Cheers to my 1rst essay!
S o u n d t r a c k
“I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn't resolve. But I
was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man
playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never
opened his eyes.
After that I liked jazz music.
Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can
love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.”
Donald Miller
…
January 30th, 2012
Summertime by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
I remember reading Joan Didion’s, The White Album. Ella Fitzgerald and
Louis Armstrong in each ear as I underlined, marking the margins with
this color blue. On page four twenty nine it was nineteen sixty-eight.
And the living is easy. I remember a recording studio, Jim Morrison’s
black leather jacket and the feeling that came with flipping the page.
I always listen to music, and “Summertime” moved the words along so
beautifully.
It was a multi-colored pleasure, a feeling of delight. When I read
page four twenty nine, tapping my pen and biting my lip, I knew I
could find joy in writing. Oh, your daddy’s rich. And your ma is good-
lookin’. If my words can make someone feel like they’re humming their
favorite song, I’ll do just fine. The recording studio and black
leather jacket read like the notes Louis Armstrong played on his
saxophone. And you’ll spread your wings and you’ll take to the sky.
…
Loyalty is found in music. My soundtrack crafts these memories, harvesting souvenirs. I hit play and I don’t even have to close my eyes. I remember.
With music, memories are in focus and our sincerest thoughts perform. Listening to him play the saxophone, I can remember reading The White Album. I felt so aroused, awaken.
…
Our feelings are honest. I am aware of my feelings and inspired by love’s lyrics and lust’s stir. Feelings tell us something. Like music, embellishing moments with the inexpressible. Like the feeling I had when I read page four twenty nine. I know he felt this way with a saxophone around, his eyes closed and he’s taken, up until the last shade of charmed notes.
And the feeling when the walls of our beach house drum Steely Dan in July. I turn “Hey Nineteen” on and instantly, I feel the warmth of the sun lingering on my left cheek after it sinks into a cosmic flesh of color. Upstairs, my brother splashes margaritas with lime. I pinch a mint leaf from the tip of my tongue and let go. It bathes on top of an ice cube. The
Cuervo Gold, the fine Colombian. My glass is frosted. I shuffle my feet, my fingers bite the beat. Make tonight a wonderful thing.
Cuervo Gold, the fine Colombian. My glass is frosted. I shuffle my feet, my fingers bite the beat. Make tonight a wonderful thing.
…
“Joy, sorrow, tears, lamentation, laughter -- to all these music gives
voice, but in such a way that we are transported from the world of
unrest to a world of peace, and see reality in a new way, as if we
were sitting by a mountain lake and contemplating hills and woods and
clouds in the tranquil and fathomless water.”
voice, but in such a way that we are transported from the world of
unrest to a world of peace, and see reality in a new way, as if we
were sitting by a mountain lake and contemplating hills and woods and
clouds in the tranquil and fathomless water.”
Albert Scweitzer
…
February 6, 2012
Smile by Tony Bennett and Barbara Streisand
Tony Bennett whispered when I opened the garage door and walked
through the kitchen. I passed by my worn, off-brand tennis shoes.
There’s something comforting about a shoe that’s had a good walking,
strong character. I opened the patio door. He was singing now. Smile
though your heart is aching. The empty lounge chairs and scattered dog
bones enjoyed the show. I knew she was in her bedroom. I took the
stairs, my toes prowling along the oriental rug, quiet through the
hallway.
Towel draped, she stood on marble floor sprinkled with water from her shower.
“Hi.”
You’ll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile. She lost
her father at 3 am.
Tony Bennett kept him with her for one more song.
I write with my grandfather’s hand and she cares for my brother and me with his heart.
I remember the weekend he passed away. My mother heartbroken. A
feeling sank deep into my stomach. We sat on the kitchen floor for an
hour or two in a silent stare. It’s hard to grasp and never happens
until it does. I put all this scattered emotion into a letter.
The words came to me effortlessly and sing a luminous tune. It’s comfortable to write beautifully when the emotion enveloping each word is rooted deep and innately in your heart.
…
Thank you, Joe, for encouraging me over every holiday gathering and family dinner to keep on writing.
My mother read my letter to Joe the afternoon before he left us, and I
read it to him at his memorial service on March 31, 2012. We spread
his ashes into the blue sea gardened with red roses. In other words,
please be true. Our captain’s name was Morgan and “Fly Me to the Moon”
whistled in the wind as the sun broke through hazy blue. We drifted
away. Fill my heart with song. Let me sing forever more. I was wearing
his favorite red sweater, his bouquet growing fainter. I can barely
smell him on the sweater now. I remember we all tossed in our rose and
I heard this song come on like Sinatra was somewhere up there,
serenading us as if it was nineteen sixty-four again. Fly me to the moon. Let
me play among the stars.
My mother read my letter to Joe the afternoon before he left us, and I
read it to him at his memorial service on March 31, 2012. We spread
his ashes into the blue sea gardened with red roses. In other words,
please be true. Our captain’s name was Morgan and “Fly Me to the Moon”
whistled in the wind as the sun broke through hazy blue. We drifted
away. Fill my heart with song. Let me sing forever more. I was wearing
his favorite red sweater, his bouquet growing fainter. I can barely
smell him on the sweater now. I remember we all tossed in our rose and
I heard this song come on like Sinatra was somewhere up there,
serenading us as if it was nineteen sixty-four again. Fly me to the moon. Let
me play among the stars.
Music brings us to all the right places. He seems so close for those two, short minutes.
…
“People ask me how I make music. I tell them I just step into it. It's
like stepping into a river and joining the flow. Every moment in the
river has its song.”
Michael Jackson
…
I am dependently taken by moments of uninhibited fervor for the people I'll embrace, food I'll relish, good times and tunes that braid individual memories. I feel the moment in its entirety, what strikes me most, and paint it with a melody. We all have golden days and blue nights. These are numbers on our soundtrack.
I still remember the dogwoods, bonfires, and the boys of summer in my
childhood backyard.
…
May 16th, 2011
Boys of Summer by Don Henley
We landed on familiar greenery. Driving along Lake Michigan was
anything but the smell of dead fish. I missed it so much. Nobody on
the road, nobody on the beach. I sat with my feet on the dashboard,
watching the houses on Lake Drive stay as I drove by. We pulled into
my driveway, 6360 N. Lake Drive. I remember my three best friends
standing on the doorsteps like they had been there every day since
August. I feel it in the air. We hugged and ran inside the house I had
spent nineteen years in, with them and all our memories. Our dog Ned
is buried in the back yard and my little girl hand, molded in cement,
rests next to my brothers in our garage. I’m driving by your house.
No, no, you’re not home. We ran through the house, the same smell
scented my sweatshirts. Jim Morrison and Radiohead posters still there
by the stick of scotch tape I hung them with in high school. I saw his
car pull in the driveway and was fluttered with butterflies I knew so
well in kindergarten. I can tell you my love for you will still be
strong, after the boys of summer are gone. We spent the weekend
driving around, making a farmer’s breakfast at three am, and playing
pool upstairs. Like no time had passed, my friends and I sang the same
song, laughing at the same jokes. It didn’t matter where we slept as
long as the Pancake House was open on Sundays. You’ve got the top
pulled down. Radio on, baby. I remember packing up the house one last
time. I walked outside; green leaves laced in blue spanned the
horizon. Our American flag never looked so good, waving high above the
water. I stood on my patio. I thought I could smell the bonfires and
dogwoods. I hear the music playing. Singing along, I said goodbye to
my home. Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go but...
I have albums on albums, memories from my childhood home. They are gone forever but I can still see them. I still hear them dancing around in songs, so inviting. I see my
favorite faces when I sing along. I never will forget those nights. I
wonder if it was a dream.
Boys of Summer by Don Henley
We landed on familiar greenery. Driving along Lake Michigan was
anything but the smell of dead fish. I missed it so much. Nobody on
the road, nobody on the beach. I sat with my feet on the dashboard,
watching the houses on Lake Drive stay as I drove by. We pulled into
my driveway, 6360 N. Lake Drive. I remember my three best friends
standing on the doorsteps like they had been there every day since
August. I feel it in the air. We hugged and ran inside the house I had
spent nineteen years in, with them and all our memories. Our dog Ned
is buried in the back yard and my little girl hand, molded in cement,
rests next to my brothers in our garage. I’m driving by your house.
No, no, you’re not home. We ran through the house, the same smell
scented my sweatshirts. Jim Morrison and Radiohead posters still there
by the stick of scotch tape I hung them with in high school. I saw his
car pull in the driveway and was fluttered with butterflies I knew so
well in kindergarten. I can tell you my love for you will still be
strong, after the boys of summer are gone. We spent the weekend
driving around, making a farmer’s breakfast at three am, and playing
pool upstairs. Like no time had passed, my friends and I sang the same
song, laughing at the same jokes. It didn’t matter where we slept as
long as the Pancake House was open on Sundays. You’ve got the top
pulled down. Radio on, baby. I remember packing up the house one last
time. I walked outside; green leaves laced in blue spanned the
horizon. Our American flag never looked so good, waving high above the
water. I stood on my patio. I thought I could smell the bonfires and
dogwoods. I hear the music playing. Singing along, I said goodbye to
my home. Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go but...
I have albums on albums, memories from my childhood home. They are gone forever but I can still see them. I still hear them dancing around in songs, so inviting. I see my
favorite faces when I sing along. I never will forget those nights. I
wonder if it was a dream.
…
“Life, he realized, was much like a song. In the beginning there is
mystery, in the end there is confirmation, but it's in the middle
where all the emotion resides to make the whole thing worthwhile.”
Nicholas Sparks
…
March 11th, 2012
Somebody that I Used to Know by Gotye
I walked into the Quays pub in Galway, Ireland. The bare lighting
glowed in all the right places. I saw people smiling, sparkling eyes.
Everyone here is in the right place. I remember walking in. Now and
then I think of when we were together. I two-stepped for the stairs
brushing against bar stools, stepping on last night’s Guinness, and
blushing eye-to-eye with a tall, handsome Irish lad. And then I
realized what song was playing. But I don’t want to live that way. I
looked up and felt like I was dreaming. I don’t even need your love.
The whole trip seems like a dream to me now. The duo propped on the
balcony welcomed my friends and me into the pub. The sound soared to
my core and continued to hum within me, staggered along the Cliffs of Moher, wishing this would never end. Falling asleep on St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin, I remember being so happy that it happened.
Now you’re just somebody that I used to know.
Somebody that I Used to Know by Gotye
I walked into the Quays pub in Galway, Ireland. The bare lighting
glowed in all the right places. I saw people smiling, sparkling eyes.
Everyone here is in the right place. I remember walking in. Now and
then I think of when we were together. I two-stepped for the stairs
brushing against bar stools, stepping on last night’s Guinness, and
blushing eye-to-eye with a tall, handsome Irish lad. And then I
realized what song was playing. But I don’t want to live that way. I
looked up and felt like I was dreaming. I don’t even need your love.
The whole trip seems like a dream to me now. The duo propped on the
balcony welcomed my friends and me into the pub. The sound soared to
my core and continued to hum within me, staggered along the Cliffs of Moher, wishing this would never end. Falling asleep on St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin, I remember being so happy that it happened.
Now you’re just somebody that I used to know.
…
Ireland was incredibly familiar and worn like a pair of old tennis
shoes, strong character. It reminded me of Lake Drive, my friends’
faces, and bonfires.
I miss Ireland. The people, the emotions vibrating through live music were honest and invigorating. Nothing brings me back to Ireland like listening to the songs I heard nightly in her pubs. Songs I felt from my fingertips to my toes, my hand to my heart and soul. Music
sparks the spirit.
…
“No matter who we are, no matter what our circumstances, our feelings
and emotions are universal. And music has always been a great way to
make people aware of that connection. It can help you open up a part
of yourself and express feelings you didn't know you were feeling.
It's risky to let that happen. But it's a risk you have to
take-because only then will you find you're not alone.”
Josh Groban
…
August 3rd, 2011
Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes
Alabama, Arkansas I do love my ‘ma and ‘pa. Not the way that I do love
you. I remember waking up at four a.m. feeling like I hadn’t slept, a
washed blue gently lighting the sky. We were sacs of dirt pouring cups
of coffee, preparing for a six-hour car trip to Big Sur and trying to
remember the iodine tablets. Man, oh, man you’re my best friend. We
packed the car tight and the four of us coasted the Pacific Coast
Highway. I remember the sunrise, developing a panoramic print through
smudged car windows. Home is wherever I’m with you. The wind ripped
the four pages of directions, Laguna Beach to Big Sur, from my hands.
We laughed so hard as the wind whipped our hair and pinched my face.
There’s only so many ways around Highway 1. Up, down, and around.
Laugh until we think we’ll die. Barefoot on a summer night. We were
unbound, as our wheels spun in and around Santa Barbara, brushed up
against the Central Coast. The ocean on our left dusted with sunshine.
We were just singing along. I’ve been everywhere with you. We must have listened to that song thirty four times. I think we made up our own verse somewhere amidst the red woods and hot springs. I remember waking up to nothing but the sounds of the stream, ten feet in front of our tent and the smell of innocent, hearty earth. A wholesome breath of fresh air wrapped around my soiled skin. In the streets we’re running free. On our last day, we woke up at six a.m. I have a picture that I took with my disposable camera. We hiked above the clouds for an hour or two. As we descended into the mist and vapor, closer to the RV’s and the parking lot, I tried to open my eyes and see through the cloud that embraced our bodies and the trail ahead. Like it’s only you and me. Geez you’re something to see. In the middle of a cloud, I felt at home.
Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes
Alabama, Arkansas I do love my ‘ma and ‘pa. Not the way that I do love
you. I remember waking up at four a.m. feeling like I hadn’t slept, a
washed blue gently lighting the sky. We were sacs of dirt pouring cups
of coffee, preparing for a six-hour car trip to Big Sur and trying to
remember the iodine tablets. Man, oh, man you’re my best friend. We
packed the car tight and the four of us coasted the Pacific Coast
Highway. I remember the sunrise, developing a panoramic print through
smudged car windows. Home is wherever I’m with you. The wind ripped
the four pages of directions, Laguna Beach to Big Sur, from my hands.
We laughed so hard as the wind whipped our hair and pinched my face.
There’s only so many ways around Highway 1. Up, down, and around.
Laugh until we think we’ll die. Barefoot on a summer night. We were
unbound, as our wheels spun in and around Santa Barbara, brushed up
against the Central Coast. The ocean on our left dusted with sunshine.
We were just singing along. I’ve been everywhere with you. We must have listened to that song thirty four times. I think we made up our own verse somewhere amidst the red woods and hot springs. I remember waking up to nothing but the sounds of the stream, ten feet in front of our tent and the smell of innocent, hearty earth. A wholesome breath of fresh air wrapped around my soiled skin. In the streets we’re running free. On our last day, we woke up at six a.m. I have a picture that I took with my disposable camera. We hiked above the clouds for an hour or two. As we descended into the mist and vapor, closer to the RV’s and the parking lot, I tried to open my eyes and see through the cloud that embraced our bodies and the trail ahead. Like it’s only you and me. Geez you’re something to see. In the middle of a cloud, I felt at home.
…
“The times you lived through, the people you shared those times with —
nothing brings it all to life like an old mix tape. It does a better
job of storing up memories than actual brain tissue can do. Every mix
tape tells a story. Put them together, and they can add up to the
story of a life.”
Rob Sheffield
“The times you lived through, the people you shared those times with —
nothing brings it all to life like an old mix tape. It does a better
job of storing up memories than actual brain tissue can do. Every mix
tape tells a story. Put them together, and they can add up to the
story of a life.”
Rob Sheffield
…
I want to learn how to play the piano.
And when I do, I’ll close my eyes and let my fingers tease the black and white keys. I’ll close my eyes and play a song.
We’ll gather around.
A faded oriental rug rests beneath my feet and a pumpkin pie bakes in the oven.
He’ll sit next to me with his guitar and everyone will start singing along.
It’s a handsome rhythm.
There’s about twelve of us. My favorite faces.
We’re off key and laughter takes us from the next verse.
Our eyes are shut tight.
We’ve had enough and we’ll head into the kitchen.
Cinnamon and nutmeg wafting through the house, I’ll help myself to another glass of red and walk outside.
We’ll lie there until 2:30 a.m.
Music soft in the background.
I see my first shooting star.
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