It's one of those perfectly peaceful, utterly magical evenings. There is a light breeze with a bit of a nip to it coming directly from the West, a gentle, cool kiss on a dry, feverishly warm forehead, a comforting of the soul. the outside world is silent for the most part but for a few passing cars on the main street and an occasional youth blathering away on a cell phone. A yellowish glow is on the little chunk of downtown I can see from my front door from a lone, dim streetlight, and I am transfixed not by the light, but by the shadows cast, the dark spaces. It's all so dream-like, so camera-captured still.
It smooths over the rough spots I've been stumbling through for a while now. I've been in those shadows, caught between streetlamps in twilight, in a real-life limbo, neither the movie nor the audience. Other than factors completely beyond my scope of control, it seems Time has begun chipping away at vital parts of my past, taking people out of those glory days of childhood. A litany of names immediately begins to pop into my mind, names with direct ties to some of the most joyous eras of my younger days, the famous and the more personal. My emotional depths have been plumbed on nearly every aspect of my life, often in tumultuous, wild swings as one situation after another presents itself in multi-headed hydra fashion. To grapple with this monster requires a unique skill set, borne of experience, inexhaustible research, and endless powers of endurance.
And then there are the quiet times, when I need a break from me and my problems, not yet a numbness, but a more Zen-like approach that has been crafted over decades of life's monkey wrenches and u-turns on hairpin curves. There are moments when all I can control is my own breathing, and that is with great effort. But it is something I can control, and that gives me all the control I may need to get through it. During these more solemn hours, tears may come in the form of release as I finally let my defenses down enough to feel the hurt that has been waiting for my attention long enough. Sometimes staring out the wide open front door is the end result, and that works, too.
And on a night like this, so soft and full of velvet and silk, it's ok to go to sweet memories of those who touched me and left indelible marks of profound happiness upon my mortal soul, those who have moved on to more cosmic places. It's only right to think of my beginnings, my roots, only right to honor the people who were there for many, many years, even my not-so-stellar ones. I can breathe in the night air and teleport back to a golden era of creeks and crayfish, frisbees and crickets, music and mayhem, laughter and innocence, and deep bonds of friendship that would last a lifetime. I could lose my way a thousand times, and someone precious would be waiting to guide me patiently back on course.
When I cannot still my mind, when I feel it difficult to catch my breath, when I become my worst foe, I circle back down to home. Somewhere inside, I find the calmer waters beyond the rapids, the pool I can pull the makeshift raft to shore and bathe in until the grime of the world is washed away. Had I more energy, I would take an ambling stroll in the darkness, head to the back streets of town on the hills above and pass by unnoticed by the sleeping houses full of families with dramas of their own unfolding. I would walk under trees burgeoning with new summer greenery and marvel at the patterns they cast as they are blown about by the wind under the misty orange haze of old streetlights. I would send my feet on familiar roads, roads so well known and often traveled that I have worn my own groove in them and can trod upon them in near blindness. This town, for all its faults and flaws, is home, and I've always had that, at least.
But some nights are made for sitting on the front porch, for letting the breeze find me instead of searching for it. There is only so much doing I can do to get through what I need to get through. This is sitting time, thinking time, feeling time.
Darkness has filled the whole sky now, a violet, midnight blue dotted with star spots. A bicycle is the only vehicle that has passed on the main drag for several minutes. The trees bow and sway in their evening dance, give the streetlights someone to play with. There's a tickling itch in the base of my brain as reality tries to start worming its way in there. I'm not ready yet, I still need time to cling to the dream before fully awakening. A blanket is in order, my afghan in various shades of purple. And a hot cup of tea, chamomile perhaps, just to be old-fashioned and quaint about it, yes. It is time to listen to the quiet and study the light and shadows and make peace with the darker parts of my world.
And breathe.
Love and light,
Tanya
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Saturday, June 2, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Instruments Of The Devil
We find our heroine wandering lost in an unfamiliar and hostile wilderness, full of deadly snakes and cunning predators lurking about, skulking in the shadows...
That is how this story began for me, on the night Joe wrecked our poor, defenseless Buick. Fear not, he was uninjured, nor was anyone else hurt. The only casualty was our car. If anyone out there ever experienced the complete and sudden loss of a vehicle, then there is deep understanding for the surreal events that follow. The sick twisting of my stomach was to be a repeat occurrence for the next several weeks as I tried to muddle my way through the complicated dance that needed to be performed just to get him to both his jobs. The flood of money that had to be doled out immediately for gas to other vehicles because of the closed Ambridge Bridge was an utter shock to our delicate financial circumstance. This, however, was not the most difficult part of the journey, nay; that would come in the form of a local auto body/towing company with sinister and greedy motives, and thus I met my first foe.
A rather corrosive person apparently heads this organization, this den of thieves, and their favorite prey seems to be the easy pickings of a person in a mild state of trauma, one who cannot rightly defend himself at the time. They seem to be partial to the taste of money, thus are adept at profiting from the misfortunes of others. My conversation with the lead villain was laden with epithets, admittedly on both ends of the line, and plenty of raised voices. I sparked off the exchange by speaking the absolute truth-we are broke, we will never have that large of a sum of money (300 dollars) at one time, our car is now gone, and we cannot just waltz in to a place and purchase another (all I can advise is never get sick, never use credit cards, and never pay your mortgage or rent late, ever), and I did not appreciate the shakedown. I believe it was that specific word that triggered such a visceral response from the beast. I received a resounding admonishment for expecting people to work for free, to which I replied that was not really the case, I simply felt the fee was excessive, considering the condition of the car and the fact that we did not have the money. I wanted to know why Joe could not have his work thermos and his shaver from the vehicle. I was told we would go in there and rip out the radio, pull off the tires, strip the car. I was stunned that this creature would think of us in such an ill favor, but realized it may not know of our character and our honest nature. I attempted to explain that the age and condition of our car (pre-wreck) should not dictate an opinion of us, that we were not of that ilk. This warranted another lengthy lecture on morality, to which I did not take kindly. I know of right and wrong, and to me, what this entity was trying to do to us was wrong, and perhaps immoral, as well. One should not reap benefits from another person's misery! Threats were made about involving magistrates, a situation I would almost like to see. It seemed fair, since we could not come to any sort of civil arrangement. Plus, I find it difficult to strike deals with demonic forces. There is just no telling where that would lead, and I would have bigger beasts to face down soon.
There is an entire offshoot of demonology called "used car sales". The foul creatures that wallow in this muck pit are the lowest, the most desperate for souls, and the most cunning. We came in contact with a very clever one indeed, a quick talking, overly friendly, ridiculously optimistic harpy with grand expectations of ensnaring us in an endless nightmare web of crushing debt and expensive car repairs on top of absurdly high monthly payments, all while speaking exuberant falsities praising her den's fine choice of quality vehicles. While far from a mechanic, I certainly have experienced enough car malfunctions in my driving years to recognize cars on their last legs. The first one never made it out of the parking spot. It made such a horrid, loud rattle upon start-up, I insisted Joe leave it where it was and move on. The next car could barely make it up a hill from a stop, and when it did, a puff of radiator fluid vapor filled the air around us. I limped it back down the hill and tossed her back the keys with a vehement shake of my head. She was getting a bit irritated, I could see. I asked to try a third steed, and though it was a good running nag, it had seen better, much younger days. The miles on her heart were many, far too many to justify the 14,000 dollar price tag. In fact, each broken down mare was grossly overpriced. I had satisfied myself and calmly walked in to drop off the last key. With a smile and a phony sense of sorrow, I declined the offer of 700 dollars for the first 2 months, followed by several years of 350 dollars a month. Desperation can make a person behave quite foolishly, but I am a veteran of many a desperate situation, and calmness overtakes me first. I zone out and focus and go numb to the noise around me in order to conduct business like the professional I am. The demon's disappointment and thinly veiled wrath were evident, but I vanquished her by merely turning my back to her and walking away.
The world of used cars is a hopeless cesspool for the dregs of humanity to rot in and drag others in with them. There is treachery and deception at every turn, and one must be ever vigilant. It seems nothing brings out the worst in a society than the value or lack of value of a car. For some reason, we kept being treated like our car was a burden, an expensive, inconvenient problem, though the cars we saw and drove that were for sale were in not much better condition, but worth gold bricks. It's a topsy-turvy circus, full of glitz and glimmer and fairy promises. But once you peek behind the curtain, all you see is decay, dishonesty, horror. I felt my private place of happy crumbling, felt the invasion of nastiness. My view of the world around me was forever changed. I felt the old, familiar pull to withdraw, to pull back and hole up and wait out the storm in my shelter. I fought to resist it, because once I get sucked into the warm, comfy arms of security, I never want to leave them. It took me a life time to wrest from the bear hug of safety and find the bravery to face the peril of the outside world, and I knew if I gave that up, there would be no coming out of it again.
In addition, I was growing weary. The first car-less week, the onus of transportation fell solely on my shoulders. This involved getting up in the dark of the morn (5:00 am) and driving forever to Sewickley to drive back to Hopewell. The traffic on the way back was much worse, so I began driving to Monaca instead to get home. Then, I had to drive this again to get him and take him to his night job by the Airport, and another trip to Monaca to get home. Then, a pick-up at 11:30 pm and another long drive home. Rinse, lather, repeat. By the end of 2 days, I was spent, emotionally, physically, and every other ly you can think of. Joe may be able to function on such a low level of sleep, but I cannot. I would cry endlessly for no reason, just from utter exhaustion and frustration. Thankfully, a friend came through and gave me some reprieve. I vowed to get myself out of this loop for good somehow. So, I hit Facebook and rallied the troops and got things more or less in order. I set into motion several plans to get us back on the road and by the second week, things were humming again. I had defeated the final enemy-my own inner fears and mental torment.
It's still an uphill struggle. Some days, things go wrong (today Joe's morning ride left early and without him) and some days I have to work some magic to get things done. Shopping is tough, but as long as I stay flexible, it gets taken care of. And I'm still working through my own sets of emotions over the whole affair as I categorize things and muse over what I've seen and experienced. I go through quick moments of anger, at the sleaziness of the outside world, at Joe's carelessness, at the situation in general. I go through times of peace and acceptance for what it is-another one of life's little tragedies to deal with, a nuisance rather than a catastrophe. I go through restless days of worry tinged with the artist's tendency to brood. I go through ups and downs and ride this car-free world in my head, where horse-drawn carriages and steam trains travel instead, and wish for simpler times.
My grandfather said, famously, that cars were instruments of the devil. I believe that almost religiously. Whatever relationship I start off with one, it always ends in evil-either by sucking every dime of money from me, or by falling into a hopeless state of disrepair, or with a dramatic smashing of the poor thing. Me? I prefer my own feet, for I am used to standing on firm ground, and do not like to be rattled around in a death trap, if I can avoid it. Besides, how else do you get to know the road you're on unless your own feet are on it?
Love and light, my beloved pit crew,
Tanya Waschak
That is how this story began for me, on the night Joe wrecked our poor, defenseless Buick. Fear not, he was uninjured, nor was anyone else hurt. The only casualty was our car. If anyone out there ever experienced the complete and sudden loss of a vehicle, then there is deep understanding for the surreal events that follow. The sick twisting of my stomach was to be a repeat occurrence for the next several weeks as I tried to muddle my way through the complicated dance that needed to be performed just to get him to both his jobs. The flood of money that had to be doled out immediately for gas to other vehicles because of the closed Ambridge Bridge was an utter shock to our delicate financial circumstance. This, however, was not the most difficult part of the journey, nay; that would come in the form of a local auto body/towing company with sinister and greedy motives, and thus I met my first foe.
A rather corrosive person apparently heads this organization, this den of thieves, and their favorite prey seems to be the easy pickings of a person in a mild state of trauma, one who cannot rightly defend himself at the time. They seem to be partial to the taste of money, thus are adept at profiting from the misfortunes of others. My conversation with the lead villain was laden with epithets, admittedly on both ends of the line, and plenty of raised voices. I sparked off the exchange by speaking the absolute truth-we are broke, we will never have that large of a sum of money (300 dollars) at one time, our car is now gone, and we cannot just waltz in to a place and purchase another (all I can advise is never get sick, never use credit cards, and never pay your mortgage or rent late, ever), and I did not appreciate the shakedown. I believe it was that specific word that triggered such a visceral response from the beast. I received a resounding admonishment for expecting people to work for free, to which I replied that was not really the case, I simply felt the fee was excessive, considering the condition of the car and the fact that we did not have the money. I wanted to know why Joe could not have his work thermos and his shaver from the vehicle. I was told we would go in there and rip out the radio, pull off the tires, strip the car. I was stunned that this creature would think of us in such an ill favor, but realized it may not know of our character and our honest nature. I attempted to explain that the age and condition of our car (pre-wreck) should not dictate an opinion of us, that we were not of that ilk. This warranted another lengthy lecture on morality, to which I did not take kindly. I know of right and wrong, and to me, what this entity was trying to do to us was wrong, and perhaps immoral, as well. One should not reap benefits from another person's misery! Threats were made about involving magistrates, a situation I would almost like to see. It seemed fair, since we could not come to any sort of civil arrangement. Plus, I find it difficult to strike deals with demonic forces. There is just no telling where that would lead, and I would have bigger beasts to face down soon.
There is an entire offshoot of demonology called "used car sales". The foul creatures that wallow in this muck pit are the lowest, the most desperate for souls, and the most cunning. We came in contact with a very clever one indeed, a quick talking, overly friendly, ridiculously optimistic harpy with grand expectations of ensnaring us in an endless nightmare web of crushing debt and expensive car repairs on top of absurdly high monthly payments, all while speaking exuberant falsities praising her den's fine choice of quality vehicles. While far from a mechanic, I certainly have experienced enough car malfunctions in my driving years to recognize cars on their last legs. The first one never made it out of the parking spot. It made such a horrid, loud rattle upon start-up, I insisted Joe leave it where it was and move on. The next car could barely make it up a hill from a stop, and when it did, a puff of radiator fluid vapor filled the air around us. I limped it back down the hill and tossed her back the keys with a vehement shake of my head. She was getting a bit irritated, I could see. I asked to try a third steed, and though it was a good running nag, it had seen better, much younger days. The miles on her heart were many, far too many to justify the 14,000 dollar price tag. In fact, each broken down mare was grossly overpriced. I had satisfied myself and calmly walked in to drop off the last key. With a smile and a phony sense of sorrow, I declined the offer of 700 dollars for the first 2 months, followed by several years of 350 dollars a month. Desperation can make a person behave quite foolishly, but I am a veteran of many a desperate situation, and calmness overtakes me first. I zone out and focus and go numb to the noise around me in order to conduct business like the professional I am. The demon's disappointment and thinly veiled wrath were evident, but I vanquished her by merely turning my back to her and walking away.
The world of used cars is a hopeless cesspool for the dregs of humanity to rot in and drag others in with them. There is treachery and deception at every turn, and one must be ever vigilant. It seems nothing brings out the worst in a society than the value or lack of value of a car. For some reason, we kept being treated like our car was a burden, an expensive, inconvenient problem, though the cars we saw and drove that were for sale were in not much better condition, but worth gold bricks. It's a topsy-turvy circus, full of glitz and glimmer and fairy promises. But once you peek behind the curtain, all you see is decay, dishonesty, horror. I felt my private place of happy crumbling, felt the invasion of nastiness. My view of the world around me was forever changed. I felt the old, familiar pull to withdraw, to pull back and hole up and wait out the storm in my shelter. I fought to resist it, because once I get sucked into the warm, comfy arms of security, I never want to leave them. It took me a life time to wrest from the bear hug of safety and find the bravery to face the peril of the outside world, and I knew if I gave that up, there would be no coming out of it again.
In addition, I was growing weary. The first car-less week, the onus of transportation fell solely on my shoulders. This involved getting up in the dark of the morn (5:00 am) and driving forever to Sewickley to drive back to Hopewell. The traffic on the way back was much worse, so I began driving to Monaca instead to get home. Then, I had to drive this again to get him and take him to his night job by the Airport, and another trip to Monaca to get home. Then, a pick-up at 11:30 pm and another long drive home. Rinse, lather, repeat. By the end of 2 days, I was spent, emotionally, physically, and every other ly you can think of. Joe may be able to function on such a low level of sleep, but I cannot. I would cry endlessly for no reason, just from utter exhaustion and frustration. Thankfully, a friend came through and gave me some reprieve. I vowed to get myself out of this loop for good somehow. So, I hit Facebook and rallied the troops and got things more or less in order. I set into motion several plans to get us back on the road and by the second week, things were humming again. I had defeated the final enemy-my own inner fears and mental torment.
It's still an uphill struggle. Some days, things go wrong (today Joe's morning ride left early and without him) and some days I have to work some magic to get things done. Shopping is tough, but as long as I stay flexible, it gets taken care of. And I'm still working through my own sets of emotions over the whole affair as I categorize things and muse over what I've seen and experienced. I go through quick moments of anger, at the sleaziness of the outside world, at Joe's carelessness, at the situation in general. I go through times of peace and acceptance for what it is-another one of life's little tragedies to deal with, a nuisance rather than a catastrophe. I go through restless days of worry tinged with the artist's tendency to brood. I go through ups and downs and ride this car-free world in my head, where horse-drawn carriages and steam trains travel instead, and wish for simpler times.
My grandfather said, famously, that cars were instruments of the devil. I believe that almost religiously. Whatever relationship I start off with one, it always ends in evil-either by sucking every dime of money from me, or by falling into a hopeless state of disrepair, or with a dramatic smashing of the poor thing. Me? I prefer my own feet, for I am used to standing on firm ground, and do not like to be rattled around in a death trap, if I can avoid it. Besides, how else do you get to know the road you're on unless your own feet are on it?
Love and light, my beloved pit crew,
Tanya Waschak
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Conductors Are We
Do you know why in our hearts we all dance to "Bolero"? Each of us have a rhythm inside, our own "Bolero". Our beats determine our paths, lead our feet where they need to be. We are composed of rhythm-our internal workings hum along, in pattern, a percussion section of parts that feed off each other and come together to keep us alive and vibrant. Our hearts and bodies are naturally attuned to rhythms, maybe even all the rhythms of the universe. One of the most profound expressions of this connection is dance. Music, rhythm, and dance are completely intertwined; they each lead to the other. As far back as we go as a species, we have made music, probably starting with mimicking our own heartbeats. And we have expressed our emotional attachments to that music with all manner of dance. There isn't much difference between a wild tribal dance around a bonfire and a circle pit at a metal concert. They are equally entrancing, captivating.
What is it about certain kinds of music that move us so? It's such a personal matter, music. We are passionate about what we love, and sometimes can't understand why another person doesn't respond as deeply as we do about our favorite songs or styles. There are certain known chord progressions that move a vast majority of people, hence sell-out concerts and pop music. In our primitive cores, I'm sure there is a shared consciousness that is based on those chords, those beats. And in response to this love, we are compelled to move our bodies, to connect and unite with our fellow tribesmen and women for one more spin around the campfire.
As a musician, I can recognize talent, even if I am not fond of the musical style. I love listening to a stellar guitarist, a mighty drummer, a righteous bassist, a powerful vocalist in perfect pitch. If these components are not all together, I can sometimes dissect the song just to single out the outstanding musician, provided the song is not too horrid. It is, however, far easier to enjoy great musicians when they are all playing together, and the song is just right, and I can feel stirrings behind my eyes, just before the tears well up, feel the tightness in my throat, the surge in my own heart because I am touched inside, moved beyond words by the music. It makes me want to create, to duplicate that sound, to alter it to fit into my own ever-growing and changing personal playing style. I'm remarkably good at picking out what I love from a multitude of songs and blending them all together in a new composition of my own. It's not quite sampling, though the idea isn't far off. I have taken Blues riffs from Mali and put them with Middle Eastern notes and trills, and thrown in bits of Irish folk music and Appalachian dirges, then dropped in some Mongolian starkness with a hint of Russian traditional sounds. Whatever moves me, I want to hear myself play it. I want to put it together, compose, conduct my own symphony in my head. I want to share it with other musicians, want to hear what the drumbeats would sound like, want to hear words being sung by a sweet nasally voice with incredible range, want to lay down a driving bass line that thrums in the chest. Oh, to be the leader of such a band! A musician's dream, indeed.
Even without the benefit of musical talent, most people appreciate it. Most want to be inspired to grab the hairbrush and sing into it, to swing their arms wildly in imitation of the guitarist's windmill, to pound on the kitchen table and clap their hands in time to some amazing song. Radio is still popular after all these years because of that need to hear favorite songs again and again. We have recorded them on vinyl, eight track and cassette tapes, and cds, and now we put them on mp3 players and IPods, all in the pursuit of taking our music with us wherever we may go. Our playlists are reflections of our true selves, our life stories, our passions, our hearts. We all have a soundtrack, one that is incredibly important to our identities. To share our music with another is to share our souls, the deepest parts of who we are.
In private moments, I dance freely, and sing loudly. I enjoy such things immensely, though do not feel the need to do this in front of others, except in wonderful moments of perfect drunkenness, when all inhibitions are thrown to the winds. I am a clumsy sort, so dancing has never been a skill I have mastered, but singing is something I've taken a shine to for several years now. I quit the dreaded cigarettes, you see, and have found my voice again. I was always a decent, middle of the pack singer, never terrible, never amazing. But cigarettes stole my tone and range over the years, and the lung power I need to go beyond my comfortable notes, especially the higher ones. When I started practicing again, I worked hard to get those upper notes, went through scales over and over to get out of my normal alto range. I will never be a soprano, and that's fine by me. Altos are way more cool, anyway. I started singing while I walked, to build lung capacity and stamina. More recently, I have been delving into the tenor and bass notes, trying to get as low as I possibly can. It is as difficult as the high notes, really.
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting at my kitchen table, my usual spot, doing the daily puzzles in the newspaper and sipping coffee. I started to hum, in deep, low tones. I worked my way as far down as I could, and hit upon something so spiritual, I no longer could recognize my own voice, no longer felt as if it was my voice coming out of me. I closed my eyes and let it move me of its own accord. I went through an unbelievable range of notes-from the lowest first, and spiraling to previously unknown highs that were never in my range before, then dropping back down and jumping back up, all on pitch, all in one breath, all with this surreal vibrato, a warble I've never had. I could hear it, my head filled with the music, my body swayed to it. The song got increasingly complex, the voice sounding like multiple instruments played together. My arms came up and started to conduct, to direct the voice to even more complicated arrangements. I was lost, totally whisked away in this current of cosmic music from outside and inside myself.
I don't know how long I did this. When I drifted back down to me, the coffee was ice cold. I was breathing heavily and felt utterly spent, but in a good way, like a post-good sex kind of way. I was trembling on the inside, every muscle like a guitar string just strummed. The power of music. The magic of it. It came to me freely, and changed me yet again.
Conductors are we-leading the orchestras inside, making music come alive. We walk our chosen paths to our chosen tunes, tell all the sections that make us whole when to play and when to rest, when to get loud and when to soften up, when to repeat, and when to turn the page. The symmetry of music is what draws us in, a natural flow, a natural pattern.
And in my world, that pattern is captured in "Bolero". So, if you see me dancing down the street with my arms waving about and my head swaying to and fro, you will know what is playing on my mp3, and you will know you should not interrupt, for I am far away, conducting my universe, guiding it to where it needs to be, and taking us all through the key change.
Please conduct yourself a happy, won't you?
Your fellow maestro,
Tanya Y. Waschak
What is it about certain kinds of music that move us so? It's such a personal matter, music. We are passionate about what we love, and sometimes can't understand why another person doesn't respond as deeply as we do about our favorite songs or styles. There are certain known chord progressions that move a vast majority of people, hence sell-out concerts and pop music. In our primitive cores, I'm sure there is a shared consciousness that is based on those chords, those beats. And in response to this love, we are compelled to move our bodies, to connect and unite with our fellow tribesmen and women for one more spin around the campfire.
As a musician, I can recognize talent, even if I am not fond of the musical style. I love listening to a stellar guitarist, a mighty drummer, a righteous bassist, a powerful vocalist in perfect pitch. If these components are not all together, I can sometimes dissect the song just to single out the outstanding musician, provided the song is not too horrid. It is, however, far easier to enjoy great musicians when they are all playing together, and the song is just right, and I can feel stirrings behind my eyes, just before the tears well up, feel the tightness in my throat, the surge in my own heart because I am touched inside, moved beyond words by the music. It makes me want to create, to duplicate that sound, to alter it to fit into my own ever-growing and changing personal playing style. I'm remarkably good at picking out what I love from a multitude of songs and blending them all together in a new composition of my own. It's not quite sampling, though the idea isn't far off. I have taken Blues riffs from Mali and put them with Middle Eastern notes and trills, and thrown in bits of Irish folk music and Appalachian dirges, then dropped in some Mongolian starkness with a hint of Russian traditional sounds. Whatever moves me, I want to hear myself play it. I want to put it together, compose, conduct my own symphony in my head. I want to share it with other musicians, want to hear what the drumbeats would sound like, want to hear words being sung by a sweet nasally voice with incredible range, want to lay down a driving bass line that thrums in the chest. Oh, to be the leader of such a band! A musician's dream, indeed.
Even without the benefit of musical talent, most people appreciate it. Most want to be inspired to grab the hairbrush and sing into it, to swing their arms wildly in imitation of the guitarist's windmill, to pound on the kitchen table and clap their hands in time to some amazing song. Radio is still popular after all these years because of that need to hear favorite songs again and again. We have recorded them on vinyl, eight track and cassette tapes, and cds, and now we put them on mp3 players and IPods, all in the pursuit of taking our music with us wherever we may go. Our playlists are reflections of our true selves, our life stories, our passions, our hearts. We all have a soundtrack, one that is incredibly important to our identities. To share our music with another is to share our souls, the deepest parts of who we are.
In private moments, I dance freely, and sing loudly. I enjoy such things immensely, though do not feel the need to do this in front of others, except in wonderful moments of perfect drunkenness, when all inhibitions are thrown to the winds. I am a clumsy sort, so dancing has never been a skill I have mastered, but singing is something I've taken a shine to for several years now. I quit the dreaded cigarettes, you see, and have found my voice again. I was always a decent, middle of the pack singer, never terrible, never amazing. But cigarettes stole my tone and range over the years, and the lung power I need to go beyond my comfortable notes, especially the higher ones. When I started practicing again, I worked hard to get those upper notes, went through scales over and over to get out of my normal alto range. I will never be a soprano, and that's fine by me. Altos are way more cool, anyway. I started singing while I walked, to build lung capacity and stamina. More recently, I have been delving into the tenor and bass notes, trying to get as low as I possibly can. It is as difficult as the high notes, really.
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting at my kitchen table, my usual spot, doing the daily puzzles in the newspaper and sipping coffee. I started to hum, in deep, low tones. I worked my way as far down as I could, and hit upon something so spiritual, I no longer could recognize my own voice, no longer felt as if it was my voice coming out of me. I closed my eyes and let it move me of its own accord. I went through an unbelievable range of notes-from the lowest first, and spiraling to previously unknown highs that were never in my range before, then dropping back down and jumping back up, all on pitch, all in one breath, all with this surreal vibrato, a warble I've never had. I could hear it, my head filled with the music, my body swayed to it. The song got increasingly complex, the voice sounding like multiple instruments played together. My arms came up and started to conduct, to direct the voice to even more complicated arrangements. I was lost, totally whisked away in this current of cosmic music from outside and inside myself.
I don't know how long I did this. When I drifted back down to me, the coffee was ice cold. I was breathing heavily and felt utterly spent, but in a good way, like a post-good sex kind of way. I was trembling on the inside, every muscle like a guitar string just strummed. The power of music. The magic of it. It came to me freely, and changed me yet again.
Conductors are we-leading the orchestras inside, making music come alive. We walk our chosen paths to our chosen tunes, tell all the sections that make us whole when to play and when to rest, when to get loud and when to soften up, when to repeat, and when to turn the page. The symmetry of music is what draws us in, a natural flow, a natural pattern.
And in my world, that pattern is captured in "Bolero". So, if you see me dancing down the street with my arms waving about and my head swaying to and fro, you will know what is playing on my mp3, and you will know you should not interrupt, for I am far away, conducting my universe, guiding it to where it needs to be, and taking us all through the key change.
Please conduct yourself a happy, won't you?
Your fellow maestro,
Tanya Y. Waschak
Friday, January 6, 2012
A Most Unusual January
To the woods today,
To the creek, she who speaks
My secret name in gurgles,
The white icicle teeth
Hanging in the sun, decaying,
Falling out to shatter on the ground.
Oh, the pungent odor of wild onion
As I pull it from the mushy soil,
Swaying skeleton trees dancing with me,
Groaning sycamores and pines full of sighs.
Mud dog galloping in the marsh,
Crashing through cattails with his big grin of freedom,
A glorious blue canopy above, almost unnatural,
Stolen from a sapphire.
Too warm for jackets, even,
Shirt sleeves rolled up to gather heat rays,
Never even minding the cold water
Seeping into my shoes.
Full of sun, full of light,
Full of wonder, full of life,
Remembering why I became who I was meant to be.
Watching birds watching me,
Hoping to hear them sing,
To match the music in my head,
The song my heart creates.
Time for home, a day well spent,
Up the road to homes and folks
Walking along their streets,
Smiles and nods, all are celebrating this beauty.
Past the restaurant and smells of roast beef,
Gravy, and french fries, hungry now,
Watering mouth, time to feed the body
Now that the soul is completely sated.
See my house, still decked in holiday wear,
Not a care in the world
As I enter sanctuary to give to all
Who wish to feel inside what I've marveled at today.
To the creek, she who speaks
My secret name in gurgles,
The white icicle teeth
Hanging in the sun, decaying,
Falling out to shatter on the ground.
Oh, the pungent odor of wild onion
As I pull it from the mushy soil,
Swaying skeleton trees dancing with me,
Groaning sycamores and pines full of sighs.
Mud dog galloping in the marsh,
Crashing through cattails with his big grin of freedom,
A glorious blue canopy above, almost unnatural,
Stolen from a sapphire.
Too warm for jackets, even,
Shirt sleeves rolled up to gather heat rays,
Never even minding the cold water
Seeping into my shoes.
Full of sun, full of light,
Full of wonder, full of life,
Remembering why I became who I was meant to be.
Watching birds watching me,
Hoping to hear them sing,
To match the music in my head,
The song my heart creates.
Time for home, a day well spent,
Up the road to homes and folks
Walking along their streets,
Smiles and nods, all are celebrating this beauty.
Past the restaurant and smells of roast beef,
Gravy, and french fries, hungry now,
Watering mouth, time to feed the body
Now that the soul is completely sated.
See my house, still decked in holiday wear,
Not a care in the world
As I enter sanctuary to give to all
Who wish to feel inside what I've marveled at today.
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