Plumb, mad-dog...

I shot up my guitar today.  Plugged it with BB's.  The gun is a memento I purchased that symbolized a prop for a character in my first novel; the gun is not pertinent to this essay, other than to point out that it is the vehicle I employed to shoot up my guitar. The guitar is not important either, as far as being a viable instrument for either playing or creating music.  The guitar is broke-down; the guitar is junk. And that is the point of today's essay. 

Everything I own, everything I am, seems broke-down these days.

   Let's start with my house.  It's mine, that's a plus.  But it's only barely mine.  The bank initiated foreclosing proceedings on it earlier this year, but I managed to negotiate a modified loan and hold on to it.  But the house itself, though providing modest shelter, is pretty broke-down too.  Earlier this year I went without both heat and electric; I was remiss on the electric bill and had no funds to purchase more heating fuel...I did without.  For three months last summer I had no running water when the well pump shit-the-bed; again no funds to fix it.  And the house (650sf bungalow actually) sits on a suspect cinder-block foundation, on mushy, sinking ground due to the wet-land marsh surrounding my property.  The floors slope and sag and there isn't a square angle anywhere.  It's not really insulated for winter living and the water is so heavy with sulfur that I must procure bottled water for drinking purposes.  Many of my friends say that I should raze the house and start over; I of course, have no money for this.

My car has 126,000k miles on the odometer.  Between two jobs, I drive almost 3 hours a day.  In the past few months I've spent about $1000 dollars on front brakes, 3 tires, and a broken starter; I need another new tire and one of my rear brakes is falling to pieces with every driven mile.  I owe another 2 1/2 years worth of monthly payments and my insurance is about to be cancelled if I can't come up with another payment on the premium.  The car is junk and surely won't live through the loan term.  I have no money to purchase another; you can't ride a scooter or motorcyle year round in Maine. 

My body is falling apart.  I work in a very physically demanding occupation and I am not young anymore.  Bad knees, bad back, bad shoulders, bad neck, wrists, fingers, etc.  I'm broke down.  I should change careers but that would require both money, and time to go back to school of some sort; I have neither.  I must work almost every waking minute just to keep my nose above water. 

Almost everything else I own is broke-down too.  Last year I had to all sell my furniture.  I have a wobbly hand-me-down bed with only a box spring and 1.5 inch memory foam mattress.  My couch is a hand-made creation I slapped together and it too is falling apart because I am not a furniture maker. 

I have a few toys, and they are broke-down too.  I had to sell my professional digital camera set-up last year.  All I have now is my old film equipment (in various degrees of working order; but who uses film these days?) but film and developing is another expense I can't afford.  My point-and-shoot digital works well, though it too is dinged up from a parking lot tumble.  I sold my custom made Marinoni road bike last year; I have a mongrel, frankensteinian cobbled together from spare parts single-speed leftover; it has a flat tire and I can't afford a new one. 

And then, there's the guitar...

I traded in my guitars (an electric and and acoustic,) as downpayment for layaway on a new acoustic/electric that I can't yet afford.  The guitar I shot up today is my old guitar that's been laying out in my workshop for a few years, gathering dust.  It was utterly unplayable due to a broken neck, but I fixed it to give me something to satisfy my need to play in the interim before I can acquire the new one.  Though I did a good job, it still plays like the shitty guitar it always was.

Now I'm told by some that my purchase of a new guitar is frivolous and irresponsible given my financial state...my guitar is my companion; it's what I come home to after work each night...it soothes my soul and fills my heart...it is not anybody else's business to tell me what I need to spend my money on; their reality is not my reality, and in my reality I know how short life is, and I intend to live it as much as I can, not merely survive it.

There's a scene in The Outlaw Josey Wales where he's trying to inspire a rag-tag group that is about to be besieged by marauding Indians:

"Now remember, when things look bad and it looks like you're not gonna make it, then you gotta get mean. I mean plumb, mad-dog mean. 'Cause if you lose your head and you give up then you neither live nor win. That's just the way it is."

So what does this have to do with me plugging my guitar?  Well there's another movie, Slap Shot, and a scene where Paul Newman comes across some guys beating the hell out of the team bus with sledge-hammers.  If you don't know the movie, it's about a minor league hockey team that is about to go belly-up due to lack of finances and fan interest.  Under Newman's tutelage as player coach, he nurtures a team identity as them being, if not great hockey players, at least a team that will drop the gloves and fight with little provocation; the fans love this "goonish" new team and begin flocking in droves into every arena they play.  So when Newman sees some of them beating on the bus, he asks: "What are you guys doing?"  And they reply: "Making it look mean!"

I shot up my old, broke-down guitar today, made it look mean, cuz sometimes when life is beatin the shit outta ya, ya gotta get plumb, mad-dog mean, and fight back...

Gift?

In the movie "Amadeus," the character of Antonio Salieri laments his own relative mediocrity as a composer when measured against the genius of Mozart. Maddening to Salieri is when the young prodigy, at first listen to a piece Salieri has labored over, deems it simple and somewhat repetitive and then whimsically embellishes it, with seemingly little effort, into something more intricate and sophisticated. The humiliated Salieri discovers that mere passion for an endeavor does not equal brilliance, and fueled by his seething, and envious rage, decides that he must destroy Wolfgang Amadeus.

I recently read a Richard Russo novel where the mother of one character discovers that while she is a talented artist, her daughter has: "The Gift." In contrast to Salieri, the mother encourages her daughter to pursue her art, that she can attain a level of mastery that always eluded her. The irony is that the daughter never does seriously pursue her gift, and it is her lost love, a boy who seemingly haphazardly stumbled across his own talent as a painter, who goes on to fame and notoriety with his art.

I've been thinking lately about my own passions. Specifically in the many endeavors in which I have certain levels of talent, yet I'm not "gifted," in any one pursuit. A "Jill-of-all-trades, master-of-none," seems to be my lot. I've dabbled in many things, both athletic and artistic and I usually find that I have at least average to often, above average talent in most things I pick up.  My sense of determination and competition seems to keep me in the "game" but I also seem to always have one or three Achilles Heel flaws or deficiencies that allow me to fall short of genius or glory. Yet I keep butting my head against the wall and suffering the subsequent pain of failure and defeat.  Combine my passion(s)  with the enduring curse of being an inveterate dreamer, and I am seemingly biologically set up for heartache. 

 A few of my passions: I can sing pretty good and carry a tune, but have limited range and can't hit all the notes. I can both strum and finger-pick my guitar and ukulele, but do neither smoothly or with exemplary melody. As a soccer player, I had an above average sense of the game and field awareness that helped my coaching but lacked the deft ball skills to allow me to excel as a player. As both a runner and triathlete, I always found myself ahead of the middle-of-the-packers, and often could keep the leaders in sight, but I could never hang with them.    

My greatest athletic passion however, the passion I've engaged in over a life-time, the athletic (though also soulful and spiritual) pursuit of surfing, has been taking alot of hits these days, engendering alot of heartache and suffering.  My body, at the age of 53, no longer seems capable of performing the way it once did.  Reflexes, flexibility, strength...all shot to hell. Now, I can reconcile with the natural and gradual loss of performance that comes with age, but my situation is exacerbated and accelerated by many injuries, surgeries, and bodily changes in the last few years, rendering the most basic act of standing up to be an exercise in extreme frustration and futility.  It's my knees, mostly.  ACL reconstruction and three torn meniscus repairs on my right knee, and both a repaired and unrepaired torn meniscus on my left knee have ravaged my range of motion; neither knee enjoys full flexion or extension anymore.  Scar tissue and arthritis in those knees as well as both shoulders and my neck (the neck never the same from a whip-lash injury suffered in a big-wave wipeout,) very tight hip-flexors and hamstrings, (one never fully recovered from a bad tear during a soccer match,)  spinal disc tears, and an auto-immune condition known as Ankylosing-Spondylitis...all serve to inhibit the basic surfing motion of smoothly drawing my feet under me when I "pop-up."  Too often, I can't accomplish this most basic act in one motion, and will either fall off in kookish (beginner) fashion, or will stumble and bumble awkwardly too late to my feet, only to have my timing blown (timing is crucial in surfing) and watch the wave reel off without me. 

Now, I've long ago come to terms with the reality that I'm not exceptionally gifted in my surfing, but what about passion?  I've still got dreams and goals.  Okay, so I'll never be on the cover of any magazines or sign any autographs because I rip the waves, but what about my dream of surfing J-Bay?  Australia? Ireland?  Hawaii?  Frikkin Hawaii?  I know I'll never paddle out at second-reef Pipeline, but even a three-footer there would give me a huge rush and thrill, just to say I did it!  Yet passion for something doesn't seem to matter.  As Salieri discovered, there are only a handful of Mozarts to be sprinkled around in this world.  Yet unlike Salieri, what do you do when your passion for something overrides your envy and disappointment that you are not in the same league of the Mozarts yet instead of quitting, you still think there is a place for your music, your own compositions.  What do you do when life, in all her cruelty, takes even that, from you?

My writing, my artistic passion, something as essential to me as breathing, has really been breaking my heart lately.  Take for example yesterday.  I spent a couple of hours trying to research the "right agent" (as all the wisdom of agent listings advise) for my children's book.  I composed and polished the best query letters I could, put together with writing samples of the story in question to create a professional proposal (and I am a professional, of sorts anyway; I've been published and paid for some of my more meager work.)  I sent two queries out yesterday via email, full of hope (why do I still hope after 30 years of frustration! Cuz I still dream, is the answer,) and both of those proposals were...wait for it, drum-roll please...rejected.  One rejection came back in less than an hour.  The other received the auto-reply message that the agent was "out-of-the-office."  A few hours later, when he was presumably back-in-the-office, I received a curt: thanks-but-no-thanks form rejection. 

Douche bags.  I hate them all.   

Okay, that said...does all this rejection I've suffered in my writing life mean I have no "gift?"  Or worse, does it mean I just flat-out, suck?  While I can't answer for the former (though I realize the odds are against me becoming the next Steinbeck, Heller, Hemingway, Pynchon, Lee, Oates, Welty et. al,) I know the latter is not true.  I don't...suck.  In fact, (though there is always the possibility that I'm delusional,) I am a damn good (if not genius; always fall short of genius) writer.  What evidence do I have to support this?  Pretty much no scientific data that I can point to...more like the faith that a devout believer holds in their heart.  I've created good work that I'm proud of, really proud of.  Yet I've yet to have my faith find validation in publication of my book length writing.  I've had discussions with other people who are not artists about my frustrations and rejections; they always fall into one of two camps: "Why don't you self-publish?"  To this they always offer anecdotal evidence of some writer who has done this and been very successful; one such writer recently made over 2 million in sales of her work.  Curious, I read some excerpts on-line; while not utterly horrid, it wasn't art.  Sure, it was saleable, and she was adept enough in her craft to not put most readers to sleep...but it wasn't art.  I want to write art...art that sells of course.  The other camp are those who say: "If you know what you've written is good, what does it matter if it gets published?"  Mon dieu.  Not to sound elitist or condescending, but if you don't have a real interest or passion for art, don't talk to artists about what you might perceive as the "vain" need for validation with their art...you just don't get it...

The sad reality is, I might never receive that validation.  I know of great writers who never received great recognition for their work.  My old college professor is a case in point.  I've read two of his novels and he is on par with Steinbeck in both scope and execution; his prose is absolutely exquisite.  He in fact, once mentored John Irving, who of course is kinda famous...and yet, outside a very small circle of those who know of his brilliance, he remains largely unknown.  A recent search on Amazon turned up a few of his works that I've yet to read (and eagerly will!) but even the reviewers lament that his genius is unknown. 

Then of course, there are the sad cases of those whose talents, are only realized too late.  John Kenndey Toole earned a Pulitzer for his raucous masterpiece: A Confederacy of Dunces.  Tragically, the honor was bestowed post-humously, after he'd already committed suicide.  Suicide born of frustration that his work, his genius, his passion, his gift, went un-validated in his lifetime.  I understand that passion, that heartache for something that you pour your whole heart and soul into, that meets not merely with rejection and/or scorn, but worse...indiffrerence.  If not for a loving mother who slapped the manuscript on an editor's desk and demanded that he read it, the world might have missed out on the genius of Toole. 

So, where does all this leave me.  I'm a stubborn nut.  Perseverance is my middle name.  But even I am coming to accept that I have a finite time to make my mark, and for that mark to allow me the freedom to pursue some of my dreams...  I've given myself a deadline (as I've often employed as a motivator,) to get myself an agent to represent my work, before this year is fini.  If I'm still unsuccesful, I will...(throat lump, heart clench, misty eyes) self-publish and be done with the two works I'm currently peddling.  And...nobody will read them...most likely.  My heart and soul will swirl down the drain of failure and defeat; I will have, in my heart and soul, fallen short, yet again.  Another Salieri; no genius, only a modicum of talent.  Self-publishing is the kiss-of-death in the world of legitimate publishing; sure it's easy and everyone can do it, and that's precisely it...everyone (read: anyone) can do it.  So my nugget of art will be lost out there as a grain of sand in the desert of mediocrity. 

And what will I do after?  I will of course, keep writing (read the part about it being as necessary as breathing;) I've got 6 other works-in-progress and I won't, I can't stop...trying.  But I've come to a point where I realize I can't keep butting my head; it's bloody and raw.  I have to pursue other things where if I'm not gifted, or even very talented, will at least allow me to crawl out of my little fox-hole of singular and solitary resistance.  There is nothing, NOTHING, romantic about the life of a starving artist.  I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I've reached a point where comfort and security, matter.  It will hurt...alot!  Because failure, defeat, always hurt.  But...not so much that I'm gonna go out and find me some Mozarts to poison... 

Spring Swell

Ask a New England surfer what their favorite season is and they will almost always answer: Fall.  Autumn in these parts is indeed sometimes magical.  The water temps remain relatively tepid through September and October, the swells can range from big glassy Hurricane, to offshore groomed Nor'easters, the sky and sea are crystal clear blue, the foliage blooms in Nature's palette of yellows, oranges, reds, and earthy browns, and...the tourists go home!  What's not to love about Fall in New England.  But for a surfer, though I love the Autumn season, I submit that it is Spring that produces, if not the highest quality, but quantity of surf.  Sure it's often lumpy, and the winds aren't just right, and it might be gloomy and gray, but with the changing weather patterns, and more frequent storms, the Spring usually produces the most consistent surf.  And this year, with La Nina predominating, we are already off to a good season.  Herewith some snaps that typify what Spring surfing in New England is all about.  I drove all day on this day, checking multiple spots, calculating the iffy conditions with the frustration factor...and I ended up right back at the first spot I'd checked.  Paddled out into unruly, gnarly big (mostly closeout) drops and got annihilated numerous times.  But, I saw some awe inspiring barrels, heaving over and grinding, the sun broke through at the end of the day for a few minutes, alighting the faces and the lips in crystalline greens and oranges, and I even paddled back out (after finishing my sesh on my surfboard) on my bodyboard cuz I wanted to get inside at least one of those macking closeout barrels; I wasn't successful getting in the tube but I did survive a huge air drop that seized my breath away and I pulled a cranking turn off the bottom before the wave obliterated me and my leash snapped and I swam in, as darkness snuffed the last light of the day.  Standing barefoot in the snow as I changed out of my wetsuit, gazing up at a suddenly cleared sky, with the moon and twinkling stars, I reflected on what a unique experience it can be, being a surfer in New England, in the Spring.