The Wishy Blade

It's 9:16 AM, and I have just woken up from a very strange dream.  

Walking home from the far Northern end of Court St. in Keene, a street vastly different from the one in reality, I crossed a rope bridge.  On the rope bridge laid the broken remnants of two pistol holsters, which I gathered, imagining their use in a halloween costume.  Also, a thin, silver sword,  partially sticking out of its sheath. I picked that up, too.  Halfway across the bridge, I suddenly grew anxious and started running.  After all, what if the person/s who had left these items came back?  The only thing I knew about the previous owner was that he/she/they carried guns and a sword.  Not reassuring.  At the end of the bridge (which ran alongside the road) I heard behind me the distant thunder of a motorcycle, and in slight panic, dropped the sword down into a small, muddy, tributary of some larger river.  Perched plainly on a flat rock was your stereotypical hobo, complete with bindle and scraggly beard, and he looked to where the sword fell in the water with excitement.  "No!" I cried, coveting the thing already, and jumped over the rail of the bridge into the water, and retrieved it.  As I picked it up, the blade cut my hand, and I noticed the contrast of red on the silver steel.  

Now the motorcyles (they had multiplied by this time) were closing in on me, and I jumped over some shrubbery to hide.  Gruff biker voices shouted at the hobo, who honorably covered for me (hobo code?).  I began to run.  Bursting though the foliage and back to a busy road, I looked desperately for a way to put some distance between my pursuers and I.   A small coupe, Toyota maybe, was pulling out of a gas station.  I jumped on the back, holding tightly to the thin roof rack, knocked on the window as though this were sane, and said, "Go!"

But we were stuck in traffic.  A few cars behind me the biker gang was revving their shit and generally freaking me out.  This must be a magic sword, I thought, or else they wouldn't want it so badly.  I closed my eyes and wished upon the weapon that my two-doored steed would go faster.  Nothing happened.  In a violently helpful sort of way, the lead biker called out, "The sword demands a sacrifice!"  Of course!   I cut my finger on the sharp edge and wiped the blood on the side, and wished again.  Suddenly, the car I was riding leapt forward through the traffic, and we were free.  Again, and again, I wished to go faster, until my eyes closed from the wind, and I felt as though I was flying through a wormhole in the universe, a vortex through time and space.  When I opened them I was not riding a car at all, but being piggybacked by a  beautiful blonde woman I do not know.  She had carried me to Paris; the Eiffel Tower stood erectly in the background. 

She turned to me, and cutting her hand on the magic blade I was still holding, she said, "I wish we were more than just friends," then kissed me.  We made out passionately until I awoke.

That's it.  Altogether, it was a pretty great dream.  I think I should sell the rights to Warner Brothers.  They'd turn it into a trilogy, and it would be called The Wishy Blade.  

Question:  dreams can be tedious for those who didn't experience them, but the temptation for the dreamer is to share it anyway.  Interestingly, if I had said that The Wishy Blade was a vision I had while on Peyote, it would take on a completely different meaning.  Both dreams and hallucinations are usually outside the realm of our control, and yet I feel that people are quicker to dismiss dreams as random, or inconsequential.  Perhaps it's all in the storytelling... 

So, the question is, do you think dreams are better translated in mediums other than the oral tradition?  Does a dream have more impact when recreated on film, or written down as a story than when simply told?  

Should I start a dream club?

Potential mission statement for The Dream Club:  to explore the personal response to dreams through artistic renderings and interpretive introspection, to study the patterns and potentially plethoric purposes behind dreaming via the artistic-scientific approach, to dream bigger, better, longer, scarier, sexier dreams every night.  

A music review of sorts: Lonesome Lake, Ken's Last Ever Radio Extravaganza, Diane Cluck

Wednesday evening I attended the second show of the Colonial Theater's new Backstage series, in which the entire audience is seated, literally, backstage.  For those who've never been, the Colonial is a restored stage theater built in the 20's and renovated extensively in the 90's, and has been working as a community non-profit ever since.  

I think the demographic in attendance to the Colonial's usual fare has become somewhat predictable over the years, and the Backstage series is trying to bring a different kind of show, and a different kind of crowd.  Unfortunately, they're sending something of a mixed message: the fifteen dollar price tag is approximately ten dollars more than a college student or working twenty-something is willing to spend on a band he/she's never heard of.  

I bucked up, and coughed it up, primarily because some friends of mine were opening.  And it was nice - the empty theater served as a memorable backdrop.  Facing away from the rows or ornate stenciling and dimmed chandeliers, faced away from so much space, the performers seemed vulnerable.  I couldn't help but feel as though there was a statement being made, something just short of apparent, a spacial analogy for the generic counter-culture. 

First up, Lonesome Lake, a trio of mismatched looking characters did what they do best: that is, make good music, a blend of old-time Americana and the newer Indie sound.  The low throb of Jeff Murphy's standup bass permeated the air, high in the mix, as he sang backup vocals and thumped away with the casual effort of a true professional.  Bjorn Delacruz inevitably draws eyes as he draws his bow; his notes at first as undetected as the arrival of a garden snake later pierce the heart like cobra poison.  In the center was G.G. Moore, somehow looking both the toughest and the most sensitive of the trio.  Something in his posture lends to the image that this is a tormented man, but mostly it his lyrics that lead us to conclude Moore is at the center of an existential crisis.  

I could go on, but it would be unfair; I am both a fan and a friend of this trio, and any review I make could be accused of being biased.  I suggest you listen for yourself.  

After their set I walked through the dark rows of the main theater to stretch my legs, and get some water.  Upon returning a strange sight beset me:  the instruments and amplifiers had been cleared away and replaced by a small, circular wooden table designed for one, the kind you would see at any coffee shop.  A short man with a shaggy mop of curly, iron grey hair set up his laptop, from which a spattering of multi-colored wires fed in and out between adaptors and battery packs and something else (effects pedals?).  On the square of carpet next to the table was an open discarded backpack, and a liter of water. 

The short hippyish man sat down in a chair set at the table, leaned over into a microphone set close to his body, and quietly said, "I'm going to make some sounds.  I hope you like them."  Then, for the next half-hour or more, he barely moved.  Over the PA something like a harpsichord slowly grew in volume.  A couple sitting front and center chatted gregariously, unaware that the "show" was underway.  Who could blame them?  The techies hadn't even dimmed the lights.  The man with the laptop wasn't wearing shoes, and one of his wool-socked feet was folded under his opposite thigh as he stared at the monitor making minute movements on the keyboard.  He looked like one of millions, sitting at a coffee shop, doing research for his graduate thesis, or emailing his friends on the West Coast.  

I wondered: is he going to read poetry?  Is this a performance piece?  I craned my neck looking for a loop pedal, a sampler tucked behind the laptop, anything to explain what this may was going to do other than sit at his computer silently, barely moving.  He raised his hand to his chest, placed it upon his grey sweater, and I was sure this was the moment something was to happen, that he would burst out singing, or start an interpretive dance.  He plucked some lint off his grey sweater and gently lowered his arm.  A spot of heartburn, perhaps.

Now, I'm no stranger to experimental music.  Some I've enjoyed, some I've not, but I've always recognized that music was being made, that some effort was being expended. Knob-twisters, button-pushers, beat-matchers are all easy targets, but it's difficult to deny the creative process its myriad outlets.  However, there is a limit to the graciousness an audience grants it's artists, like suspension of disbelief.  This relaxed gentlemen, his hair just covering his eyes, could have been on Facebook for all we knew.  Nevermind the fact this kind of music isn't everyones cup of tea; there was no evidence live music was being played at all.  

The harpsichord (or whatever it was) started to change, some notes being played in reverse, and other sounds started to invade the mix, not necessarily in the same time or pitch.  I realized that this was it, this was the whole shabang.  As soon as it occurred to me, I glanced around to gauge the audiences response.  The couple in front was still chatting away unabashedly, to the chagrin of more serious listeners behind them.  A few others like me were scanning the crowd for understanding.  Most stared in varying states of intensity at the small shaggy-haired fellow sitting comfortably at his computer, as though he was doing, or about to do, something of interest.

After about ten minutes, two men in the otherwise empty row in front of me started to mumble to each other, clear signs of dissent.  They were dressed in working men's attire, and drank $4 beers from small, plastic cups.  Another five minutes, and the one on the left said to the other, "On three?  Three."  and they both got up and left.  I envied them their right to judge, their capacity to walk away.  As a musician myself (and I consider myself open to new experiences) I felt obligated to take this man very seriously.  Across the aisle, I noticed Eric Gagne of the folk duo Redwing Blackbird had his eyes dutifully closed, to better listen to the soundscape, or perhaps it was a clever cover for a nap.  After the chatty couple had been asked politely to quiet down, another gentleman started squeaking his wet sneaker in time to the music.  The lack of visual stimulus was taking its toll.  

I had been crying with silent laughter.  The sheer absurdity of this unexpected performer was  producing in me a succession of different reactions, like the five stages of grief.  After the humor left me and the music showed no signs of ending, I wondered if Diane Cluck (the headliner) had brought the shaggy-haired man as an endurance test to weed out potentially unhip patrons.  No, I thought, and a deep profundity took shape around him, a swelling feeling that, yes, I understood now what all this meant.  It was a statement about the isolation of man inside technology, the loneliness of global connectedness and communication.  Look at him, alone on a stage, shadowed by a gigantic empty theater, the center of a universe no one can see, the antithesis of "rock star", the embodiment of average man, look - he is every one of us.  

The music played on and soon this stage ended too, and I realized that no matter what grand statement this man may have inadvertently been making his music was fairly unoriginal and boring.  I had been right earlier.  It was simply an endurance test.

When the harpsichord returned and the man spoke into the microphone to tell us in his odd way that he was finished, I did not feel proud for having survived.  I was ready to hear Diane Cluck.  

She was great.  

Epilogue:  I spoke to the short, curly-haired after Diane played, and he was nice, and humble.  I signed his mailing list, feeling like a liar.  Check him out here.

The not-so-funny funnies

I never really liked the comic strip Peanuts by Charles Schultz.  It never felt comic so much as depressing, and not in a "life sucks, ha ha ha" sort of way, but in a real sad, hopeless way.  

Here is a strip so depressing, it actually is funny. 

Check out Garfield minus Garfield here.

If this alteration of Jim Davis's otherwise bland strip is the epitome of comic depression,

The Perry Bible Fellowship must be schizophrenia.  No joking aside, it is probably the weirdest and funniest strip I've ever read.

check out PBF here.

ST. VALENTINE: TWISTING LITTLE KIDS SINCE FOREVER

Would you be my Valentine?  I'm not positive what it meant when I was six or seven, but I remember attaching a strong sense of social standing to those small folded pieces of paper we dropped into our construction paper heart-pockets.  We let our favorite cartoon characters express the love and affection those of us who are too shy, or too passive-aggressive, to express ourselves.  That, at the time, was all of us.  Ahh, grade school.  

Early in our social careers, the importance of romance is stressed as a sign of well-being, status, and forward personal momentum.  We counted our Valentines like dollar bills back then, the most popular children banding them in stacks of twenty-five.  Collecting crushes is a human past-time, one that can be difficult to stop practicing once you've gotten a taste:  Like the man-eating lion, steal someone's heart, and all you want is more.  

And we thought we were learning how to read and write.  

School Book Review

John Elder Robison’s memoir, Look Me In The Eye, is very logically organized.  That is, in an outline, the topics follow a sensible progression.  The first third of the book details Robison’s childhood, the second, his life as an adult, and the third digresses: he pontificates his thoughts on marriage, having children himself, coping with aspergers syndrome, and coping with the death of his father. 

Unfortunately, this logical flow lacks the aesthetic poignancy a more focused memoir could have.  This is no doubt in part, or in whole, because of Robison’s Asperger Syndrome.  His inability to navigate the subtle social cues, and irrational quality of some emotion is a major them in the book, and the book itself is a representation of it. Filled with fascinating stories, and hilarious misadventures, but ultimately lacking in profound reflection, the book reminds me of a rock star’s memoir.  Rather than provoke the extraordinary from the ordinary, Robison has led a fascinating enough life to simply throw it on paper.  In fact, Robison is something of a rock star, albeit a nerdy one.  An electronic creative genius.  His intrument?  His brain.

Though evidence of his Asperger’s showed at a young age (though at the time it had not been given a name, and was badly misdiagnosed) it is difficult to tell how much John Elder’s tumultuous family life effected the progression of his condition.  His father was a drunk, and his mother suffered from psychosis.  John’s brother may have bore the brunt of their substandard parenting; John himself succeeded in abandoning ship sometime before the most disturbing episodes recounted in Augusten Burrough’s memoir, Running with Scissors.

Along with a penchant for questionably amusing practical jokes (including a fake hanging) Robison also developed a talent for electronic modification during his younger years.  His ability to manipulate sound equipment became valuable after he quit school, and began working with the band Fat.  Eventually, Robison became a formidable player in the music industry, and began creating the special effects guitars used by Ace Frehley of KISS. 

Rock n’ Roll can wear anybody out, and desperate for regular pay, Robison doctored a resume and got a job designing toys for Milton Bradley.  As an engineer, his special skills were put to use, and he was happy.  Later, as an executive in a variety of other positions with other companies, his social setbacks became clear, and he was not. 

John settled finally in the business of refurbishing and reselling classy automobiles.  His first marriage ended, his second began, he learned to be a father, and more or less, he lives happily ever after now. 

In the last few chapters, John Elder speaks often about the relief he felt after being diagnosed late in life with Aspergers.  Inadequacies he had felt all his life about lacking legitimacy in academia, and feeling like an outcast have finally been dispelled as John has gotten proper support and understanding.  He explains in part some of the idiosyncratic systems he employs in social settings as an Aspergian, and implores the reader to take the time to better understand the disease.

Robison’s memoir isn’t just about Aspergers; it’s also about anybody who grows up feeling as though they don’t fit in, anybody who fails to play social games well.  It is a testament to the power of will.  Not all the early misfits of the world have Robison’s intelligence; and in this, he becomes a poster child, a success story, the American Dream even.  Here is a man who, after dropping out of high school, has suceeded using sheer ingenuity and smarts.   

Over-diagnosed, Over-medicated

A great deal of words and acronyms are used in defense of our behavior.  In this fashion, a diagnosis has frequently come to sound like an adjective, not a disease, or condition.

"That kid is totally ADHD."   Worse still, "Somebody get that kid some Ritalin."  

In class, it was mentioned that studies claim roughly between 30 and 40% of the population are likely to have a clinical anxiety disorder at some point in their lives.  Here is another speculative statistic:  I venture that 100% of the population is likely to experience, at some point in their lives, the feeling of anxiousness. 

What we decide is a disorder is up to us (or the folks who write the DSM).  There are no definitions handed down from high, no universal truths in psychology. To say that 40% suffer from an AD is ludicrous, and indicates an immediate need for reevaluation into the criteria used to diagnose it.  At this juncture, the risk of medicating people who fall into a normal spectrum of emotion is extremely high (which certain invested interests will have no problem doing).

Life is prepackaged with a sophisticated and individual array of dilemmas, blockades, and tough decisions. There is nothing abnormal about that.  For some, the obstacles are much greater than others, and the odds for fulfillment much smaller.  Sadly, it is often those of us born into greater financial privilege that are quicker to subscribe to medication.  Rather than reflect on unwanted situations we create for ourselves, we attack the problem chemically, altering our personalities to fit them.  Rather than find the right hole for the right block, we're just sanding the edges of the square and jamming it into the circle.

(Equally sad, much sadder actually, those of us who need medication are often the ones who cannot afford it, or cannot be depended upon to take it)

In class, Professor Welkowitz wondered if our generation of inclusion allows for greater openness in regards to psychological issues.  If this were so, the increasing rate of diagnosis for particular disorders (anxiety, depression, etc) would be directly connected to an increased awareness of, and decreased social resistance to these problems.  I am highly suspect of this viewpoint.  

As is evidenced in Malcolm Gladwell's book The Tipping Point, social awareness of suicide can increase reported cases of suicide in a localized area.  I believe grouping emotions as symptoms and labeling them disorders is a practice likely to attract thousands of sensitive individuals who thought they "were the only ones" coping with these kinds of problems.   From here, the effect snowballs.

I fear that my generation is quick to subscribe itself to psychological conditions in the same way one might subscribe to a religion, relate to an ethnicity, or identify with a subculture.  The myriad abuses probable in a world of over-medication is what I fear most.

It begs the question: Is there a drug in the planning phase for my Pharmacophobia? It's okay if there isn't.  I think I'd rather take the sugar pill.

DRUGS VS BOOKS: The Eternal Debate Rages On!

Seven months ago, I quit smoking.  I smoked between a half-pack to a pack a day for eight years.  The fear that I would not be able to quit was terrifying: having felt simultaneous shame and relief after a previous failed attempt, I wasn't sure I could go through the process again.  

I forget now if there was a specific moment I committed, because I was generally aware of how miserable I was making myself every time I smoked.  I decided to use a two-pronged tactical method of stopping.  To reduce the physical sensation of withdrawal, I used the drug Chantix.  To break down the psychological addiction built brick by brick for eight years, I did what those who know my stubborn distaste for this type of literature never imagined I would do: I read a self-help book.  

Allen Carr's EasyWay to Stop Smoking, by (you guessed it) Allen Carr, is a book that from the outset looks dubious.  The brand-name title struck me as presumptuous, especially as a long-time smoker.  Flipping through doesn't help - skimming reveals passages you have heard a thousand times, worded a thousand ways, from a thousand relatives and concerned passers-by.  In fact, the book is badly written.  It's repetitive and boring.

But it worked.

Essentially, Carr's method effectively anti-brainwashes you with a vigorous, healthy brainwashing.  By the time you quit, Carr has derailed all your usual excuses and rationales for doing it.  If you go to his webpage (there is a link to it in the previous paragraph) you can read all the melodramatic testimonials various celebrities have given the "EasyWay" over the years.  I would add my own here, but my pride won't allow it.  Just look at the website.

Meanwhile, the featured side effect of Chantix as described by the accompanying pharmaceutical literature, and attested to by my ex-girlfriends mother, are horrible nightmares.  For me this was not the case:  it admirably reduced withdrawal symptoms and knocked me into a deep dream-state for eight hours every night.  I even awoke feeling refreshed.  I considered saving the extras for restless nights.  

My two-pronged attack was successful. If I were to rank the importance of each maneuver though, I believe the book contributed 95% of the victory.  

Cigarette addiction is mostly psychological.  Consider: I still occasionally have dreams where I smoke.  It's not because nicotine is still coursing inside me.  It's because eight years is a long time.  Eight years of association, memory, and habit won't just go away.  I'll probably have smokers dreams for decades.  But I'm okay with that.

The Chantix,  though helpful, started to feel like its own addiction.  Even after only three weeks, I started to get nervous if I hadn't had my dosage.  I wondered if I would break down without it, if all my success was only because of a pill, a manufactured hormone, replacement confidence.  Despite the drugs ludicrous recommendation to be taken for up to a year, I stopped taking it after three weeks.

I recommend the book to anybody trying to quit.

    

Phelps! I need somebody! Phelps! Not just anybody!

Having worked in a photo lab, I know firsthand the number of pictures young (and not so young) people take while doing drugs.  Mostly it's underage drinking and smoking the reef, but sometimes I'd see something particularly stupid, like folks posing with homegrown plants.  There is a limit to what is overlooked, but if you reported all of it to the cops, half of Keene State would be at Westmoreland County Farm.  Or at least not be in college.

Considering the vast amount of photographic evidence of drug-use that exists and is not investigated, it would be a bunch of bullshizzle if Michael Phelps was arrested (if you don't know anything about the olympic medalists recent psuedo-scandal, click here).  If his endorsements abandon him, so be it.  That's what you get for being an international celebrity who isn't careful about having his picture taken.  But jail?  

Some have brought up Phelps status as a role model, claiming this surely obligates him to some sort of punishment.  To this, I can only wonder why it is we choose professional athletes as role models anyway.  They play sports well; I see no correlation to moral fiber.  And what's a little weed compared to Kobe's rape allegations?  Or the OJ Simpson trial?  

On a note of local news, NH state rep (Dem) Steven Lindsey is working on a bill to decriminalize marijuana in quantities up to an ounce.  Lindsey can often be seen about the town of Keene, usually gnawing (or maybe the proper term is gumming - I forget) persistently at a cigar butt.  The biggest effect this bill could have, I imagine, is on the dollar amount the city collects from possession and distribution fines.  For that reason alone, I suspect it will not pass.  

  One fellow is quoted in the Keene Sentinel article on the subject, as having seen, "countless examples of young people unable to hold jobs or care for their children because of frequent marijuana use."  

I've seen countless examples of people unable to provide for a multitude of reasons, and can't help but wonder if those who fail because of marijuana wouldn't replace the substance with alternative reasoning, were weed not a readily available excuse.