Mixtape

My friend D.P. was the king of mix tapes. He was born and raised in Seattle and had a much greater exposure to bands than I did in my small Midwestern town. We met in England in the late 80s where we were both stationed in the Air Force, and I fell under his tutelage, proving a much more apt student than I did in school. He poked fun at my mainstream CDs and cassette tapes (Steve Winwood specifically, which was strange as I don't recall ever liking his banal music) then softened the blow by making me mix tapes featuring bands he thought I might like, such as Transvision Vamp, The Church, The Cramps, The Pixies, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Peter Tosh, Bob Mould, The House Martins, Tones on Tail, and many more.

I joined the Air Force specifically to see the world, gain some life experience, get the G.I. Bill, and do something no one else in my family had ever done. My first official assignment was to Ft. Walton Beach, FL, and I was crestfallen. I managed to swap job orders with a guy who had orders to England. His orders could have been to Iceland or Guam, and I would have traded--anything to get out of the U.S. The day the swap went through, I ran to the pay phone in the dorm and called my music-loving friend Jason who was going to college in Iowa, singing out the opening measures of "I Can't Get No Satisfaction." I also decided that calling it U.K. was much cooler than calling it England. For five long months, I dreamed of U.K.

When I got there, I met some malcontents who thought that England sucked. I didn't understand. How could being in Europe possibly suck? (Okay, technically, England does not refer to itself as Europe--"the Continent" they called it.) They all wanted to be back in their small hometowns in rural CA, NC, OH, and PA. They rarely even left the airbase let alone the dorm! I tried to be friends with these people, but they were boring. Some had never even bothered to go to London, which was just an hour-long bus shuttle ride from our base--and free! I used to work midnight shift, so sometimes I would get off work at 7, then run catch the bus to London, then come back home on the the last shuttle home to get a nap before work.

A few months later, I was put on swing shift (4pm-1 am), which effectively ended my sporadic London forays. Then I was moved into a different dorm. That's when my life-as-I-hoped-it-would be really took off. I met D.P. and a few other guys who listened to bands I'd never heard of and invited me to concerts in London, Cambridge, Norwich, Nottingham, Peterborough, and other places. My first concert in England was The Primitives at Town & Country in Kentish Town on Thanksgiving Day, and despite never having heard of the band, I quicklyI forked over my 7 quid for the ticket. 

I barely had any clothes at that time, and remember fretting over what to wear. Back then I was into the oversize look, which was by necessity rather than choice. I was petite, and everything was huge on me. I went through a phase where I shopped in the men's department, going for a sporty look, and on a whim bought a white button-down shirt that said DIZZY BOPPER in block letters tumbling across the front.I paired it with a long black skirt and some red flats. I didn't really know D.P. or John very well, and I don't think they'd ever seen me out of uniform. I remember D.P. complimenting my hair, and slowly my nerves and fears of being awkward ebbed away. We drove instead of taking the shuttle, and they popped in plenty of mix tapes, complete with their own running commentary on the bands, as well as the various British signs, which seemed foreign to us.  "To Let" instead of "For Lease." "Don't let dogs foul sidewalk." One that really cracked them up was an advertisement for "Crusty Bread." The word "crusty" really got them. I remember being giddy just to try to keep up with their witticisms. We parked in Red Bridge then took the tubes into various neighborhoods. We spent the day in various record shops and book stores and pubs and ate some Chinese food. I remember whizzing under the city, thinking, "I'm in London on Thanksgiving with two really cool guys on a subway, and we're going to a concert! " I was 20 years old.

Stepping  into D.P.'s and John's music granted me passage into their world--they were raised in big cities--San Diego and Seattle; they subscribed to magazines I'd never heard of; they were smart, trendy, and yes, they were also handsome; and for some reason, they allowed me into their world. So I learned the language. I loved the Cure ("Charlotte Sometimes") and had most of their CDs.  I spent countless nights and afternoons with the Cure, whose music effortlessly coaxed my twenty-something angst despair. But I did not feel close to Robert Smith the way I would later in life to singer-songwriters. I did feel attracted to him, but it was more a fascination than an actual connection. I loved the music, but I didn't always identify with it.  I think the difference is that the bands were highly stylistic in both attitude and fashion while singer-songwriters of the late 80s through today are substance through and through. They are confessional as opposed to cynical. There are times in my life when I need both, but back then, it was escapism (escaping my upbringing no doubt) all the way.

When I got sent to Saudi Arabia in support of Operation Desert Shield in the summer of 1990, D.P. sent me many mix tapes to keep me updated. I would get off my 13-hour shift around 4 a.m. and catch a shuttle back to Tent City by 5 a.m., and I'd throw on my sweats and tennies and go running and walking as the sun came up over the deserted desert, cool tunes blasting in my headphones. As I walked the desert plains, I would belt out the lyrics with Kim Deal of The Pixies: "A big, big love, a big, big love!" and wish I could cop that kind of 'tude. I always walked alone--early in the morning or late in the evening and never asked for company and ignored warnings about walking alone from the men who felt it their duty to look after me. This was my pretend time. I wish now was that I didn't pretend and hide. I wish I would have let people see that side of me and had flaunted it instead and taken myself less seriously and my enthusiasm more seriously. Maybe such an unabashed expression of adoration and imitation would have eventually led to finding an authentic form of that attitude lurking somewhere inside me.

One of the songs on one of those tapes, however, now comes to mind today, at the heels of the holiday season. Initially I was impassive about it, and often FF'd it to get to faster, edgier songs. The song was What's so Funny 'bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding?" by Elvis Costello, whom we had actually met a few months earlier in a PELICAN crossing (crosswalk for Yankees) in Cambridge. At first I thought he was Woody Allen, but D.P. corrected me, and struck up a conversation with a very congenial and cheerful Elvis!

I started writing this last night as I was reflecting on the gift of a brand new year and a brand new start, and having a wonderfully quiet and sweet New Year's Eve. My partner and I had a George Bailey-themed night. We happened to be in the town square of a quaint small city. We went to an old fashioned soda fountain. We stopped for drinks and steaks at a neighborhood bar and played shuffleboard, not the kind on the floor with the sticks, but the kind on the table with the pucks. We went back to his house and built a cozy fire, poured some wine, then watched "It's a Wonderful Life." After midnight we shared our Top 3 list--where you list the three best things that happened in the previous year. It was impossible to choose only three, and that is the point of the exercise, to remind yourself just how good you had it. 

New Year's Eve is a Big Damn Night that, frankly, I have never liked. Just too much pressure to be cool and connected and having the wildest time of anyone alive. The truth is, I'm not cool and connected to the cool people, and I have a pretty wild time most days of my life, although it rarely involves bars, costumes, and party favors. 

What I had on New Year's Eve was Peace, Love, and Understanding.

But I got to thinking: What is so funny about Peace, Love, and Understanding? Why do people make fun of you if you're happy and settled?

My guess is that the title was perhaps a rebuttal, perhaps to someone who had seen him shift from a place of cynicism to a place of optimism. I know firsthand that such changes can cause some people in our lives to question how such an adjustment will affect them, especially when they are feeling particularly ungrounded.

So I got to thinking about being grounded. 

When I was young, I wanted to embrace a small rebellious streak in myself but was so embarrassed of looking stupid that I acted it out only in private. I am almost certain that this constant fear of embarrassment came from being the youngest of four, the older two of which were merciless in their taunting and random beatings. In my late 30s, I took on a rebellious nature that was far more destructive than it needed to be. The problem was that I never found a healthy way to express it, and that problem stemmed from thinking I did not deserve happiness, success, and freedom.

And perhaps a very small part of me believed that these rebellious types were merely putting on a show, much like cool, connected, casual people.

But lately, I've been feeling rebellious again.

I want to rebel against a popular cultural personality.

Cynicism. Particularly about happiness. Especially when happiness is derived of something simple or traditional.

Cynicism is an affectation.  It's a phony defense mechanism against failing. Cynics don't even bother trying because trying might result in failure. Cynics are afraid of everything, afraid of how they will look to other cynics, so instead they just make fun of things. Cynicism is easy, and it's rarely a lonely undertaking. It is a bottle of whiskey easily shared with friends and strangers whose depth of loyalty is about 3 oz.

I know all of this because I used to be a cynic. For awhile I was in with a crowd who would usher in the new year by threatening it to be better than the previous "suck-fest" of a year. I  noted that many of the reasons they felt the previous year sucked had to do with dating. Even in my darkest times, following my divorce, I could never bring myself to damn the entire year just because a relationship went wrong. But still, while I didn't actively go damning things, I did host some pretty profound doubts about myself. Like my imagination, I kept my cynicism to myself, which makes it a little better for those around me, but not for me. It took its toll.

As I reflect on those days of walking the desert flight line and letting my imagination run wild, I think about the idea of squelching and deserving. I squelched because I thought I did not deserve good things. It turns out, I might have squandered part of my life by taking that course. 

I deserve lots of good things this year, but most things I can't control, and it's time to let go of wanting to control those things and focusing on the things I can.  I want to rebel against my tendencies to keep my dreams a secret. I know full well I did that in case they didn't come true, which I felt would be embarrassing. I want to let go of that little child who worries how she will look, and I want to rock out to my ipod when I walk down the street in the middle of the day. I want to hug my singer-songwriters and keep them close for their willingness to be honest, and I want to mosh with the Cramps, just to make sure that I don't drown in solemnity.

This year I want to play more. That's it. 

I want to play.

If my year were a mixtape, I hope it would look something like this:

      Twenty-Thirteen

 Side A                    Side B

Swim                      Plant
Bike                       Purge
Run                        Strum
Walk                      Sing
Dance                    Audition
Ice Skate                Invite
Rollerblade             Photograph
Sled                       Record
Ski                         Draw
Horseback Ride       Read
Hike                      Write
Camp                     Commemorate

I want to get a new camera and take more pictures. And get a voice recorder so I can record people's stories. And I want to read more. And write more. And read more. And write more. And go to readings. And music events. And keep writing my concert reviews for that other blog. 

I want to listen to more music: old music, new music, classical music, musical soundtracks, country, rock, gospel, and folk on record, CD, cassette and mp3. AND I want to PLAY. I want to actually play music, not just listen to it.

And I want to tend my dreams like I'd tend a garden. 

Dreams are not embarrassed of their efforts, and they don't keep to themselves. 

This year: A Big Big Love! A Big Big Love!

I mean, imagine if Wendy had actually accepted that she can't sing for a damn and kept her dreams to herself.

We would not have this!

D.P.'s mixtapes

Day Dream Rock N Roll Believer

It's cold but it's not snowing. The sun came out for the first time in weeks today, just an hour so before it was due to set. It was time for Spinning class, but I skipped it to take my dog for an early winter's walk under a streaky grey, pink, and purple sky. I just felt like being outside! We walked about three miles, when it occurred to me to attempt to walk a thousand miles next year. That's less than three miles everyday. I realized I already do that. But for some reason, I felt like I want to track my miles next year. So I will.

I put my iPod on shuffle, and for some reason, I hit repeat when "Night Moves" came on. I imagined singing it as a duet at a tiny bar with a handsome guitar player with whom I'd had a romantic history. Then I played it again and kept that little rock fantasy going. Of course I pictured myself playing guitar and looking pretty tough, too, not some coiffed up glam girl. Just a tank top, some simple jewelry, some well worn and well fitting jeans, a big belt, motorcycle boots, and my Takemine...and not slung low, thank you very much. That would be my trademark. The rocker who holds her guitar up high like those folk singers from the Fifties did. But when the song is over, I'd un-sling it of course and take my bow and do a jig, never taking myself too seriously, and always being slightly more comfortable just this side of the spotlight.

Even as a kid that song got me. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I loved the background singers, his energy, and those quiet questioning parts of the song--"longing" I guess you'd call it. I didn't know the word longing then, but I did always lean in a bit when he was "waiting on the thunder." I would picture him sleeping in his bed, then bolting upright as if he had heard something. And then just...waiting, heart pounding. And the thunder never coming.

Now I know that he did not hear something. Chances are, he thought something, and sometimes thoughts can do that to us: shaking ourselves awake, asking ourselves "Did you hear that?" 

I've been keeping late nights lately, which are making my early mornings quite unbearable. What is keeping me up at night?

Thoughts!

Thoughts of possibility. 

Thoughts of happiness.

Thoughts of resolution.

Good things are keeping me up nights, and what a welcome change that is. I had a few years where it was just the opposite. Bad things. Worries. Regrets. Fears. Profound sadness. Sleepless nights and puffy-eyed mornings. I had a couple years of finally falling asleep easily as I fell into my own, on my own, after a pleasant day on my own. The thing I remember about those days was trying just a little too hard. That's okay. Fake it til you make it, baby. That had its own special feeling of hope. And the past couple of years, I've had the easy sleep that comes when you're in love and loved back. 

But lately, I'm awake. Not in a crisis state like in U2's "Wide Awake" awake. (Damn! I love that song!) Not in that "'I just finished the first draft of my script!' jubilation of accomplishment" awake.

No, this is a Hopeful Awake.

And I'm not sure I've ever been here before. 

Specifically, there is not one single thing that is giving me hope. Not one single thing on the horizon that keeps me moving, walking, staying the course.

I've not been feeling hopeless, so it's not like I've been searching for Hope.

I have been feeling a bit confused, however.

I think it's not hope. I think it goes a step further.

I think it's trust.

I have a trust that things are going to be pretty darned good for me, and that my life is going to look pretty darned good to me.

And I have absolutely no proof of this!

It makes me want to stay up all night and write and express myself. 

It makes me want to add to that list I wrote a couple of weeks ago--my 2013 journey list.

(I added the following while jamming out and living my Rock N Roll Dreams.)

• See Joan Jett in concert!!!!

And I think I'm going to attempt to write a good rock song, not a slow, sad song, which would come much more naturally to me. But a fun song. It might be about sad news, but it's going to be funny and upbeat.

Here's how I'm going to work on that.

I'm going to listen to more good rock and surround myself with those who would rock.

Leela James got me thinking this on my walk. Leela. Leela and her beautiful afro.

Gonna change the lyrics of "Layla" (Yes! I love that song too!)  to Leela.

Other things that kept me up all night. Last night I couldn't sleep, so I watched a movie on Netflix--one from the vault because "latest and greatest" has just never been in my repertoire. "Running with Scissors." It was a memoir, pretty good, and I loved the 70s stuff. I think there was one montage too many but at least they chose good songs--"Year of the Cat" and "Blinded by the Light." I didn't think it was great, but it does make me want to read the book.

Books. Books are also keeping me up late nights. I'm reading "Getting Stoned with the Savages," a travel narrative by J. Marteen Troost. 

Blogs. Blogs are keeping me up nights. I'm finding blogs I really like, even if they aren't really that good. They're just so honest and even mundane at times, but in them, I get to glimpse into real lives, and I love it so much. I love reading about someone's Sunday and how they went to church, even though I myself am a reasonably convinced agnostic. I love reading about the snowball fight they had with their kids, even though I don't have kids. I love reading about how they hate the potholes in their streets, and how they fell in a slush puddle on their way to the office. And I love it when the next thing I know, they are lighting their grill for the first time and having a cookout, and I can actually smell it and feel the excitement of the coming spring, that first time you stand out on your deck and it's not pitch black, and the buds are just starting peek out, and you have this whole dream of summer before you, just this close. 

And I get really tempted to write blogs like that, just little snapshots of every day life, all those days that accumulate to make our life.

So I'm going to start doing that, making it part of my Journey In Place. Sometimes my theme won't be so evident. Sometimes I will not attempt to say anything astounding.

Sometimes I will just tell the plain truth, in all its magnificence and irrelevance:

Today I went to the post office and mailed off my sister's (and my niece and nephews') presents, and it felt great to learn that it would make it there by Christmas. It was a slow day at work. I finally got migrated to the new email/IM system and casually chatted with some colleagues I haven't seen in a while, and remembered just how nice it is to get along with people at work and know just a little bit about their lives. I talked on the phone at length with a guy who wants to rent my performance/rehearsal space for a few days before an upcoming gig and just really enjoyed it! Just one of those people you get along with immediately. He's an engineer by day, and lives in a cabin in the woods, was once struck by lightning and loves rock n roll! I don't usually like cover bands, but this guy has a great bluesy voice. I think I might have made a  new friend, and he goes by the name "Shock," on account of the lightning incident. I talked on the phone with a friend whom I haven't seen in a while. I made lunch plans with another friend. I looked up some things about traveling to Alaska. I listened to some country music: Lady Antebellum. I took my dog on an early winter sundown walk instead of going to Spinning. Later I saw a pic of a woman with really fit legs and wondered if I should have Spun. Nope! I made grilled cheese (provolone and sharp cheddar) and roasted pepper and tomato soup for dinner. And I dreamed of playing rock n roll in a tiny bar with tiny twinkling lights and a lively crowd.

Today was  a good day. Doesn't seem like it would be one for the books, but I'm writing about it anyway. I can't wait for the good stuff. I might miss it if I keep deciding it's not good enough to write about. I feel the lightning, but I'm not waiting on that thunder.