Guitar Stuff and Beyond

Well my school days have been keeping me jumping through hoops.  It seems so much of my time is gobbled up and when I have a free moment I either crash on the couch or grab a guitar and play for a bit.  I have been working on memorizing Walbert's arrangement of "If I Fell".  I am feeling pretty good about my progress.  I am getting the notes down and now my next job will be to really look at the timing and eventually use a metronome with the piece.  These days I rarely have a sustained period of practice time and today when I grabbed my guitar to play for a bit during lunch, I felt as if I was greeting a long lost friend.  The end of lunch signaled the attack of the teenagers and the conclusion of my bonding period.

Our weather continues to parallel that of Ireland.  I have the weather for Clonakilty and South Bend posted on my desktop and it seems we are in nearly complete synchronization, temps in the 60's here and the same there, rain here sprinkles there.  Yes, I am obsessing about Ireland.

I have been thinking about approaches to guitar playing and the contrast between what I do and what the typical electric rock player does.  So many rock players attempt to squeeze enormous numbers of notes into every measure.  If their guitars were weapons they'd be holding down the trigger of a music machine gun.  On the other hand when I play I prefer to make certain each note is celebrated.  I suppose if my guitar were a weapon, it'd be a sniper's rifle.  The mega fast rock player doesn't have time to cherish individual notes.  I prefer to give each note the respect it deserves.  Of course I am far from possessing the skills of a speed demon guitarist and maybe my note sanctification is just my excuse for playing slowly and carefully.   Let's look at this from the perspective of how the guitarist views his/her audience.  That Maserati guitar player's primary intention seems to encourage a visceral reaction from the audience.  There is nothing wrong with that goal.   Some players seem to even assault their listeners by cranking up the volume to the point of creating at the very least temporary hearing loss.  Now I have some real qualms about that because the potential for lasting physical damage exits.  Perhaps this is the territory of youth because from my teens and through my thirties I willingly paid the admission to be a sonic victim.  Still even back then I did not enjoy having "concert ears".  Now I refuse to subject myself to those levels of sounds.

Reflections Part 2

It was wonderfully sunny and cool today with a breeze that rustled my hair into the pleasant disarray of an " I don't have to be at work today" attitude.  I have actually had to move myself indoors to compose this entry because I finally admitted I was cold sitting at the garden table on my back deck.  Now I've plopped myself into my favorite recliner.  I have been quickly joined by Miyagi, our Maine Coon-mix cat who enjoys lying on my legs.  Admittedly his body draped on top of my shins is providing a nice bit of radiant heat and therefore I will resist the urge to move against the somewhat trapped feeling.
 This time last year John and I were anxiously preparing for our first overseas journey together.  Previously, he had been out of the country as an airman.  I traveled to England with Jim, my first husband and Naomi, our daughter in the summer of 1993.  I again visited England in 1994 as part of a healing journey after Jim had taken his life in August of 1993.   Both visits were hosted by our dear English friends, Dennis and Sylvia.
Here it is September of 2011, nearly twenty years since my first big journey and one year since the Lilly trip to Ireland.  I have to admit I truly love the UK and Ireland.  Of course this affection is filtered through a visitor's eyes. My friend Dennis, an English native, has told me on numerous occasions that although he loves to travel there is no place he'd rather live than in England.  The climate suites me.  In fact today's weather here at home brings with it a deep nostalgic feeling that nags at my emotions.  Do you ever feel like you are in the wrong place?  Today I feel that way. Actually I've been suppressing that feeling since returning from Ireland last year.   I've been sitting here remembering what it was like to amble along the streets of Clonakilty and the other towns we visited, taking in the sights and smells, the feel of polished brick walkways, the narrow streets, the flower boxes, ancient stones, church bells, sounds of English spoken in a variety of Irish dialects and the sounds of the Irish language itself, the ocean crashing against craggy coast lines, the creaking of the old wooden floors that are everywhere that there aren't even older stone floors, the sounds of children running and playing in the Emmet Square, music...live music of all sorts oozing out of the doorways of pubs, hotels and squares.  Guitars of all sorts carried by and played by all sorts of people.  The challenge of navigating the road system, the gentle scrape of fuscia against the side of the car as I drive down the teeny tiny twisty rural roads.  Clouds billowing across the skies.  Brief showers that are shut off by the sun as it bursts through and transforms drizzle into glistening honey drops.  The land of hills, stone fences, and dramatically craggy grazing land that only sheep, who dot hillsides like spilled cotton balls, could navigate without tripping. I am sure there are mean people in Ireland but we didn't meet any of them, so I am guessing there just may be a smaller percentage of them.  Go ahead accuse me of wearing rose colored glasses.  I really don't care.  All I know is that the Clonakilty International Guitar Fest is just around the corner and I won't be there.  Sigh.............Perhaps they could use a pottery teacher in Clon? 

Reflections Part 1

        It is Labor Day, September 5th, 2011.  I have been enjoying a work free day unlike many folks in this country who continue to suffer without a paycheck because they have been lacking work for months and even years.  As I was driving to Fire Arts this evening I made a point of making a photographic record of the beleaguered remains of the Studebaker industrial sites.  Nearly all the remnants of that once proud and vibrant company are gone.  As I pulled up to the Chapin Street side of the remaining structure I reminisced about the times my mother and I would pick my father up from work.  You see my father was not a pleasant person.  He was an alcoholic in the grand Polish tradition which professed:  Unless interrupted by sleep or food, one should be consuming beer or hard liqueur.  My dad did not disappoint that tradition and it ended his life at the relatively young age of 56.  He was a mean drunk and in retrospect I often wonder what drew my mother to pairing up with this man.  Although they were destroyed in the fire that took my studio in 1993, I found evidence in family photos that alcohol was a constant companion for my father.  It seemed as though every picture showed him with a bottle of beer in his hand.  It was always a Drewry's because my Uncle Ed had the perfect job for a South Bend Pole.  He was a foreman at the brewing plant.  Oddly my Uncle Eddie seemed the least possessed with this Polish disease and he lived decades past my father who was his younger brother.  My dad's alcoholism kept our little family strapped for cash, even though he did work a weekend job as well.  He held a sales position at El's Liqueur Store, go figure.  He was never paid in cash but took home his compensation in the form of fifths and unending cases of Drewry's.  My Uncle El owned that liqueur store.  This wasn't enough for Dad although because the evening ritual included picking up Dad from Studebaker's, dropping him off at the local bar and heading home until he called for a ride or had a friend drop him off.    It seems as though any time my parents spent together was characterized by ugly arguments laced with copious amounts of profanity and ultimately with my father in a drunken rage, lashing out physically at my mother.  Even as a youngster I wondered at the irony of driving to church on Sunday mornings with my parents explosively arguing all the way there and back.  The only good thing about mass was that they had to be quiet.   I have no recollection of my dad driving.  I know he must have but......What drove my father's alcoholism?  Maybe it was the realization that his life would never improve, that he was in a loveless marriage of his own making and that he was destined to work until death at hard labor that seemed to pay less than the rest of his family's and neighbors' occupations. 
        My mom held the family together by working a fulltime factory job as well.  This was in that wonderful era when women earned 50% of the pay for working the exact same job as the man stationed next to them.  This angered Mom intensely.   She was active in unions where they existed  and I know she became a steward at one factory and lobbied hard for equal pay rights. I think headway was made on that front by the time she approached retirement.  Mom was an incredibly hard worker.  She'd come home from the factory and then task herself with cleaning, cooking and sewing(which she loved to do).  Often she complained of sore feet, aching bones and her hands bore the cuts and scrapes that evidenced the brutality of her day job.  Now Dad on the other hand would come home and he was also grubby from head to toe but his evenings consisted of sitting in front of the television, drinking beer and eating his staple diet of crackers and milk.  Mom did provide a supper meal but I cannot remember him eating it with us.
       Anyway...as I was photographing today all these memories emerged.  I grabbed two brick fragments that had escaped the confines of the fenced wrecking zone.  I plan on placing them in the garden here at home, not because of pleasant associations but because they represent a bit of history.  Someone decades ago helped build an automotive empire with those bricks, but as all empires must do eventually, Studebaker crumbled to ruin taking with it thousands of jobs and throwing the lives connected to the jobs into disarray.  Studebaker was a victim of it own faults, symbolized by the only new car my family ever purchased.  It was the ugliest thing....pukey beige and the cheapest model of Lark.  It leaked oil from the first day it was parked in our garage.  Mind you the milk man who lived next door had a Golden Hawk and the fireman's family down the street drove around in the splendor of a Red '57 Chevy station wagon.  Yep keep that damn Lark parked in the garage. It'd be kind of cool to have that Lark in mint condition now but it'd still be way better to have a Hawk or '57 Chevy.