Bob's Journeys
2011
Why I (don’t) Write
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
Despite its outwardly moribund appearance, this blog is not yet completely dead. However, I have to confess that after many attempts, reinvigorating this space has proved a little painful.
During its incarnation as an exploration of music and memory it managed to hold my attention fairly persistently. However, the experience of writing and publishing a book taught me something - while writing a blog was a useful rehearsal for a larger work, it is not the same thing. No matter how profound your writing, putting it on-line for free is a fast track to critical irrelevance.
Having embarked upon a second book, one more about St. John's and the weird hold it has on so many imaginations, (not least, my own), it seems nuts to spoil the dinner by putting the material out in a free snack tray. Also, many of the pieces for that book have been or are in the process of being published in the Newfoundland Quarterly. While that magazine has a limited circulation, and is rarely seen outside Newfoundland itself, it does have the virtue of existing in tangible written form. While those at Slate and elsewhere would argue the point, I have found that it makes a difference.
'What about the regular travel stuff, then', one might ask. Where are the rapturous odes to Paris, the penetrating explorations of Brantford, or snide remarks about Orlando? Well, to be honest, since the summer, I have not really gone anywhere that interesting. I have been to Toronto a few times, but it would take a more creative mind then mine to make something out of those trips - neither one was for more then 24 hours, and in neither case did my journey extend more then a few kilometers from my downtown hotel. I saw no interesting museums, ate at hotel restaurants renowned for nothing except convenience, bought nothing more interesting then a new briefcase, and talked to no one outside my immediate circle. From such encounters are very boring books written. I was in Halifax a couple of times as well, again, for less then 12 hours on both occasions. I didn't hear so much as a fiddle tune on either trip, and other then to speculate on why I am repeatedly subjected to fourth level searches in YHZ security, I could not think of a thing to say about them. I was also in Moncton for 8 hours a few weeks ago, but that trip was also accomplished in less then a day, and the only incident of even remote interest was an annoying highway detour that added two hours to the drive. Summer trips could have been interesting, but circumstances just led me in circles. Late gigs and travel snafus meant that I was in Lisbon for two days, which was just plain ridiculous. Our band trip to the Colorado Rockies offered a few possibilities, but it was instead punctuated by me somehow acquiring altitude sickness. Hard to make profound observations while lying on a hotel bed barking like a seal and nursing a brutal headache. While personal illnesses are pretty consuming in the moment, they are hardly the stuff of exhilarating literature...
Perhaps the whole blog thing in general is in trouble; a survey of my browsers' links recently led me to this conclusion. A few years ago I regularly followed a dozen good blogs, but these days most of them have drained away, or been reduced to photo and link postings. Facebook has become unbearably dull, and google+ way too much trouble for anyone either employed or older then 17. For news, shameless self-promotion and general verbiage, Twitter makes a worthy vehicle. 'To everything there is a season', as Ecclesiastics would say, and the day of the blog may have ended.
A new vehicle may have to pull into the creative driveway. Maybe it is indeed finally time to really get to work on that narrative poem linking the seal hunt, black rum, Joey Smallwood and my Grade 11 class.
Meanwhile...
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
Many people have asked me what I said to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.
I liken the moment to the sort of thing you might experience when going to a wedding as a date, one where you do not actually know any of the principals, but are nonetheless obligated to join the reception line at the back of the church and greet the couple. Such an occasion is important for everyone else in the church, but one you yourself could really care less about. Even so, politeness and mutual interest is required. Hopefully you say something clever. Usually, you don't.
The Prince has been doing this sort of thing his whole life, and knows how to work a line up of strangers. His wife hasn't. And doesn't.
The only clever thing I thought of was to offer her a sandwich, as it looked as if she could use one. That seemed like a bad idea, and I would have had to go back to catering anyway to find one, so I didn't mention it. Instead we thanked each other, for what I don’t know. And then she was talking to Alan.
More amusing was my encounter with the prime minister, a man for whom I have the greatest ambivalence. I am pretty apolitical, politicians generally make me nervous, too much forced gaiety and insincerity. Mr. Harper is renowned for his serious demeanor, and it was plain that being a royal chaperone was no more his idea of a good time than mine. Our encounter was even more awkward. The procession froze for some reason, and he was forced to stand and chat with me for a few minutes. Plainly, we were uninterested in each other. It was worse then a wedding reception line, more like a similar event at the funeral of a business acquaintance’s relative, where one has to make uncomfortable small talk about someone you didn't really know. We discussed how hot it was for some time. Then he said there would be fewer people at his party that night. I found this a little odd, and could think of nothing sensible to say other than then “oh."
Mrs. Harper must have sensed panic, because she broke in with a bright “he has a band too!"
"You have a band?", I said. I was a little surprised by this, he doesn't seem like the type. Maybe I had misheard, because he looked at me with some confusion.
"Your band...?" I enquired again, and then the conversation died away altogether. We stared at each other.
Suddenly the line lurched forward.
"Congratulations," he said to me, almost running away. Now I was even more confused. For what, pray tell? I guess he just says that a lot, it’s better than nothing.
He looked relieved when he got away from me. I could hardly blame him.
My senate appointment has yet to arrive.
Spring Mailbag
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Two years or so into this new blog, it occurs to me that I have never commented at all on the responses to the entries. No time like the present, I say. Also, the only place I have been lately is Florida, and really, what am I going to say about that? The lines at Disney were really long? Kids sure do love farting around on the beach? How come I never eat ice cram anywhere else in the world? Nothing very profound to be found there, I am afraid. I also wonder if things have gotten a bit heavy on the blog; judging by the overall tone of the comments, I am overdue something lighter. On the other hand, pleasant interactions and happy days don’t make for the most interesting reading experiences. I am a huge fan of the travel writing of Paul Theroux, who has made a great living travelling around the world in a snit. He shall be my guide.
Going back a year and change, lots of people liked my essay about the Waterford Hospital, aka ‘the mental’. Townies are still very intimidated by the place. Even though the hospital has the same blood collection and other minor clinics as the other local hospitals, they are often lightly attended. I always go to the Waterford for such things, as there is never a line-up, and there’s always somewhere to park. Most half-sensible people are either afraid to go there, due to their discomfort with the mentally ill, or out of fear that someone they know will see them coming out the door, and assume they are in for some treatment. It is a bit perverse of me, but I rather enjoy both experiences. Life is supposed to be an adventure, isn’t it?
My Irish anecdotes were much liked, but generated little in the way of controversy; someone did write in, however, to complain about slow shipping from the merch store. While the personal appeal was touching, and I am sympathetic, allow me to say here and now, for anyone else experiencing such problems, addressing merchandise complaints to the comments section of my blog is probably not the way to go about it.
Several people seemed to doubt whether skateboarding Prescott Street was in fact possible. Having witnessed a couple of likely lads attempt it in a shopping cart recently, I can attest to the fact that it’s entirely possible. Advisable – well, that’s another thing. Mind you, I have never tried it myself, although once I did roll backwards down a good chunk of Prescott on a winter’s evening, when my effort to shift gears in an aging Honda failed spectacularly. But that’s another story….
My stab at irony, with regards to the unfriendly environs of Canada’s parliament, pretty much missed the mark, I am afraid. I was aware that generally people are allowed to sit on the grass on Parliament Hill; I just thought my mock protest would be funnier. All I got for my trouble was a ringing defense of Ottawa Parks and Recreation policy. Which explains yet again why millions of people watch Jay Leno, and I am not a famous comedy writer.
I was quite happy with the piece about Kent, Ohio. GBS days are often rather aimless, and I was attempting to convey what that feels like. A lot of people get a little disoriented when they travel, when the comfort of routine is left behind. Almost all our days are like that, which is really the point I was trying to make. The way to combat travel fatigue it is to get out and find something interesting, to justify the journey as being about more than the sound-check and the gig. Otherwise, I might as well just stay home and play at Erin’s.
My essay about the different characteristics of Canadians vs. Americans drew a lot of responses from both camps. It was interesting that a lot of Americans saw my essay as critical of the USA, while Canadians were defending me from imagined American attacks. From my perspective – (Newfoundland, which is both betwixt and between) – this was a perfect example of both national tendencies. The Americans were thoughtful and tenaciously patriotic in their defense, the Canadians a little churlish and nit-picky and over-sensitive. Which is pretty much the way I see the whole relationship. To quote my friend Frank, “aaah, if only more people were like me, you’d all be so much better off”.
My most recent blogs were both round-ups of touring activities. Just to be clear, I do not dislike Seattle. If anything, I like it more than half the places we go. It just seemed to me that on a rainy Saturday morning, crazy street people were overwhelming the place. Honestly, I do not have any solutions to this problem either. On a hot day, downtown St. John’s can be a nutbar parade. And that sucks no matter where you are.
And, in conclusion, for those who asked: (1) while I might indeed be burnt to a crisp, am not done travelling by a long shot; (2) the St. John’s book is slowly coming together; (3) we are not playing the Toronto Molson Ampheatre this summer; (4) I will never write about municipal development again; (5) a cook book is definitely not in the works; (6) and it is true, while my writing for the NL Quarterly is probably my best work ever, it is pretty much impossible to find the magazine outside St. John’s and Halifax. Oh well, as with getting blood tests surrounded by crazy people, arguing with hobos in Seattle, wearing black suits in the blazing sunshine, and going to Disneyworld on the busiest weekend of the year, the perversity of swimming upstream like that just appeals to me. Once a rebel, always a rebel.
Touring thoughts...
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Profound thoughts have been thin on the ground these days. With a very lengthy tour behind us, and an indefinite break in front of us, it often felt like the last days of a very long summer. In extended tours the challenge is to make every night different and exciting, even when ennui has set in elsewhere. Calls come to change the set list, make the songs harder, the show longer, whatever it takes. For me, I just need to get outside, walk around, and feel the place. I was optimistic about this trip, after a couple of weeks in Newfoundland I crave sunlight like a potted plant. I am not gonna get much sympathy here, but for me, anyway, the cruise was not enough to fill the tanks.
Kelowna – My initial impression of Kelowna in 2011 was blurred by a serious case of jet lag. You would think that by now the hundreds of flights I have taken would have granted me some immunity, but this is not the case. Taking a late flight from Toronto that took eons didn’t help, nor did the endless overnight bus trip up and down the mountains. There is no cure for jet lag, but I have got better at recognizing the symptoms. For example, one develops a sort of second-person narrative to the events going on around you: “Aahh yes,” you might think, “while it is indeed irrational for one to burst into tears over this story about the lost puppy, it is in fact complete exhaustion that has driven you to this mental state, not any accurate reflection of your emotional equilibrium.”
Still, despite wild mood swings, I managed to get out and walk around town for a bit. If I had any conclusion, it’s that Kelowna is getting better. The first time I went there I thought it was one of the most disappointing places in Canada, a town with no real center, just a string of suburbs and malls built around a lake. Over the years, it has developed a real downtown, with the sort of density that separates cities from dormitory town aimlessness. Interesting to watch an urban space come into being. If the city is lucky, Kelowna will skip the soul-stealing mistakes of 70s era planners, and skip right ahead to half decent. Certainly it has everything going for it.
Seattle – I am never sure about this city. Seattle has always been very kind to us, but sometimes it seems like Vancouver’s richer and darker twin. They share similar weather and geography and architecture, and are so close as to represent a little micro-urban world of their own. However, Vancouver’s population has seen a huge influx of Asian immirgants, which has really changed the city’s look and feel at a street level. It is also a very young and liberal city, a place almost European in its politics and cultural values. On the other hand, Seattle has the sort of deep-rooted prosperity that makes it ever edgy and exciting. The city has a confidence lacking in Vancouver, which often gets infected by Canada’s national sport of navel gazing. One thing both places have in common is an unhealthy portion of their respective nation’s indigents. I guess a mild climate and their position at the end of the continental roads means those who have run out of other options end up there by default. Our early morning arrival in Seattle meant I shared my walk with one of the largest conflagrations of homeless people I have seen anywhere. Every alley seemed to sprout a little hobo jungle, and every doorway featured a wingnut shouting warnings or insisting on donations. I never know what to do in those situations. Once you give your change away, then what? While there is an argument for granting these people some dignity by acknowledging them and talking to them, more than once this has resulted in me being chased down the road by someone way beyond any rational conversation. Instead I just do what everyone else does – hand out money for a while, and then stare straight ahead and pretend I don’t see them. After ten minutes of that I just hate myself. There has to be a better way.
Carmel-by-the-sea – There are places in Newfoundland that have a raw and pristine beauty that takes your breath away. I have been to lots of other places that were so nice I wanted to stop passer-byes and start composing poems. There are places I have been that made me want to be an impressionist painter, so I could somehow capture their effervescence in a way that a photograph never can. None of them were as nice as Carmel-by-the-sea. Yeah, I know it has turned into a preserve for the ultra-rich, but at least there is no wall of condos down the beach, and there is both parking and bathrooms for those who can only dream of living in such beauty. When I finally finish that hit novel about biblical prophecies lost in the Brigus barrens, or pirate treasure buried under St. John’s city hall, I shall buy one of those two bedroom fairy-tale cottages with a view of the pacific and move to Carmel-by-the-sea.
Arroyo Grande – When we woke up on the bus, I discovered that we were parked literally right in the middle of a high school -the local theatre is part of the same complex. We were literally inches from the school’s band room, where a series of ensembles and individuals went for their music lessons. I hated high school with a passion, but I loved the school band. How odd it was to hear those same sounds again, a generation later. It was a soundtrack long forgotten, but as evocative as the smell of wood smoke in the fall. The farting horns, out-of-time drums and shrill woodwinds have improved little since my day, but so what? I wished those students well. While I left the Beaconsfield High School concert band with little interest in (or aptitude for) the baritone saxophone, it did stir a life-long passion for playing music with other people. The kids of Arroyo Grande should be so lucky.
Arizona – The greater-Phoenix area always amazes me. It is unmatched, at least in my travels, for sprawling wealth. Tucson is not as shimmering or modern, and much of it is downright rough and ready, but it somehow feels a little more real. Phoenix is like the rich cousin who has a job working for a hedge fund, the one with the mansion, the pool and the four cars, while Tucson is the blue collar relative who still lives out around the bay, making the best of it and getting by through effort and ingenuity. Both places stand as a monument to human possibility. Their existence alone, in the midst of a desert, never ceases to amaze me. However, as a Canadian with a passing interest in sports, it still makes me wonder who thought it would make a good spot for NHL hockey.
Durango – This was a beautiful setting for just about anything, not to mention a concert, but it is a bit of a drag that the campus theatre we played is so far out of town. Fort Lewis College is located on a mountain overlooking Durango, and it requires either an auto or a mountain goat to make the trip into town. I don’t get planners who put campuses out in the middle of nowhere. My favourite college towns are those where the school is in the middle of the town and everything flows around it. From a student point of view, it’s the best of both worlds. The town gets all that youthful energy, and the campus gets to keep its feet firmly on the ground. Otherwise, where will rambunctious boys get their illicit beer and pot, and when will shy girls mingle at dodgy downtown clubs with charming and false-hearted townies? Who will sell the youth of tomorrow crap pizza, wings, pot noodles and wieners? Where will naive students learn how to deal with rapacious landlords, or acquire dubious part-time jobs? College teaches many things besides calculus and communication. Not the least is surviving on your own in a strange town. But first, you need a town…
Travel Is Good For The Mind
Monday, February 14, 2011
A few thoughts from the past round of concerts. We have done a weird variety of gigs over the past week. Speaking for myself, I prefer it that way. While a steady run of theatres or rinks is easier for the cast and crew, it tends to get a bit workmanlike after a while. Variety is the spice of life.
Somewhat optimistically, I brought a ton of work with me on the cruise, expecting to get all sorts of things done. Unfortunately I spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the waves going by. Ca va, as we might say in more francophone parts of Canada, which in this context roughly translates as ‘I am no better off, but neither am I worse off’. Looking at the ocean rolling past can still in fact be useful. If nothing else, it lowers the blood pressure, and the sea air is good for the lungs.
I did stir myself a little, besides the various gigs and appearances we did, to make a few random observations.
Huh? - One thing that struck me was an occasional disconnect between what we were doing and our audience’s expectations. While this is nothing new, a lot of people we played for in the past little while either see us very infrequently, or not at all. This can make a show frustrating for all concerned. Now and again we feel a little like guys putting on a Disney movie, who are faced with complaints that there weren’t enough nude scenes.
For example, as I was leaving my book reading on the ship I had a weird encounter. Now, I am not complaining about the event itself, it was well attended and a lot of fun. In fact, it went so well I am considering ditching music all together and just sitting there talking about myself. But anyway, I am going down the hall afterwards, and I heard a woman behind me sniff ‘well, that was ok, but I thought the others would be there with guitars’. I almost stopped and said, ‘Really? At a book reading? Where it was advertised that I would be there by myself, reading my own book’? I wondered if she was serious, and I actually turned around, with thoughts of pointing out the inherent problem in her disappointment. She stopped me in my tracks with the sort of disapproving look my mother would have used after I had scratched the family car, or forgotten to pick up my sister after school. Plainly, I had failed.
Something similar happened at our ‘Songs Unsung’ event. We were pretty clear about what we were doing, digging deep into our collective catalogue in search of the forgotten and neglected. We even said it again at the top of the show. And no sooner were we sitting down then someone was shouting for ‘Lukey’. I felt like launching into a diatribe – ‘look, missus, we have described exactly what we are doing here on the web site, in the ads, even onstage. There are lots of songs we probably don’t play enough. There are lots of songs we should play more. There are lots of songs we have perhaps unfairly neglected. ‘Lukey’, by any possible definition, is none of them’.
Airport Hotels – I hit a few of these in the past month. You have got to wonder, is there any place on earth with more anxieties? Does anyone actually enjoy staying in these? I have seen dental surgeries where people were calmer. I am done with the species. Who can relax while the entire ambience of the place requires you to spend every moment looking at your watch, lest you miss a flight or something? You might as well spend the night walking up and down the sidewalk in front of the check-in counter.
Costa Maya – To quote dramaturge Jill Kielly, (entirely out of context, I might add): yuck, b’y.
Miami –I walked through a bunch of residential neighbourhoods, out by the airport and elsewhere. Everyone I encountered, no matter what his or her place on the economic ladder, spoke Spanish. I stopped into a Kmart to buy some socks, which I forgot to pack. All the important signage was in Spanish, as were for example, the entirety of the magazine selection. I talked to as many people as I could just to see what would happen. It was like Montreal, where everyone says ‘hello, what do you want’ in French, and then switches to English when they hear your accent. Everyone started off speaking to me in Spanish, and there is not a guy in that store who looked less Latino than me. Most of these people were not recent immigrants - when they spoke English it was unaccented and free of the sort of construction mistakes that everyone makes when they are speaking a second language.
I have travelled a lot; when English is not anyone’s first linguistic choice, it is usually a good sign that you are not in an English speaking country, or at least, a place where it just doesn’t matter that much. Welcome to Miami. I wonder if those who speak of a uni-cultural America know that there is a huge Latin city in the middle of Florida? What do people like the ranters on FOX news and MSNBC actually see when they walk down the street? Like a lot of Newfoundlanders, I love Florida, and I spend a lot of time there. Time and time again I have noticed that outside professional circles, the vast bulk of the people actually doing the tough jobs there are Latino, and are conducting most of their lives in Spanish. When the supposed first language of the place has ceased to matter in everyday life it is a sure sign that the society is changing big time. I await events there with interest.
The Norwegian Dawn – Cruise ships sure are a lot nicer when the weather is good.
Entertainment, Cozumel Style – It’s not very ‘cool’, but I like it Cozumel a lot. Obviously it lives and dies by tourist dollars, but still has somehow managed to retain a little of its dignity. The cleverness of the street vendors there astonishes me. Even though it is a cruise port, and such is mobbed everyday by a seething horde, the place never feels cynical. For example, if you actually look people in the eye, they will actually smile at you in return, a smile that says ‘it is a pity that we are both forced into this situation, of me bugging you, and you avoiding me, but hey, that’s the way it goes, right, so there is no need to be offended or take this personally.’ If you are even moderately polite, people will give you useful directions, warn you away from obvious mis-steps and even joke around a bit. In a tourist port, this is no small thing. They can be very quick-witted as well. While the touts and salespeople might be annoying, they are also a marvelous source of free entertainment.
For an example, I overheard this pitch to a very elderly couple, hobbling along in front of me: “Are you on your honeymoon sir? You should buy something for your pretty new wife…”
One guy, bowing graciously, ushered me in to his stall with this inspiring enticement: “I have the best useless junk and tourist crap on the Island…”
Seeing his competitor fail, the guy next door told me: “Do you have children senor? If you really loved them you would buy something here as a gift.”
While passing a bar, the waiter suggested that I “come in, sir, and join these other sad alcoholics here for a drink…”
One ambitious cabbie followed me for 30 feet, trying to persuade me to take a ride. Finally I stopped and used my standard line on such occasions: ‘I can’t take a taxi, I am too fat, I need to walk’. While this may or may not be true, it is the last thing they are expecting, and it has gotten me a laugh or two all over the world. Not this guy. His replay was instant – ‘Then you should carry this shopping home to my wife for me, senor, the exercise will be good for you’. Uhh, fair enough then.
On the way into town I passed a dozen souvenir stands right near the center. The proprietors were a couple of kilometers from the cruise ship docks, and thus had been forced to become more resourceful. All of them were very persistent. I had to say ‘no thank-you’ to each one individually while offering apologies and encouraging sounds, and actually shake hands with three different guys. Not five minutes later, after a loop of the town square, I was on my way back past the same market. I feared a repeat performance of my tedious promenade, but instead they upped the ante considerably. Each stallholder in turn jumped out and greeted me as an old friend.
“Welcome back, welcome back, amigo…”
“Ah, I have awaited so long for your return…”
“Senor, I knew you would visit me again one day…”
“It is so good to see you once again, I have missed you terribly….”
And so on. Absolute genius. I bought the sombreros
A Year of Travel
Monday, January 10, 2011
For many reasons, some professional, some personal, I travelled more this year than I have any other year of my life. I was on a plane on January 3rd, 2010, and my last flight of the year was on Dec. 30, twelve months later. There was not one chunk of two weeks in between without a flight, over 100 for the year. And this does not count thousands of miles by bus & van, and the odd train trip for good measure. I travelled so much it utterly ceased to become remarkable. Somehow all this motion became normal. I have been home for two weekends in a row this Xmas, and that in itself seems strange. And though I should be exhausted and sick of it all, I am not. Instead I am plotting more escape. I am beginning to think there is something wrong with me.
I have been to so many different places it seems hard to believe. The band started the year in New Orleans. This turned into an odd experience at a bunch of levels. We went there to find new inspiration, only to discover that we had already been inspired before we left, and really, we might not have bothered for all we achieved there. The city was freezing cold, something for which we were ill prepared, and the time passed slowly. It is all like a dream now, wandering home late at night along Magazine Street after aimless recording sessions, drinking wine in a huge old house while listening to the wood creak, waiting in the rain for non-existent cabs, walking lonely Garden District streets that seemed to have been forgotten even by their residents. The music became secondary to the experience, but that is often the way. Travel is never exactly what you think it will be, a lesson I have learned over and over again this year. New Orleans was supposed to teach me something, although I am still sure exactly what.
Before I could get my head around all that, we were off to Vancouver for the Olympics, a whirlwind of flights and shows and interviews. It has not often that we have been bit-players in a larger - a much larger drama, and it was a good experience. I have never liked Vancouver itself much; the dichotomy between the beautiful geographic setting and the often depressing streetscape has always bothered me. However, the city transformed itself for the Olympics, becoming the sort of lively and exciting place it always should have been. It felt like Montreal in the summer, or Florence on a good day, and it was wonderful and hopeful and proud of itself. I have been back a few times since, and the glow has not yet worn off. I hope it doesn’t, Canada needs Vancouver to be itself. Vancouver should be a beacon of greenery and youthfulness and playfulness and optimism, and for a while it was.
And then there was the tour, the endless tour, which started in March and continued on and off until Xmas. All the provinces and most of the States were touched this year, so many that it felt like a merry-go-round, one which flung us on and off at increasingly random points. More than once I woke somewhere in parking lot, and peered blearily out a bus window, and had to pause for a long moment and think ‘where am I?’ The answer was always the same really, ‘here, where we are going to do a show tonight’. And for those who came to see us play, that was usually enough.
In between, I walked around enough cities to actually wear out two pairs of shoes. Besides St. John’s, Paris, Helsinki, New York, Orlando, Puerto Morales, Cavendish PEI, and Toronto were all long-term stops. I only wrote something sensible about Paris, but all of them taught me something. I am sure there is more, but right off the cuff, I can think of three things. One is that there is always something to see, even if it is just the end of your own driveway. I have often been a little disappointed this year, but not often bored.
Second, I have pretty much completely ceased to care about my stuff. This year, due to tight airplanes, cramped buses, hurried hotel exits and general stupidity, I have blithely lost or abandoned half my wardrobe, a small library, an octave’s worth of harmonicas and tin whistles, several pairs of sandals, my iPod shuffle, a pair of sun glasses that I was very fond of, three cell phone cables, and more toiletries than any heterosexual man should own. Whatever constant travel did to create this zen like attitude was cemented by the Hurricane Igor, which washed away all our studio gear and a good chunk of my instrument collection. Insurance will replace the investment, but I am finding it really hard to care about the stuff itself. I have been having a recurring mental conversation that starts with, ‘oh shit, I just lost my _____’, and ends with something along the lines of: ‘Actually, I still have two fiddles – do I really need more? And who needs their own blow dryer anyway? Or, really, when am I going to read that Steven King novel again?’ Time to stop collecting.
And, third, Niagara Falls is just Blackpool or Brighton with a waterfall instead of a slimy beach. Once you realize that it makes a whole lot more sense.
There is a school of thought in India that says when a man reached a certain age, when he has taken care of his family, and fulfilled his obligations to those around him, he should take a bowl and a dhoti and head out on the road, to spend the rest of his days as a wanderer, finding succor and enlightenment wherever he may. Twenty years ago this seemed absurd to me, and I am still a very long way from that point in life. Still, it is starting to make a whole lot more sense. As my favourite writer said, ‘further in, and further up’.
The rising sun beckons.
