Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Things I think about while I think while walking.


A car whizzes by and I hear, “Bad enough it’s a Porsche. It’s worse when it’s a guy driving a white Porsche convertible!” I’m walking along Lake Hollywood when Grey makes her inimitable observation.

It’s a warm sunny Sunday and Grey has joined me for a walk. It’s the first time we’ve done anything like this together and the change of venue is a nice new way to spend time with her. It’s also the first time I’ve brought anyone here to join me as I normally do my walks alone. Grey looks beautiful in her outfit—the only woman I know who could look so dazzling even when she’s working out.

As we walk down the path we’re talking about things in general when I realize that’s it’s also the first time I’m having a conversation while doing my routine. Normally I’m lost in my own thoughts, or in some type of void listening to music.

Things I think about while I think while walking. What? You say. It a not so good attempt at a play on words from the title of a book I’m reading. A couple of weeks ago I thought about what I think about while doing the hour-long walk. I remember doing this because it was a particularly mind-fleeting day and the book title kept rattling in my mind. It wasn’t as if I were looking for parallels, but for some reason I felt strangely attached to this book and the almost riddle-like title.

I hadn’t walked for a few days as I was away in the Bay Area and just returned. It’s a bright, beautiful afternoon at the reservoir—the sky blue and the course deserted. I’ve been walking around Lake Hollywood most recently now for about three years and it’s amazing how such an area can exist in the middle of Los Angeles and also be devoid of people.

With my iPod turned on I start my walk. I’m feeling pretty good but surprisingly I have a pretty blank mind. I can’t seem to concentrate and it almost feels as my mind is resisting all attempts to formulate any thoughts.

I’ve been walking now for about ten minutes and nothing comes floating through. So that’s when I decide to ask myself the question, ‘what do I think about when I’m walking?’ Usually it’s a smorgasbord of thoughts ranging from work issues, things which happen to be circulating about in my life at that moment, Grey, writing topics and just about everything else. But today, nothing seems to gel.

This was the question, which reminded me of the book I’m reading, Murakami’s “What I talk about when I talk about running.” It’s his memoir about the influence running has had on his life—the marathons, training and of course the intermingling of the sport on his writing pursuits. Of course it’s written in his usual irrelevant style—a style I immediately took familiarity and a strong attraction. It’s an immediacy I felt when I first read Calvino’s ‘If on a winter’s night a Traveler’ and in more recent years, Kleinzahler’s ‘Cutty, Two Rocks’. Leave it up to Murakami to write a book with such a kooky title. And ok, leave it up to me to get fixated on something kooky—this I say to myself as I make my way through the first half-mile.

My first thought drifts towards the past few days I spent with my mom. Nothing eventful, just the usual visit running errands and spending time with her. I did however on this occasion notice that for the last six months or so, whenever I visited her, the conversation at some point always turned to her experience and life during World War II. Usually it was about the hardship, hunger and working at the Toshiba factory and how she returned home after being told that the family home had been burned from the B-52 bombings. But this time, our conversation took a decidedly different turn. We were talking about where we should take my uncle and aunt when they arrived for their visit in late October. Monterey, the wine country and the Mendocino Coast were my suggestions. My mom, while agreeable to such an itinerary, wanted to talk about the possibility of taking a day trip to a nearby Japanese POW camp in Tracy, California. Apparently it was the WWII equivalent of Guantanamo where Japanese POW’s captured in Polynesian were brought to Tracy and interrogated. This expose was apparently on the Japanese television station recently in part to commemorate the anniversary of the Hiroshima/Nagasaki atomic bombings. We talked at length about the bombings and the residual and lingering effects to the survivors and of the resultant gruesome deaths. It was a rather unsettling conversation we were having and I’m sure not the type the other folks eating at the Red Lobster would normally have taken up as part of their dinner conversation. Oddly for us, through our tears and grilled shrimp, it seemed like a necessary conversation. Actually, necessary for my Mom, myself, I was just a listener.

I’m clearing the first mile as while recalling my conversation with Mom. The rest of the Bay Area trip was fairly uneventful. The work part of the trip to Sacramento was similar. My only annoyance was the constant need for reassurance or validation from my senior staff. It seemed that every minor detail of their decision-making process had to be confirmed or ‘passed by me’. I’m not a micro manager and tend to give my staff a lot of latitude. But unfortunately, I’ve recently come to view them as being overly needy and for some reason unable to make any of their own decisions. I can’t recall myself as ever being that way. Sure I’d go to my supervisor on occasion when I needed some guidance, but in general I was essentially self-sufficient. Asking for forgiveness seemed much more productive than asking for permission. I suppose growing up pretty much on my own conditioned me in this way. Indecisiveness makes me crazy—which may seem ironic as I can be indecisive and am oftentimes viewed as being aloof and wishy-washy. But it’s usually for those decisions where I really don’t have much of an opinion one way or another, nor do I see as being critical.

I’m probably at my mid-way point now as I walk hugging the perimeter of the lake below. It’s my first walk since Sunday, which of course is the day I met Grey for dinner. It had almost been a year since I saw her last and I was a bit anxious anticipating the evening. I remember telling myself that a walk would do me good—empty my mind and relax me. Well as it turns out I thought about Grey the entire hour. I couldn’t stop thinking about how she might look—not so much physically, but given her condition and the trying year she had, I wondered if she might really be up for this. At the same time I couldn’t wait to see her. Longed for her was more like it. I was dying to see her beautiful face and smile and experience her laugh once again. Just a few more hours…my pace quickened as these thoughts race through my mind, anticipating my evening with Grey.

A few minutes pass and I start thinking about Murakami again. I recently discovered that he was taking part of the New Yorker Festival. In addition to a lecture, he was also attending a signing. As soon as I read about his participation, I started toying with the idea of flying to New York. Wouldn’t it be fun? A nice October weekend in New York, listening to what he has to say and straddling up to his table for a book signing---joy! I’m playing with this idea as I walk and simultaneously try to come up with an excuse or reason to visit the Corporate office so I can write the trip off. However, I can’t think of any reason and am actually amazed at how things have changed. Only a few years ago there were a myriad of reasons [both real and imagined] to visit the home office. I’ve created a distance from them the last few years and too some degree still harbor feelings of anger over the clashes I had with the Corporate group which led to my departure and return to Los Angeles. Unpleasant thoughts. Forget it. Instead I turned my thoughts back to the book signing and mulling over which book I should have Murakami sign. I’m thinking maybe his latest as it’s fitting that his memoirs are about running and the title is giving me the basis for this entry. Maybe I could slip in an extra minute and anecdotally mention what led to my decision to come for the book signing. We might both have a chuckle—maybe invite him to dinner at the steakhouse he apparently frequents near his hotel. Would his wife care to join us? I always wonder what type of person she might be—I mean you have to wonder about someone who could tolerate such a nut case of a guy. Well I suppose the same could be said about me—more chuckles! Ok, enough with the delusion daydreaming. I decide in the end I’ll bring two books, the latest one and ‘Norwegian Wood’, my favorite and most touching I feel, of all his books. And as quickly as I’ve made my decision, my mind has already embarked on yet another topic.

I’ve been listening to the same iPod collection for about two weeks now and getting pretty tired. Even though it’s on the “shuffle” mode, it seems the titles are in some type of pseudo-random order. ‘Long Cool Woman’ started out the day’s set followed by ‘Yolele’ a South African tune and a few other odds and ends. My pace quickens appropriately with the beat and exponentially when a punched out song like ‘Thrill Me’ plays. A few high school era songs slip through and bring back wisps of faded memories. In between the beads of sweat and the gasps for air I think back to the first time I heard ‘Persephone’ or ‘Ramble On’. Tony’s rendition of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ plays followed by his ‘My Favorite Things’. His music makes me remember his concert I saw recently. At 85 or so, the guy can still belt out the tunes.

My feet are on autopilot. ‘Hypnotized’ starts to play. How long have I been listening to this song? And is that Peter Green on guitar or was he already gone from the band at this point? I used to know all of those useless factoids at one time. Somehow it was important once. So does that mean what was important to me once and what is important to me now are two completely different things? No. I don’t think so. All I know is that what I think while I’m walking gives me an opportunity to check in with myself. And I suppose that’s why I look forward to spending this hour.

I turn the corner into the last stretch before the path dead ends. I step into the brightly lit passage. My mind is off wandering again, no doubt thinking about things I think about while walking. Off in the distance I hear La Belle Dame Sans Regrets. Funny, I could have sworn my iPod had run out of batteries.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

In the arms of your significant being: The Music of Your Life



“I’ve been listening to Country a bit,” Grey informed me the other day. It was an odd choice, I thought, and told her so. She agreed and explained it was a recent discovery and it folded into her as the lyrics were of substance and resonated with her. Though I’m not a country fan myself and have a fairly limited familiarity, I have to agree that it is a much more human music stemming from personal experience and feelings, thereby touching you on a more personal level. And I’m sure given what Grey had gone through in the last year, it was fitting on many levels.

“What are you listening to these days?”

To my recollection my friend Vincent is the only person who ever asks me this question—especially on an ongoing basis. I maybe talk to him two, three times a year, but he makes a point to ask that question every now and then. I’ve known him since we were in third or fourth grade so when we talk there isn’t a lot of pretense. We catch up because we want to, and while we aren’t as close as we once were, we still are very mindful and caring of each other.

I suppose music was always at the core of our friendship—from Hendrix to Young; Weather Report to Tyner, our shared genre’s were always broad and we were always on the search for next aural challenge. Recently he sent me three CD’s—all were songs by the Beatles. The first were “B” sides of rarely heard songs from the mop heads and the other two CDs were Beatles’ songs performed first by a non-Beatle, and then performed by the Beatles—back to back.

When Vincent mentioned that he was going to send me these CDs, I thought, “Why bother?” But after listening to some of the songs, it was amazing to hear the diversity of the non-Beatles’ versions—they ranged from classical renditions to Robin Williams singing ‘Come Together’. My favorite? Sean Connery reciting “In My Life” in prose. While an undeniable favorite, I have a hard time listening to that song as it reminds me of our very good friend Louis that we lost shortly after he graduated from college. Connery’s unmistakable Welsh tenor made each word sink deep into me and moved me uncontrollably. Just writing about it right now brings tears to my eyes.

So in return for those crazy Beatles mix, I sent him four or five CDs I was listening at the time. I can’t remember exactly, which ones, but it included a CD by Eliana Elias and another by Houston Persons. The latter of course was a loaner from Grey, which had a delightful rendition of ‘In A Sentimental Mood’.

I called Vincent a few weeks later to thank him for the CDs. He returned his thanks, and added, “You’re listening to some really grown-up music, aren’t you? That’s good.” It was an odd comment, but for some reason I felt he was acknowledging my state of being at that moment without requiring any explanation. I suppose it’s the kind of thing only old friends can do.

Today, I’m sitting at Starbucks checking up on my emails. I’m in the Bay Area visiting my Mom and as there’s no Internet connection at her house, I’m using the T-Mobile connectivity at Starbucks. I feel guilty doing this, as I usually don’t buy anything while I’m occupying space at their store. Sure I buy an obligatory Americano, but just one—and I frequent the place at least three times when I’m visiting my Mom. Well, it’s supposed to be a social, community kind of place anyways, right?

Anyhow I’m checking my work e-mails, kind of lost in my own world and listening to whatever eclectic mix they’re playing at the coffee house. I’m sitting inside the store and the place is deserted. I’m the only customer [paying and non-paying included] except for a couple seated directly across from me through the window seated in one of the outdoor tables. I glance at them and they seem to be engaged in an intense conversation. I make a mental note of them—she in sunglasses with rather homely features, the guy in a tank top sporting a few tattoos…not the typical Starbucks crowd from around my neighborhood.

About 20 minutes later my ears catch a hold of the song playing in the store—a slow, nice, yet somehow sad sounding song. I’m listening somewhat intently trying to catch the lyrics. Is it a country song, I wonder? Yeah, I think it is. At the same time I notice the couple outside still talking rather intently. But this time I could sense that something had changed. Their facial expressions were strained and I could tell that something had upset them. I knew that at any moment the woman would start to cry. It was obvious and no sooner had I made this determination, tears streamed down her cheeks. I saw the man hold her hands, and raise it to his lips, gently kissing them., his eyes consoling her. It was obvious it wasn’t an argument, but a serious discussion. I felt badly watching them, intruding on their very private moment.

But at the same time, I had this feeling that there was a familiarity in what I was observing. Could it be that in the not too distant past I was the man sitting in that seat? As these thoughts passed, the tattoos disappeared and likewise for the homely features. They were real and what they were experiencing were real. I watched them fleetingly with the music in the background, filling in the melancholy, silent moments. And as quickly as the scene unfolded, it ended. The couple stood up to leave, the music fading into the next song.

I hurriedly went over to the flat screen which displayed the music title and jotted down the artist and song. It was indeed a country song—‘Down Low” song by Teddy Thompson. After jotting down the song title and artist name on a napkin, I reflected a little bit on what had just transpired. The entire experience seemed serendipitous with my recent evening with Grey…the conversation we had and comfort I felt with her and I hope she felt with me. Alone at Starbucks I stared out the window and let my thoughts wander—Elvis Costello now wailing in the background.

What I am listening these days? I think now more then ever I understand what Vincent is truly asking me. The music of my life is an ever-changing collection of the old and new. But just as important, it’s what I’m experiencing now through choices and happenstance. So what am I’m listening to? I’m not sure, but I’m hoping that it might be a discovery of something new, yet familiar and altogether heartwarming. I’m sure I’ll have an answer when he checks in with me next.

----------------------------------------
[Postscript]

Imagine my surprise when I Googled Teddy Thompson. He’s not a country singer but a folk/singer songwriter of like, noteworthy parents. And get this, he’s a Brit with ‘Songs from Abbey Road’ being a recent song or album. Odd coincidence but it all seems to fit perfectly, right? But how did I mistake this young man for a Country virtuoso?

Simple.

The particular song I heard was from his album of a couple of years ago—a compilation of classic Country songs. The album name? Upfront and Down Low.