Southern Jaunt: Stage Fright

Now I will do nothing but listen,

To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute towards it. - Walt Whitman

One who excels in traveling leaves no wheel tracks. - Lao Tzu

Last night was the first frost. It wasn't a hard frost; the leaves on the Grandfather Walnut tree in Dave and Julie's backyard didn't lose it's leaves last night like the ginkgo tree next to the old President's Residence at Morehead State University. -- all at once.

Yes, MSU is my alma mater.  The last time I looked at either of my diplomas was when I had move my shit out of the house on Pumpkin Hill. I never look them. I refused to go through the ceremony to receive them; instead I paid $10 each time and had them mail both my undergrad and graduate degree, since it was cheaper and less time than the graduation ceremony, an ostentatious program which was designed to give the university credit for the work done by students.

The importance of the place extends far beyond the education I worked for while I was there. So many of the crucial thematic elements in my life from the age of 18 to now are tied to that place. It, and all of Eastern Kentucky, occupy a mythic space in my mind. 

I've been feeling the cooler weather coming. Late summer stuck around longer than I expected, probably encouraged by the lack summer rain that has all but ruined the corn crop this year. (Don't worry. The agribusiness barons have plenty stockpiled to take advantage of the high price. As usual, only the little guys get screwed. After all, this is America.)

I'm ready to leave Paint City and the time is close. There are only a few things left to wrap up.

On the day this missive posts, my divorce will be final in what I hope will be anti-climatic fashion. And although I probably have taken more literary liberty with her than she would have preferred, I like to think we have managed to finish tearing this thing asunder. 

That very same evening -- this is tomorrow, Dear Readers, or Tuesday if you are in one of those far flung time zones in Australia or some such place I am unsure actually exists -- I will cover my last (No. Really. REALLY.) city council meeting. I've met my replacement and he's a scruffy, local guy from Lanark who knows all the principle characters in this badly written (Doris Bork, talentless hack), horribly directed (Doris Bork,  Director) , and incompetently produced (Clearly a Doris Bork Production) melodrama that is Paint City Politics.

I expect it to be a quiet meeting. And then I expect to get drunk, for every good and righteous reason that a man gets drunk on the day of his divorce. 

It may not be specifically listed in the Constitution or even the Declaration of Independence, but by GAWD it was surely intended.

I expect that she might be drunk, too. For every righteous reason that a woman gets drunk on the day of her divorce.

A civil divorce is more difficult than you might think. Having experienced both a civil one and a bloodletting, I can tell you this: the bloodletting is easier to wrap your head around intellectually. It makes more sense. A civil divorce, while more mature, rational, and reasonable, never stops feeling contrary to the laws of nature.

But I had one other thing on my list of things to do before leaving town. I've been trying to pick up and learn the guitar... again. I used to play the guitar. Played for years actually. I also played the trumpet, the piano, and BRIEFLY the harmonica. I sold my acoustic -- my LEFT-HANDED acoustic -- before leaving Arizona -- erroneously believing I would never pick it up again. But one of the things I rediscovered here -- primarily because I know more musicians than I do writers -- is that I miss playing music. I never really played in front of anyone. I never even liked playing the guitar in front of Melissa.

In addition to the 5 Minutes of Fame Open Mic I started that is still running strong in the very capable charge of my friend, local artist and all around nifty chick Heather Houzenga, there's also an ALL MUSIC open mic at Charlie's Bar and Grill hosted by local musician Forrest Carter Rische. Forrest is a twice nominated Country Music Bass Player. His kids are all musicians of the highest caliber. His brothers are, too. He runs the open mic with his girlfriend Wendy.

Even though I did get up on stage once after it was over and tell a story that people didn't hate, Forrest would only let me on stage if I learned a song. He said,

"You could do this, I bet. You're around it enough. Learn a song, tell me what it is, and I'll help you."

I don't quite know how to explain how rare and serendipitous it is for a professional bluegrass musician to make an offer like that. And after  told I him I used to play guitar ... albeit left-handed ... he encouraged me further, but suggested that I learn to play what Dave calls "the right way."

So I've spent the last month and half, using spare moments in Dave's basement when he's not practicing or around all that much, learning to play the guitar backwards. I found a simple song to play -- found it on a wobbly songbook blog site. The hardest part of playing backwards -- because that's surely what I'm doing -- are chord changes. Also, I've never tried to sing and play at the same time before. When I played guitar before, I didn't sing. I'm not much of a singer, really. I know enough about music to hold my own in a midnight chorus. Truth be told, I even sort of like to sing, mostly because I know I'm not very good at it.

So I practiced and set the goal for myself of standing up in front of people and singing my song.

This past Sunday I was backed into a corner. Dave and Julie were off running errands. I had some hefty newspaper deadline articles to work on. I didn't want to take Dave's Martin without asking him. I thought about NOT going and had every good reason in the world.

I didn't borrow Dave's guitar. But I went anyway. I told Forrest I had a song to sing, if I could borrow a guitar. He let me borrow one of his... a Martin. I've played an electric guitar before, but that was the first time I'd ever played an electric acoustic. The only wrinkle for me was that I had expected to play alone-- which was scary enough. But it turned out that Forrest and two other guys backed me up. Or played over me. Either way.

Some butterflies before getting up to read are normal. I was scared. Getting up on stage isn't altogether unnatural for me; but I was absolutely terrified. My friend Kerry was there with his son, and Dave walked in as I was starting to play. The bar was all but deserted by the time I got up to play.

And I played my song. Twice. And I loved it. Not because I have delusions of grandeur, but because I love music and I've missed music. If all I ever do is hang around other people who like music and pick around, I'll be content. If all I do is play and sing for myself, I'll be happy. If all I do is learn old songs to play when I'm out telling stories and poems, I will feel myself being released into the universe, dissipated into the air like steam.


I'll BE HITTING THE ROAD SOON. UPDATES FORTHCOMING.

Wayward Sacredness, 2.2: Out There - The Mount Carroll Reprisal (Coda)

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. - Groucho Marx

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop... - The 

Rubaiyat

(Continued from here.)

My brother's visit was One Night Only, which meant that I had to limit his cultural exposure to things going on in town. Normally, I would have taken him to Poopy's in Savanna. The food there is good, and with the unseasonably warm weather there would be plenty of bikes and biker chicks to check out.

And if there wasn't maybe there would at least be some midget wrestling.

No. Really.

And for the record... they're not LITTLE PEOPLE. They're midgets. "Little People Wrestling" sounds like some daycare center  program. Midget wrestlers are  a tad mean and tend to walk around daring people to step on them. Really. One glared at my dear old mother on one of her visits.

Nope. Too close to tell...

Is that Professor Chaos?

            Hmmm......

He arrived a little after four and I waited for him outside the Kraft Building. I was standing there talking to my friend Kendra and her 6 year old son, Michael. Michael is a smart, sensitive, gentle boy who happens to be built  like a mini tank. (He is, in many respects, the newer model year of his father Kerry, who is also a friend of mine. And when you see either of them in your periphery, charging towards you with the intent to give you a hug, there's still that natural instinct to flinch....) I watched Brian walk purposefully down the sidewalk to the corner, cross at the cross walk and then cross again to meet me in front of the building. There was little to no traffic, only a few cars parked along Main Street.

"I could've diamonded* that, couldn't I?" was the first thing he said to me.

Yes, I told him. Then we shook hands and I introduced him to Kendra and Michael. And after a few minutes of chit chat, I decided to take him down to the bowling alley in order to check out a bit of local flavor.

In Mount Carroll, I could generally be found in one of  two places when I wasn't striking terror in the hearts of petty small town and county officials: 

1. The Kraft Building (the cultural monosyncratic infidibulum)
2. The Bowling Alley (the delubrum discordia** of Mount Carroll, Illinois)
3. The House on Pumpkin Hill, formerly known as Home.^

I could, on occasion, be found at Bella's enjoying their respectable selection of bottled beer, or at Stone House Fudge Shop talking to John (The Diabetic Blues Playing Fudge Man. After all, if you made delicious fudge and couldn't eat it, wouldn't you play the blues??). I could sometimes be found at Charlie's catching up on the gossip (because all the news is known two days before the paper comes out) as well as finding out who's got the cancer, who's died, and whether they died from the cancer or some other god awful thing. In the rural hinterlands of corn and gawd country, the only sure thing is death. Some welcome it, some avoid it as long as they can; but in the end, everyone ends up under a marker on Boot Hill with a brief and restrainedly written obituary in the local papers. Unless, of course, you were in your later years one of those who joined a group... like The Rotary or the Friends of the Library or some church committee or another...  that merited having your named embossed on a bench, lamp post, or dusty plaque in some dark corner of City Hall as an emolument to all the hard work you managed to avoid doing by joining a club and going to meetings to play Committee of the Mountain^^.

 But since I've learned that most of the time, the best way to hide is to hide out in the open -- because when everyone knows where you are, they generally don't make their business to seek you out, all the way to the ends of the Earth (gas prices permitting) -- I tended to stick to same couple of places.

And since returning, I found myself sticking to more or less the same pattern -- the only things that changed being where I slept and that I was no longer a thorn in the side of various big fish in that itty bitty puddle. I was at the coffee shop, aping their free WiFi, drinking coffee, and trying to get some writing done... managing to get two out of the three accomplished.

The bowling alley was all but deserted; Dave and Billy were there, and Ashley the bartender would be in around 5. My plans -- in as much as I had them -- was to have a few drinks at the bowling alley and then wander down to Bella's to listen to Bruce Kort play. But I thought it might be fun -- or at least interesting -- for my older brother to see some something of what my life in Mount Carroll was like, especially since he was there to help me cart off the few material possessions that remained from it.


I, of course, ordered my usual -- beer and a shot of bourbon. In this case... and in general when drinking economically ... beer meant Bud Lite which, anyone knows, isn't really beer. But it was cheap, and it was draft, and when you drink it cold, you can almost forget that Budweiser has done more to kill the production of beer in this country than all the bottles and cans of bee it has sold since the end of Prohibition.


I offered to buy Brian a shot, too ...solid Kentucky bourbon... but he declined, saying he never mixed. Well, I understand. I used to not mix too. It's the smart way to drink, even if it's not the most expedient.


He ordered Smithwick's... a good bottle ale, manufactured by Guinness , the bowling alley had only recently started carrying. I drink it when I can afford it or when it's on draft. (The latter is too much to hope for.) I introduced him around, and we chit chatted and I let him take in the atmosphere. 


Around 4:30, Dave wife Julia walked in and sat down. Dave served her one of her usuals -- a Corona with lime. After she finished, she and Dave left, but said they would meet Brian and I down at Bella's. We had a few more drinks, I traded smart ass comments with Ashley, and then we walked up Market street and around the corner to Bella's on Main Street.

With the warmer weather, Friday nights at Bella's were generally a little crowded -- much to the annoyance of some prominent members of the Chamber of Commerce who wanted to keep any business out of town that might take some of their malingering trade. I wasn't too worried, though, because I knew Bob was working and Bob would make sure there was SOMEPLACE for us to sit.

Bob is one of those people who's character is weaved into the fabric of the town -- whether he likes it or not. Lucky for him that he's been around enough and done enough and been enough that he's mostly comfortable with that fact. He's a local boy who left, went West, won, lost, came back, lost some more, and is coasting into being One of Those Guys that people will long associate with the town. The restaurant that bears his last name -- Sieverts -- is still open, though under different ownership than his parents, who he actually came back to take care of and ended up burying. Like Jim Warfield, the owner/proprietor/tour guide/resident of Raven's Grin Haunted House, Bob is one of those guys who knows you, and if you're from Mount Carroll, he knew your parents, and maybe your grandparents. And if he didn't know them, he knew enough people that he heard about them. Bob is one of those people that are a natural and positive  byproduct of a small, isolated place.

The only problem he has right now is that whenever people walk into Bella's, where he's a waiter, and don't know any better, they think he owns the place. 

True to form, even though all of the booths were books, one table was open, and it ended up being the perfect size.

Brian and I sat down, and waited on Dave and Julie. We still had about an hour before Bruce was going to play. After Dave and Julie arrived, we ordered the first bottle of wine. Eventually, my friend Kerry -- father of the aforementioned smart, sensitive mini tank Michael -- showed up. We drank, ordered dinner, waited for Bruce to begin. Eventually he hauled his equipment in and set up in the small corner stage facing one of the street windows.

We ate, we drank, we listened to some great picking. At one point, Dave got up and played a few songs. As I've mentioned before, the sound of his playing and singing is one of those sounds that I associate with Mount Carroll. It's a good association. And, it's damn fine music.

At one point -- in my honor -- played "Way Out There." Anyone who's ever seen the movie Raising Arizona is familiar with this song. Actually, the song is much older than that: 

The night ended well. Three bottles of wine, a well prepared meal, some amazing music, and the company of  friends and family. There's very little else in the world that a person needs; because while I may be (and probably always will be) money poor, I am rich in friends.

I was also very rich in the hang over department the following morning, which delayed our departure by a few hours. But, one of the advantages of being a Man of Leisure is that I can generally allow myself to sleep until the worst of it's over.

This leaving was odd, because although it definitely had a more definite feel to it... how could it not, with the Batmobile loaded to bear with my shit... I also felt like I'd be back and the circumstances would be different.  It may be that Mount Carroll isn't what the universe has in mind for me right now... if in fact there is some mind at work behind all of this. But it is the sort of the place that's nice to return to when solace, quietude, and good friends are called for.

[Thanks for reading. And remember, if you like it,

1. Pass the link on. Copy and Paste. Go ahead. 
2. Click the donate button and help keep me traveling. I'm headed out again in a weeks... Greyhound ticket bought to get as far as Louisville, KY, at the tail end of a slingshot back through the Bluegrass (I promised) before heading west.
3. Contact Catherine Sellers at Greyhound, 415-331-6049. Tell them you are asking about a sponsorship when the operator picks up. I'd like to get enough money in my travel fund or convince them to give me a 60 Day DISCOVERY PASS. 

Thanks again for reading and for your generous support. I love you guys and gals. I really mean it. Ok. I might love the gals a little more... but in a different way. Promise.]

*diamonded: the ability to cross a four way intersection from one opposing corner to the other opposing corner. This petty much only exists in small towns that don't have stop lights, and is otherwise a horrible idea to attempt.


**delubrum discordia: Shrine to Discordianism. Discordianism is a religion and school of thought founded in a bowling alley, and may have involved the ingesting of hallucinogenic drugs. Read up on it though. It's not quite as laid back as The Church of the Latter-Day Dude, but it's worth a gander.


^Home: for a proper understanding of this term, please consult Bill Monroe's version of The Wayfaring Stranger


^^ Committee of the Mountain: For those unfamiliar with the reference, consult your local ordinances, state constitution and coded statues, and U.S. Law in conjunction with the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. Go one. I'll wait..... You back? Ok. All that wordy bullshit? That's the unhappy result of playing Committee of the Mountain. If you're still unclear, go to any town or city council meeting anywhere. I recommend a minimum of two beers and two shots of good Kentucky Bourbon before the meeting to steel your nerves. If you sit through the entire meeting without leaving or ranting like a pissed off banshee, go out and good and drunk after. You deserve it.

Update: Of Leavings And What Remains

My bus ticket to Cincinnati arrived in the mail this past Saturday. I'm leaving from Chicago on Saturday January 21st and taking an express route, which will put me in the Nasty Nati on the same day I pull out of the Harrison Avenue Station.

The ticket cost $15. It would have cost me $10, but I waited a couple of days before I purchased it.

Leavings are strange things. Who to say goodbye to. Who to tell what. Loose ends to tie up. I told my editor at the paper last week about my plans, and suggested that he find someone else to cover my regular beat. Tom's a good guy and he's always treated me fairly, so I sort felt... well... behooved... to give him decent notice. I'm getting prepared... in my head... for what comes next.

"You really need to go." Melissa on my travels. She's horribly worried that I'm going to write about her, with good reason, I suppose. She's never been comfortable being inspiration/fodder for my writing; I'm sure that there are more writers' spouses who feel like her than not. That she ends up looking better in the end seems to make little difference. I can't fault her for her feelings. She's an honest and extraordinary person who needs and deserves stability. And I'm the kind of person who feels most alive when I'm writing and on the move.

Leavings are strange things. And I always feel like I'm in the process of a leaving. These lines from James Merrill's poem "The Will" keep echoing in my mind:

In growing puzzlement I've felt things losing
Their grip on me.

That's sort of what it feels like. I'm not letting go of things. But they are letting go of me. I say I never feel really alive unless I'm on the move, and I guess that's true. But memory is a funny thing. And by funny I mean absurd and ironic. Memory is absurd and ironic because even though things are letting go of me, I am eyeball deep in the process of etching it all in my mind... these things I will take will me as I begin. I am always ready to go. But I never want to forget where I've been. I want to keep the people I love close to my heart.

But it seems I can only do that when I go away.