piano

I’ve started taking piano lessons. I know, at the ripe old age of 43. I’ve always wanted to play the piano ever since high school. Hearing Rick Wakeman on keyboards was inspirational. However, I didn’t follow my initial desires. Instead I turned towards the guitar. Steve Howe of Yes, Alex Lifeson of Rush, David Gilmour of Pink Floyd, they all drove my desire to play the guitar. The greatest influence was Al Di Meola. Man, he was fast and incredibly gifted. I dreamed of the day when I could play like him. It never happened though.

I didn’t get a guitar until I was in my mid-twenties. It was just a little acoustic deal but it was a start. I tried to teach myself but wasn’t very successful. I still have a guitar. I can play the cords and pick up a song or two (if it’s written in tablature) but I can’t come anywhere near what would be called “playing”. I’ve never played in a band or with anyone else for that matter. Still, it’s fun to pick it up and strum some chords or go through some riffs.

But now, onto the piano. This time I’m going to do it right. I’m going to follow my passion, I’m going to get the outside education, I’m going to take my time and practice. I’m looking forward to this endeavor. My only sad thought is that I’m doing it so late in life. I’m already 43. I should be doing it for money, playing on a stage, giving lessons or just having fun. Now, as it is, my life is half over and I’m just now starting. Darn.

incident

I’m not one to sit and read poetry. I could if I had to. There are some poems I like, the sillier ones by Shel Silverstein for instance. I really enjoyed his “Where the Sidewalk Ends” book.

I recall having to study poetry in school. It was never much fun, always having to read what the teacher instructed and then try and figure out what the hidden meaning behind the words contained. I think that the only effective way to do this is to ask the author. Everything else is just speculation. Yeah, I know that argument didn’t work too well back then either.

There have been many poems I have read but only one has stuck with me throughout my life. I remembered the last stanza, (or is it a sonnet?) and it seems to stay at the forefront of my memory, always called forth with some regularity. This is odd because my memory holds memories like a sieve holds water. Yet this line has stayed with me. Even more ironic is that the line deals with…..memory.

The poem is one of the more famous of a young black poet writing in the early 1900’s. It’s familiar to all, I’m sure, so I guess I shouldn’t feel special that it has stayed with me so long. The poem by Countee Cullen is called Incident and reads as such:

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.

-- Countee Cullen


I don’t really want to go into the whole symbology/analysis thing. I think we can all get the picture. However, I do want to say that while this may have racial overtones I don’t think it necessarily applies to race. I think it applies to anyone, anywhere who may, in some form or fashion, be different from those around them.

Even more so apparent, to me at least, is the obvious impressionability of children. One little incident, insignificant in its day, unobtrusive to the adult eye, has a profound, everlasting impact on the mind of a child. How many of you, as children, remember the one word or words that seemed to cut through everything you were at the time and pierce your heart. Those words, while maybe said in jest, the heat of an argument or as mere observation cut to your core and remain with you today.

I try to be vigilant in my words to children, especially if I’m angry or upset. I make an effort to calm myself down and explain myself and apologize if necessary. I know they listen and I know they understand the full emotion behind my words. I don’t want that to be all that they remember.

free speech

I’ve been away for a while. Work and other stuff as well as the holiday season have kept me busy. For me, there is enough activity in my life that this blog is more an occasional hobby than anything else. I really enjoy those who can blog on a daily basis. Me, I can’t find enough to talk about to barely fill a page. Now, however, thanks to a nod from fellow blogger, Leesa I have to find something to write about. Nothing like having someone post a link to your blog which you haven’t updated in forever. Thanks!

I’ve been following the happenings at Bellevue Baptist Church for a while now. Things are coming to a head. I’ve been following it via another blog. What I’ve noticed on this blog is the dictum for fairness and fact based opinions. The entries are not censored and the moderator rarely removes a posting.

By comparison, I’ve been watching a local forum. Actually I’ve participated in this forum (as ‘pondog’) and have discovered that a fair number of entries have been deleted. This appears, after some discussion with other members of the forum, to occur on a regular basis. It would appear the moderator has no problem with suppressing the thoughts of other individuals. I was mildly aggravated by this. It appears so juvenile.

On the BBC blog, while there are differences of opinion, the do manage to hash it out, whether they agree or agree to disagree they do come to some resolution. There’s no profanity and everyone tries to maintain a sense of civility. In contrast the local forum is open to all and while posts containing profanity are justly deleted, conflicts of interest are unjustly deleted.

Where has freedom of speech gone?

cynacism and emptiness

I’ve read a couple of blogs lately. Actually, a couple of blogs are all I ever read on a constant basis. It used to be three, but one of them decided to take a hiatus for a while. I think it has something to do with work but as one reader commented, it probably had more to do with some hot asian woman, or women. But one thing I’ve noticed in the blogs that I read and those that I visit is the common thread of expression. Yes, we all want to express ourselves, so we blog. But what I’ve noticed in a lot of these expressions are comprised of two major themes; cynicism and emptiness.

I’m not talking about emptiness in content, there’s plenty of content. You simply have to type in “hot lesbian sex” in your blog search and you get all sorts of content. What I’m talking about is emptiness within the author. Whether it’s clinical depression or a loss of spirituality I don’t know. I do know that there seems to be plenty of people out there who are looking for something but they don’t know what it is. They set up their blogs in an attempt to express themselves. Initially, on the outside, this sounds good. Everyone wants to express themselves. That’s why I’m here. But after a while, the questions they post, the opinions they give, the thoughts they share all take an inward turn. The questions become more relevant to their own personal struggles and walks in life. Their opinions, while initially personal, become more intimate. The thoughts they had of the world in general become thoughts of the world within their life. Then comes the thoughts of “What is my purpose, why am I here, what am I doing with my life….” What was once an opportunity at self expression becomes a struggle with self inspection. I’ve felt this before, now more so that I’m turning older, as I think we all have at some point in time.

I don’t know about cynicism. I myself prefer not to go down that path. I can’t understand a desire to be “contemptuously distrustful of human nature and motives” on a continual basis. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t trust everyone all the time. However, I can’t understand why anyone would want to promote a sense of cynicism in all they do. I suppose it’s about an individual’s character, maybe? Or their desire to help mankind? I don’t know. I do know that there are a lot of blogs of the cynical nature that seem perfectly acceptable. Maybe I have too much patience for mankind in some arenas. Maybe I’m not naturally pre-disposed to distrust. Again, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the blogs I search.

My favorite author when I was growing up was Jack London. I fell in love with his writings of the great northwest. His easy, descriptive style never failed to paint a vivid picture in my imagination. It wasn’t until I was in 7th grade that I learned he had committed suicide. Some say he died of uremic poisoning, others say it was an accidental morphine overdose. I don’t know. Suicide is apparent in some of his books, though. Edgar Allen Poe “suffered fro bouts of depression and madness, and he attempted suicide in 1848” –Wikipedia. And, of course, everyone is familiar with Earnest Hemingway’s suicide. There does seem to be some sort of link here.

Here are a few links returned when I Googled writers with depression.

Speculations
Live to Write Another Day
MoonScape

not about the money

It wasn’t about the money. It was about the chance to do something positive with my life, and then it became the chance to do something positive for my country.

As a young kid growing up in Ohio, the son of divorced parents, graduating in the lower end of my high school class (not from a lack of intelligence but more a lack of knowledge) I didn’t have much going for me. I figured I’d end up on the lower rung of a social ladder that stretched way up out of sight. A military brat I had grown up with some sense of formalization; Boy Scouts when I was younger, then ROTC when I was in high school. I was smart and I knew the answers, even without the direction of a dad. I still erred in my lack of application though. When I graduated high school my future wasn’t too bright. I always had the military to fall back on. I knew enough to know that I’d be successful in that arena.

With mixed feelings I met the Army recruiter. I was inwardly ashamed that I had allowed myself to get to the point where I’d enlist, yet at the same time I felt good that I was able to do something for someone. As I raised my right hand and took the oath in that little room in downtown Cincinnati I was the good feeling won out. My sense of pride surged and I felt a bit of release from the torment of having thrown away my education. As I mentioned, I was intelligent and had scored rather high on my entry exam. The recruiter told me I could chose from any job the Army had to offer. Without any guidance I chose Infantry. There was no one there to tell me to take something that would provide a skill that I could use on the outside. Not that it mattered though. At the time I was pretty much a loner and pictured myself as such, wading through the swamps or dense forest jungles for the next 20 years.

occurances

Things in my life seem to happen in threes. I encounter an off the wall subject, say, fly-fishing. Initially I don’t give it much thought. Well, then on my favorite show the theme is centered on fly-fishing. Later on in the week I’ll encounter fly-fishing again, be it in the newspaper, on the radio or in a general conversation.

Sometimes the occurrences are a result of a single event. For instance, I read on Leesa’s blog the other day regarding her perceptions of Red Auerbach and how he was a racist. She went on to disprove this perception by presenting several examples that highlighted his desire to advance minorities in the NBA. A few days later I’m listening to NPR on the way home and there’s a story on Red Auerbach that eerily repeats what I read in her blog. I just thought it was cool. I said “Hey that was on Leesa’s blog.” Of course, there was no one else in the car at the time, but hey. I heard it.

Other times its matters of circumstance. For instance, this past Sunday our pastor talked briefly about divisions in the church and splinter groups being formed. I didn’t think anything about it at the time. I used to belong to a Mega-church in Gardendale, Alabama. There was a pastor there, who initially, was great. Over time he was harder to reach and appeared to have something of an ego, but he left for a Mega-church up in Memphis, Tennessee. There was also a splinter group from this Tennessee Mega-Church that left and formed a church in Germantown. What does all this have to do with circumstance? Well, last week while in Wikipedia I discovered my former pastor was listed. Then on Sunday my pastor is talking about splinter groups. Ok, no big deal there, however, this past Sunday evening I’m sitting there in an evening class at church and this guy in my Sunday school class strikes up a conversation. Come to find out his parents are members at the new church in Germantown. Weird.

It happens so often that I almost bank on it. When something appears twice I always wait and sure enough, the third instance will make itself known.

police

I heard a radio conversation the day before yesterday regarding the killing of a local police officer. The caller to the show commented on the large number of police officers that responded to the call and how, if it had been just a normal killing, as if there is such a thing as a normal killing, how many police officers would have responded. He felt somehow offended that more police officers respond to crimes against police officers than respond to crimes against normal citizens. In his eyes the police were people just like everyone else and weren’t deserving of any special treatment. Never mind that these people deal with the scum of society every day. Never mind that they essentially lay their lives on the line every time they put on their uniform. In his eyes they were no more special than anyone else. He contested the police officers weren’t drafted into their jobs, but instead volunteered for the position.

I’m not a police officer. I considered the job but declined to pursue it after much cogitation revealed the effects such employment would have on my personal well being. They don’t deal with societies rabble on an occasional basis but on a constant basis. Imagine if everyone you met today resulted in an antagonizing, intimidating experience. If every time you answered a call it was to provide assistance to someone who had been affected by the slime of society. Imagine going into every meeting, every situation not knowing if someone was there waiting to take your life. It would wear on you over time. This is why I couldn’t become a police officer. The pay is definitely not worth it. Being exposed to the scum of life, the crime scenes, traffic accidents, child abductions gone wrong, gangs and the occasional angry politician whom you just gave a ticket for DUI, it would all take its toll. On me, my family, my marriage, my children. It’s not worth it.

I can deal with the scum of society on an occasional basis. Almost everyone has been in such a situation when a bottom feeder in the river of society comes out of the deep to nip at our heels. These incidents, for the most part, are few and far between and we lead a relatively sheltered existence. This existence is due in part to the men and women who volunteer to put on the uniform each day and deal with these bottom feeders. They provide the anti-shark netting around our social beaches. Our contact with the scum of society is reduced to a few incidents because they are there.

Do they deserve special treatment? Yes, they do. They volunteer to do a job that few others can handle. They provide the framework which maintains a reasonable amount of order on our streets. They go places others don’t want to go and they see things that humans shouldn’t have to see, and like combat, once these things are seen, they aren’t forgotten, but often come back to haunt their dreams and memories. Would I want that in my life? No. I’m grateful they are there. Am I offended that 150 officers responded to a fellow officer being shot and not as many responded in each of the 80+ other homicides in the city this year? No. This is their family, their brothers and sisters. You can’t blame them for their response.