Nevertheless it is a healthy thing for me to do. I have had some people say that they think blogging is somehow a narcissistic endeavor. I guess it can be, but I don’t think that is the case with me. In sharing thoughts and things with some kind of audience it encourages me to write. For me writing is a pleasure that I avoid like the plague. It is so weird that this is often the case with a lot of people I know. Why avoid something that brings you so much happiness? Go figure.

So onwards and upwards. I’m not going to make any promises that I will most likely break, but I am going to go at this again with a more regular schedule. I hope.

The other day I was going through a bunch of papers and files at Spiva. For those that don’t know what that means I will explain. I work at Spiva Center for the Arts, a non-profit. We have classes on making art. We have three galleries that display art of various mediums. We have seminars, talks, movies, and generally try to encourage culture in this fair city of Joplin. My official title is Gallery/Gift Shop Coordinator. I actually find a way to do a lot of maintenance as well as stick my nose into just about every aspect of the place. It is one of the best jobs I have ever had. I love the people I work with, I love what we do, and I feel that the people I come into contact with on a daily basis appreciate what I do as well. It is a good feeling.

So the other day I’m going through a bunch of papers and files at Spiva. Due to our non-profit status we have a tendency to never throw anything away. “Do we need this broken piece of tile?” “Sure we might use it for some class someday.” This is a typical conversation. We also keep all paperwork that we ever generate as well as signs and flyers. We never know when we might want it for some unforeseeable reason. So there are really a lot of resources that I have no clue we have. On down time I look around and see what I can find. I have found a lot of things that had I known we had I could have used to make my job easier. As I’m flipping through stuff I find a file of letters from third-graders from a couple of years back. Every year we have all the third-graders in Joplin come through for a week of “fun and exploration”. It is really pretty fun and very exhausting for everyone involved. All told we see about six hundred kids come through in a week. So these were letters from a bunch of kids saying thank you for letting them come and all that. I decided to sit and read through this stack of about eighty letters. As I did I smiled a lot and sometimes laughed out loud.

Many of the kids had actually addressed their thanks and kudos to some of the artists that were in the exhibition that they had seen. That year our exhibit was a showcase of “outsider” artists. Outsider artists are people who make art that have no training in the arts. They are usually outsiders in more than one-way actually. Most seem to be eccentric older men who just spontaneously started creating their own unique vision. One of the artists was this guy who was one of like thirteen kids and one of the five or so that survived. After his son was killed in Desert Storm and his health deteriorated, he started making pictures and 3-D art out of cardboard. But this isn’t what your thinking. He used the corrugated stuff that is in-between the top and bottom sheets. He used all these little curly-cues to make portraits, and freestanding sculpture. The work was amazing. It is the kind of art you enjoy aesthetically but also swoon over the obsessive tenacity that it would take to create. The kids by and large loved his stuff and there was a large stack of letters written specifically to him. I decided that the artist would get a real kick out of reading them himself. There was one small problem. In spite of all the stuff that we save, I couldn’t find any contact information for him.

I looked his name up on Google and found only a few reviews (remember he is an outsider, most of the art world will have nothing to do with these guys) and a gallery that carried some of his work. I called this gallery and the guy was real nice and spent about ten minutes digging through stuff looking for his address. Finally he gave me his “handler’s” phone number. Some guy in Garden City, Kansas named Dwayne West.

My boss Jo heard me as I was on the phone and came in after I finished.
“Did you find his address?”
“No but I got some other guys number that takes care of the artist’s affairs”
“Oh Dwayne West?”
“Yeah”
“Well you will enjoy talking to him. He is a really interesting guy. He was the prosecutor in the Cl…”
“No way, are you going to say the Clutter case?”
“Yeah”
“Hoollyyy Shit”

When I was eighteen my obsession with Southern Gothic novelists began. I read a few Faulkner short stories and landed for quite some time on the work of Truman Capote. I consumed everything that Capote wrote and saved “In Cold Blood” for last. I’m stubborn that way. “In Cold Blood” rocked my teenage world. It was the first book that actually scared me and made me aware of the random evil that exists in the world. For those that don’t know “In Cold Blood” was a true story written like a novel, a new form that Capote invented and perfected. The story was about a farm family named the Clutters that get brutally murdered for no real apparent reason.

Right after Jo told me this I called and got an answering machine. I left my information and hung up. I opened the Joplin Globe (our newspaper here) and on the second page was the headline “Clutter Prosecutor Affirms Capital Punishment”. Talk about synchronicity! Here is a case that is fifty years old and the same day that I get Dwayne’s number the Joplin Globe picks up an obscure AP story and puts it on the second page of the paper! I knew that destiny was in play and eagerly awaited a return call from Dwayne.

A couple of weeks went by and the wow and flutter that is Spiva pushed the whole thing to the back of my mind. But the moment finally came and the call was sent to me and there on the other end of the phone was Dwayne West, a piece of literary and personal history. We exchanged greetings and he gave me Jesse Monte’s address (yeah I intentionally saved that for later as a gift for those that are still reading). After all the real business was over I took in a breath.
“Mr. West let me say that it is particularly exciting to talk to you. When I was eighteen I read “In Cold Blood”
A slight grunt from Dwayne.
I continued.
“I was really stunned by that book and it is just a personally moving thing that I am talking to someone that is actually connected to that book”
“Yes, I was the state attorney and it was a big case so I prosecuted it. The Clutters went to my church”
I sudden lump developed in my throat. This wasn’t just a story in a book. This was real. It was very real for him and I felt stupid for bringing it up.
“Out pastor was against the death penalty and ahh…well I disagreed with him on that point. There was no doubt that they were guilty because they never claimed otherwise and we got them hanged pretty quickly, relatively speaking, after that. And I can tell you one thing, they haven’t killed anyone else since.”
I laughed in the way that I have learned to laugh from being around my grandfather and other older people. If you don’t know what I mean I can’t explain it.
“Yes sir I don’t imagine so.”
“If they couldn’t find anyone to do it I would have hung the bastards myself.”
That was the definitive end of that topic and I knew it.
Dwayne went on to ask me about my job and what my interests were and we began a very pleasant exchange that was just as natural as talking to farmer at the tailgate of his truck. Eventually I let out that I had been in a few bands over the years.
“Oh yeah? What do you play?”
“Well sir, I’m a singer and songwriter”
“Well that’s good, I have been trying my hand at writing songs myself”
Dwayne went on to tell me that he had in fact written a musical with fourteen songs and two acts. The subject was the founder of his town of Garden City, a fella by the name of Buffalo Jones. If that name doesn’t sound like the makings of a folk hero tall tale then I don’t know what is.

Turns out that Buffalo Jones was so named for being quite a skilled hunter of said beast and later its benefactor. Buffalo Jones saw that the buffalo (really a bison, but I won’t go down that road right now) was in danger of extinction. Having been a part of the extinction process he apparently felt the need to take the problem upon his own shoulders. Bringing calves from Texas to Kansas he was able to raise his own herd and exported the unique American breed to zoos all over the world. He also inspired Zane Grey to write his first book, “Last of the Plainsmen” about Buffalo Jones after going on a hunting expedition with him. Dwayne was using Zane Grey as the narrator of his tale.

The whole idea lit my torch! What a cool old guy! What a cool idea! It was like “Waiting for Guffman” but real and hopefully a lot better. I encouraged him and told him about my limited experience with play production and such.

“Well I’m pretty anxious to get this thing going, I’m 79 and well I would like to see it done before I’m gone.”

I bet the man lives to be a hundred.

Thoughts from the Farm of My Fertile Mind

I finished reading Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier this last week. I brought to mind something that has been nagging me for the past three years. Before I moved back to Missouri from Oregon I had a real sense of impeding doom on the horizon. I was worried that something catastrophic was going to happen and leave me isolated from my family. I was also worried how I would survive in a big city with no way home. It came down to a realization about my lack of self- sufficiency in the modern world. The summer that I returned to Missouri my mind was consumed much of the day with thoughts of how inept I was at making my own way if I was ever forced into that situation. I thought on how one could do without any corporate held utilities. I thought on ways to feed myself without going to any markets. The only things that I kept banging up against were gasoline and property taxes. Given a certain level of economy and horse riding I figured a five hundred gallon tank of gas could last a pretty good while. But there was no way around property taxes. No land belongs to anybody when you get right down to it. We all have to pay and if we can’t we lose the land. There is no escape from money in the end.

Many of you may know why I have thoughts running along these lines in this day and age. If you don’t know why I suggest you think on it a while and it will probably come to you. If it doesn’t come to you then all I can say is that you are getting fat and the slaughter is coming.

I was talking to an old family friend about my apprehensions concerning my ability to make my own way competently. The recent winter storm and its accompanying power outages had set his mind along the same lines. He confided that it had actually been in the back of his mind for a couple of years as well. He told me that he wondered that there might be more to it than just a male desire to be independent.

“You know women start making arrangements for a baby sometimes before they even know that they are pregnant? Maybe we are living in pregnant times and we are feeling an urge to prepare ourselves for what is about to be birthed.”

That made a lot of sense to me. Like some distant call, we are straining to hear. I talked to my Mom about planting a bigger garden and doing some canning. She was all about the garden, a little less than enthusiastic about the notion of canning. She talked about all the trouble and I told her it would be better to get good at surviving before we are in a position where we have no choice. She demurred and I assured her of my dedication to be a part of the entire process. We also plan on getting a cow or two. I wanted to get a pig and chickens, but again the enthusiasm was very low.

The fact is I made a decision to try to make it outside of the box as soon as I got back here. I haven’t really succeeded at that yet, but I’m still trying. As I walked around the mall yesterday I had a feeling of nausea. I can’t stand this consumerist culture anymore. I want to be as little a part of it as I can. I keep wondering when people will value each other more than the goods that they buy. I keep wondering when people will finally realize the dissatisfaction that will never sate with more stuff. All the stores in the mall look the same as all the stores in all the malls. This isn’t ours. It isn’t our communities. It is mass produced, anonymous and tedious. I looked at all the different styles that the kids had. What I find the most annoying and amusing is the Hot Topic “individuals”. There has never been so much spoon- fed conformity in the subculture before now. In this part of the country originality is trumped by banality. I want none of it.

Portland Oregon and M. Gira circa 2003

Journal Entry August 29 2003
So Friday.
On Friday M. Gira, the lead singer/visionary behind the Swans and Angels of Light, was playing an acoustic set at the Blackbird. I have been a big fan and admirer of Giras since 1989, when my friend Danen introduced me to their new album at that time "Children of God". (Thanks Danen) For those familiar with that album you know that there are few albums like that in any time. It truly is horror and beauty mixed. Gira has continued through the years. Up against commercial failure, private failure, financial failure, and critical indifference, he has persevered. {If you are unfamiliar with the Swans I really recommend: Children of God and Soundtracks for the Blind as a started point} The amount of music put out by different entities that Gira has been involved in number around thirty and counting. The appeal of Gira is his unabashed honesty. While so many bands wish to entertain and hope for inspiration, Gira delivers. He is not interested in entertaining in the least. His live shows are mutual purging. Fans come for an event, an exhibit. Following both Swans shows that I was lucky enough to see, I would always walk away somewhat dumbfounded my mind trying to absorb so many feelings and thoughts. I would be posed with the internal question; "What now?" It’s the same kind of feeling I have after reading a book, or seeing a Von Triers film. I am shell -shocked. At both shows of the Swans, clapping was rare. Everyone around me was in the same awe- struck stance. There just aren't many bands that can or want to do this. Gira is not rock and roll. Gira is trying to make art. True, he has a tendency towards dark themes, but there is a searching to it. It isn't all anger either like so many other bands that try for depth, but fall flat. The dark places of the soul are also the places that bring us to the light. A Christian must first admit he is a sinner before he can be saved or redeemed. An alcoholic can only be cured when he first realizes the destruction in his life. Simple anger will drive most of us to drink, fuck, destroy, but will unlikely bring us to any salvation or transcendence. Having said all of this, I'm not entirely sure that Gira has found any salvation in spite of his search. The search has taken on a life of it's own now. It seems that it has become an identity he is fearful of leaving behind. I believe he has come to a dead end and feels weary of turning back at this point. Instead, he pulls up a chair and stares at the wall, singing to it.

The week before the show I had begun reading a book my stepmother had given me. It is called, "The Sacred Romance" by Brent Curtis and John Eldredge. The book talks about a relationship between God (Jehovah, Jesus and the like, not a vague god) and man as a romance; that of two lovers. The book has been profoundly affected me. It seems to fill in a lot of gaps that for me were major obstacles in my soul. I certainly haven’t heard such honest discourse in church very often. For me, I have always believed in God, but there has always been a real crisis about the intentions of God. I have had an intellectual belief, with a major absence of faith. As I got near the end of the book, and closer to the date of the show, it occurred to me that Gira, if receptive, could really benefit from reading this book. The more I thought about it, the more convicted I felt. But how do you walk up to someone like him and give a religious book? I didn't want him to think that I was proselytizing or preaching. I didn't want it to be a symbolic act for me either; I wanted him to read the book. How do you tell someone that you only know through their work that you love them? True, by virtue of his integrity in his work, I did know him pretty well. But he doesn't know me. He doesn't know or trust my intentions. How many whackos approach this guy all the time? It didn't take me very long to talk myself out of it several times. Finally I decided that a failed attempt was better than none at all. Maybe I could be an instrument. Maybe my act would help an artist that had already given me so much. You must understand this isn't the cult of personality, I consider Gira my friend. As some may already know, Steve Martin is a good friend as well.

So I bought the book and wrote a simple inscription inside. Silly but true, I was giddy. Without really trying, I had, by this act, rekindled the adolescent anxiety I used to have before shows. The day dragged on. The clock refused to move. I had to ignore it. Take a bath, read, shave, write, clean house...check the clock..."damn". Finally I got to indifference about the show and was actually running a little later than I had planned. Of course, I was not really late at all. I found a great parking space across the street from the club. For those living in a big city you know what a precious and beautiful thing this is! As I walked up and paid, the first face I see is M. Gira. He is patiently trying to instruct some guy that he just met. He picks up each piece of merchandise and impresses on him the price and why some things are special and should be pushed. "This CD here is a limited pressing, there are only 750 in existence. The cover art is a drawing I made that a friend of mine made from a wood cut. We hand printed the covers and everyone signed it. Do you know what a woodcut is?" The guy nodded in some sort of stupefied trance. Not taking anything for granted Gira proceeds with a brief explanation. "I really need to sell this to fund the new Angels of Light album, so really push it. Tell everyone that I will sign it after the show". He then counted everything and told him the count. "Now count it yourself and make sure it's right, you are responsible for this stuff you know." Once again he got a zombie nod. "Go ahead, count it". The guy starts to count. At this point he turns to me and smiles. Strange that Gira has such a great and unguarded smile. He looks great, much better than when I met him some five or six years ago. I think to myself, "He must've quit drinking, and man, he sure looks happy". I introduce myself and tell him this isn't our first meeting. I know he won't remember me, in fact I'm hoping he won't.

The first time we met was not exactly my ideal meeting scenario. In Tulsa, in 1996 (I think), Danen was there to interview him. Danen was on cloud nine. He had been at the club all day trying to get some of Gira's time, during the marathon six-hour sound check (can anyone say anal?). I wanted Danen to introduce me. Finally I did get to meet him. Now I was proudly wearing a Swans' "Burning World" tour shirt. I hadn't seen that tour, I had found it in a bargain bin at a record store. As it was hard to find any Swans merchandise, I was content to wear a tour shirt of a tour I hadn't seen. Honestly very few people asked about it, as no one knew who they were. Not the case with Gira. As Danen introduced me, Gira's eyes immediately focused on my shirt. I thought he was amazed that someone in Tulsa had such a shirt. He asked me to turn around. I did and he read the dates on the back. At this point I confessed I hadn't seen the tour that the shirt promoted. He didn't seem to hear me. "I never made a shirt like that". He shook my hand and walked off. Danen shrugged his shoulders and I was left standing with my pirated shirt that had been money out of a struggling artist's pockets. I never felt really bad about that. I was innocent. Gira wasn't mad at me he was just frustrated. I was frustrated myself later as I stood with a crowd of only about forty people for one of the most important bands of the eighties. Two years later I would see them again to a larger audience in Lawrence. Once again I talked to Gira. This time it was better, but of no real substance. He was drunk and wishing only to shake hands and say thanks for coming.

This time the meeting is less hurried and, by god, he is smiling and really interested in talking. I immediately produce the book and hand it over. He takes it. I tell him I wrote something inside. He thanks me as he tucks it into his bag. "I just wanted to give you something in return for the music you have given me." He smiles again and thanks me. I tell him I will catch him later. He says sure and moves towards the bar. As I walk away I'm pissed off at myself. Why didn't I say more? He was being friendly.

I grab a beer and sit down next to one of the most unsatisfied looking persons I have seen in a long time. He looked about forty or so. His face was pockmarked, his hair, dirty blond. He was wearing a suit like Nick Cave might. He looked like an old worn out German soldier come back from the war. Out on the town with a head full of violence and loss. He just stared forward, trying hard not to look at me right across from him. "My name is Sean, what's yours?" He didn't look at me as he muttered, "Darrel". Unfazed I said, "Nice to meet you Darrel", still staring forward, he nodded absently. I could tell that there was not going to be a replay of the night before between Carlos and me. As I sat and resigned myself to paying an unusual amount of attention to my beer, I decided that I would be mad at myself if I didn't talk to Gira again. After finishing off my beer and saying an ignored goodbye to Darrell, I headed back to the bar, and back to Gira.
"I want you to know that I gave you that book because I thought it might be of some benefit to you"
"Yeah, I was wondering, I mean what is it about?"
I described the book in the same manner as I have earlier in this e-mail.
"Really? Are you a Christian?"
"Yes I am, and I know you have struggled with God too."
"So you must be an enlightened Christian"
"Yeah I would say that"
"I saw a play a few months back in New York about some trailer trash family. I mean it was a comedy based on people in a trailer park. So the main target seemed to make fun of Christians. It made me furious. I wanted to stop the play."
"Well a lot of Christians seem to beg for parody."
"Yeah, but Jesus isn't something that should be made fun of"
"Well I hope that book is something that will help your faith."
"I could use some faith. I don't know what I believe, but there is definitely some things in the Bible I believe."
Once again I wished him well and thanked him for his perseverance in the face of so much apathy. He thanked me for the book and for coming.

I was satisfied. The conversation is the actual conversation as I remember it. The order of things may be different, and I have cut out the small talk. Some of the small talk involved me telling him he looked a lot healthier than the other two times I saw him. I found he had been battling chronic bronchitis (sp?) in Tulsa. He told me he was forty-eight and that he wasn't as resilient as he once had been. I didn't show it at the time, but his age really floored me. How could a chronic alcoholic, touring musician look so young and healthy. He looked like he was maybe 35 at best. Later I started to do a little math and realized that Children of God had come out when he was my age now! Wow! There is still time for me to do this music thing. Shit his most productive years had been in his mid-thirties and early forties. Not only that, it was music that scared me, provoked me, and was always evolving. This may seem trivial to some, but it was a revelation for me. I don't feel old necessarily, but the voices are always trying to get me to give up on my dreams and become a living dead. The voices were pissed on this night.

Feeling invigorated, I sat down next to someone (other than the aforementioned tragic Darrel) and began a conversation. Funny, that out of all the people I could have struck up a conversation with, I happened to find someone from Kansas City! We were both surprised. We started to play that weird game people play when you find out that you are from the same area (this can apply to people from the same time, same jobs, etc). The game involves trying to find an even closer connection. Both people throw out names, places, bands, hoping to find an even tighter proximity. So we blabbed about bands and people and places. It turned out we had been at the same Seven Seconds show in 1987! Our happiness and joy was overflowing. We had a history together and never knew it. Needing more, we continued to talk about bands and such. I mentioned a band from Columbia Mo called East Ash. Sadly he was ignorant of them. On the other hand, a guy sitting behind him turned around. "Did someone say something about East Ash?" "Didn't you used to live in Columbia?" Stunned I said, "Yeah for about a year back in '91" "Yeah I knew it, I'm Jason I used to work at Salt of the Earth!" "Holy shit, I remember you, weren't you in Sex in Taboo Creek?" "Yeah I was, you remember that too?" "Yeah you guys played with my band Guilty Party a few times" "Wow, yeah now I remember how I knew you" Needless to say it continued like this for a while. I hadn't seen this guy in about ten years. We talked about all the people we used to know. He told me what happened to all the people I had lost through the years and I updated him on all the people he had lost touch with. Jason and I had been around each other a lot, but we had never been real close. He had been at all the same parties, and all the same circles as me. He also worked at the coolest record store in town, which has sadly folded, due to the new college kids who see no value in an independent record store. The guy I had distantly bonded with earlier left to find better conversations he could more actively participate in. I felt a little bad. But I was happy to have connected with Jason. It really is a smaller world than we can ever believe. It turns out that Jason has a fancy job at Intel and still plays music. Talking to Jason pretty much consumed the majority of the opening band. I did listen but not intently.

Finally the moment came. Gira sat down with two glasses of Whisky and a beer. He welcomed the audience and then told them to shut up. This was taken as a joke. "I'm really quite serious, shut UP!" The scolded audience quieted down a little. I made my way up and ended up sitting on the side of the stage; a nice intimacy for those brave enough. Throughout the show the back of the club got louder and louder, why anyone would pay $10 to talk is beyond me. Around the middle of the show Gira put his guitar down mid-song, and lit up a cigarette. "I'm not going to compete with the audience. Hell I would give $10 out of my pocket for you to leave. I mean it doesn't matter I get paid either way." The people up towards the front began screaming at the back to "Shut the Fuck UP!!!" Pretty soon it got tolerably quiet and he began again. Announcing that he would play "Goddamn the Sun" the audience enthusiastically clapped. He smiled bitterly, "You're happy about hearing this song huh, it's about a good friend of mine dying."

People just don't get what Gira is about; it's not a concert, it's performance art, it isn't entertainment, it's confession; one man on stage sharing his pain and suffering. This may sound pretentious to some; it may be pretentious. But for those tuning in, it is a rare pretension, one worth experiencing. How refreshing it is when someone takes their music seriously. Not to say there weren't moments of smiling. One fan expressed his love and thanked Gira for coming and apologized for the idiots at the back. Gira responded, "I would do anything for you, come to my house I will wash your feet...of course then I would have to eat you...then I would shit you out." One girl on stage asked how many loved ones he had lost, off microphone he replied to her, "everyone". Boy was I glad I gave this guy that book. For those that are fans he did two songs off of Burning World, the one I mentioned as well as "I Remember Who You Are" (sung by him instead of Jarboe, it really made it better). He also did "New Mind" from Children of God, stamping his foot and cutting his thumb open once again. Bleed for us Michael.

After the show I got all the names and numbers of Carlos and Jason. I decided I didn't really feel like hanging out after such a show. As I got to my car, I saw that the people in front of me were working with a coat hanger on their door. I asked if I could help. They asked if I was any good at getting into cars. I assured them that I had a lot of experience with it. In fact, I have maxed out my limit of car openings with AAA several times. I don’t know what my problem is.

The couple was a girl and a guy. The girl was as drunk as hell. After a few minutes of my trying, she took the hanger back in frustration and tried for about fifteen minutes while the guy and I debated the show. He enjoyed the show but thought Gira to be a little bit pretentious. He made the somewhat obvious comparison to Nick Cave. I gave my arguments and we decided we were close enough to our view on him to quit arguing and get back to getting into the car. He was wearing a Dead Milkmen shirt, so I asked him if he had seen them live. He said he had and left it at that; later he told me he was good friends with them. I guess he didn't want to drop names right away, so as not to seem like a fan-boy. He was actually in a band with Joe before the Milkmen formed. He told me it was funny because Rodney was a big homophobe and Joey was gay. Finding out Joey was gay was no big shock. But hearing that Rodney (who only rivals Jello Biafra on the liberal front) was a homophobe was a shock. Finally I was back in charge with the hanger, assuring all that although it may take some time that I would be victorious. The girl was drunk and miserable only wanting a bed soon. She was trying to think of a place close by to crash at. Eventually the street became her friend and she passed out. In about twenty minutes I was at last able to get in. She arose and praised the persistence of men as she threw up. The guy promised a night of joviality for all in exchange for my help. He gave me his number and they took off, leaving a pile of vomit in their wake.

It always feels good to help someone. I was feeling good all around. On my way home I was navigating around an island in the road, when a girl raced across the street for the island. I had to brake for her pursuer. Standing in my headlights, waving was a naked man, covered only with tattoos. The girl was laughing on the other side. I yelled an approving "woo hoo" and drove on. Wow people get naked in Oregon too. I think I can live here after all.

Consumed

I felt the greatest craving for a specific yet general species of fruit today. It is true that this fruit is especially hard on the human body. In times of it’s greatest ecstasy it is working a dark splinter of future calamity in one’s own being. It is said that some of this certain variety can cause death. What variety causes death is quite unsure. It is only known that the more concentrated varieties bring the greatest satisfaction with the greatest risk. It is strange that the further I go up the strain of varieties that I find them to be of the most beautiful color and the most complex in texture, yet somehow lacking in flavor.

I have seen this as an anomaly.

I have even taken the more sickly looking varieties hoping to discover some correlation between greater apparent disease and better overall flavor. This has not proved to be the case however. Most of them all taste the same. Still it feels good to go against the conventional wisdom. I have a reputation for choosing the most unsightly of the most deadly. This makes me a strange rebel. But there is also the initial cost that comes to mind. If we are all courting possible death, I am getting the better deal. There are some that follow in my footsteps. I have heard rumors that some believe I have found a way to the ecstasy afforded by the deadly fruits without the inherent risk. They have come up with the idea that I have staved off some consequences of the ugliness by embracing ugliness in advance. I must say that I would be tempted to believe them, if it wasn’t for the fact that I have found little evidence to the contrary. I haven’t found any “newness” in ugliness. It is all the same. I have tried both.

Today I am craving it all again. I want to try the hybrid. I will pick the most unsightly again out of habit. The runt of the strain is likely to be the closest to what I have known before. I am confident that it will be a step up, without the higher possibilities for fatality.

There is a market that I know of. You can always find a few varieties there. I know the secret way to the market. Most people don’t go there. They find some variety in the regular market. Those have additives and wax to make them more appealing. I don’t need all the marketing. I’m sold already. I’m not playing any games with myself. I know the risks, but I also believe that the risks are part of the reward. This fruit is deadly, but that is the adventure. I go further; I will be rewarded.

There is always the more cavalier of the marketers. He guarantees nothing. He only guarantees that the fruit will satisfy in some new way. He doesn’t promise paradise, only another view or understanding of it. One has to be somewhat careful of these vendors. They sell fruits that can become instantly addictive. It is in no time you find yourself consuming large amounts of God knows what while slowly starving to death.

Somehow I can’t resist the notion of getting something new before anyone else. Hell, if it really is something amazing I will help the guy market it.

I buy what I can afford. Strangely the more expensive varieties look to be the same as what I’m buying. I know that this must be a false assumption. One day I will have enough to buy the good stuff. It will be better in spite of its apparent sameness. Still I am content in what I have. The more expensive may just be marketing. I know that I have something they will never buy. I might discover something they have missed in all their personal glory.

I grip the bag tightly as I go home. There is that ever persistent feeling in my inner being that this might be the last trip to the market. Inside this bag may be the last fruit I eat. I know that there is the possibility that I might die tonight. That is always a risk that one must take. No one looks at each other in the market place. How foolish one would look buying his own death. We even pretend at times as if this was just a normal farmer’s market. “Well, after all, a man has got to eat after all”. We are all just shopping for fruit. What did you say? Strange fruit? Nonsense. It is only strange in our knowledge of it. We are fortunate to know of this market when others aren’t. The conversation is brief and dishonest. We buy our wares and hurry on our way. We are all confident in our equal conviction. No will squeal you out. You are here, I am here; there is brotherhood in shared guilt.

My bag contains some safe standbys that have long ago gone bland. I continue to eat the safe disapointment of their substance. Though it may seem strange I still expect the sweetness that their first tasting promised even now. Maybe I will stop with this new variety. Somehow I feel I won’t be satisfied. Still it is worth the risk.