Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. - Macbeth, Willam Shakespeare

Try a google search for "the meaning of life." I did today. I know that says something about me taking myself too seriously, but not surprisingly, the most broadly informative result was at Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meaning_of_life). That's where I found the quote from Macbeth.

The quote is soothing to me in its anger, indulgence, and despair. But I'm not angry at life; I just enjoy the anger, the will, the fight. I like Shakespeare for tragedy. I like to think about the bold and brilliant unpredictability of life, and even relish a sense of disappointment in myself for the same reason. I often cling to the notion that our lives are fundamentally composed of chaos tinged with cruelty, and our greatest nobility springs from the stubborn, ridiculous insistence on our own will. In other words, life is of particular value because we insist that it is so--even with the irrefutable knowledge of our impotence and inevitable death. This is not to summarize my worldview (as I don't know that I could do so), but a provocative and frequently applicable concept. I've heard that some scholars believe the knowledge of individual mortality is what prompted the concept of the human soul. There is a beautiful appeal to this contradiction: I know the truth and I refuse to accept it. It's perhaps what makes us love miracles--or in strictly scientific terms, highly improbable and equally beneficial coincidences. This refusal makes tragedy also strangely appealing. And it's at the core of our conceptions of the afterlife, as well. In placing faith in the afterlife, we insist that the one great certainty (death) is not certain at all.

Why then does this please me? To know that I will die and to promote life anyway is a great thrill. I embrace childhood, seasons, social rites, and flowers all with the same knowledge that they will end. To know that I might fail and to attempt anyway excites me.

I tried to convey this contradiction, rather vaguely, in my song, Baltimore:

took a turtle to Baltimore to save him from the sea
made him king of the corridors of tenement block D
hallways and open floor
slow game to watch him go

no, you're not wrong

all the wishes that came with doors to close on withered dreams
hear them walking the boards above--the songs of borrowed feet
small cage to hold your trust
who stays to fold with us?

no, you're not wrong

caught a raven that came to caw the black tune for your sleep
brought him down with the one last straw the broomstick couldn't keep
how strange that all you've done
won't stay to save no one

no, you're not wrong

Campfire Songs

You, like me, probably have some experiences that in the moment, and even in retrospect, were absolutely perfect. I know I have many. I enjoyed them all immensely at the time, but the memory of the happiness reverberates, too. I refer back to those times and feel happy now, like I did then.

A few months after I arrived in Japan in 2003, a group of fellow English teachers and friends went on a camping trip to tiny Lake Shibireko on the north side of Mt. Fuji. There was a group of 30 or so people, most of us in our 20's and 30's, most of us single, and most of us happy to cut loose and have fun. As the evening progressed, several other guys and I went swimming in the little cold lake, surrounded by steep hills that created a very narrow view of the night sky. The isolation and natural silence were an excellent excuse to let go of our inhibitions. The cameraderie of being among a tiny minority in a very foreign country is also one that I'd never experienced before, and never have since. As we swam, a warm, tropical rain started to fall. We got out of the water, cracked open beers, and all huddled around a smoky, struggling campfire. We did our best to build up the fire as the rain grew heavier, until eventually the fire had enough heat to sustain itself despite the big, warm, drops that sizzled as they hit the coals. Inspired by the chill in the air and the thrill of a rainy swim at dusk, I started singing, a capella, and the other guys joined in. It quickly became an impromptu choir, with various people chiming in with lyrics, or harmonies, or singing out instrumental lines, or playing drum solos against their thighs. As we got more drunk, and the night got darker, and the rain never let up, we just kept coming up with songs to sing, without stopping, for hours. No kidding. I've never experienced such musical euphoria for such a long time. At some point, my voice was completely gone, and yet I just kept croaking and rasping along, gleefully, and so did we all. Thankfully, I have a picture of this evening: 7 or 8 guys, in wet swim trunks, beers in hand, glowing pink and orange from the firelight and shrouded in smoke, lined up with arms around each other's shoulders. It was like a mini-U.N. Drunken Men's Choir: the U.S., Japan, U.K., Brazil, and New Zealand represented.

That was a perfect experience. There is nothing about that night that I would have changed then, and nothing I would change now. Sharing songs with my friends made that night especially thrilling. And sharing songs is perhaps why I also love karaoke so much more than performing my own music. We all know Billy Joel, or Elton John, or The Beatles. Very few people know and love my songs in that way.

There are two distinct but intertwined motivations for my interest in music: to express myself so others see themselves in me, and to recognize myself in others. Both make me happy. The former seems tied to my ego and is more tempermental and frightening; the latter is more innate and less thrilling. One is the songwriter, the other loves sing-a-longs. That campfire sing-a-long in Japan was an intersection of the two. We weren't singing my songs, but I felt I had initiated and contributed to something that we all sincerely appreciated. And each time I started into a common favorite, both needs were fulfilled: lead and chorus--at once, individual and collective. For example, one song ended and before anyone faced the awkward silence, I immediately began the bass line of "Stand By Me." Or someone else did, it doesn't matter. Everyone sings, nods, slaps out the rhythm and the song is no longer my own. It's a melody we all feel together.

The BrownPort Festival that I organized in May prompted me to examine the role of music in my life. This also tied into questions about my career aspirations, or lack thereof.

After the concert, I was tired and disappointed. Logistically, the event was a genuine success, largely thanks to the work of the many friends, family, and volunteers who helped me. And financially, we did raise a decent sum for Central Linn High School. But I felt so disappointed that the students didn't come. And, in turn, I was ashamed of my disappointment. Ideally, I say to myself, a gift should still be worth giving, even if no one is thankful for it. If the purpose, as stated, was to raise money for a struggling school, then the purpose was absolutely achieved. But I also knew from the beginning that I desperately wanted people to LOVE this concert. Not specifically because they liked the music or even because they appreciated me, but simply because it happened, and they all came, and they all shared something out of the ordinary. I think that's what I really wanted to express. And then, inexplicably, no students came. It might have been the conflicting sports schedule, or the bizarre heat wave, or, most depressing, a pervasive indifference and skepticism among the students. My family and various supportive townsfolk pleaded that I do it again next year, and offered sympathetic theories for why no students came. My ego was wounded and I thought of the bitter line from the Bible about throwing pearls to pigs. Though I would have gladly accepted the role of small town hero for a weekend, that wasn't the reason for my disappointment. I wanted to make a perfect night of fun, wonder, joy, and good fortune for those kids, and instead, no kids came. And yet, I know I tried my best and the opportunity was there. And for those who came, it was certainly good. But it wasn't what I hoped it would be.

In the days and weeks afterwards, I thought more seriously about my career orientation, or as stated, lack thereof. There are lots of potential career paths I might have pursued, and didn't. At my most introspective moments, I am aware that I what I REALLY want is to express myself and to recognize myself in others, and it seems I do that most effectively through language and through music. I've tried to do just one (English teacher) or just the other (songwriter/band member), but neither produced a divine light saying "This is your destiny." And, to be honest with myself, I know that I am more afraid of declaring myself an artist than anything else. And yet, giving up that creative half of the equation (as I feel I do as a teacher, or DJ, or office worker) leaves me feeling hollow, disappointed, and embarrassed.

I'm slowly working towards the completion of a first solo album, recorded with/produced by Jim Walker. I've made two albums in the past and, really, neither was that good. Probably, this one will be better, but it likely won't be wonderful either. My cynicism makes me lazy and timid, and neither one writes good melodies or sings with heart. And yet, I know I have to keep trying to make the magic album, or keep trying to write the magic song, or keep "trying to find the right way to tow my worn-out mind," because I would be disappointed if I didn't.

I tend to see compromise and disappointment as the rule, and fulfillment as a sweet coincidence. But regardless, I also know the more songs I sing and the more times I sing it, the better the chance it will sometimes be just right.

Another Round

I'm getting back in the ring for another round. Having not posted since November and feeling really bad in the face of that failure, I'm back at it. A month into the new year and some projects are developing, while some others deteriorate. I'm working towards a healthier financial situation, getting established as a wedding/event DJ. In fact, I have two gigs this weekend: a birthday party for a 16 year-old boy, and a wedding. It's a good part-time job and helps me get some of the music out. Somewhat uniquely, especially for a dude, I enjoy weddings. I'm certainly a skeptical of the ability of most marriages to survive the test of time, but that doesn't lessen my appreciation of the sentiment. Life is too short to not try one's best in the pursuit of ideals, love included. Certainly long-term monogamy is attainable, but I see it as the equivalent of a relationship PhD, acquired by a two-person team. And only in the best cases does all that hard work and dedication and focus pay off.

But I digress. I'm heading back in to Jim Walker's studio, The Pulpit, to finish recording and mixing on the summer's main project, Trimming Treetops. From there I hope to start recording Dolores Rose and the newest rough draft, The Vinegar Pinch. I also have two other as-yet untitled songs in the pipes, needing many hours of refinement and repetition. But a re-assertion of my priorities was in order. This project (songwriting) is a part of me that I just won't let die. Thankfully.

I wrote a song on the subject in college--a little too melodramatic and ballady, but not a bad song overall.

Paper Plane

you stay where you are
your paper plane flew too far
it took off like a rocket
burning from the start
you tried to fly off with it
but there wasn't room on board

the plane flew so well
you couldn't see to where it fell
you look out on an ocean
and hope it ends somewhere
your signal fire is dying
so you send up desperate flares

and it's all you know
your world pulled down a lonely hope
you rise and you fall
the fire that flew before is burning low
but you can't let it go

you stay where you are
stuck here playing your guitar
you lost a model rocket
so you corner every star
and ask where you might find it
if you should ever reach that far

and it's all you know
your world pulled down a lonely hope
you rise and you fall
the fire that keeps you warm
is down to coals
but don't let it go

you stay where you are . . .

Meals, Then Wheels

This was my response to The Oregonian's recent call for readers to share their family Thanksgiving traditions.

We, the Wheeler family of Brownsville, have one very unique tradition: roller skating. Dating back to sometime in the '50s, my extended family spends every Thanksgiving evening at Lebanon Skate Rink.
My mom tells me that since she can remember, the local church has rented the rink and invited the faithful to skate off the feast. Just as you would for any other special event, the owner of the rink (the same guy since I can remember) pulls out all the stops for Thanksgiving Church Night: the hokey pokey, the limbo, reverse skate, and couple skate.

Since it's a church function, we're also guaranteed to hear the best Christian pop hits from the'80s, '90s and today. All but three of my 28 Thanksgivings have involved roller-skating. Two of those years I was in Japan. The third absence, around 1990, was a low point for the Wheeler family. As a form of radical protest, the overworked older generation suggested that we skip all the toil of preparing a meal and treat ourselves to the buffet at Merle's Chuck Wagon.

In an equally radical counter-protest, I took an invitation from school friends and spent that Thanksgiving skiing at Mt. Bachelor. To her credit, my sister chose conscientious objector status as well. Undeterred, the rest of the family went skating after the meal. But something in me just couldn't stomach the skating without the traditional meal. They are inseparable, going hand in hand. Kind of like a couple skate, under the disco ball, to the tune of "Baby, Baby."

The Sign of A Wave

she makes the sign of teaspoon
he makes the sign of a wave
the poor boy changes clothes and puts on aftershave
to compensate for his ordinary shoes

"Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes" is among my all-time favorite songs and these lyrics are one of the most compelling reasons why. These lines always remind me of the recklessness of infatuation and the ridiculous things it inspires us to do. Paul Simon consistenly comes through with lyrics like these that capture a powerful emotion in brilliant imagery and off-beat description.

Another passage I love from this song:

and I could say ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh
as if everybody knows what I'm talking about
as if everybody here knows exactly what I'm talking about
talking about diamonds on the soles of her shoes

This captures the very ineffability of infatuation, and the exasperation and wonder that swamp every attempt to express this feeling. And when you hear the song, you do know what he's talking about. It can't be expressed, so why even try to spell it out? Ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh.

This is likely a continuation of my previous post. I'm feeling very hopeful right now and I hope it keeps going. I can't trace my recent optimism to any particular occurrence. In fact, there've been some very disheartening events recently. But I still hear good things coming.

I finished reading "The Alchemist." That had something to do with my improved outlook. I recommend the book. It's easy to pick holes in it, but I can't see any reason why that would be beneficial. It's an overwhelmingly positive book about pursuing the dreams and passions that require risk and sacrifice. It argues that the universe conspires with us to realize our dreams. And, it seems to me, there is certainly some truth to that. At least, I seem to benefit from beleiving that, so I'll continue to believe that as long as I can.

The Thing With Feathers

I should read "The Audacity of Hope." Not simply because I will likely vote for Barack Obama in the '08 race and should learn more about the candidate, but also because it's a good title. Hope is one of the inexplicably wonderful things in life, keeping alive that little bit of faith in the face of terrific dissappointment and a grave forecast. Doris Anderson, the 76 year-old grandmother who recently survived 2 weeks in the Eastern Oregon wilderness with no food or shelter, must have felt something like hope--even if it was only in knowing that her body would and could keep functioning one more day, day after day. Hope, perhaps, is the emotional element of the human survival instinct. It's the stubborn psychological reassurance that somehow the universe has good intentions for us, or more importantly, that the universe is capable of intent, at all. Don't we all hope there's a benevolent order somewhere over the rainbow? Not god, necessarily, but a logic to help us find the truest course. Even with all my worldliness and skepticism, I know I still have hope for that.

A Welsh cell phone salesman auditioned for, and won, Simon Cowell's "Britain's Got Talent," the Brits' version of the American TV variety/gong show. The back story is sad, inspiring, and, for many of us, typical. Paul Potts is a rather awkward, chubby, 30-something who claims his voice was his best friend when he was bullied as a child. Having abandoned his dreams of becoming an opera singer after years of expensive lessons and resulting debt, Paul took a job at Car Phone Warehouse. Four years later, on a coin toss, Potts decided to audition for "Britain's Got Talent" in an attempt to put his nagging dream to rest once and for all.

You'll have to watch his performances on YouTube to see what unfolds. Even despite the heavy-handed production, editing, and special effects, these are some of the most electric and inspiring performances I have seen.

Here's Paul's first performance for the judges:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxOytYLlhiQ

Like many of the posters on this video, I got goosebumps. And the second performance is even more moving:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nHYYz_mGP1U&mode=related&search=

Potts subsequently won the contest, released an album, quit working at Car Phone Warehouse, and is now touring the world.

Wilco's new album, "Sky Blue Sky," opens with these lines:

"maybe the sun will shine today
the clouds will roll away
maybe I won't feel so afraid"

A simple sentiment.

Emily Dickinson had this to say on the subject:

"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me."


Here's hoping.

Sun and Smoke. Sun and Water.

A few thoughts I wrote while waiting at LAX for my return flight to Portland. They don't have WiFi there, so I had to post this when I got home. And I just remembered (two days later). Also, I just received my download code for "In Rainbows," the new Radiohead album. It's ready now. I'll be listening.

===============================

No absolution. Abstain. Solvents and dormancy.

Sun and smoke. Grinding cider from apples gravity-strewn among the mossy roots.
Sun and water. A cool damp settles itself--an old dog in a well-worn corner bed.

The weekend is finished now and I’m feeling rather hopeful and motivated regarding my future. And reminded that songwriting is my interest and intent. But what will it take to make me do it and to keep the monkeys off my back? I’m so sleepy here in the sun.