A blinking answering machine. What doth the little satan want this time?

I listened to the message and found out that one of my dear ex-choir members had died. I immediately called the one person, let's call her D, that I knew who could give me the scoop. A confidant and friend from those days when I served as "music minister" some seven years ago. We hadn't spoken in a while, but with her, it's as if time never passes. We simply pick up where we left off with no judgments.

D told me what I had heard so many times before: a long and arduous struggle with a chronic disease, causing a slow but serious weight loss, which ends with the body running out of resources to fight. In short, you run out of fight and options. It's hardcore, I know, but that's the way it plays out. But Mary had 85 years. That's pretty damn good by my reckoning.

Mary was a retired nurse who was the alto anchor in our little mismatched choir at St. Anthony's. We were a ragtag, badly blended, vocally unbalanced (mostly women) primarily elderly group who did our best to bring music, if not to celestial heights, then certainly to the congregation. Catholics are notorious for not being the most full-throated of congregants. They must be strenuously encouraged. What we achieved was to bring and open and friendly, genuine spirit to the music that made it easy to sing along. This is the sole purpose of music: to praise the creator through song. What we lacked in polish and pitch, we made up for in presentation, enthusiasm and love.

When my appointment at the church was clearly threatened by Father "Dismal," I would often call Mary at home just to see if she saw the same writing on the wall as did I. This dear lady agreed with me that I was not in fact just imagining things, but that the old priest was indeed secretly plotting to be rid of me for purely financial reasons. Music and musician's services should be free? Right? When most of the choir tried to allay my fears by writing off his antics as the act of a disorganized mind, Mary and I were in clear and sharp accord and in the end, completely right.

She had worked at a hospital for several decades and drew many parallels in my situation and the shifty practices of the suits in administration. She said she could always decipher the rhetoric and know what was really being said and the subsequent changes. Her honesty was something that was very much appreciated. Plus, she had a wonderful sense of humor.

When it was apparent that my time was over, I asked her what she was going to do. After all, wasn't there any loyalty among choir members and their director? Nay, stay thy ego. The answer was typical: "I have been at St. Anthony's all my life and no priest is going to run me off." That settled the matter for me.
* * *
It felt weird returning to the place where I had spent eleven years as choir director, considering the circumstances of my dismissal and considering was attending a funeral viewing of someone with whom I had spent countless Sundays. She was always there early and always with a cheerful disposition. Lovely.

On the steps, a few faces smiled and said hello to me. Well, that's a nice start, but reminded myself repeatedly that despite any discomfort, this was not about me.

I made sure D and I coordinated our arrival at the viewing. It's good to have friends and support. She was already there and had her mom with her. She came over and stood in the receiving line with me. Her daughter remembered us both. But, it was time to do the really hard part.

"I have already been up to the casket. Do you want to go?"
"Yes, but come with me."
"It's going to be hard."
"Yes, but we must learn to bear these things."

I stated this with all sincerity. Who was I? Where was this strength coming from? I don't know. Now, reflecting on this, I was sounding like Chance Gardener who says, "Yes, Louise. I have seen it often. It happens to old people."

Then the shock. As always.

"I told you she had lost a lot of weight." D was right. The person in the casket was far different than my memory of an elderly, but still vital woman.

To lessen the shock, funeral services do all sorts of tricks to make the person appear less dead. Doesn't make sense, right? The design is to perhaps make the incomprehensible somehow acceptable. That's my best shot anyway.

We both stood in silence. D put her hand to her face and slowly shook her head in a silent disbelief.

Afterwards, I began to get hugs and hellos from familiar faces. Then it began to dawn on me: it doesn't matter if the priest isn't your favorite, church is about people. The priest can set the one and direction of a church, but the people remain steadfast and loyal to "their" church.

Her granddaughter sought us out and gave us a sweet hug. Seven years had transformed a little girl into a beautiful young woman. "I can't believe you remember me," she said without affectation. "Of course,” we both agreed, "You were playing piano more at the masses." Always a shy one, her granddaughter was the obvious apple of Mary's eye.

"I still remember the Christmas masses," she stated with a fondness. The 5:30 Christmas masses were designed for the kids. It was always a madhouse of clarinets, guitars, trumpets and the unmistakable timbre of children's voices, all impossibly out of sync and tune, but even the One on High would have to have found utterly charming.
*    *    *    *

Soon, despite the terrible circumstances that brought them together, people began to do what they always do: socializing. The conversation level rose to a noticable level, people mulled about from group to group, mothers carried fussy infants on their hips, and it began to resemble a wedding rehearsal.

Was this sacrilege? No. It's what we are, what we do and how we try to comfort one another when we faced time and again with the inevitable and unchanging truth of life. We are not gods. Far from it. And whatever unseen forces that are directing our lives are not forthcoming with an explanation. But in this dilemma we find that we are not alone, that we are in accord with other people and it is the best solace we can hope for.

C.G. Jung: the best book ever

Profoundly intelligent, highly educated, creative genius. This is Carl Jung.

When you have a creative life, even making that statement seems pretentious, the common wisdom is that you scamper around like a happy woodland creature with your head in the clouds (or up your arse) and every day is a childlike discovery. To declare yourself to be an artist, in the general sense of that term, is to invite derision. The common wisdom is that you are deluding yourself and that one day, you will grow up and see that all this has been nonsense. Americans in particular are generally mystified by two words: spirituality and artistry. If we cannot hang a dollar sign on it, then we don't get it. Unless we reach the heights of commercial success with our art, then we are talentless and all has been for naught. This is the prevailing attitude or at least an attitude I've rubbed up against more times than I care to reccount on a therapist's couch.

To speak about the creative experience and the sometimes other-worldliness aspects of it is to declare yourself a lunatic or a fool in some people's eyes. Better then to silently acknowledge this aspect of life than to waste time with those for whom this does not resonate. Or those who deem us silly or as I have heard countless times, "You're crazy." Great conditions under which to try to survive, let alone thrive, yes?

The world clamors to smother creativity and sometimes we renounce our own creative powers. I suspect that there is something in the human psyche that fears the unpredictable. My guess? The ape brain wants to kill the God part of us because it fears light; the light which could makes us accountable for our actions. After all, it's easier living in the now concerned only with the temporal physical needs of the body than to suspect or believe there may be something far richer beneath the surface of consciousness.
When we are young, we simply act without reflection. I didn't wonder why sitting in a tree and just watching the leaves dance was so wondrous. Or why the forces of nature seemed to be speaking in a language that was almost intelligible. Or even why music could elicit a sudden bolt of electricity up my spine and make my head feel like a thousand pins were dancing in it. There was innocence, a purity and a lack of self-consciousness that were the marks of an openness to the world about me. I had a desire to express myself without knowing why or what it meant. I didn't even know music would ultimately be my medium.

What I do know is that these experiences of creativity and subsequent world view are not lost when speaking to fellow musicians, writers or graphic artists. From the greatest to the least, it's as if we are all tuned to the same creative stream, a stream which I imagine is always available, infinite but ultimately mysterious.

What doth this have to do with Jung?

When I read Carl Jung's Memories, Dreams and Reflections, I was changed forever. That's how powerful this book was (is) to me. I certainly do not think that I come anywhere near this great man's artistry or intelligence. I am a pair of ragged claws...etc, but he speaks in such an eloquent way of the inner life. This is the life of the artist.
Here's an excerpt from the final chapter:

"As a child I felt myself to be alone, and I am still, because I know things and must hint at things which others apparently know nothing of, and for the most part do not want to know. Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible. The loneliness began with the experiences of my early dreams, and reached its climax at the time I was working on the unconscious. If a man knows more than others, he becomes lonely. But loneliness is not necessarily inimical to companionship, for no one is more sensitive to companionship than the lonely man, and companionship thrives only when each individual remembers his individuality and does not identify himself with others.


It is important to have a secret, a premonition of things unknown. It fills life with something impersonal, a numinosum. A man who has never experienced that has missed something important. He must sense that he lives in a world which in some respects is mysterious; that things happen and can be experienced which remain inexplicable; that not everything which happens can be anticipated. The unexpected and the incredible belong in this world. Only then is life whole. For me the world has from the beginning been infinite and ungraspable.

I have had much trouble getting along with my ideas. There was a daimon in me, and in the end its presence proved decisive. It overpowered me, and if I was at times ruthless it was because I was in the grip of the daimon. I could never stop at anything once attained. I had to hasten on, to catch up with my vision. Since my contemporaries, understandably, could not perceive my vision, they saw only a fool rushing ahead.

I have offended many people, for as soon as I saw that they did not understand me, that was the end of the matter so far as I was concerned. I had to move on. I had no patience with people—aside from my patients. I had to obey an inner law which was imposed on me and left me no freedom of choice. Of course I did not always obey it. How can anyone live without inconsistency?

For some people I was continually present and close to them so long as they were related to my inner world; but then it might happen that I was no longer with them, because there was nothing left which would link me to them. I had to learn painfully that people continued to exist even when they had nothing more to say to me. Many excited in me a feeling of living humanity, but only when they appeared within the magic circle of psychology; next moment, when the spotlight cast its beam elsewhere, there was nothing to be seen. I was able to become intensely interested in many people; but as soon as I had seen through them, the magic was gone. In this way I made many enemies. A creative person has little power over his own life. He is not free. He is captive and driven by his daimon.

“Shamefully A power wrests away the heart from us,

For the Heavenly Ones each demand sacrifice;

But if it should be withheld

Never has that led to good,”

says Holderlin.

This lack of freedom has been a great sorrow to me. Often I felt as if I were on a battlefield, saying, “Now you have fallen, my good comrade, but I must go on.” For “shamefully a power wrests away the heart from us.” I am fond of you, indeed I love you, but I cannot stay. There is something heart-rending about that. And I myself am the victim; I cannot stay. But the daimon manages things so that one comes through, and blessed inconsistency sees to it that in flagrant contrast to my “disloyalty” I can keep faith in unsuspected measure.

Perhaps I might say: I need people to a higher degree than others, and at the same time much less. When the daimon is at work, one is always too close and too far. Only when it is silent can one achieve moderation.

The daimon of creativity has ruthlessly had its way with me. The ordinary undertakings I planned usually had the worst of it—though not always and not everywhere. By way of compensation, I think, I am conservative to the bone. I fill my pipe from my grandfather’s tobacco jar and still keep his alpenstock, topped with a chamois horn, which he brought back from Pontresina after having been one of the first guests at that newly opened Kurort.

I am satisfied with the course my life has taken. It has been bountiful, and has given me a great deal. How could I ever have expected so much? Nothing but unexpected things kept happening to me. Much might have been different if I myself had been different. But it was as it had to be; for all came about because I am as I am. Many things worked out as I planned them to, but that did not always prove of benefit to me. But almost everything developed naturally and by destiny. I regret many follies which sprang from my obstinacy; but without that trait I would not have reached my goal. And so I am disappointed and not disappointed. I am disappointed with people and disappointed with myself. I have learned amazing things from people, and have accomplished more than I expected of myself. I cannot form any final judgment because the phenomenon of life and the phenomenon of man are too vast. The older I have become, the less I have understood or had insight into or known about myself.

I am astonished, disappointed, pleased with myself. I am distressed, depressed, rapturous. I am all these things at once, and cannot add up the sum. I am incapable of determining ultimate worth or worthlessness; I have no judgment about myself and my life. There is nothing I am quite sure about. I have no definite convictions—not about anything, really. I know only that I was born and exist, and it seems to me that I have been carried along. I exist on the foundation of something I do not know. In spite of all uncertainties, I feel a solidity underlying all existence and a continuity in my mode of being.

The world into which we are born is brutal and cruel, and at the same time of divine beauty. Which element we think outweighs the other, whether meaninglessness or meaning, is a matter of temperament. If meaninglessness were absolutely preponderant, the meaningfulness of life would vanish to an increasing degree with each step in our development. But that is —or seems to me—not the case. Probably, as in all metaphysical questions, both are true: Life is — or has — meaning and meaninglessness. I cherish the anxious hope that meaning will preponderate and win the battle.

When Lao-tzu says: “All are clear, I alone am clouded,” he is expressing what I now feel in advanced old age. Lao-tzu is the example of a man with superior insight who has seen and experienced worth and worthlessness, and who at the end of his life desires to return into his own being, into the eternal unknowable meaning. The archetype of the old man who has seen enough is eternally true. At every level of intelligence this type appears, and its lineaments are always the same, whether it be an old peasant or a great philosopher like Lao-tzu. This is old age, and a limitation. Yet there is so much that fills me: plants, animals, clouds, day and night, and the eternal in man. The more uncertain I have felt about myself, the more there has grown up in me a feeling of kinship with all things. In fact it seems to me as if that alienation which so long separated me from the world has become transferred into my own inner world and has revealed to me an unexpected unfamiliarity with myself."

Cooking with Walt and Jess!



Walt and Jesse contemplate their next catastrophe.

 "Any action, necessary or otherwise, generates repercussions. If the action is necessary, we can usually handle the repercussions. The Law of Unintended Consequences suggests that repercussions proliferate beyond what we are able to anticipate; and if our action is unnecessary, the consequences may well sweep us away." ~Robert Fripp

Talk about consequences.

I am speaking about AMC's Breaking Bad season 3, easily the best drama on TV,  (season 4 begins July 17, 10 EST). All the main characters have to deal with the unintended consequences of their actions. To summarize: Walter White, the central character, needed extra cash because he was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. Being a chemist and seeing the ridiculous money that criminals made, he decided, after much rumination, to "cook ice." That is, to create meth. But, he needed a partner who knew the drug trade on the streets and he picked Jesse, an ex-student from his high school chemistry class, a true fuck-up drug dealer and user. Both of them are terribly flawed people who near redemption and then watch it slip away, or worse, explode like the dangerous chemicals used to make the profitable recreational poison.

Mention meth and an audience goes running. Nay, stay and be enthralled. This does not glorify meth, rather it shows the incredible talents of a solid cast as they deal with the intense blow-back and collateral damage of really bad choices; even if those choices were then deemed "necessary" and now have become obligations due to the really dangerous individuals of the Mexican drug cartel. It's a mess, but you can't stop watching.

The writing and directing are impeccable. The best is on TV right now, folks. Breaking Bad is a knockout.

In the Weeds

Ms. Parker, aka Nancy Botwin, searches for the storyline.

As we enter season seven of Weeds, I am of the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, this delightful Showtime series has already reached its zenith and is now wondering what the hell direction to take.

I am only two shows into the season and may well change my mind, but think of the Sopranos. There were some seasons that were distinct bummers as to action (somebody gotta get whacked, right?) and certainly story. The characters, without a doubt fully formed and fully known, seemed to be running in circles.

No sooner is Nancy Botwin out of prison and she is involved in criminal activity.

Really? She didn't learn anything?

Color me skeptical.

I am sorry that you had such a shitty mother. I'm also sorry that the justice system failed you.

I'm so angry and so sorry, but this was all about you. At times, we forgot that.

rest in peace

When is a Crim Not a Crim?

Ade, T-Lev and Pat have a summer camp this year!

A few months ago, guitar wizard and ex-Crim member, Adrian Belew, expressed a desire for the old 80's KC lineup to reform and tour. Without judgement from this blogger, his idea was met by half of the band saying nay to this reformation. Drummer Bill Bruford wasn't kidding when he said he was retired and Robert asked if they could play the music as well as they did twenty years ago (Fripp has since retired from public performance). That left Ade, of course, and Tony Levin.

What to do? Easy: Don't call it King Crimson, but play some of the repertoire for hungry Crimsonites such as your humble blogger.


From Adrian Belew's blog:

Monday, June 20, 2011

A Celebration of King Crimson Music and Much More...
remember when I mentioned something special
was being planned for our next tour?
well, here it is:

the Two Of A Perfect Trio tour.
the show will go like this:

stickmen (tony levin, markus rueter, and pat mastelotto)
will play a set of their music
then
the adrian belew power trio (me, julie slick, and tobias ralph)
will play a set of my music
then

tony, pat, and I will play a few crimson songs as a trio
then
both trios will take the stage for a glorious set of
king crimson music including pieces from the double trio era.
two drummers, two stick players, a bassist, and a guitarist, YOW!
what a sound that's gonna be.
the dates should be listed here soon.
2011 marks my (and tony's) 30-year anniversary
of being in king crimson, something I'm very proud of.
this once in a lifetime show is a perfect way to celebrate.

When you retire from public performance, be sure to have faithful rabbit to love.

From the Fripp diary (search around to find original post):
This is Robert commenting on a fan's post in the forum about possible players (just coincidence) with some Crim music:

"A Double Trio of Adrian Belew, Dweezil Zappa, Pat Mastelotto, Terry Bozzio, Trey Gunn and Tony Levin would persuade me to part with my own hard-earned pay (the small proportion of which eventually and actually arrives) but it would not be King Crimson. That disturbs me not-at-all; rather, it serves to excite me: the formation would have the freedom to discover, and be, who it is."

Each member of a band contributes to the overall sound and sensibility of a group. I know this firsthand. From my perspective, there is no KC with RF. He anchors, guides and senses what is enfolding. Perhaps, to use an awkward metaphor, he is the lightning rod that gathers the seen and the unseen. On a practical level, perhaps he is quality control.

Adrian, Tony and Pat are incredible musicians and I am glad that some form of KC rep will still be performed live.