Archive for April, 2006

Holding On

Published on April 21, 2006 in Personal. 0 Comments

So, I bawled my eyes out, just sobbed uncontrollably after George drove off in my van. In his van. I expected to be sad, but this was really over the top. This felt like my brother dying; like the break-up with Denise. Selling my van made the Top Three Saddest Experiences of All Time. I feel downright depressed today. Can’t even do the weekly podcast. I tried a few minutes ago, but I actually started writing a depressing song about the van. It’s crazy, I know. I’m sure it brought up feelings about my little brother, about getting older, about having to let go of everything eventually, even Mary Alice, even life. Shit. At first, after the final wave of sobs wracked my body, I figured the experience would be cleansing, cathartic, like maybe it would clear the way for some red-hot living, some big moment of clarity. Nope. I just feel depressed, which is not the norm for me these days. Tomorrow it’s back to work, the list of chores longer, the flame dimmer. The head balder. The beard grayer. The van goner. Me deader.

Last night, Mary Alice and I rented “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” She thought it might cheer me up (I wanted to watch “Six Feet Under”). At one point, the narrator quoted The Book: “What to do if you find yourself stuck with no hope of rescue: Consider yourself lucky that life has been good to you so far. Alternatively, if life hasn’t been good to you so far, which given your present circumstances seems more likely, consider yourself lucky that it won’t be troubling you much longer.”

I know, I’m getting married in a few weeks, and I realize I’m the luckiest lug in the world every time I climb into bed with my Sweet Pea. I’m on my way, and I don’t care what God or The Universe or The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy says — I’m NEVER letting go!

A Tribute to Bessy

Published on April 15, 2006 in Personal. 2 Comments

I usually don’t carry my keys with me when I go for a walk, but I figured I needed something to put in my right pocket, to balance out the note pad and pen in my left one. I think about shit like this. Really. Now I regret taking the keys. Every time I take a step with my right leg they clink together. The sound reminds me of a clock ticking, which is not a salutary effect considering my mindset right now. I just got off the phone with a guy named George — screen name “Geo” — who just agreed to come down from Virginia and take Bessy off my hands. Bessy, of course, is the 1971 VW Bus that I’ve owned for the last twelve years. She’s been with me since San Francisco and the California Institute of Integral Studies, through the ups and downs with Denise, through the cross-country journey to North Carolina. She was with me on the way to and from Duquesne University in Pittsburgh back in 2000, as I struggled to decide between a free ride to grad school or playing bass for My Dear Ella. She was there throughout my stay at the Music House, my years of rocking out with the band. I made love with more than one young woman within her cozy confines, and I made some life-long friends there too. What’s so sad to me right now, I think, is knowing that this time next week, that van is not going to be there anymore–in the parking lot, in the driveway, just outside my window. I bought Bessy when I was twenty-three, and somehow I find myself today at thirty-five realizing that I am no longer a young man. I know, it’s just a van, but then again it’s more than just a van.

I remember being unable to clean her out and take her camping after Denise and I called it quits. It felt haunted inside. Eventually I got over it, and Mary Alice and I were able to have a few good times (and one bad) with ole Bess. From the get-go, Bessy and Kentucky have not gotten along, and I’m happy to have sold her to someone out-of-state. Mary Alice received a fellowship to the University of Kentucky, and on the way to visit her for the first time, the generator blew up about sixty miles outside of Lexington. Smoke filled the cab and I was forced to pull off the road and have Mary Alice rent a car and come fetch me. Eventually, the back and forth from Chapel Hill to Lexington was too much for me, and I packed Bessy to the hilt and headed to Kentucky for the long haul. It was December, and I had just had a heating system put in the van. The catch was that the heater was controlled by these levers under the back seat — pull ‘em out to get warm, push ‘em in to freeze. Well, the load of boxes and whatnot kept the levers pushed in and inaccessible, and I ended up with extreme hypothermia after a ten-hour trip in record low temps. A few weeks later, the only old VW shop in the area closed down. Then the left-front wheel came out of the joint and collapsed. Then the gas pedal broke off on my way work. So I used Mary Alice’s car a lot, until I got smashed from behind and her car was totaled. Now that I’m a bit more safety-conscious, I’m amazed I survived twelve years with Bessy. I know it’s time to move on, and this guy George seems like a real peach. He keeps assuring me “Bessy will be treated like a member of the family.” He’s a VW guy; can fix anything. He loves VW’s and he’ll love Bessy. I love her too. But the clink clink of the keys in my pocket is telling me it’s time for the old girl — and this not-so-old man — to move on. It will break my heart to see Bessy pulling away, never to return. Like my youth. Like my little brother. Great, now I’ve got the tears flowing.

Gone but never forgotten. A chapter ends and a new one begins, with a heavy and hopeful heart.

Bessy

The Freedom

Published on April 8, 2006 in Personal. 0 Comments

Yesterday was a big day for me. I did my taxes and was surprised to find out that a fat refund will be coming my way. Two hours later I was unwrapping my new MacBook Pro. There’s something about building this website that feels important, like it’s the fruition of a long-time struggle. I feel free these days, which is funny considering I’m working long hours at my job and I’m also getting married in a few weeks. I don’t know. I also noticed yesterday that the gray in my beard has spread far and wide in a matter of months. I said to Mary Alice this afternoon: “I wonder why I couldn’t do the things I’m doing now — recording songs, building websites, enjoying my job, living in the moment — five or ten years ago, when I longed for nothing but this kind of inner freedom?”

Freedom. It’s all pretty weird. I used to have recurring dreams about my van (a 1971 VW Bus named Bessy) being damaged or destroyed or threatened in some way. I came to realize that Bessy was a symbol of freedom for me. A home on wheels always waiting for the day I would finally let go of everything and just hit the open road. Ironically, Bessy is on her last legs, and I’m preparing to do the unthinkable — sell her to the highest bidder. I’m letting go of my old symbol of freedom. And somehow I’m coming to understand my upcoming marriage in terms of freedom — which is the opposite of how most guys figure it, I know. My whole life I’ve yearned for one thing, above all else, and it has been for the thing I now share with Mary Alice. I’ve often heard that the only thing worse than not getting what you want is getting what you want. Nothing is turning out the way I expected, and somehow I’m more than okay with that. Interesting. The day I met Mary Alice, the guys and I had a party (at the legendary Music House). I never felt better in my entire life. I had just been graced with a satori of sorts, a major epiphany or peak experience I described as “The Freedom.” I was wide open, and who should wander in but my future wife. Interesting.

It was years ago when my friends and I went to the Cat’s Cradle to see a Led Zeppelin tribute band. We walked home with PBR in our veins and fire in our hearts and the words “Head the gong” in our heads and on our tongues. Eric and I tore the kitchen apart that night, smashing apples and tearing down blinds. But I hesitated a bit. I held back, just a little. I wanted to go to bed when we got home. It was Eric who pulled me in. Since then I’ve clearly and painfully understood what it means to head the gong, and I’ve tied myself in knots trying to live up to that promise. It’s only now, all these years later that I’m starting to feel free in my bones.