Music Musings

Music has been a huge part of my life.  It may not have been around my entire 24 (almost) years of existence, but it has been a very influential part nonetheless.  I wasn't raised in a musical household.  I was never forced to learn a musical instrument.  Every musical path I've chosen in life has been the result of me choosing it for myself.

My Mom played harmonica in college, and occasionally played piano maybe once a week in our house in Waynesboro, VA, but growing up in that home didn't really immerse me in an environment that acted as a catalyst to my search for musical knowledge.  And when I would visit my Dad, he would play Zeppelin, Police, Genesis, DMB, Shawn Colvin, and Dire Straits on his stereo and ask me questions like, "What song is this?" or "Who plays this?"  My Dad never played a musical instrument, so that atmosphere was more of a "Rock Appreciation 101" of the most basic variety.  I learned who played what songs, and I enjoyed them, but again, it never really fueled my passion for wanting to learn to play.

But it may have been the combination of both worlds that led me to pursue a musical passion.  I started learning to play music in 6th grade, but didn't really appreciate it until I was about 16.  I started actually listening to the music, picking up on nuances, and really feeling the grooves.  I guess that would mark the beginning of my enlightenment towards music.  I got the feel for rock and jam bands from my friends, punk (true punk, not that emo-whiny shit) from my brother, classic rock from my Dad, '70s funk and dance from my Mom, and hip-hop from the omnipresent media.

College came, exposing me to new artists and even more appreciation of the artful endeavor.  Tons of alternative, ska, smart rap, experimental, folk, screamo, and of course the over generalized "indie."  And since I was a freshman, music has been constantly influencing me, even out here in the real world.  I support those poor, starving, local artists whenever I can, I love going to see bands I've never seen or heard before, and I've got tons of friends here in the local music scene.  And up until last week, I was a regular part of it myself.

If you're a friend of mine, or maybe just an acquaintance, you no doubt know that my band, The Long Drive, will be ending shortly.  I won't go into the reasons why here (you can find that information here), but it nevertheless was a devastating blow to my person, ego, passion, lifestyle and career.  I no lie almost burst into tears on my drive back from the practice where we came to terms with our fate as a band.  However, a portion of me is...well...relieved.

Over the past few months, I have started to realize that maybe our band wasn't meant to be forever.  I loved playing music, as did we all, and we loved writing and performing for our friends, but I started to question whether we belonged in this scene or not, and by "scene" I mean the Triangle.  I love being different, but it may have been possible that we were so different, that bands never really looked to us to provide support.  I mean, sure we would book a headlining gig, and have great bands play with us, and the show would go great, but I started to see a shift away from us by the local musicians.  Not a personal thing, just maybe the way things were meant to be.  Our sound didn't really fit with a particular local band, and it's good to have those so a similar sounding show can be put together.  We played with really intense borderline screamo bands, heavy Christian rock groups, indie pop trios, folk musicians, powerful melodious artists, and everything in between but we never really found another band that was like us.  We could be so powerful then be so light-hearted.  We could bring the blues, then switch it around for a poppy dance number.  I think we were just too different, and it's possible people maybe just grew tired of us.  We played with some great acts, made amazing friends, but perhaps the success of our friends and the decline of The Long Drive is merely how the Universe has it planned for us.

I'm not done with music by any means.  I play with my friend, Phil, when he needs a drummer for his folk act.  I also still hang out with Marc and CJ and Kristin from The Long Drive.  But maybe music will be a passion for me and nothing else.  I've accepted it's time to focus on other things, i.e. my career, writing, looking to move beyond the realm of the Triangle to who-knows-where, but all of that is of course up in the air, as with everything else in life.

"Bryan" - a short story

This is a place usually reserved for my thoughts and feelings, but today I'm doing something different.  The following is a short story I started last summer, and today I believe I made my final revisions.  Not sure if this means anything for my career or not, but I would like to share it with you all because I'm actually quite proud of it.  I hope you enjoy "Bryan."

“Hello?”

There is no answer over the telephone.

            “Hello!?”

            Bryan slings his phone across the room, sending it careening into a wall.  The phone falls to the floor after leaving a sizeable imprint in the drywall.

            “Of course there’s no answer,” says a frustrated Bryan.  This was the fifth time in what felt like two hours that Bryan’s phone had rung with no response from the other line.  Bryan was becoming very anxious and annoyed.  His current circumstances weren’t helping the situation either.

            Bryan Lord regained consciousness a few minutes prior to the start of the phone calls to find himself lying shirtless on his stomach on a cool, hard concrete floor.  Groggy, he sat up and rubbed the crick in his neck.  As he massaged his aches, Bryan took in his surroundings.

            Bryan was encompassed by five white walls, each with paint peeling and fading in spots.  The room was not incredibly spacious, but certainly not small enough to agitate his claustrophobia.  A single light emanated from above him in the direct center of the ceiling that enveloped the room in a soft white.  Bryan looked up to see where the light was coming from, but the light itself was so bright he had to avert his eyes.   He then noticed something beyond odd.

            There were no windows or doors in the room.

            Bryan paces around the room, knocking on the walls, and looking around for how he got in.  He picks up his phone and stares at it.  Surprisingly, the phone is not damaged.  He then looks at the dent in the wall. Bryan slides the phone back in his denim pocket, and turns around towards the center of the room.

            A white chair now sits in the middle of the white room.  Bryan stands still, staring at the chair.

            “What the hell?” he says, confused.  He looks around the room, wondering how the chair and he got in the room. 

            Bryan walks over to the chair and inspects it.  The seat consists of white plastic molded into an L shape, which is fixed atop a pair of bent metal legs.  Kneeing down, he runs his hands along the floor where the chair sits.  There are no cracks in the concrete or any other indication of some type of trap door.

            Standing, Bryan takes a few steps back and circles the chair, like a shark circles a diver, deciding whether his prey would taste delicious or like a mouthful of wetsuit.  Very plasticy wetsuit.

            “Where’d you come from?” Bryan interrogates the chair.  The chair does not respond.

            “Jesus Christ, I’m talking to a chair,” Bryan chuckles at himself.  He pulls out his phone and lights the screen up.  The digital display reads 12:00am.  He slides the phone back in his pocket and leans against one of the walls facing the front of the chair.  Bryan lets out a heavy sigh and slides down to the floor.  He continues to stare at the chair.

            The phone rings.  Bryan quickly squirms to reach into his pocket and pulls out the phone.  He looks at the phone to see who is calling; no caller ID.  He presses the “send” button and answers anxiously.

            “Hello?”

            Again, no answer.

            “Hello!?  Answer me, God damnit!  Who are you?” yells Bryan.  With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he throws the phone across the room yet again.  He buries his face in his hands, letting out a long downtrodden breath.

            “You know, throwing the phone won’t make whoever’s on the other end of the line respond any quicker,” says a very articulate voice.

            Bryan jerks his head up, startled.  He looks around the room for whoever spoke.

            “Hey!” declares Bryan to the room as he stands up, “I heard you!”  He turns around in circles, searching for anyone.  Thinking maybe he’s being watched from someplace else, he looks up, but the light is still too bright.  He winces and shields his eyes.  Bryan lashes out with a yell and kicks the chair, sending it tumbling across the room.  He collapses to the floor, covering his eyes, “God damnit!”

            “Ahem,” the voice coughs.  Bryan parts his fingers and peeps through his hands.  He looks around but still sees no one.

            “Would you mind terribly turning me right-ways up?”

            Bryan slowly turns his head towards the chair.  He cocks his head and stares in disbelief.  He scurries along the floor, further away from the chair.

            “Really?  You’re scared of me?  Seems rather silly,” says the chair.  Bryan stares, bewildered.  He doesn’t know what to think.  He’s seen some strange things in his life, but a chair talking to him was something he couldn’t possibly believe.

            “You’re…talking,” counters Bryan.

            “Irrelevant.  Could you please just place me upright?” the chair asks politely.  Bryan slowly gets to his feet and walks cautiously towards the overturned chair.  He extends his hand towards the chair timidly, as if expecting an electric shock.  He places his hand on the chair briefly, then pulls away.

            “I know this is not the most normal of scenarios you have been in before, but if you sit me up, it would be much appreciated,” says the chair, reassuringly.  Still hesitant, Bryan grabs the chair and places it upright on its legs.  Resuming his frustrated and confused manner, he backs away and sits down against the wall.

            “I understand if you don’t want to say anything for a while.  Talking chairs are certainly a rarity,” says the chair.  Bryan stares down at the floor between his feet, which are bare.

            “Where are my shoes?” Bryan asks the chair. 

            The chair pauses before speaking, “Hmm…surprising.”

            “What?”

            “Surprising.”

            “What is?”

            The char responds, “You’re stuck inside an all-white, pentagonal room with no doors or windows, a blinding light overhead, and a talking chair.  It’s surprising that your first question concerns the location of your shoes.”

            Bryan looks up at the chair.  His frustration is starting to tire him.

            “I – I,” stutters Bryan, “I’ve got a lot running through my head right now.”

            “Understandable,” consoles the chair, “Well if you wish to talk, I’m not going anywhere.”  The chair chuckles slightly.

            “I shouldn’t be talking to you,” Bryan says, turning away.

            “I know,” says the chair, “because talking chairs don’t exist.”

            “I have to focus.  Get my head back on straight and think about this.”

            “Splendid idea.”

            “Okay, here’s what I remember,” says Bryan to himself as he stands.  He begins to pace back and forth, collecting his thoughts.  “My name is Bryan Lord.  I am 30…five.  I’m 35.  I was…somewhere…somewhere dark.”

            “Sounds about right,” interjected the chair.  Bryan shoots the chair a cold glare, hoping it ceases interrupting.  He then resumes his monologue.

            “It was dark and…dirty?” questions Bryan, continuing to pace.  “Yes.  It was dirty.  I remember I had shoes on.  I was…sitting.  Sitting on a bed.”

            “You’re making me quite nervous,” adds the chair.  “Would you mind not walking about so much?  Sit down.  Relax.”

            “I was waiting for something,” Bryan says, ignoring the chair.  “Someone?”

            From across the room, the phone rings.  Bryan stops midstride and looks over his shoulder towards the phone.  It rings again.

            “Are you going to answer that?” inquires the chair.  “It’s probably for you.”

            Ignoring the ringing, Bryan keeps pacing and talking to himself, “I was waiting.  What was I waiting for?”  The phone rings again.  “I don’t remember feeling anything.  Maybe I was going somewhere.”  Bryan looks around the room, “Here?”

            The phone rings again.

            “If you won’t answer that for you, could you at least answer it for me so it will stop ringing?” beckons the chair.

            “But where are my shoes?” continues Bryan, “I wouldn’t just go somewhere without shoes on.  And how did I get here?  I don’t remember anything about that.”

            The phone rings again.

            “Would you please answer the phone!?” pleads the chair.

            “Where are the doors?”

            Ring.

            “Answer the phone!”

            “Why is that light so bright?”

            Ring.

            “Please!”

            “How is any air getting in?”

            Ring.

            “Pick up the phone!”

            “Why?”

            Ring.

            “Just do it!”           

            “You’re a fucking talking chair!  This isn’t real!”

            Ring.

            “The phone!”           

            Bryan yells, leaps towards the phone and picks it up.

            “What!?” screams Bryan into the phone.

            No answer.

            “God damnit!”  Bryan yells and throws the phone down and stomps on it, breaking it into pieces.  “Why does this phone keep ringing!?  What the hell is going on?  Where am I?  Why does this chair talk?”

            With that, Bryan grabs the chair to throw it across the room, but the chair doesn’t budge.  Bryan struggles to try and pick up the chair, but it still doesn’t move an inch.  Bryan tries a third time, sweat dripping off his forehead, teeth clenched, straining his body, but can’t pick up the chair.  With a yell of frightened frustration and confusion, Bryan kicks the immovable chair with all his might.  He then falls to the ground, yelping in pain.

            “Yelling doesn’t fix anything,” the chair comments.

            Bryan forces back tears of helplessness as he holds his foot in agony, “Then why did you yell for me to answer the phone!?”

            “I was not yelling,” corrects the chair.  “I was merely sternly requesting.  No sense in getting bent out of shape over this whole thing.  I don’t believe there are any secret passageways or trapdoors lying about.”

            Through teary eyes, Bryan looks up at the chair.  The chair is now different than before.  It is now tall, bulky, made entirely of wood and bolted to the floor.  Bryan sits up and stares, bewildered.

            “What,” Bryan begins, still choked up, “is happening?”

            Bryan looks around the room and becomes more shocked.  There are now only four walls to the room, and on one of these walls is a large glass window.

            “A window!” exclaims Bryan.  He runs over to the window and bangs on the glass.  “Hey!  Let me out!”  There is nothing beyond the glass but whiteness.  Bryan looks along the edges of the window for a way to open it, but his wishes are soon dashed.  He pounds his fists harder against the impervious glass in anger.

            “That’s a good color on you,” compliments the chair.

            Bryan stops banging on the glass and notices his sleeves.  He is wearing a light blue denim shirt.  He steps back from the window and starts patting all over his chest, arms, and sides.  He frantically unbuttons the shirt and throws it on the ground.  He turns to the chair.

            “Where the hell did that come from?” Bryan asks, pointing to the bundled up shirt.

            “Why are you so upset, now?” politely asks the chair.  “I would imagine you’ve had time to accept this.”

            “Accept what?” wonders an irate Bryan.  “I don’t even know where I am, how I got here, or – I – I just don’t know anything.”  Bryan picks up the crumpled denim shirt, inspecting it.  A series of numbers is printed above the chest pocket.  Bryan scratches at the numbers with his grimy fingernails.  He notices his dirty hands and drops the shirt in surprising disgust.

            “Alright,” says Bryan, “why are my hands so gross?”  He holds his hands out, turning them over.  Bryan starts to notice more changes occurring inside the room.  A single blue door is now in the wall to the right of the chair.  Bryan drops the shirt and runs towards the door.  He grabs the knob and tries to yank it open, but the door doesn’t budge.  He tries harder and harder, shaking the door with a furious rage.  Bryan kicks the door and yells up to the ceiling, to a certain entity in question.

            “Get me out of here!”  Looking up at the ceiling, Bryan notices the light is not so bring anymore.  He can now see two flickering fluorescent bulbs and hear the soft, mechanical hum of the struggling lights.  Bryan calms down slightly and scans the room for more changes.

            The walls are now a drab green, and three rows of five chairs are positioned on the other side of the large window.  Bryan cautiously walks over to the glass and peers into the other room.  He sees an open doorway to the left of the chairs.  He strains to see beyond the doorframe, but is unable to due to the impenetrable blackness seeming to solidify the frame’s space.  Bryan finally turns around to face the chair.

            “You do look rather tired,” observes the chair.  “Why don’t you come and sit down over here?”  Too exhausted to refute any more the fact that a talking chair exists, Bryan lumbers over to the chair, and collapses into its wooden arms.  He lets out a sigh of relief.

            “Comfortable?” asks the chair.

            “Surprisingly, yes,” replies Bryan.

            “Good,” says the chair.  Bryan closes his eyes to try and collect himself.  His comfortable feelings evolve into a strange sense of acceptance.  He’s not quite sure what he’s accepting, but he feels questioning and fighting any further is futile.  Bryan’s been through so much that sitting in this chair, for some reason, feels like the right thing to do.

            Bryan lets out a heavy sigh and relaxes.  He finds strange solace in the large wooden chair.  Almost as if he’s been waiting to sit down in this very chair for years. 

            “You know, “ the chair speaks, “you didn’t have to be here.”

            “I suppose so,” replies Bryan, “but someone had to, might as well be me.”

            “Everything will work out.  I promise,” reassures the chair.  Bryan isn’t sure what the chair is implying, but he is so relaxed, he doesn’t find it necessary to seek any further answers from his inanimate confidant.

            Bryan feels a slight tightening around his wrists and ankles, but he is so unconcerned with his surroundings now, that he doesn’t bother to open his eyes or even flinch.  He then feels something tighten around his forehead, and still, he remains motionless. 

            “Hit the first switch.”

            Bryan hears a low hum and opens his eyes slowly.  There are rows of people sitting on the other side of the glass now.  Most of them stare at him in disgust, however a select few peer through salty tears welling up in their eyes.  Bryan recognizes all of them.  One woman, in particular, covers her face with a handkerchief to hide her sadness when she’s not looking into his eyes with the purest love.  Bryan smiles at her as a single tear rolls down his cheek.  She mouths the words Bryan had heard so many times before; “I love you.”

            Bryan sees a man in uniform standing to the right of the window, in the room with him.  His hands are crossed at his belt buckle as he looks at Bryan with a statue’s gaze.  Bryan also recognizes him, but their connection is strictly professional.  He closes his eyes, and nods to the man in uniform. 

            “Bryan Matthew Lord,” the man addresses,” do you have anything left to say?”

            Bryan smiles and opens his eyes, looking into the room of spectators.  His voice is calm, collected, and peaceful.

            “I’m sorry for what has happened,” says Bryan.  “I wish things would have turned out differently.  I will see them soon.  I will tell them you miss them.”

            An angry couple stands up behind the glass and begins yelling at Bryan, but their voices fall silent, leaving Bryan with only an image of hate.  The couple then begins to cry and fall back down in their seats.  Comforters sitting behind them offer a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder as the couple leans on one another, sobbing.  The loving woman in the room stands up and smiles at Bryan.  Bryan smiles back and shares one last embracing look.

            “Bryan Matthew Lord,” the man, an officer, speaks up, “you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers for the murder of Frank, Mary, and Bella Bookman.  You have been sentenced to death by electrocution.  Your sentence will now be carried out.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

            Bryan closes his eyes for the last time, waiting for the inevitable with patience and acceptance.  He thought someone had to pay for what happened to his friends and their daughter.  He just never imagined it would be him who would pay the ultimate price.  Bryan missed them dearly, and couldn’t imagine what their parents, and Bella’s grandparents, were going through, other than the obvious anger they expressed towards him.  The love of his life would soon find out the pain of losing someone she admired, adored, respected, and longed for.  Bryan says a silent prayer to a God he isn’t sure exists, and says good-bye to the life he loved so much before his friends were murdered.  It is time for the end.

            The phone rings…

Pop-up books were more 3D than Avatar.

     Lately, my days have been up and down.  I'm sure this is nothing unfamiliar to you.  We all go through phases of good times and bad.  It's just the balancing of the Universe.  Someone can't experience so much negativity without some positive relief. 
     We deal with these darker times in different ways.  Now, I don't have any scholarly studies or reports in my back pocket from which I can spout off a random supporting fact for my thesis, but I believe this inhabits the realm of "common human knowledge."  Some people sulk, others go for a run, a select few scream obscenities into a pillow. 

Pillow's don't care.  They love you no matter what.

     Sharing my experiences with you has been all over the place thus far.  Not one of my posts could say they would belong in the same subject matter as the other.  I'm unique in that way, or rather, this weblog is unique.  And, I know, when you see a link to this thing on Facebook or Twitter, you're thinking, "Gah, another example of the Internet being used to display nothing more than an individual's narcissism.  Dude, nobody cares about your whining or how cute your puppies/kittens are!"
     I think the same thing.  And honestly, I don't think I would even read my own posts if I didn't have a constant fear that I misworded something.  But enough about the fact that very few people in this world have something important to say...

Dealing With Negativity
     The negativity I'm referring to here is the negative energy and events that sometimes take up space in our world.  Let's skip other examples of how I think others deal with it and move straight on to my comfort mechanisms...because, as we've established, I'm a tad narcissistic.
      Being a storyteller from an early age and a person infatuated with tall tales, urban legends, classic ghost stories, and narrative in general, when I'm having a bad day, I immerse myself in stories.  Television, film, written word; it all takes me away from my world and into another's imagined reality.
      Now, I know some people prefer to engage in some sort of physical activity during times of frustration, but for me, preoccupying my body leaves my mind free to wander, and wandering is much harder to do when the only thing it seems to gravitate towards are the things troubling you the most.  Thusly, I take my mind on a journey through works of fiction.
     And I'll be honest, while it's not the most healthy of habits, I tend to lose myself in these beautiful creations of fictional imaginaridom.

Don't Google that last word.  I made it up.

The characters I come across are easier to understand than real human beings, yet are always surprising me.  They help me get in touch with my own self, and fuel my creative juices even more.  By comparison, this physical world kinda blows.
     I'm not that different from the over-weight, Cheeto-loving, 30-somethings that live in their mothers' basement and spend most of their free time willingly drowning in the seas of online role playing.  I like the fictional world more than I like this one.
     I'm not saying this physical world in which I live totally leaves me without will to live.  I've got great friends, family, possessions...awesome, awesome possessions.  I'm just showing how much relief and freedom I get from burying my face in a good book or engaging my mind in an intriguing and original television series.  I may be addicted.  But it's sure better than heroine...I'm assuming.
     A healthy addiction that is helping me cope with the burdens that come with being poor, alone, and having a unisex first name.  I learn lessons and relish in realizations in the fictional narrative world that aide me in my constant quest of discovery in this physical realm. 

     There's more than ten boatloads of negativity in this world, and we all need a way to deal with it.  It's unhealthy to just pretend the bad stuff doesn't affect you because, let's face it, if you think you're too tough for the Universe in which you exist, you're an ass. 
     If you're curious in discovering the benefits of such an escape, here's a few pointers:
1.) Read a book
     NOT a textbook.  A novel.  Dive into someone else's imagination, and use your own to interpret the world you glean from the writing.  Believe it or not, your imagination didn't shrivel up die on your 13th birthday.  It's still there.  Create a world in your mind from a book.  And if you need a little help, try a pop-up book.  They're already in 3D.
2.) Actively watch television
     I've used the phrase "actively watch" before, although I can't remember where I've said it.  What I mean by "actively watch" is keeping your mind churning as you watch TV or a movie.  Don't just stare blankly at the screen and expect what's being projected to mindlessly entertain you.  Engage your mind.  Use your heart to connect with the characters.  And of course I'm talking about scripted television.  Not reality shows.  If you connect with Snooki, you're not doing yourself any favors.

I know it seems kind of pointless to have only two pointers, but hey, I'm tired.  Just take these two, and call me in the morning...

Oh, and as an attempt to engage you because apparently just reading this isn't enough, what are some ways in which you relieve stress or escape the negative burdens in your life?