TO FETCH A PAIL

Here’s a little piece I wrote a little while back, when I arrived up north, and never got around to posting.  Very short summer reading.

TO FETCH A PAIL

Time, sunshine, opportunity – and life, really.  It all seems wasted on me.  I’m here on a beautiful beach, facing the western sun as it splashes itself over the lake and the sand and the other people here on this mid-July day.  Four in the water, six on the small beige stretch – including me.  Other folks may be just finishing their workday here, or in the city.  I shouldn’t have a care in the world, but I’m alternately pissed off or weepy.  Even the toddler running back and forth shouting “I’m gonna getcha” as he chases his parents, doesn’t cheer me up; or the cheer is fleeting.

What is it with me?  Come on, wind.  Blow the smell offa me. Blow me back, back, and back some more to a place in my soul that can breathe.  The sun is hot when the wind dies; the lapping water calls me then.  Come in. come in. Forget your miserable life and feel something real.  I just stare into space.

And then, suddenly, I’m aware they’re all packing up to leave, and it’s just empty beach; quiet; soothing; waves rocking.  I sit, like the abandoned metal pail a few feet from me.  It waits; I wait.  For someone to fill me; to carry me; to carry for them; I wait to be lifted; I wait to swing with movement; to shape a castle; to inspire play.

I finally get up and go to my car. I know from life that waiting for anything or anyone is a waste of time, that i must be my own activator.  I get my bottle of water, my fifty-cent samosa from the city, and my bathing suit.  As usual, I’m motivated by food.  On the way back, I pick up the metal pail, and place it on the sand beside my chair.  I put the water bottle in.  Champagne and hors d’oeuvres lakeside.

the knots of life

Looking inward is dangerous sometimes

Some people are walking on the road behind me, clapping, hooting.  If they’re trying to get my attention, they’re failing – other than having themselves immortalized in words.   I won’t look at them.  They pass, as all things must.  And meanwhile, in front of me, the waves pass.  I watch, and wonder where the thoughts that I brought here are.  I imagine their floating out from my head when I first arrived, and then being carried off by the water far away – perhaps to the next town by this time.  It gives me satisfaction to think that people by some other shore have my problems now.

Around the world they go.  And myself, like an ancient ancestor, wishing them godspeed.

There was a huge dark cloud a few minutes ago, blocking the sun.  That too has passed, and now – hot samosa inside, hot sun out – I’m feelin’ hot, and pressured by my brain urging me to go on! Be spontaneous! (spontaneously contrary to my own lethargy, at least).  Do something today.  Change the channel.

Here comes a speeding boat – silver dart; black silhouette; fading buzz of the motor carried away on the wind and overtaken by the sound of a car stopping on the road.  Voices get closer to me, and then the two of them come into sight as they walk, mother and daughter, circling a small area, searching.  My hand drops over the side of my chair, protectively hovering over the metal pail.  “Did you lose something?” I ask, standing up.  I play with my bathing suit, as if I was going to put it on.  “Her shoes.  Pink crocs,” said the mother.  “Haven’t seen them,” I say, “and I’ve been here for over an hour.”  They leave.  “Maybe some of your friends took them for you,” mom says to her dejected child.  A metal pail wouldn’t make her happy, I think.

 And then, honestly, I can’t explain.  One minute I’m watching them walk away, and the next, my nose is skimming stones and I’m watching the waves’ shadows on the lake’s bottom.  And I’m pushing my way to the surface, and backstroking along the shoreline, watching the tall pines of “Tall Pines Road” against the white clouds and blue sky.  The universal solvent dissolves; resolves.

I lie face down on my towel, and let the sun dry me, panting a little and letting my shoulders sink into the sand.  Those problems must be well on into the southern lakes by now.

Go on, fly, little birds

WHAT'S LUCK GOT TO DO WITH IT?

What would I say now? I want a brief escape from the road of life. Music is my focus - sometimes, but not always.  I am driven to write, have been driven all my life.  Life itself is too vast and demands its many needs be met.  Today I need to find a place in myself - to let myself wander through the unknown landscapes of my own heart and mind.  I need to be free of all my own conventions and habits, and go, or at least imagine myself going, to a world of possibility and potential, a place where the natural instincts of joy, trust and creativity are not sullied by the crap - whoops, did I say crap?  - I mean, by the distractions and limited visions and neuroses that a person so often meets.  Let me go to a more natural state of love.  Let me at least believe it's out there.  Let me meander through space and time until I happen upon it - accidentally, on purpose.
As Piaf once sang: "Non, je ne regrette rien."  All that's past is past, and now "je repars a zero." (sorry, francophones, don't have the accents on this computer).  I'm always starting at zero, it seems, but I don't see that as a negative, rather as an important element, and necessary for the prevention of bad habits or comfortable ruts.  We have an unhealthy attachment to our own selves, at times, and to our own points of view.  I rather like the feeling of being a nobody - an unknown traveller in strange new lands,-

and of meeting the world afresh. Of course, I would always carry my MasterCard or VISA with me, and psychologically speaking, I am likewise always armed.  I never leave home without the insurance of my own internal sense:  brains to see, hear, process; mouth to speak; guts to warn; and heart to love.  "And the greatest of these is....."
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I eat whole, natural, non-GMO, and organic-as-much-as-possible food. (except for french fries once in a while, of course.) And I try to keep to the same healthy regimen with things that enter my mind.  'Mens sana in corpore sano', n'est-ce pas?  da vero?  nach bhfuil?  Protecting the environment - one's own up-close and personal space, - is job one, physically and mentally.  And so, I will away.  I'll write, I promise.

THE MARVELS OF TECHNOLOGY

It's crazy, isn't it?   I try to get into this here blog (mine), from a computer down the road, and I can't - they tell me I haven't done that before; then today it's tutto bene - all no problem - after I have wasted a lot of my precious time trying to get through to the COMPANY via the net, then later at home on my land line.  It's all so difficult when you don't have a mobile phone, or texting whatever, or for that matter a computer that works at home.  No lecturing, please; I don't want any of that stuff.  I just want things to work, - a simple request, I would think.

OK, so what's new?  Well, some gigs coming up:

July 31, 2013; 7pm at the 

NICE BISTRO  (that's Neece - as in France)

117 Brock St. N.

Whitby, Ontario

Aug. 9, 2013; 6:30pm

Music by the Gull (River)

Minden, Ont.

Aug 31, 2013; 8pm

The Dance Party of the Summer

Minden Legion; Hwy 35 at Road 21

and last weekend a great surprise birthday party for Ron Johnston, with many visiting musical luminaries, as well as lots of friends and family members.  it was great.
I have a couple of photos:

Ron, myself, and Ron's uncle Frank Wright, an amazing musician who really has played at Carnegie Hall

Ron opening some gifts

OR RECORDING MY RADIO SHOW

- that's another activity I left out - and have completed.  Listen to Canoefm.com on Sat. June 29 for my show.  on at 10pm eastern time.

so last evening I went out for a little walk in the pre-sunset light and ended up, as I often do, over by the tracks.  Used to always be the railway tracks, but there's also the subway running nearby, and some nice, abandoned grasslands just alongside.  I was up on a rise; some young boys were playing down by the fence line; the sun had splashed everything: the hill, the waving long grass, the pathway, and all of us, in its gorgeous rosy light.  The boys noticed me at some point, and began calling out to me, as they will do when they're far enough away.  As soon as I started to acknowledge them, however, they all ran and hid in the bushes that were down there.  All except one little guy, who came struggling up the hill, slipping and picking himself up; he had bright red hair - what I could see in his buzz cut, and he started asking me as he got closer:
"What are you doing?"
"I'm walking", I said..
"Where are you going?"
"Well, first I'm walking this way, and then I'm walking back", I said, indicating the length of the path.
He had little horn-rimmed glasses on, and eyes that were magnified.
"I'm Remington", he said.
So perfectly named, I thought.  I told him it was a great name, and he said, yes, his parents named him that, and started off down the hill again, after pointing out to me that the other boys were hiding.
On his way down, he turned around and hollered, "What's your name?"
I told him, and as I walked away, I could hear him telling the others, who came out to meet and question him.
"Her name is Zoe", he said importantly.

It was a good walk, and now I know Remington.

DON'T DO THIS AT HOME!

The thing is - when I'm not singing, or swimming, or reading, or on my bike, or spending time with friends, family or my lover, or food shopping or cooking, or doing a massage, or teaching those horrible children - I can be either extremely lazy, or, as I learned today, sort of nuts.

I should add making videos to my list of possible activities, because that's what I am currently doing to keep myself off the streets, but it didn't work today, - at least it didn't keep me off the ground.  There I was, creatively searching for subjects for the next brilliant video for youtube, to accompany some of my songs - and I suddenly got the brain wave to illustrate one of the lines from my tune "Gotta Move On" ( from my latest CD - watch for the video soon).

So this one line says "gotta roll on", and I decided to do that literally and I filmed myself rolling on down a hill - just like I used to love to do when I was six years old.  Well, here's the news, folks: it's not fun when you're no longer six.  In fact, it makes you feel ill and quite wretched. The things I do for art.  And does Art ever say thank you?

I survived, but just.  And now I'm passing on to you the benefit of my wisdom (got a little late).  DON'T DO IT.  (although I think it will look like fun in the final video package).

Before all that foolishness, however, I had a great night on Friday at our gig. The pics:

john deehan, me, ron johnston, mike allen, and sam

me being intensely songstressed

THE DULL WIT OF CAPITALISM IN BANKING CENTRES (CIBC)

If there's anything that bugs me, it's meaningless bureaucracy. Had a little run-in this morning, with that anachronism of sixty years or more, and it's all I can do to just run away – fast and furious. It was a bank – not surprisingly – that brought out my wrath. Bad enough their obscene profits; they have to be obtuse and annoying in the process.

Last week, I was thinking about doing a little traveling in the fall, so dropped in to my local CIBC, and spoke with a nice young man about setting up an account that would let me withdraw cash in most countries. My normal banking company doesn't have actual, physical outlets, and their debit card is not guaranteed to work outside Canada.

The nice young man told me to come back with my VISA card, and a passport, which I did; I also brought with me a second credit card, some bills with my address, including a tax bill, and my Ontario teacher's ID card. The only photo was on the passport, which happened to be Irish rather than Canadian. Canada's passports must be renewed every five years – another source of tedious bureaucracy – while Ireland's last ten years. So although I am Canadian, born in Toronto, I have Irish citizenship as well, through my grandfather.

I can't really blame the nice young man – even if all he did was repeat the rules over and over, and show me the brochure that states those rules. It's the manager's fault; and I have grave doubts about what those people can honestly “manage” in real life. God forbid they should base a decision on common sense - in this case lots of ID, including a photo on a passport which states I was born in Canada. I also have a mortgage with CIBC, which they have in their files, and have had many accounts with them over the years.

But stupid rules are stupid rules, and so, rather than offer service, they rigidly and dim-wittedly maintained their position for precisely and only what's listed in their beloved brochure – and thus lost my business. Oh, I know they don't really care, because I would have had a “no-fees” account, and CIBC wouldn't make a profit from this one pathetic customer.

It's a good thing I can sing; and don't have to live a life limited by “business”. Even if I'm poor – and I can live, and have lived, below the poverty line quite happily, often enough. I think I have more by being able to remove myself from this “mean” mean. I quit office jobs a long time ago because of this same lack of intelligence, imagination, and commitment to what I consider reality.

I'm reminded of my very brief stint many years ago with the government's income tax service: we all sat in rows in a big room, checking returns, while a man did nothing but walk up and down the aisles, presumably to make sure we were working. I used to put my pencil down, and place my hands in my lap until he passed my desk. He never said a mumblin' word, of course. Jerk.

I quit the job as soon as I could. 

I'm singing tonight at Gate 403

403 Roncesvalles Avenue, Toronto

9pm

with John Deehan, sax; Mike Allen, guitar; and Ron Johnston, bass

Come and have some fun.

IF YOU MISSED IT, YOU MISSED IT!

....as they often say at BayBloor Radio.

But I'm referring, of course, to our recent gig.  And some unfortunate people did miss it - too bad for them.  It was great at the Old Mill's Home Smith Bar - a true musical delight, with each musician so enormously talented, combining technique and heart (many in the biz do not have both) - and on top of that, making the evening fun, and connecting with the audience - an additional talent not always seen.
Many members of the audience - so many - came up to tell me how much they were enjoying the evening, which to me is worth so much - priceless, as they say in the commercials.  I seem to be quoting the world of advertising here.
A wonderful room in which to perform, and I'm glad all over to have been invited to sing there (4th time!!), and to have the musical friends I do.
So here are some pics, and a little clip of one of my songs - "My Honeyman".  Don't know why it won't do it straight; it was normal on the camera, but it has flipped it sideways on the computer.  sorry for the neck tension...

me and norm amadio, in a very dark mood, apparently



another opportunity for torticollis - twisted neck - why does the computer do this?

diana braithwaite, chris whiteley (hidden), john deehan, ron johnston

le maitre du piano, norman amadio

chris whiteley, ron johnston and moi

myself and john deehan

mike allen

And other news,

nothing to do with music, except that it's another reason to sing:  the judge on the charges brought against the @#$%^ conservative government that we are unfortunate to have here in Canada, has made a ruling, and found that - surprise, surprise - there is evidence of interference.  to whit, his words:

 In a clear and bold statement, Judge Richard Mosley wrote: "I find that electoral fraud occurred during the 41st General Election."
Of course, the government will now lie, and say someone else hacked into their systems.  They are so slimy and corrupt.

But we do have some more music news.  The next gig:

June 7, 2013  9pm
Gate 403;  403 Roncesvalles Ave., Toronto
C'mon out!!