After spending that night deeply enlodged in my insanity and then discovering I had lost my glasses I decided there was no sense in spending any more time at this intersection. I sure wasn't going to leave there via hitch-hiking, and so I gathered my stuff to make the two mile walk to town.
The service road that run alongside the Interstate made for easy walking. There was hardly any traffic at all. That was probably a good thing, because I was so exhausted I could hardly walk in a straight line.
As I stumbled along past the store/restaurant with it's gas pumps and the house trailers I imagined the owners or managers living in, I wondered briefly what they might have thought of what they saw in me that morning. I had been inside the store a coupla times the previous afternoon to go to the bathroom and to buy a single cup of coffee with what little money I had. What difference they would see in the old man that had come into their domain with some amount of pride, and the creature they saw this fine Texa's morning. It was a fine morning. There was no evidence of the storm that had descended with so much havoc on my person in the twilight of the evening before. I wondered if it was coincident that I had been born at twilight within a coupla weeks of sixty-one years previous, and how I got to be in Texas on the bum instead of living in the fine house my people had intended for me to be living comfortably instead.
That wondering, that comparison started my thinking about my insanity. I had been accused of being an insane person most of my life, including my childhood. "Are you crazy boy?" was the mantra my parents and siblings adopted at an early age. I always answered no. Well, most of the time I answered no, but there were times when I wondered if they were right. As I got older the mantra only changed from boy to man. "Man, are you crazy?" Many time I considered that remark occasion for a fight. Only twice in my whole life did I ever lose a fight, so the mantra went underground for the most part. From the perphery sometime I would hear the remark, "Hey, you better watch out, crazy or not, that mofo will whip yo' ass."
After I left my first wife in the middle of the night after her lover had the arrogance to come and knock on my front door and ask to see her, I spent some time traveling, ended up in Reno, Nevada where I wrote:
"Weep and moan, weep and moan,
and cry for one's own pity.
To live this life in such a way
is just a little shitty.
It clings like putty to the soul
and begs for understanding,
but no one hears with glued up ears,
the pleas of silent ranting."
I left Reno in the middle of the night also, and on my way back to North Carolina I stopped to see an old friend, a fellow poet, who told me it was probably time to check myself in to the insane asylum. He asked me if I would like for him to call my mother. I thought about it. I thought of Ezra Pound and other poets who were considered crazy... and agreed. My mother told him she had been expecting this call most of my life, and agreed to make the arrangements for me to commit myself. I hoped I was going to my real home this time. It was only there I realized what crazy was, and for the first time in my life came to gnow I wasn't crazy. The Lifers there inside, one of whom was a childhood friend, told me so, and them, I believed.
The road to town was empty after I passed the store. I began thinking about the insanity I retreated to that allowed me to pass the night. The term insane seemed appropriate that fine morning. I am a word freak, if nothing else, and I started thinking about it's true meaning. In-sane. The storm drove me inside. There was no other place of comfort I could go on the outside. I had to endure what the storm brought; wind, water, cold, lightening. It penetrated my retreat to the overpass bridge and seem to seek me out to drench me with it's anger. There is no blame in the Chinese calling such a storm a dragon. The storm had all the attributes of a dragon I had ever read about. It was certainly as powerful as a dragon. The only sword I had to fight the dragon was the two-edged sword of discrimination, otherwise I was empty-handed.
As I plodded along on that Texas side road, I began to think of my original purpose in my hitch-hiking sojourns. This purpose came from my childhood, and the visions of that childhood that told me to obey the command of Jesus to "go ye therefore into all the world." I didn't realize the implications of going empty-handed, or not taking any money or extra clothing, but to just go, and if I found myself in some hostile place, to stamp the dust of that place off my feet, and continue on. Even though I could barely lift my feet to walk, I stamped the dust of that intersection off my feet. Of course, there was no dust on my feet. Like the rest of me, my shoes were wet.
Suddenly, I was filled with light! All my woes fell away from me. The light was that of understanding. I suddenly gnew why I was supposed to do this crazy traveling. It was to create within myself this "in-sane-ness". To create an inner sanctum to which I could retreat to weather life's storms. I gnew in that moment that I had done it, and that I had been doing it all along. Even though I didn't gnow what I was doing. I had done it!
I practically skipped my way to that little Texas town filled with great joy!
Thursday, May 01, 2003
I was dropped off a mile or two outside this town in Texas. I don't remember the name of the town and I'm too lazy to look it up. This intersection is a hitch-hiker's nightmare. It is not as bad as some intersections, there was a commercial establishment there. This place was like a general store with gas and a restaurant. They had a bathroom. It was a clean upbeat place with nice people inside, but it didn't do me much good because I didn't have any money to buy anything much.
There was a service road that ran along side I-10 that went to town, but this service road stopped not far past the store at a construction company's headquarters. On the other side of I-10 was a residential area. This residential area was the target of most of the local traffic that came out to the intersection and was apparently the reason the overpass was there. Interesting enough, the overpass had two bridges that carried traffic over the Interstate. There didn't appear to be enough traffic from that residential area, but this was Texas, and Texas is renown for doing things in a big way.
Outside of a couple of building and trailer houses around the store there was nothing but open plains behind the store to the north and west. For those of you who have traveled in West Texas, you know there is not much vegetation, almost no trees except along the creek banks and around houses where people have planted trees around the ranch houses. Lots of visual freedom, and with the humidity ususally less than 20% year round, you can see stuff a long way away.
On the northwestern segment of this intersection there were some fairly large piles of dirt that looked like it was stored there by the Highway Department. I never could figure out what they used this dirt for. During the night I was there I tried to find a place to sleep between the several piles of dirt, but I couldn't find a comfortable place to lay my head.
I couldn't find a good level place to sleep under the overpass bridges either. They just weren't set up the way most overpass bridges are.
I'm writing about a place to sleep here because in the day and a half I spent at this intersection there was practically no traffic entering the Interstate here. I think there were less than five cars that used the onramp the entire time I was there. I got to that intersection about three in the afternoon, and it became fairly obvious I wasn't going to get a ride during the night. The store closed around 6pm, and there was no reason for anybody to get off the Interstate at this intersection and get back on.
As it got dark I moved out to see if I could find a good spot to lay down under a couple of trees the state had planted. The ground was gravelly and bare of grass, the best I could hope for was a somewhat level place to lay down and use my small day pack for a pillow. I laid down and tried to adjust to the small rocks beneath me. It wasn't working too well. I found myself just laying there wondering where the hell I got the idea to go on this trip in the first place. Finally, I gave it up and attempted to read my copy of the I Ching I had brought with me as a way of occupying my mind.
These types of sojourns have a tendency to bring out the worst in one's mental life. I guess that's the reason Jesus commanded his disciples to go ye therefore empty-handed. Depending on the kindness of strangers can bring one to realize that there ain't much kindness there to depend on.
I gave up on reading, tried to meditate, but that didn't yield the desired results either. I sat up, and found myself getting morose and feeling sorry for myself. I knew this was not a good thing, and could not lead to an attitude that would serve to get me out of this situation, but it had been a long day, I was tired, couldn't really rest, and that's when I saw the lightening out to the northwest. As soon as I became aware of the lightening I felt the breeze pick up.
I could see the storm coming a long way away out there in West Texas. In the mood I was in I knew damn well it was going to hit right on top of me, and it didn't make me feel prophetic to realize that. I knew the storm was going to be a while before it got to me, so I sit there a while just to watch it coming. When the wind started howling louder and louder I knew I was in for a rough time. I started picking up my stuff and ran for the cover of the overpass bridges.
The wind grew cold. It was coming out of the northwest. I scrambled to lodge myself under the wee space up under the bridge and tried to find a spot to get away from the wind. I didn't have any warm clothes with me, and I knew if I got wet then that cold wind was going to really put me in danger.
The rains came, and with the wind blowing at about 40mph there was not way to get away from it's dampness. Under the bridge I wasn't getting hit directly, but the swirl of the wind was bringing moisture with it and I was dank to the bone. Water started dripping through the sections of the bridge above me and starting running down the slope under the bridge and there was no dry place to sit, so my butt was completely wet, while the rest of my clothes, while not saturated, were damp through and through. With the wind howling through the underside of the bridge I just got colder and colder.
The storm, with it's wind and rain lasted about an hour. I was already in a bad mood when it struck, and now I was really feeling sorry for myself, and there was another ten hours before sunrise. There was no level place under the bridge to lay down comfortably, so I just lay there with my feet pointed down the slope leading down to the Interstate at a thirty degree angle. I kept slipping down the slope in such a way that the crotch of my pants kept creeping up between my legs and pinching me in entirely the wrong places. I had to shift myself up ever twenty minutes or so to keep my pants from cutting the circulation off in my crotch.
I cursed myself, I cursed the storm, I cursed the wind, the rain, the cold, and even God constantly for the next ten hours waiting for the Sun to come up and lift my spirits. Being in a tough spot like this was bad enough when I was young and more physically able, but sixty years and a lifetime of learning better than to let myself get into these situations, really brought my insanity, always lurking, to the fore. I was alone with my insanity for a long dark night.
When the daylight finally did come, I gathered my stuff together to start the long hike into town. I discovered I left my glasses out under the trees when I had attempted to read, so I went back down there to look for them. I looked for about an hour and never found them. I was 1500+ miles away from the comfort of home without good sight. I was dirty, wet, disenchanted to the extreme, and nobody to even turn to and say "Goddammit!". What a way to go.
There was a service road that ran along side I-10 that went to town, but this service road stopped not far past the store at a construction company's headquarters. On the other side of I-10 was a residential area. This residential area was the target of most of the local traffic that came out to the intersection and was apparently the reason the overpass was there. Interesting enough, the overpass had two bridges that carried traffic over the Interstate. There didn't appear to be enough traffic from that residential area, but this was Texas, and Texas is renown for doing things in a big way.
Outside of a couple of building and trailer houses around the store there was nothing but open plains behind the store to the north and west. For those of you who have traveled in West Texas, you know there is not much vegetation, almost no trees except along the creek banks and around houses where people have planted trees around the ranch houses. Lots of visual freedom, and with the humidity ususally less than 20% year round, you can see stuff a long way away.
On the northwestern segment of this intersection there were some fairly large piles of dirt that looked like it was stored there by the Highway Department. I never could figure out what they used this dirt for. During the night I was there I tried to find a place to sleep between the several piles of dirt, but I couldn't find a comfortable place to lay my head.
I couldn't find a good level place to sleep under the overpass bridges either. They just weren't set up the way most overpass bridges are.
I'm writing about a place to sleep here because in the day and a half I spent at this intersection there was practically no traffic entering the Interstate here. I think there were less than five cars that used the onramp the entire time I was there. I got to that intersection about three in the afternoon, and it became fairly obvious I wasn't going to get a ride during the night. The store closed around 6pm, and there was no reason for anybody to get off the Interstate at this intersection and get back on.
As it got dark I moved out to see if I could find a good spot to lay down under a couple of trees the state had planted. The ground was gravelly and bare of grass, the best I could hope for was a somewhat level place to lay down and use my small day pack for a pillow. I laid down and tried to adjust to the small rocks beneath me. It wasn't working too well. I found myself just laying there wondering where the hell I got the idea to go on this trip in the first place. Finally, I gave it up and attempted to read my copy of the I Ching I had brought with me as a way of occupying my mind.
These types of sojourns have a tendency to bring out the worst in one's mental life. I guess that's the reason Jesus commanded his disciples to go ye therefore empty-handed. Depending on the kindness of strangers can bring one to realize that there ain't much kindness there to depend on.
I gave up on reading, tried to meditate, but that didn't yield the desired results either. I sat up, and found myself getting morose and feeling sorry for myself. I knew this was not a good thing, and could not lead to an attitude that would serve to get me out of this situation, but it had been a long day, I was tired, couldn't really rest, and that's when I saw the lightening out to the northwest. As soon as I became aware of the lightening I felt the breeze pick up.
I could see the storm coming a long way away out there in West Texas. In the mood I was in I knew damn well it was going to hit right on top of me, and it didn't make me feel prophetic to realize that. I knew the storm was going to be a while before it got to me, so I sit there a while just to watch it coming. When the wind started howling louder and louder I knew I was in for a rough time. I started picking up my stuff and ran for the cover of the overpass bridges.
The wind grew cold. It was coming out of the northwest. I scrambled to lodge myself under the wee space up under the bridge and tried to find a spot to get away from the wind. I didn't have any warm clothes with me, and I knew if I got wet then that cold wind was going to really put me in danger.
The rains came, and with the wind blowing at about 40mph there was not way to get away from it's dampness. Under the bridge I wasn't getting hit directly, but the swirl of the wind was bringing moisture with it and I was dank to the bone. Water started dripping through the sections of the bridge above me and starting running down the slope under the bridge and there was no dry place to sit, so my butt was completely wet, while the rest of my clothes, while not saturated, were damp through and through. With the wind howling through the underside of the bridge I just got colder and colder.
The storm, with it's wind and rain lasted about an hour. I was already in a bad mood when it struck, and now I was really feeling sorry for myself, and there was another ten hours before sunrise. There was no level place under the bridge to lay down comfortably, so I just lay there with my feet pointed down the slope leading down to the Interstate at a thirty degree angle. I kept slipping down the slope in such a way that the crotch of my pants kept creeping up between my legs and pinching me in entirely the wrong places. I had to shift myself up ever twenty minutes or so to keep my pants from cutting the circulation off in my crotch.
I cursed myself, I cursed the storm, I cursed the wind, the rain, the cold, and even God constantly for the next ten hours waiting for the Sun to come up and lift my spirits. Being in a tough spot like this was bad enough when I was young and more physically able, but sixty years and a lifetime of learning better than to let myself get into these situations, really brought my insanity, always lurking, to the fore. I was alone with my insanity for a long dark night.
When the daylight finally did come, I gathered my stuff together to start the long hike into town. I discovered I left my glasses out under the trees when I had attempted to read, so I went back down there to look for them. I looked for about an hour and never found them. I was 1500+ miles away from the comfort of home without good sight. I was dirty, wet, disenchanted to the extreme, and nobody to even turn to and say "Goddammit!". What a way to go.
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
I watched a TV show call 20/20 where they showed an experiment they did with young children about 6 years old. The purpose of the experiment was to show how males and females are raised differently. To conduct the experiment they made some lemonade, but rather than using sugar they used salt.
They served the salty lemonade first to the boys and then to the girls, and then interviewed them afterward. When they talked to the boys about how they liked the lemonade they were very forthright about how bad it tasted. "Ugh! It's terrible! It taste lousy. Don't you people know how to make lemonade?"
When they served the lemonade to the girls, every single one of them said it taste okay. Even though the camera had been on their faces showed otherwise. One sweet little girl went so far as to say it was delicious and asked for more.
Next, they gave the children presents. They had told them ahead of time they were going to receive presents and got the children excited about it first. All of them were looking forward to getting their present. All the presents were pretty disappointing stuff. Socks, pencils, notebook paper, etc.
After a little hoopla they gave out the presents and interviewed the children. The boys expressed disappointment and bewilderment that they had been led to have high hopes. But, all the little girls acted nice and polite, and said it was just what they needed. Not one of them expressed disappointment.
These experiments helped me to understand something that has befuddled me all my life. I guess this frustration I've felt was best expressed in the play My Fair Lady by the lead male careactor in song when he pondered, "Why can't a woman be like a man?" Now I finally am beginning to see the light.
In the Gnostic Gospels found in Egypt in 1945, the Gospel of Thomas contains only the sayings of Jesus. Two of these sayings seem germaine to these experiments. Saying #114 talks about how a woman can enter the Kingdom of God, whatever that is.
114) Simon Peter said to him, "Let Mary leave us, for women are not worthy of life."
Jesus said, "I myself shall lead her in order to make her male, so that she too may become a living spirit resembling you males. For every woman who will make herself male will enter the kingdom of heaven."
Saying #6 contains a real clue as to how a woman can become male, the admonition, "Do not tell lies..."
(6) His disciples questioned him and said to him, "Do you want us to fast? How shall we pray? Shall we give alms? What diet shall we observe?" Jesus said, "Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate, for all things are plain in the sight of heaven. For nothing hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered."
Females seem to be taught from birth to be nice and polite, and to tell little white lies if necessary to reach that end.
Interestingly, in the story of Percival's quest to find the Holy Grail, he meets a fisherman who directs him to a castle. Once in the castle he is treated like royalty and then brought before the Grail King, who he discovers is the fisherman he met previously. The Grail King is brought into his presence on a stretcher. He is obviously a sick man. He has been wounded and is in constant pain. Percival doesn't realize his behavior at this moment is the test to see if he will be given the Grail. He should respond to his natural empathy and ask the Grail King about his pain. Instead he reverts to his knightly code, ignores the King's condition, and says something polite. He fails the test. Wakes up the next morning to find the entire castle empty, and then humiliated on his way out of the castle.
I think this story is synonymous with what Jesus says women have to do to become male to enter the Kingdom. They have to abandon the pretense of being "nice" and quit lying about how they really feel.
How ironic it is that women constantly complain about how men will not talk about their personal feelings. They seem to be projecting their own faults on to the men they accuse. The experiments with children mentioned above demonstrates this is not exactly their fault. I guess that's why it is so difficult for them. They have been honed from birth to be consummate and polite liars, and to say the proper thing instead of telling the truth of how they feel. It seems so instilled in them that can't bring this into a conscious realization and deal with it for what it is. No blame.
Now... about putting the toilet seat down. LOL
They served the salty lemonade first to the boys and then to the girls, and then interviewed them afterward. When they talked to the boys about how they liked the lemonade they were very forthright about how bad it tasted. "Ugh! It's terrible! It taste lousy. Don't you people know how to make lemonade?"
When they served the lemonade to the girls, every single one of them said it taste okay. Even though the camera had been on their faces showed otherwise. One sweet little girl went so far as to say it was delicious and asked for more.
Next, they gave the children presents. They had told them ahead of time they were going to receive presents and got the children excited about it first. All of them were looking forward to getting their present. All the presents were pretty disappointing stuff. Socks, pencils, notebook paper, etc.
After a little hoopla they gave out the presents and interviewed the children. The boys expressed disappointment and bewilderment that they had been led to have high hopes. But, all the little girls acted nice and polite, and said it was just what they needed. Not one of them expressed disappointment.
These experiments helped me to understand something that has befuddled me all my life. I guess this frustration I've felt was best expressed in the play My Fair Lady by the lead male careactor in song when he pondered, "Why can't a woman be like a man?" Now I finally am beginning to see the light.
In the Gnostic Gospels found in Egypt in 1945, the Gospel of Thomas contains only the sayings of Jesus. Two of these sayings seem germaine to these experiments. Saying #114 talks about how a woman can enter the Kingdom of God, whatever that is.
114) Simon Peter said to him, "Let Mary leave us, for women are not worthy of life."
Jesus said, "I myself shall lead her in order to make her male, so that she too may become a living spirit resembling you males. For every woman who will make herself male will enter the kingdom of heaven."
Saying #6 contains a real clue as to how a woman can become male, the admonition, "Do not tell lies..."
(6) His disciples questioned him and said to him, "Do you want us to fast? How shall we pray? Shall we give alms? What diet shall we observe?" Jesus said, "Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate, for all things are plain in the sight of heaven. For nothing hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered."
Females seem to be taught from birth to be nice and polite, and to tell little white lies if necessary to reach that end.
Interestingly, in the story of Percival's quest to find the Holy Grail, he meets a fisherman who directs him to a castle. Once in the castle he is treated like royalty and then brought before the Grail King, who he discovers is the fisherman he met previously. The Grail King is brought into his presence on a stretcher. He is obviously a sick man. He has been wounded and is in constant pain. Percival doesn't realize his behavior at this moment is the test to see if he will be given the Grail. He should respond to his natural empathy and ask the Grail King about his pain. Instead he reverts to his knightly code, ignores the King's condition, and says something polite. He fails the test. Wakes up the next morning to find the entire castle empty, and then humiliated on his way out of the castle.
I think this story is synonymous with what Jesus says women have to do to become male to enter the Kingdom. They have to abandon the pretense of being "nice" and quit lying about how they really feel.
How ironic it is that women constantly complain about how men will not talk about their personal feelings. They seem to be projecting their own faults on to the men they accuse. The experiments with children mentioned above demonstrates this is not exactly their fault. I guess that's why it is so difficult for them. They have been honed from birth to be consummate and polite liars, and to say the proper thing instead of telling the truth of how they feel. It seems so instilled in them that can't bring this into a conscious realization and deal with it for what it is. No blame.
Now... about putting the toilet seat down. LOL
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
I've been notified that I don't update my blog in a timely fashion. Good. At least somebody is reading. It would be difficult for me to put up the front that I don't care. I do. Probably some personality flaw. But, if I didn't care, I probably wouldn't have a blog.
I had an acquaintance once who played the bass guitar most of his life, and then decided he wanted to play lead guitar. I played the tuba in the high school band and feel a deep affinity with keeping a bass line going, so when he asked if I would like for him to teach me how to play bass guitar to allow him to practice playing lead I was delighted. I played guitar for a long time, but only strummed chords to accompany myself while singing. Still, that did give me familiarization with the fingerings needed to play bass, so I didn't really start out cold and learn everything from the gitgo.
John and I had another connection besides music that helped our friendship along. We both like to smoke pot while playing music. He seemed to have an ample supply of some very good stuff, and so our practice sessions became an interesting time for both of us.
We got together a coupla times a week to get stoned and play. I was having a difficult time learning all the bass runs he had accumulated over the years, but he was a patient man, and even though I didn't play with the kind of precision he would have liked, what I did do allowed him to practice playing lead mo' bettah than he would have alone.
We didn't really have any ambitions to play in public, John and I, it was just an excuse to spend time together and have a good time. Things were going along fine until a woman friend of ours heard about what we were doing and wanted to get involved. We both knew this woman through different channels, but we both liked her as a friend, and thought it might be okay for this to happen.
We worked up a few songs that she liked mostly, and she began to talk about getting some gigs that might pay a little money, and suggested that exposure to the public would kinda force us to work harder at getting the music right. In other words, she took over the reins of us as a group, and soon enough it was not a casual gathering to socialize and enjoy each other's company, but had a purpose that went beyond individual wants and needs.
I guess John and I went along to get along. John had worked as a musician on a part-time basis in high school and college, and I had worked solo gigs during my travels on a pass-the-hat basis to pick up a little cash occasionally. Besides, she was making all the efforts to get the gigs and make it happen, so there was not much to complain about. She didn't smoke pot, and that came in as a big help in dealing with the public.
She came in one day and told us that she had arranged for us to play as the entertainment for an honors banquet for the local community college. There wasn't any money involved, but she thought it would be good experience for us, and maybe set the stage for more work down the line. We went along with her. It wasn't a big deal because we were only there to provide entertainment until the awards ceremonies started.
A somewhat startling, enlightening thing happened at that banquet. We set up early and played our small repetoire of songs we had prepared. John is not a singer, and was happy to play lead guitar in public for the first time. He got some applause and felt good about that. I played bass awkwardly and sang a coupla songs that got a little applause. And then the woman sang. The songs she chose to sing did not seem very appropriate for the situation to either John or I, but if that was what she wanted to sing there didn't seem to be much sense in trying to change her mind. The problem arose when the students at the banquet didn't stop their chatter and drool at her grand dame/bel canto efforts.
I could tell she was getting upset during the second piece. She got louder and louder, and she had totally lost her professional smile. Suddenly, she stopped singing, turned around and told John and I to stop playing, and marched right up to the head table and demanded that the community college officials shush the students down, that they were not being respectful of her talent. A red-faced college president acquised to her haughty demands, stood up, and explained to the students that they should calm down and listen to her sing.
She flounced back over to the bandstand, glared at John and I as if we were responsible for her tragedy, gave us an upbeat, and she began to sing the song from the beginning.
The students did quieten down for a while, but by the middle of the song they forgot about her being there, and if anything, got louder than before. This did not bode well. The woman stopped singing and it was time to go home. Talent seems to exist as a gift that must command respect rather than demand it, otherwise satisfaction is hardly ever guaranteed.
Needless to say this was our one and only gig. John and I tried to get together once or twice more as we had before the woman come along, but things just weren't the same. Then, he got a job outta town and we haven't seen each other since.
The woman? She's still around. Just the other day she stopped by my table at the local restaurant to feign the appearance that she was suddenly delighted to see me again. Then, she introduced me to the retired doctor she hoped would get her on the "A" list. He seemed very uncomfortable. Some things never seem to change.
I had an acquaintance once who played the bass guitar most of his life, and then decided he wanted to play lead guitar. I played the tuba in the high school band and feel a deep affinity with keeping a bass line going, so when he asked if I would like for him to teach me how to play bass guitar to allow him to practice playing lead I was delighted. I played guitar for a long time, but only strummed chords to accompany myself while singing. Still, that did give me familiarization with the fingerings needed to play bass, so I didn't really start out cold and learn everything from the gitgo.
John and I had another connection besides music that helped our friendship along. We both like to smoke pot while playing music. He seemed to have an ample supply of some very good stuff, and so our practice sessions became an interesting time for both of us.
We got together a coupla times a week to get stoned and play. I was having a difficult time learning all the bass runs he had accumulated over the years, but he was a patient man, and even though I didn't play with the kind of precision he would have liked, what I did do allowed him to practice playing lead mo' bettah than he would have alone.
We didn't really have any ambitions to play in public, John and I, it was just an excuse to spend time together and have a good time. Things were going along fine until a woman friend of ours heard about what we were doing and wanted to get involved. We both knew this woman through different channels, but we both liked her as a friend, and thought it might be okay for this to happen.
We worked up a few songs that she liked mostly, and she began to talk about getting some gigs that might pay a little money, and suggested that exposure to the public would kinda force us to work harder at getting the music right. In other words, she took over the reins of us as a group, and soon enough it was not a casual gathering to socialize and enjoy each other's company, but had a purpose that went beyond individual wants and needs.
I guess John and I went along to get along. John had worked as a musician on a part-time basis in high school and college, and I had worked solo gigs during my travels on a pass-the-hat basis to pick up a little cash occasionally. Besides, she was making all the efforts to get the gigs and make it happen, so there was not much to complain about. She didn't smoke pot, and that came in as a big help in dealing with the public.
She came in one day and told us that she had arranged for us to play as the entertainment for an honors banquet for the local community college. There wasn't any money involved, but she thought it would be good experience for us, and maybe set the stage for more work down the line. We went along with her. It wasn't a big deal because we were only there to provide entertainment until the awards ceremonies started.
A somewhat startling, enlightening thing happened at that banquet. We set up early and played our small repetoire of songs we had prepared. John is not a singer, and was happy to play lead guitar in public for the first time. He got some applause and felt good about that. I played bass awkwardly and sang a coupla songs that got a little applause. And then the woman sang. The songs she chose to sing did not seem very appropriate for the situation to either John or I, but if that was what she wanted to sing there didn't seem to be much sense in trying to change her mind. The problem arose when the students at the banquet didn't stop their chatter and drool at her grand dame/bel canto efforts.
I could tell she was getting upset during the second piece. She got louder and louder, and she had totally lost her professional smile. Suddenly, she stopped singing, turned around and told John and I to stop playing, and marched right up to the head table and demanded that the community college officials shush the students down, that they were not being respectful of her talent. A red-faced college president acquised to her haughty demands, stood up, and explained to the students that they should calm down and listen to her sing.
She flounced back over to the bandstand, glared at John and I as if we were responsible for her tragedy, gave us an upbeat, and she began to sing the song from the beginning.
The students did quieten down for a while, but by the middle of the song they forgot about her being there, and if anything, got louder than before. This did not bode well. The woman stopped singing and it was time to go home. Talent seems to exist as a gift that must command respect rather than demand it, otherwise satisfaction is hardly ever guaranteed.
Needless to say this was our one and only gig. John and I tried to get together once or twice more as we had before the woman come along, but things just weren't the same. Then, he got a job outta town and we haven't seen each other since.
The woman? She's still around. Just the other day she stopped by my table at the local restaurant to feign the appearance that she was suddenly delighted to see me again. Then, she introduced me to the retired doctor she hoped would get her on the "A" list. He seemed very uncomfortable. Some things never seem to change.
Sunday, April 27, 2003
I still try to remember the guy who picked me up in Louisiana the next morning. I remember him stopping to pick me up. I was standing at the end of the ramp leading on to I-10 where it melded into the Interstate. I had started the morning at the bottom of the ramp entrance for a while, but there wasn't much traffic there, and it seemed like mostly local people using the ramp going to work somewhere nearby. Since I was going to California I felt like I needed to go up to the end of the ramp where the main traffic on the Interstate could see me. Although the traffic was going pretty fast and I knew from experience that not many people will slow down from 65-70 mph to pick up a hitch-hiker, moving up to where they would at least see me would be my best bet.
The guy who did pick me up had a small, light green car, and when he did slow down to pick me up he finally stopped a coupla hundred yards down the Interstate and then backed up on the shoulder of the road. When I got into the car I asked him how far he was going. When he told me he was going just past Fort Worth, Texas it made me feel pretty good. That would put me more than half-way through Texas, and more importantly, into West Texas, which has always been my favorite part of the country.
I don't remember much about what we talked about on the way there. Maybe because as we crossed the Sabine River and all the memories it contained for me, I was beginning to feel better and better that I had decided to turn West from Florida and head to California instead of going home to North Carolina. Texas itself, as a political entity is not what thrills me about this area. It's just that the land changes. The vegetation especially. There is less of it, and without the trees blocking my view I experience a visual freedom that doesn't exist in the jungle-like ambiance of the coastal plains where I grew up. There is less humidity in the air, and I can see stuff a longer distance away. This is where hitch-hiking has a distinct advantage over driving. I'm always the passenger, and don't have to worry about negotiating traffic. I can take all the time I like to take in the sights along the road.
The open prairie land of West Texas is only the start of this kind of freedom. As the land opened itself up for my viewing pleasure it stirred old feelings in me of all the times I had been through here before. This was my favorite route to cross the country.
It takes a good long time to get to Dallas from the swamp country of southern Louisiana. It's a long, gradual climb from sea level to the hill and range country surrounding Dallas. When I think about this area I always think Dallas, although Fort Worth is not that far away and the two cities are often mentioned in one breath as the same entity. I've spent some small time in Dallas and not much at all in Fort Worth. It's a prominent part of my travel history. When I see the outline of the city, either day or night, my memories of what happened to me there flood my imagination. It was no different on this day.
I do remember the guy I was riding with wanted to help me. I have learned to be very leary of drivers who want to help me. It's not that they are less than sincere, it's just that they don't have the experience of being on the road to know what will help, and often, their effort to help is not helpful.
I also remember the look of that town he was going to. He was going to see his sister, and only had her address, and so we drove around that town a bit looking for where she lived. There was a big railroad depot and lots of switching tracks. The tallest building in town was no more than four stories high. The town was famous for being a big stop on cattle drives and had a coupla national heros that came from that place. I don't remember the name of the town. We finally found his sister's place. He wanted me to meet her, and had offered her bathroom for me to shower and clean up some. She washed the few clothes I had while I showered. It was the only bath I was to have for the next two weeks. This part of the driver's helpfulness was the good part. The next part of his helpfulness was not. He took me out to the western edge of town where he said there was a truck stop. This intersection was at least a mile and a half from the downtown area, and there was hardly any traffic at all. I ended up spending the night under the overpass bridge that crossed over Interstate, but hanging around that intersection is another story all in itself.
The guy who did pick me up had a small, light green car, and when he did slow down to pick me up he finally stopped a coupla hundred yards down the Interstate and then backed up on the shoulder of the road. When I got into the car I asked him how far he was going. When he told me he was going just past Fort Worth, Texas it made me feel pretty good. That would put me more than half-way through Texas, and more importantly, into West Texas, which has always been my favorite part of the country.
I don't remember much about what we talked about on the way there. Maybe because as we crossed the Sabine River and all the memories it contained for me, I was beginning to feel better and better that I had decided to turn West from Florida and head to California instead of going home to North Carolina. Texas itself, as a political entity is not what thrills me about this area. It's just that the land changes. The vegetation especially. There is less of it, and without the trees blocking my view I experience a visual freedom that doesn't exist in the jungle-like ambiance of the coastal plains where I grew up. There is less humidity in the air, and I can see stuff a longer distance away. This is where hitch-hiking has a distinct advantage over driving. I'm always the passenger, and don't have to worry about negotiating traffic. I can take all the time I like to take in the sights along the road.
The open prairie land of West Texas is only the start of this kind of freedom. As the land opened itself up for my viewing pleasure it stirred old feelings in me of all the times I had been through here before. This was my favorite route to cross the country.
It takes a good long time to get to Dallas from the swamp country of southern Louisiana. It's a long, gradual climb from sea level to the hill and range country surrounding Dallas. When I think about this area I always think Dallas, although Fort Worth is not that far away and the two cities are often mentioned in one breath as the same entity. I've spent some small time in Dallas and not much at all in Fort Worth. It's a prominent part of my travel history. When I see the outline of the city, either day or night, my memories of what happened to me there flood my imagination. It was no different on this day.
I do remember the guy I was riding with wanted to help me. I have learned to be very leary of drivers who want to help me. It's not that they are less than sincere, it's just that they don't have the experience of being on the road to know what will help, and often, their effort to help is not helpful.
I also remember the look of that town he was going to. He was going to see his sister, and only had her address, and so we drove around that town a bit looking for where she lived. There was a big railroad depot and lots of switching tracks. The tallest building in town was no more than four stories high. The town was famous for being a big stop on cattle drives and had a coupla national heros that came from that place. I don't remember the name of the town. We finally found his sister's place. He wanted me to meet her, and had offered her bathroom for me to shower and clean up some. She washed the few clothes I had while I showered. It was the only bath I was to have for the next two weeks. This part of the driver's helpfulness was the good part. The next part of his helpfulness was not. He took me out to the western edge of town where he said there was a truck stop. This intersection was at least a mile and a half from the downtown area, and there was hardly any traffic at all. I ended up spending the night under the overpass bridge that crossed over Interstate, but hanging around that intersection is another story all in itself.