Exit, Phase Two: In Faith We Leap

 

Ten years, four continents, five countries. In that time and in those places the family has increased by one son, one godson, and a street dog from Guadalajara, Mexico. Also in that time and in those places the family has decreased by one street dog from Guadalajara. Starting next Monday, a small army will once again descend on us, throw all of our worldly possessions into small boxes that will be moved into larger boxes that will eventually set sail for the continent that once upon a time we called home.

From here on out, at least until we land on the continent we call home, it's anybody's guess what will happen. One thing for sure, something will. Probably many things, in fact.

Within the last few weeks and for reasons I cannot totally explain several images, sounds, ideas, and narrative passages have connected themselves. I will present some of these in the relative order in which they have appeared. The continuity makes perfect sense to me but I understand how they might appear random, abstract, and independent of each other. That's how it is these days: everything that explodes must and will reform again to create a unified whole.

Well, how did I get here?

 

Talking Heads: Once in a Lifetime

 

 

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

--Cormac McCarthy, from The Road

 

 

 

"What have you been reading?" I asked. "A book," he said. It was on the ground on the other side of him. So I would not have to bother to look over his knees to see it, he said, "A good book."

Then he told me, "In the part I was reading it says the Word was in the beginning, and that's right. I used to think water was first, but if you listen carefully you will hear that the words are underneath the water."

"That's because you are a preacher first and then a fisherman," I told him. "If you ask Paul, he will tell you that the words are formed out of water."

"No," my father said, "you are not listening carefully. The water runs over the words. Paul will tell you the same thing."

--Norman Maclean, from A River Runs Through It

 

 

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

--Norman Maclean, from A River Runs Through It

 

 

 

Water dissolving and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean.
Under the water, carry the water,
Remove the water from the bottom of the ocean.
Water dissolving and water removing.

 

Or, in other words:



To here knows when.



(Thanks, Kirsten, for the reminder!)

Exit, Phase Two: Refocus

RIP Arthel Lane "Doc" Watson
(3 March 1923 – 29 My 2012)

 

Doc Watson: Down in the Valley to Pray

Doc Watson was a tradition bearer and a national treasure. Within his sightless body was stored the histories, stories, cultural values, attitudes, and belief systems of numerous generations of Americans who made their way in and out of the area around Deep Gap, North Carolina. He was the seed tree in a productive orchard whose roots grew the deepest and whose branches bore the sweetest fruit. He learned from the best (Clarence Ashley, Gaither Carlton, Uncle Dave Macon, Mississippi John Hurt) and transferred his knowledge to teach some of the best (Clarence White, Ricky Skaggs).

In 1997 Doc Watson won the National Medal of Arts, the highest award given to artists by the United States Government, and was presented to him by President Bill Clinton. Other recipients of this lofty award have included Al Pacino, Andrew Wyeth, Ella Fitzgerald, and Aaron Copland. In 1988 Doc Watson received a more humble but no less important National Heritage Fellowship awarded by the National Endowment for the Arts. Alongside Doc Watson were other not so well-known tradition bearers as Kepka Belton, a Czech-American egg painter; Amber Densmore, a New England quilter/needleworker; Willa Mae Ford Smith, a gospel singer from St. Louis; and Michael Flatley an Irish-American stepdancer.

Like Doc Watson these people represent masters of their craft, interpreters and innovators of their chosen art form. Equally, the tradition bearer serves to connect links between the craft and the communities from which they emerge. These masters act to preserve certain traditions as custodians but through performance they also transmit and solidify the life of the expressive craft. They are key participants in the complex web of any culture's past, present, and history and with the passing of Doc Watson our country just lost something essential.

Doc Watson: Little Orphan Girl [Live]

 

Exit, Phase Two: Stop and Hear the Roses

Lately the routine runs something like this: Collapse in bed as early as possible. Read Elmer Kelton's not fantastic but enjoyable The Time it Never Rained for as long as I can keep my eyes open. Pass out. Wake up a few hours later with thoughts racing through my head like, I need to take the car in for an oil change; I need to change our address at the post office but, wait, I don't have a forwarding address yet; the lawnmower will have to be cleaned before anyone buys it; there is a lot of stuff in the pool house to throw away. Eventually my mind settles again and I fall asleep only to wake up an hour before the alarm with similar thoughts.

This phase is decidedly unfun. Life is consumed by often mundane, tedious, and tiresome chores. Possessions become burdens, dead weight that no longer can be ignored or stored in a closet for some future purpose. All those things you thought to save because they held some sort of meaning now seem like junk. Nothing is sacred, nothing feels meaningful. Time to cut those young roots off at the source. Maybe they will take hold somewhere else, maybe not.

 

There is no way around it, Phase Two sucks. Plus, this phase holds the potential to be the most destructive and detrimental to the human spirit and all the relationships that surround the self. In the middle of this it's important to break from the routine. It's not easy but unless you do you will go insane with anger, confusion, frustration, and exhaustion.

Force yourself to use your senses. The ability to hear is an excellent first step toward reminding the self that there is still a self to pay attention to. Three songs have recently made their way into my life and though it's only May they are all three early contenders for the prestigious Summer Song of the Year award.

Neal Creque & the Hands of Time: What'Cha Wanna Do-Do It!

Funky, big beat jazz from 1972. The bass riff will stay with you long after the drums have stopped.

Mor Thiam: Ayo Ayo Nene

More funky, big beat jazz. This time from 1973 Senegal. This amazing song was also recently re-released on the compilation Spiritual Jazz: Esoteric, Modal + Deep Jazz from the Underground 1968-77, where I first heard it.

Gil Scott-Heron: I Think I'll Call it Morning

Not often is Gil Scott-Heron's music labeled "beautiful" so I'll go ahead and do it here: this song is beautiful. It doesn't have the summer evening kind of beats as the first two tracks; this is more an early Saturday morning tune when the air is still cool. From Gil Scott-Heron's 1971 album, Pieces of a Man.

All of these have been on heavy rotation through cars, headphones, computers, and kick-ass vintage tube amps. They’ve helped. It's the little things that make life big.