Lost in the Noise

The

The Women in Flames (Salvador Dalí)

Trinity of

Love

Death

and

Music

“I’m-a try this out right quick on ya’ll. I’m a ARTIST. And I’m sensitive about my shit. So ya’ll be nice about it.” 

- Erykah Badu

“Save me Jesus I’ve been a fool / How could I forget that you are the rule / You are my God / Am I your child / From now on for you I shall be WILD!” 

- Prince

“I'm lying in my bed / The blanket is warm / This body will never be safe from harm...” 

- Jeff Buckley

I loved to play songs for my mother, and sometimes she was patient enough to listen. Sometimes. Once, I went into great detail about how Jeff Buckley drowned after writing what turned out to be prophetic lyrics for his album, Grace. She was captivated. She loved listening to Prince with me and my sister, and agreed he was a musical genius. (Even so, we were never brave or stupid enough to play “Darling Nikki” when she was around.) We listened to Erykah Badu together on our first trip to England. 

By the time I performed with Todd Rundgren in 2015, mom had been living with dementia for 3 years. After the concert, dad brought her to Denver. I was editing the concert video at the time and she saw his face on the screen. “I know him!” she said. “I know him!” Of course she did - I played Todd every fucking day, beginning when I was a teenager living in her house. Still, it made me happy. She remembered him and by extension remembered me.

As mom’s health declined, I felt helpless. I had always pledged I would do anything for her, and I did. Before she was ill, I took her to England, Paris, Berlin, Sao Paulo, Rio De Janeiro. I bought her house when she divorced my dad so she could move to a new place. I helped her financially. But I couldn’t (wouldn’t?) take care of her when she got cancer. It just killed me to break my promise.

I used to talk to my mom almost every day. Now, all of a sudden, my reformed-alcoholic father (a.k.a. her ex-husband) was her caretaker, in charge of answering the phone. When he handed the phone to her the conversations were broken and confused. Mom was slowly disappearing. My daily routine of motherly bonding was broken. Now my mind needed something else to do. 

Well, there’s only one emotion that is stronger than worry, stronger than hopelessness, stronger than helplessness, stronger than guilt. What can your mind obsess upon which is more powerful than these things? I don’t think I need to spell it out. I set out to distract myself with an elaborate fantasy. I needed some other kind of daily connection, so I set about creating someplace for my mind to go.

That’s part of the story behind a song I'm working on called “Lost in the Noise”. The song begins, “'Love is an art', she wrote sadly”. To me, this means that falling in love with someone is equivalent to creating a fantasy world where you think you are in control. I don’t know if anyone else does this, but I mentally script out the same fantasy over and over, creating a perfect scene. “Paint a perfect picture”, sang Prince, “An image in one’s mind”. But you are not in control of the fantasy at all. Prince continues, “The beautiful ones always smash the picture. Always. Every time”. So there you are, creating scenes, dialogs, and scenarios -- creating art -- that propels your mind into dopamine rush after dopamine rush even though you know there is no reward at the end.

Falling in love (yes, it still happens when you're married) is not a happy undertaking, and to think you are in control of the process is pure folly. It’s dumb. It’s futile. But it is also fertile ground for inspiration. As proof, approximately one gajillion songs have been written about what happens when you fall in love. And of it, I have this to say: “Love is something that happens when you don’t have anything else to do with your mind”. I wasn’t bored, I was … 

…my mother was dying. And I think it was my fault. Why didn’t I send her to the doctor when we were in the UK? Why didn’t I move her in with me? Why did I take her to the nursing home with dad - that’s when she really started to decline. What kind of daughter am I? I could barely live with myself, but I had to, for my family. I gave myself the gift of survival: the gift of music, for which love is the ultimate muse.

A mere month before she went into the facility, I played mom's favorite song on the piano and she winked at me. And at then very end of her life, as mom began dying in the nursing home, one thing would excite her more than anything else. Music, of course. We played her favorite concert videos and she would clap and shout excitedly at the television. 

Love: Prince was all about sensuality and even felt he was doing God’s work.

Death: Jeff Buckley embraced the concept in his writing, perhaps unaware of his fate.

Music: Erykah Badu made sure to let her audience know it was art she was creating.

I say it is connected. “'Love is an art', she wrote madly”. Is this essay is the writing of a mad woman? Straying and unconnected? Here’s what I surmise: My mother was dying. I couldn’t cope. I fell in love and wrote some songs inspired by my newfound muse. Then mom died. It seems only logical that I can finish my song now. It all seems so fitting. What else would I do? It feels like this chapter is coming to a close ... or will the meaning of all of this just get lost in the noise?  Maybe the answer is here somewhere, in this trinity of unconnected concepts. 

The Past, Present, and Future of a Kiss

The most passionate kiss has a past, present and a future.

Everything you do is geared towards that moment. Right now you are living in the past of that kiss, careening towards it with deliberate speed. You are planning, hoping, waiting, planting seeds, and setting the stage for that moment. No matter how mature, patient, realistic or sincere you are, you are creating an apex in your life for that moment: One that has not yet happened, one that might not ever happen.

“Now.” As you somehow survive “now’, in the past of your longed-for event, you sculpt your scenarios: the time, the place, the mood, the conversation. You know the details will change. Yet for some reason, you suppress your best and most imaginative scene, not wanting to jinx it because you know it will not happen the way you think. To merely summon a thought means to erase it from existence.

Over time you discover the kiss becomes harder to imagine. Is it because you were once able to visualize it so perfectly? Perhaps you are able to now understand why in our ancient history we ordained some songs so sacred that they could only be played for worship: It is because when the novelty fades, so does the meaning. So does the feeling.

And around this time that you realize you must manifest your feelings somehow. The only way to get the feeling back is to take action. If your kiss is meant to happen, you will find yourself living in the present of that kiss soon.

But you forgot to plan for the future.

I want my kiss to empower my partner. I want it to create feelings of trust, comfort, safety, happiness, and love. And in turn, I want to feel these things.

The future of your kiss should not be replete with mistrust, confusion, or doubt. It should not lead to resentment or despair. If these things exist in the future of your kiss then you should not want it.

Cute Kid Post

Posted 10/18/2016:

My sweet K lay sleeping in bed this morning, her darling cheek mushed up against the side of the bed, breathing through her mouth, arm dangling sweetly above the floor, defiantly comfortable and out like a light with no filament. "Time to get up," I gently reminded her, and in a feat only possible by a mom who gives 0Fs about what grandmommy would say about waking this precious creature, I expertly maneuvered onto the bed while placing her onto my lap. I replaced her warm, down comforter around her as she lay cradled in my arms. I spoke to her the only words I knew would inspire her to wake up.

"Rarr," I said.

"Rarr," she whispered, eyes still closed but a smile brightening her face.

2008 Inauguration

I'll leave out the part about how my Monday was very hectic, (including a sales pitch from a guy who sells in-ear monitors). Instead, I'll start on Tuesday morning. Inauguration Day.

 My dad calls me at 7 am MST going, "Leslie! Wake up! You're missing it!" No matter how old you are, when your dad says "jump!", you jump! I had just gotten back to sleep after waking up at 4:30 am, still jet lagged a week after my trip to the UK. But I got up with my adrenaline racing, turned on CNN, and saw Barack and Michelle greeting the former president whats-his-name with a present. I was really 3 hours away from "missing it", but dad's enthusiasm was catching.

 Dad told me that he never thought he'd live to see this day, and how excited he was. My dad doesn't get excited about anything. (Well, he really liked the Motown fake book we got him for Christmas, but this doesn't compare.)

I've had my share of difficulties with dad, but at age 71 he's getting a little better; drinking less and even doing a newsletter for his apartment community. The eternal cynic, dad has been waiting for Barack to get shot ever since he announced his candidacy. "I wish he wouldn't do this", Dad said. So basically if dad's worried about him getting killed, /I'm/ worried about him getting killed, no matter what I say or what my intellect tells me. My older sister was born on the same day Medgar Evers was killed. I was born the year after Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. For dad, just about EVERY BLACK LEADER he's known has been off'ed - just think about what that does to a person! But Barack made it all the way to the White House without incident. And my dad was very, very happy. I've known my dad for 40 years, and this is the happiest I've seen him. Just think about what that does to a person!