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Many thanks to Unluckybolte for his encouragement that I share this piece, written shortly after the previously posted poem of the same name.
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March 26, 2016.
Spring is here, but this is New York; the chill and drizzle are all but of the essence.
They persist preeminently, they affect persistently.
My best friend of three decades is three weeks from getting married and I’ve been selected as one of two best men. “Best,” it turns out, is relative; a second "best" is warranted to complement – or perhaps to compensate for – the first.
My job, other than to merely be present at the various festivities, is to say a few words at the rehearsal dinner; to elicit some laughs, to compel some tears, to convince the bride’s parents that they aren’t making a mistake in allowing their wonderful, beautiful daughter to share in holiest matrimony with this high-powered mutant I’ve called “friend” since before I knew what it meant to have one.
I can write a speech – I’ve done it before – but the words in this instance are sparse, the sentiments inarticulable.
Ticking and tocking resonate from overhead more loudly than usual; an ebullient Mickey Mouse sporting a sorcerer’s apprentice robe and cap conveys that it’s a few minutes past 3 in the afternoon.
But in the rodent’s rhythm, that murine metronome, I am lost. Tick, tock.
And then, not.
“I’m going either way,” my mother asserts suddenly, materializing from nothingness. “Please come – you really need to get out of the house.”
Right. It’s Saturday.
There’s a concert tonight headlined by the next in an infinite series of coffeehouse acts we’ve never heard or even heard of. Being season ticketholders is to partake in a grand experiment, a low-risk lottery; a smorgasbord of new music to enjoy and new acquaintances to make.
Horizons, I have found, can only expand.
And I agree with the maternal assessment; it’s been almost 30 hours since I happened upon an excuse to go outside. I’ll join her tonight, I say, but if during the performance I am able to zone out; if my mind should self-extricate from the debilitated husk it calls home and catch but a glimpse of anything resembling a respectable wedding toast framework, she should just leave me be.
From deep within a daydream, revelation.
6:58 PM.
We arrive at the concert venue: A backwoods Unitarian sanctuary, youth center and social justice stronghold in neighboring Hastings-on-Hudson. The opening act is supposed to take the stage at 7:30, but never have we as concertgoers witnessed such respect for time.
My money’s on a 7:46 opening strum; what I presume will be a strum, anyway. It could be a pluck, or perhaps a bow.
What we hear at these shows rarely departs from the seemingly all-encompassing realm of Americana; anthemic folk music. Every act we see has either worked with or is related to or is at the very least heavily inspired by Pete Seeger, a forefather of the American folk movement and founder of the Clearwater organization, the steadfast champions of environmental education and activism and of cleaning up our dear Hudson. Sometimes we get jazz – our rivertowns are home to an abundance of hobbyist and professional jazz musicians – or Latin or even hip-hip groups, but I can count those instances on one tone-gnarled hand.
Tonight’s openers we’re told are a guitar and upright bass. Or maybe a banjo and cello; the ticket lady stationed at the front of the venue isn’t sure.
She inquires to me amid the confusion: “Are you okay? You look stressed out.”
“Oh, I am,” I reply, my patented polite irritability on full display.
“Well, the headliners are really good. They sounded great during setup.”
I nod.
Well, hell. I was hoping they wouldn’t.
7:43 PM.
Charlie, the coffeehouse impresario, switches on the migraine-inducing lights he indubitably borrowed from a fellow hippie congregant’s garage and moves to occupy the sanctuary “stage” – a few square feet of floor space cordoned off by monitor and microphone cables going every which way – where he’ll offer his rundown of the program’s mission, its mode of operations.
The concert series, which runs yearly from September to May, has nearly completed its fourteenth season as a function of the Unitarian Society’s social justice committee. Every cent not put towards paying performers or replacing faulty in-house equipment is donated to hurricane relief efforts in New Orleans and elsewhere; Midnight Run for feeding and clothing New York City's homeless; even organizations in West Africa centered on constructing grain banks through which to fight the region’s food crisis.
At least two shows remain this season, Charlie divulges; three if the act who canceled earlier in the year is able to reschedule. I had nigh on forgotten about the blizzard in late January that mucked up the works.
“But you’re not here to listen to me,” he concedes, his spiel sufficiently wrapped. “Without further ado, Pluck and Rail.”
A guitar and cello appear from the back of the room along with their handlers, one moderately more hipster-looking than the other but both exuding the requisite gloom for their chosen profession.
As the openers, they haven't much time; there is little by way of introduction or banter between the two bards, only a steady purveyance of melodic melancholia.
Sleepy, soporific melancholia.
I wander into a waking repose, wondering about the theme of my toast and whether it should even have a theme. The groom is a lawyer by trade, a gamer by hobby, a sports enthusiast, a one-and-done blogger, a father to two antisocial hounds who can't occupy the same room lest the space be remodeled into Thunderdome. But how to capture with any concision our relationship, our emotional journey, our agreements and differences, our mutual fondnesses and disparate ideologies?
He and I are brothers, to be sure, though not in name or by blood.
What is it that we pseudo-siblings share?
Everything, I realize, and nothing. Tit for tat.
My mental word processor conjures something in the following vein:
Luke tosses me off a cliff in Smash Bros., I roll over his Major League Baseball 1998 PlayStation disc. He projectile spits diet coke all over my bed after an unfortunate moment in a Goldeneye match, I carrier rush his base in Starcraft. Tit is destined to be met with tat, and Luke and I have always found a way to meet in the middle.
With air units.
Inside jokes galore and enough video game references to make the actual adults in the room roll their eyes all at once, spinning our pretty planet clean off its axis and out of orbit.
This is good. This is really, really good.
As a jumping-off point, at the very least.
My wits reconvene on the telluric plane just in time for me to award a brief hand-to-stomach applause to the performers from whom I've been sitting a mere six feet away. They begin to unplug and pack their equipment, their set concluded, but before retiring issue their thanks: To Charlie for inviting them; to Bob on sound; to Marilyn for the delicious pre-set dinner; to the audience for being so lovely.
“We'd like to take you home with us,” I expect Pluck to confess as Rail offers a concurring nod. “We'd love to take you home.”
My imagination is running on fumes.
To be home, I wonder, means what? Am I not already home, tethered to my own heart? Or is home a mysticism, some grand revelation, a place I've yet to find?
I realize, as Charlie incites another round of applause for the two minstrels and invites everyone to buy their merchandise, that I haven't a clue.
The wheelhouse is vacant despite my having provided the furniture.
8:32 PM.
It's a dance in which we have received no formal training but instead rely on innate equanimity and sheer force of will to execute at each of these shows, ad infinitum.
We’re in the intermission and have self-realized as ravenous gluttons in need of sugary treats. Per habit’s insistence, my mother offers to abandon her seat and retrieve for us an equitably shareable brownie that may or may not be homemade but which will most certainly be worth all seventy five of the cents soon to be deposited into a coffeehouse volunteer’s appreciative palm.
But that is merely the suggestion; the vision; the juncture of time, space and mind.
Reality has other plans.
Inevitably, the Mad Titaness who moments ago ventured into the society lobby in search of a fragment of distinctly squishy chocolate cake now returns with a slice of pumpkin bread.
My soul is crushed – all that I love, sacrificed – but I am powerless to resist this particular temptation.
I know what it's like to lose.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
March 26, 2016.
Spring is here, but this is New York; the chill and drizzle are all but of the essence.
They persist preeminently, they affect persistently.
My best friend of three decades is three weeks from getting married and I’ve been selected as one of two best men. “Best,” it turns out, is relative; a second "best" is warranted to complement – or perhaps to compensate for – the first.
My job, other than to merely be present at the various festivities, is to say a few words at the rehearsal dinner; to elicit some laughs, to compel some tears, to convince the bride’s parents that they aren’t making a mistake in allowing their wonderful, beautiful daughter to share in holiest matrimony with this high-powered mutant I’ve called “friend” since before I knew what it meant to have one.
I can write a speech – I’ve done it before – but the words in this instance are sparse, the sentiments inarticulable.
Ticking and tocking resonate from overhead more loudly than usual; an ebullient Mickey Mouse sporting a sorcerer’s apprentice robe and cap conveys that it’s a few minutes past 3 in the afternoon.
But in the rodent’s rhythm, that murine metronome, I am lost. Tick, tock.
And then, not.
“I’m going either way,” my mother asserts suddenly, materializing from nothingness. “Please come – you really need to get out of the house.”
Right. It’s Saturday.
There’s a concert tonight headlined by the next in an infinite series of coffeehouse acts we’ve never heard or even heard of. Being season ticketholders is to partake in a grand experiment, a low-risk lottery; a smorgasbord of new music to enjoy and new acquaintances to make.
Horizons, I have found, can only expand.
And I agree with the maternal assessment; it’s been almost 30 hours since I happened upon an excuse to go outside. I’ll join her tonight, I say, but if during the performance I am able to zone out; if my mind should self-extricate from the debilitated husk it calls home and catch but a glimpse of anything resembling a respectable wedding toast framework, she should just leave me be.
From deep within a daydream, revelation.
6:58 PM.
We arrive at the concert venue: A backwoods Unitarian sanctuary, youth center and social justice stronghold in neighboring Hastings-on-Hudson. The opening act is supposed to take the stage at 7:30, but never have we as concertgoers witnessed such respect for time.
My money’s on a 7:46 opening strum; what I presume will be a strum, anyway. It could be a pluck, or perhaps a bow.
What we hear at these shows rarely departs from the seemingly all-encompassing realm of Americana; anthemic folk music. Every act we see has either worked with or is related to or is at the very least heavily inspired by Pete Seeger, a forefather of the American folk movement and founder of the Clearwater organization, the steadfast champions of environmental education and activism and of cleaning up our dear Hudson. Sometimes we get jazz – our rivertowns are home to an abundance of hobbyist and professional jazz musicians – or Latin or even hip-hip groups, but I can count those instances on one tone-gnarled hand.
Tonight’s openers we’re told are a guitar and upright bass. Or maybe a banjo and cello; the ticket lady stationed at the front of the venue isn’t sure.
She inquires to me amid the confusion: “Are you okay? You look stressed out.”
“Oh, I am,” I reply, my patented polite irritability on full display.
“Well, the headliners are really good. They sounded great during setup.”
I nod.
Well, hell. I was hoping they wouldn’t.
7:43 PM.
Charlie, the coffeehouse impresario, switches on the migraine-inducing lights he indubitably borrowed from a fellow hippie congregant’s garage and moves to occupy the sanctuary “stage” – a few square feet of floor space cordoned off by monitor and microphone cables going every which way – where he’ll offer his rundown of the program’s mission, its mode of operations.
The concert series, which runs yearly from September to May, has nearly completed its fourteenth season as a function of the Unitarian Society’s social justice committee. Every cent not put towards paying performers or replacing faulty in-house equipment is donated to hurricane relief efforts in New Orleans and elsewhere; Midnight Run for feeding and clothing New York City's homeless; even organizations in West Africa centered on constructing grain banks through which to fight the region’s food crisis.
At least two shows remain this season, Charlie divulges; three if the act who canceled earlier in the year is able to reschedule. I had nigh on forgotten about the blizzard in late January that mucked up the works.
“But you’re not here to listen to me,” he concedes, his spiel sufficiently wrapped. “Without further ado, Pluck and Rail.”
A guitar and cello appear from the back of the room along with their handlers, one moderately more hipster-looking than the other but both exuding the requisite gloom for their chosen profession.
As the openers, they haven't much time; there is little by way of introduction or banter between the two bards, only a steady purveyance of melodic melancholia.
Sleepy, soporific melancholia.
I wander into a waking repose, wondering about the theme of my toast and whether it should even have a theme. The groom is a lawyer by trade, a gamer by hobby, a sports enthusiast, a one-and-done blogger, a father to two antisocial hounds who can't occupy the same room lest the space be remodeled into Thunderdome. But how to capture with any concision our relationship, our emotional journey, our agreements and differences, our mutual fondnesses and disparate ideologies?
He and I are brothers, to be sure, though not in name or by blood.
What is it that we pseudo-siblings share?
Everything, I realize, and nothing. Tit for tat.
My mental word processor conjures something in the following vein:
Luke tosses me off a cliff in Smash Bros., I roll over his Major League Baseball 1998 PlayStation disc. He projectile spits diet coke all over my bed after an unfortunate moment in a Goldeneye match, I carrier rush his base in Starcraft. Tit is destined to be met with tat, and Luke and I have always found a way to meet in the middle.
With air units.
Inside jokes galore and enough video game references to make the actual adults in the room roll their eyes all at once, spinning our pretty planet clean off its axis and out of orbit.
This is good. This is really, really good.
As a jumping-off point, at the very least.
My wits reconvene on the telluric plane just in time for me to award a brief hand-to-stomach applause to the performers from whom I've been sitting a mere six feet away. They begin to unplug and pack their equipment, their set concluded, but before retiring issue their thanks: To Charlie for inviting them; to Bob on sound; to Marilyn for the delicious pre-set dinner; to the audience for being so lovely.
“We'd like to take you home with us,” I expect Pluck to confess as Rail offers a concurring nod. “We'd love to take you home.”
My imagination is running on fumes.
To be home, I wonder, means what? Am I not already home, tethered to my own heart? Or is home a mysticism, some grand revelation, a place I've yet to find?
I realize, as Charlie incites another round of applause for the two minstrels and invites everyone to buy their merchandise, that I haven't a clue.
The wheelhouse is vacant despite my having provided the furniture.
8:32 PM.
It's a dance in which we have received no formal training but instead rely on innate equanimity and sheer force of will to execute at each of these shows, ad infinitum.
We’re in the intermission and have self-realized as ravenous gluttons in need of sugary treats. Per habit’s insistence, my mother offers to abandon her seat and retrieve for us an equitably shareable brownie that may or may not be homemade but which will most certainly be worth all seventy five of the cents soon to be deposited into a coffeehouse volunteer’s appreciative palm.
But that is merely the suggestion; the vision; the juncture of time, space and mind.
Reality has other plans.
Inevitably, the Mad Titaness who moments ago ventured into the society lobby in search of a fragment of distinctly squishy chocolate cake now returns with a slice of pumpkin bread.
My soul is crushed – all that I love, sacrificed – but I am powerless to resist this particular temptation.
I know what it's like to lose.
