The Drumming Outfit

I finally found my ideal drumming outfit. Milford circle, here I come!

In honor of...

...growing another year older tomorrow, I learned a song of Grant's that has grown very near and dear to my heart in the last few weeks. I find it uplifting. It gave me, among other things, an idea for a story, mere days after my plunge into the slough of despond not so long ago. I tried to stay true to the feel of solo Grant, rather than the Hüsker Dü original. I like the slower, more reflective tempo he uses now, though the original version is wonderful in its own right. Just faster and more electric than I am capable of reproducing.

Recorded on my Zen X-Fi and enhanced with Audio Editor Pro. I am by no means a "pro" when it comes to using this software, but I did manage to smooth off some of the sharper edges, and make it sound a bit less like it was recorded in my bedroom.

Hope you enjoy...

Flexible Flyer

So...

Funny how life can be at times. I plunge into what seems the worst possible nadir of depression, write the most dismal poem I have probably ever written, and begin to feel better.

My "I paid way too much for it" copy of Grant Hart's out-of-print acoustic CD, Ecce Homo, also helped by arriving in the post on Friday.

Saturday, I went and had a long, excellent visit with my friend Sue, and I brought my drum to show her, and we also spindled, knitted, and talked and talked and talked, as we have not had a chance to in a long time. I cherish this woman. We struggle with some of the same issues, and I know after sharing some of my troubles with her and learning I'm not alone, I feel so much better, like I can go on, the moment after my dreams have died.

And have they really died?

On my bad days, yes. I can't see past the bad day gloom and doom. It's hard to find anything that really helps in any obvious way.

On my good days, I feel differently about everything. Today, for instance, after Friday's wallow, Saturday with Sue, and Sunday dealing with a waterbed that had sprung a leak, I came home from work and sat down and wrote, in a blitz, an eight-page short story. Inspired by a song of Grant's, it began to come to me this morning while I was sitting amongst my tools and wires. I hoped it would be with me still when I got home, and lo and behold, after an hour or two, it was. I am very happy with the end result, though I know in a few days' time there will probably be a bunch of things I need/want to fix.

But for now, the story pleases me, the repairs to the waterbed have held, my bedroom is neater than it has been in months, and I feel pretty darn good.

Grant, even though you'll probably never see my blog, I still want to thank you for "Flexible Flyer." Food for thought, and catalyst for a story. My arse has been saved by music, and my response to it, yet again.

Grant Hart, Brighton Bar December 18, 2009

Any Grant fans know the name of this exquisite little number?

Grant Hart, Middle East, Cambridge MA, 11 Jan 2010 (1/4)

Never Talking To You and Flexible Flyer.

Bad Day at Black Rock

That's what my father used to say when I was little, and we'd had a bad day fishing. As I get older, though, I tend to think of that phrase, wryly, when my mood matches the sentiment.

As of today, I have 18 days let to be 47. Once again, I feel wiggy and weird about the approach of my birthday. Another year, and what have I accomplished?

If acceptance of the fact that life just has not worked out at all the way I thought it might back in my semi-optimistic youth is an accomplishment, then so be it.

But I'm not there yet. I'm still in kicking and screaming mode. Railing at fate one last time before my star -- if I ever really had one -- has faded, and I sink into anonymity.

I only know I have to say this somewhere. I don't know where else to take it but here. So, for what it's worth...

Coffee Break Musings

Be still; stand by respectfully; bow your head and doff your hat

And hearken to the wind that carries my sigh.

Listen a moment and hear,

O hear my feeble cry,

Borne on that wind as my dreams die.

Time and years have swept on by.

Why was I so unaware of their passing?

How did I come to be so old,

With my songs unsung and my tales untold?

Or is it simply

That I have sung and I have told,

But no one ever really heard?

And why do I think they’ll listen now?

Does anyone really know or care to pause and listen

As the wind blows by, bearing my sigh?

Do they matter to any, these tears that I cry

While the cruel wind tears away my last sigh?

O, won’t you acknowledge this moment at all?

Be still; stand respectfully a few small seconds,

And hear the wind fleeing away with my sighs?

Will you bow your head and doff your hat,

And hold it close against your breast

While you stand still and silent and grave,

And mourn with me as the wind swirls by?

Hear, o hear that sighing sound.

Stay close by my side and hold my hand,

And assure me there’s reason to carry on

The moment after my dreams have died.

~CP Warner~

5 February 2010