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Cover design and layout by Matthew C. Mackey
Akron, Ohio
The extravagant arts & criticism bazaar
Because Larry Wrote by Robert Balla Five minutes after my plane landed in Saigon, South Vietnam I was in my first air raid. I was in country for less than fifteen minutes and four of the guys I was on the plane with were already killed. They could have at least let us put our stuff away first. Larry Donovan looked up from the yellow legal pad he was reading from and waited for a response from the rest of our writing group. My mouth was slightly open, and Larry had read me earlier drafts of his unpublished autobiographic story before. The two other seniors in the room were clearly disturbed by Larry’s graphic description of his harrowing entry into the Vietnam War. He had pulled no punches, spared no graphic detail, in writing about the long airplane ride from Hamburg, Germany to Saigon. I’d been working with Larry and a small group of seniors at the local community center for eight weeks at the time. Some were making minimal progress in writing down their assorted life stories to pass along to their families, some were not. But Larry was special. Talking to him, I was left with an impression of confidence. Here was a man who had his life together. At 58 he was finally enrolled in college, had just gotten off his sisters couch and into a weekly motel downtown, and was regularly taking his PTSD meds. He always had a smile on his face; the big, genuine kind that started at the corners of his crows footed eyes and spread all the way down to the corners of his mouth. He always dressed well for our Thursday morning meetings: slacks, loafers, and an oxford shirt or a sweater. I’d worked with Vietnam vets before, but they could never really look me in the eye for long the way Larry did. Veterans with PTSD usually avoid prolonged eye contact. They are uncomfortable with people observing them closely because they fear their inner demons are visible on the outside. Unfortunately, this is often true. But, again, Larry was different all together. He commanded attention and respect. This was no less true even after reading to a group about the horrifying ride from Hamburg to Saigon. We’re now 12 hours from Saigon… We’re now 11 hours from Saigon… We’re now 10 hours from Saigon. Larry recounted how every hour the pilot came on the loudspeaker and announced how many hours they had until they arrived. Apparently after listening to the sound of their impending deaths for so long, several of the draftees decided to storm the cockpit, take over the plane, and fly it back to the States. It took the rest of the soldiers to talk them down. Larry wrote about the fist fights that broke out between them, the young men crying for their mothers, and the grown men relieving themselves in their uniforms while he sat in his seat and thought about his decision to enlist rather than wait to be drafted just six short months earlier.
In other chapters, Larry wrote about rampant drug use among the soldiers where they shot wildly at the disturbing visions created by LSD. He wrote about drinking his own urine filtered through a sock while being stranded alone in enemy territory. He wrote about sitting in a fox hole with three dead friends for a day and a half waiting for evac to a safe zone. The only thing that Larry wrote about and never read to the group was how after serving 14 months in Vietnam, he was spit on by American war protesters as he walked to a bus from the plane that brought him home. Recently, we’ve had close to a quarter million American soldiers deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan, and God only knows what will happen in Libya and Syria. While not all of these are combat troops, and quite clearly not every soldier exposed to hostile fire will develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, it is reasonable to assume that there will be a rather large number of American veterans returning home with some level of psychological trauma. And many of these brave men and women will turn to writing, in any number of forms, as a way to deal with the tragedy of war. But why? There has been extensive study on why and how women write about trauma, especially the trauma associated with physical and sexual abuse. However, this is much less the case with their male counterparts. This difference could stem from less actual violence and abuse being committed against men, or from a lack of willingness of men to discuss these types of abuse in public forums. In either case it is often seen as a weakness or lack of masculinity to admit to these events, to admit to being victimized, to being a victim. It is perhaps the trauma of battle, the abuse of war, that is the best male analogue for the gender based violence that women so often endure. Often, violence and abuse stigmatize the writer who might otherwise pass for “normal,” so why reveal such a private experience? As cultural beliefs about what is “normal” and what is “stigmatized” are culturally constructed, when an individual knows a part of their identity stigmatizes them in the eyes of others, they can try to conceal it (if it isn’t visible), or they might feel compelled to disclose it to others. This is what Larry was doing with us those Thursday mornings. We routinely discussed some of tragedies that had befallen each of us. Larry was hoping to gain some sort of normalcy and acceptance. Writing about violence is an attempt to “normalize” or de-stigmatize the survivor in a positive way, and narratives of violence challenge the forces of society which maintain their authority precisely through violence perpetrated on the victim. This idea is echoed in Larry’s own writing. He told our group after reading, “This is a story that speaks about really making a man out of me, and seeing and experiencing something that I will never experience in my life again… It made me stronger as a man [because] I had to deal with a lot of things that I didn’t understand at the time.” He is not hoping to undo what has happened to him through his writing. He sees these events as formational, not deformational. Larry, by writing, is attempting to free himself from that dominating power structure. When I asked Larry to explain why he wanted to write about his experiences in Vietnam he was very straight forward. He wanted people to learn what it was like in Vietnam, so that we could understand and interact more positively
with other veterans suffering from PTSD. He told us, “You never hardly hear about something like this, not even from the news reporters or the T.V. reporters. I want you to know.” Larry was concerned with the treatment disabled veterans receive from the public on the streets and the government through the VA which results from them not knowing what it was like to be there. He documented this mistreatment of veterans by the public only in a brief hand-written note that he intended to use as an ending for his story: Well I finally got my orders to go home. I was so happy that I had made it through that nightmare. Then when I got back to the states here, I had to fight another war, and it was not pretty at all. When I came home, the people of OUR country, the United States of America, treated me like dirt. I had to deal with people calling me names like, baby killer. They spat on me, while some people wanted to hurt me. Boy, it was just a mess. It really hurt me to come back to my own country to see and deal with that. I saw hate signs everywhere I went. I was not welcome back in the country that I had put my life on the line for. This is something that I will never forget. Larry told us his VA psychiatrists and counselors did not approve of his writing about his traumatic experiences in Vietnam. Although I am obviously not a psychiatrist, nor do I pretend to know how to treat veterans with PTSD, a cursory review of the relevant trauma based, psychiatric literature provides immense support for writing about trauma as a form of therapy, and that’s what Larry was doing. Writing is considered valuable therapy for sufferers of PTSD, and I wonder why Larry’s government appointed mental health workers disapproved of his narrative. Was it simply that they were being written and read in a public forum away from their watchful and controlling eyes? As I said before, Larry appeared to have it all together and always spoke calmly after reading aloud in group. I only saw Larry become agitated twice. The first was when he wrongly believed that his peers were taking his subject matter lightly. He got mad and insisted that we listen to him and try to understand the hell that soldiers went through in war. He made it very clear that he was advocating not for himself, but for his comrades in arms. He did this by always referring to “soldiers” and not using the first person pronoun “I” in his discussions. Larry insisted on teaching others through his experiences. He was trying to create a community where PTSD was not stigmatized. Larry was attempting to alter a small portion of a dominating culture through his writing. He was wresting power from the dominant hegemony, trying to create the society he deemed best with his words on the page. Larry’s writing was not directed inwards but rather outwards in an attempt to change society and social forces in opposition to the forces that had constructed him. Larry did not reach the masses he wanted, and his book From One War to Another will never be finished. Sadly, he passed away just months after our final group meeting. But he changed my world through his simple and powerful prose. Nobody in our Thursday morning writing group will ever look at a veteran they same way again, simply because Larry wrote.
Ce n’est pas une pipe.
Excerpts and Updates from
The Renaissance Man Project by Nathaniel Kostar
Over the past three years I have periodically embarked on a journey that has taken me to four distinct locations around the world. My travels include Dorf Tyrol, Italy to study poetry with Ezra Pound’s daughter; Phuket, Thailand to learn Muay Thai at the Tiger Muay Thai Training Camp; Paris, France to experience visual art, and New Orleans, Louisiana to absorb a rich musical heritage. In each country I have Nathaniel Kostar and Mary de Rachewiltz, daughter of Ezra studied the skills expected of an Pound– Dorf Tyrol, Italy. Photo courtesy, author Italian Renaissance Man (poetry, combat, visual art, and music so far), but in a modern, more global sense. In other words, rather than learning how to fight with a lance and ride a horse, I went to Thailand to learn Thai Kickboxing, also known as Muay Thai--"the art of eight limbs." What follows are excerpts from the chapter “Learning the Painful Art of Muay Thai: One month in Phuket, Thailand. 1.
***
It’s my first day training Muay Thai in Thailand and I haven’t sweated this much since, well, ever. I’m sweating like a fat man running laps along the Equator…in a down jacket…with wool pants… chasing a Twinkie on a string. Except there’s no Twinkie waiting for me at the end of this road, and quite frankly, after what seems like an eternity of awkward kicks into a massive heavy bag that barely budges from my force, or lack thereof, I’m beginning to ask myself—What the hell am I doing here?
After two and a half hours of stretching, jogging, running, squatting, punching, kicking, kneeing, elbowing, sparring, pushups, sit-ups— insert more grueling exercises here—I’ve about had it. Mind you I spent last month writing poetry, eating unthinkable amounts of cheese and bread, drinking Italian wine and German beer, and doing my best to flirt with as many pretty European waitresses as possible— Vytaute! You must believe me! Just because I cannot pronounce your name does not mean you are not the most beautiful girl in all of Italy! It would be an understatement to say I haven’t exactly prepared for this. I have come to Thailand, in theory, to become a “warrior.” But I neither feel like a warrior nor do I desire to become a fighting man. I have not been in many fights in my life. The first time in 5th grade, I “fought” a classmate because he was “talking shit” behind my back. But it wasn’t a fight; just 150 pounds of kid flailing in down jackets and rolling around on the ground until our gym teacher grabbed us by the collars and walked us into the office. Years later in high school, I embarrassed a classmate in gym class by dribbling a basketball between his legs. He happened to be a 6’5,’’ 225 pound classmate, and after class he pushed me in the locker room and challenged me. But at 5’6,’’ 130 pounds soaking wet, I realized I didn’t have much of a chance and walked away. Lastly, in college, during a night of heavy drinking, I punched a good friend in the face and woke up feeling so terrible about it that I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. And that pretty much sums up my fighting career. Of course, my intention in Thailand is not to become a professional Muay Thai fighter. Instead I hope to train for approximately 100 hours and leave feeling that I have progressed to a level of proficiency; of competence. But after the first two and a half hours of the beginner Muay Thai class, as I lie on the blue rubber mats in a puddle of my own sweat, 100 hours seems like a long way off.
2. I’m in Western Boxing sparring with a girl who has been boxing since she was 8 and is headed to the Olympics to fight for Scotland next summer. She’s bobbing and weaving and hooking and jabbing and doing all sorts of shit I don’t know how to counter or do myself. She can’t weigh much more than 120 pounds, but another quick jab snapping above my left eyebrow makes clear that her size doesn’t really matter—she’s capable of going William Wallace on my ass at any point. If I really had to fight this girl my best mode of attack would be to grab her in a big bear hug and wrestle her to the ground. Maybe pick up a serendipitously placed broomstick and whack her across the forehead with it. Or perhaps just buy her a pint and a whiskey on the rocks and hope she forgets the whole thing. But since we’re sparring in a ring and our trainer Chokchai, who once fought Manny Pacquiao and was knocked out in the fifth round in what was an otherwise even fight, is watching, I can’t really resort to those measures. And this girl knows how to box! So I keep my hands up near my temples and do what I can, which, at this point in my training, isn’t much. A few jabs here, some sidestepping, a few more jabs, maybe a slow, lumbering hook now and again. But it seems that with every punch I throw she hits me with two, and by the end of the round, the only round (thank-goodness), my head’s pounding and I’ve lost a contact lens. As I mosey to the side of the ring she walks up to me and with a thick Scottish accent explains how every time I throw a jab I drop my arm before bringing it back to protect my face. This, clearly, is not good form. “And thaat’s won I hit chuu. Keep ya ahms up.” I thank her for the kind advice (though she could have told me midround!), noticing my jaw is a bit sore when I talk, and walk away. 3. Sometimes I find myself wondering why they do it. I have come to Thailand instead of any of the numerous countries that boast their
own martial art or fighting style for a plethora of reasons. The training, food (I am in love with Thai food), and accommodations are very affordable. The fighter camps set up all over the country provide the opportunity to train intensely and become completely immersed in the art, to train alongside and under the tutelage of real professional fighters, and to train (hypothetically) just as hard as them—whereas most martial art schools around the world do not offer anything this serious for dilettantes. And also because the style of Muay Thai—the utilization of knees and elbows as weapons—though brutal, seems Muay Thai training. Photo courtesy, author practical to me. If I were to ever get in an actual fight (which doesn’t seem like a great idea after my experience sparring), I would prefer Muay Thai to be my background as opposed to say, Brazilian capoiera, which is both martial art and dance. But I am not Thai, and my reasons are not their reasons. So what is the Thai’s obsession with this dangerous and sometimes deadly sport? It cannot be solely for the money. Most Muay Thai fighters do not earn much; between 4000 and 6000 baht ($130$200) per fight, which despite being significant by Thai standards, does not seem like it’s worth risking your life on a weekly basis for. So then, do they fight simply for the love of the sport? Certainly. Thais love Muay Thai the way Dominicans love baseball, the way Texans love football, the way New Yorkers love basketball and Madison Square Garden. I would even go as far as to say Thais love Muay Thai as much as New Orleanians love The Saints, or Argentineans love futbol, though perhaps their affection is expressed more modestly. But it is more than just love; Muay Thai is tradition here, and no Thai can remember the day when it did not exist. It is ingrained in the culture, and asking why they do it may be as vain as asking why the French drink wine. Why? Because that is what they do.
I don’t know. No one does. But regardless, I don’t sense any bitterness from Chokchai. Somewhere, even if hidden in his subconscious, he likely knows he never was the same caliber of a fighter as Pacquiao, or perhaps, like a true Buddhist (95% of Thais are Buddhist) he takes little stock in the past. Either way, or with some mix of both explanations and more unknown, as I watch Chokchai instructing other fighters at the camp, he laughs and smiles at a rate that is unusual even in this country affectionately known as “the land of smiles.” *** Ultimately, the goal is not to become a "Renaissance Man" in such a short period of time, but rather, to investigate the intrinsic values that lie at the heart of the Renaissance philosophy and see how they can apply to, and hopefully improve, my own life. I am also concerned with the benefits of becoming well-rounded, and with the knowledge that can be gained by casting myself in uncomfortable, difficult, and sometimes painful, i.e.: Muay Thai, situations. This project began three years ago, and I only have two months left. The first month will take place in The Dominican Re-
Nathaniel Kostar and Chokchai. Photo courtesy, author
But still, as I observe my trainer Chokchai working from 8AM to 8PM every day, I can’t help but wonder if he ever dreams about his untimely duck into Pacquiao’s fierce left uppercut that rendered him star struck on the canvas in the fifth round of their Oriental Flyweight championship, a fight Chokchai was heavily favored to win. Considering Manny Pacquiao generated approximately $384 million in total revenue from a recent bout against Shane Mosley, does Chokchai imagine how his life would be if he had won that fight? I certainly do. Would he be the millionaire superstar? and The Pac Man reduced to training young boxers and tourists at some obscure fighter camp in the Philippines?
public and other Caribbean islands where salsa is part of everyday life for many. My aim is to learn the art of dance from the passionate peoples of these places. What began as a 6-month project when I was 25 years old has become a way of life, and I willingly walk the road as it continues to open, expand, and unveil delightful twists and surprises along the way. For example, I now write songs and perform with a local band in New Orleans, whereas this time a year ago, I hadn’t given a musical instrument a second look. I am confident this book will appeal to a broad demographic, for first and foremost The Renaissance Man Project is a travel tale—a story of discovery, education, adventure and birth. But is not just one man’s story. In order to progress and improve, I believe all of humanity must explore new interests, rediscover lost passions, and overcome their fears in the face of the uncomfortable, the difficult, and the unknown. We all, then, are invested in the study of the art of living, as well as the pursuit of health and happiness—notions that have been at the core of my project from the start. Secondly, The Renaissance Man Project is of timely and national concern. As American colleges and Universities have become all but unaffordable for the lower and middle class, my project brings attention to the diverse forms of “education” available to us as global citizens—beautiful challenging life-changing opportunities which I have had the good fortune of personally benefitting from. But despite the potential for a broad audience, The Renaissance Man Project is not intended to guide readers in securing a job, a career, love, or happiness. It is not an easy fix or a self-help book. Instead, it is a story about taking risks. About chasing a dream, an idea, a goal—and discovering another world and life along the way. It is a story about becoming.
How You Can Help Please visit my crowd funding campaign and share it with friends! http://gogetfunding.com/project/the-renaissance-man-project
By W. Endicott & Co. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
“I Don’t Need a Next”
Interview with Musician Mathew Pearlman of a Gentleman Caller by Matthew C. Mackey The Matinee in Akron is a dive bar, a real hole in the wall, but the kids love it, and with tall boys of Pabst for a buck fifty, who wouldn’t? The Matinee wasn’t really known by anyone for anything. There’s a million dive bars out there with busted up seats from fights, buzzing, flickering low watt bulbs, water damage on the ceiling, a chewed up, copper-plated bar top, gummy with god knows what, ash burns on the walls, and the best graffiti money can buy in the bathroom stalls…but Matinee doesn’t have stalls, just a urinal and a half door in front of the shitter. I wasn’t going for the atmosphere. I wanted a stiff drink, and the Matinee bartenders poured heavy. Mathew Pearlman, a good friend of mine, was already slouching at the bar, sipping a whiskey neat when I walked in. His thick-rimmed glasses, high on his nose, crowded a dark, bearded face. Mathew’s a musician among other things, and I’ve come to appreciate our philosophical conversations about art and life, and such. I met him a few years back, here, at the Matinee, the both of us commiserating some long, drowned out and forgotten affair. We became friends over whiskey that night. “Hey buddy, how ya been?” I asked turning toward him, putting one elbow on the bar and my free hand on his shoulder. “Eh, not bad. You?” We shook hands, glad to see one another after so long. “You know, busy, busy,” I said. I glanced at the draft handles, but it was only a second though after the liquor bottles. The bartender walked over. He had to be in his late twen-
ties or early thirties. Maybe I was wrong. He could have been younger. He was a burnout, stringy, blonde hair down his back, kept out of the way under a greasy, worn out sailor cap. I couldn’t help but watch the sallow feather of a mustache wilt around his lips when he asked, “Wadd’ya have?” “I’ll have one of those,” I said, pointing at Mathew’s drink. “A whiskey. On the rocks.” “What kind?” “Surprise me.” I didn’t especially care. It had been a long week, and I just wanted to unravel a bit. The bartender put a rocks glass on the bar with a crack and the ice settled. I instinctually held out my worn thin debit card. “Keep it open” I say. The bartender lifted it out of my hand like a pickpocket and swaggered back to the register. In a bar, the bartender is god, and I wondered about the power he must have swinging booze. He controlled the liquor, the liquid key into every man and woman’s heart. “What have you been up to?” I asked, turning back to Mathew “Same old,” he said. “How’s the music going?” “Pretty good. I’ve got a gig lined up in a couple of weeks at Uncorked. I’m playing with Mike Raney.” “Oh cool. keep me posted. I’ll try to make it out.” “Will do.” “So, what else is new,” I asked, thirsty for more than just whiskey. “I’ve got some other projects I’m working on.” “Oh yeah?” “I’m painting an installment now that examines masks and relationships and stuff.” “And stuff?” I laugh. “I didn’t know you painted too.” I knew a lot about Mathew, but I didn’t know he painted. He was a master martial artist, a musician, writer, and friend, but I didn’t
know he worked in visual art as well. It never entered my mind. I felt surprised and a little embarrassed. “Yeah, I have my bachelor’s in painting and art history.” “Well, the things you get to know about someone.” I took another drink. The whiskey burned despite the ice, and I was glad to feel the familiar singe. “Jack of all trades, huh? So, why do you do all this artistic ‘stuff’ anyway? I mean, I imagine it keeps you fairly busy, yeah?” “Sure,” he paused for a second, slugging a mouthful of whiskey.” Narcissism I guess.” “Narcissism?” “Yeah, you know, I want some sort of record that I exist. And,” he held his finger up, “if I can empathize with others, or have people empathize with me, it makes my life feel meaningful. It’s being connected to people. I know it sounds very cliché, but I think being so detached in my childhood, makes me feel like I need to make attachments with everyone I meet.” “Yeah, I get that,” I nodded. “It’s better than pushing people away. I mean, not too many people are looking for meaningful attachments these days.” I glanced at the bartender who was flirting with a young lady too far drunk to notice that all her friends had left. “Yeah, narcissism, right?” Mathew laughed. “Do you prefer one over the other?” “One what?” “Artistic, uh, expression or medium? Why not just hone in on one of those areas?” “Well, writing works, for example, writing got me into music.” “Oh yeah? How so?” “All my writing is pseudo-biographical fictional short stories or poems, but they just couldn’t convey the emotion that I wanted them to. I felt like playing music and being in various bands was an
outlet for those emotions,” he smiled, “especially those punk bands I was in.” We both took a drink. I ordered another. “But,” he continued, “working with a band is difficult too. It became about what the band wanted to convey, musically, lyrically, emotionally, whatever, so I started moving toward more solo work. Back to the narcissism, I wanted to tell people my story, and hopefully they could connect. Or, even if they hated it, my story set to music or painting is that record that I exist.” “Why is having a record or legacy important?” “Well, no one wants to be forgotten.” “Sure, but we’re all gonna die.” “Right, but connecting to people now is important, especially if people don’t have a voice or feel as though they don’t have a voice, a record helps them believe that they had a say in society, in culture, in their lives. Even if it’s something as simple as a Bukowski poem about drinking whiskey…” Mathew’s off-handed reference made me think about our present scenario, the two of us drinking whiskey, cliché at a bar I’m sure would make Charles feel at home. “…You’ll live forever.” “His face is etched in my brain now, and he is not the prettiest man I’ve ever seen. I hope that doesn’t last forever.” “I’ll raise a glass to that.” We laughed, clanging our drinks together. “Bukowski is an everyday kind of guy, yeah? So, what average people need to leave legacies? Or why not just leave the forever stuff for the genius?” “Well, everyone’s ordinary, you know what I mean?” “No, I don’t think so. What separates the ordinary from the extraordinary?” “I don’t believe there is a separation.” “We remember Bukowski because of the work he did, yeah?” I asked. “Yeah.”
“So is it the fact that he wrote and produced a lot of work or is it something in the work itself that makes it extraordinary?” “I think it’s the way the work is presented. Anyone can write a poem, but write a poem that is something more meaningful to someone, maybe even more than it means to you, then you’ve created something extraordinaire. So, the work maybe ordinary, but there’s a moment when it extends beyond the self and touches others. That’s what makes it extraordinary.” “So as a musician, how is that you want to connect to people? I mean, there’s a lot of bands that write, like tragic music, or bands that write philosophically, and others just cater to pop standards.” “If you want to generalize, ‘sad bastard music’ is what I write, and don’t get me wrong, it’s not about wallowing in that sad bastard emotional drinking whiskey all night, staying inside all day stuff, but hopefully finding a way past all that.” “So why is it important for you to connect to people on that sort of level?” “So that I know I’m not the only one, and maybe those that think they are the only ones or that they’re alone,” he shifted directions, “because sometimes going through life is hell, and you do feel absolutely alone, but those that feel they are can know that they’re not.” “Yeah, it is nice to know that we’re not alone in this.” I looked around the bar. “Like sometimes you listen to a band and then you really listen to the lyrics or something and you say, ‘Damn, I wanted to fucking say that. That was supposed to be me saying that.’ I want to be able to say what others can’t. Not because I want to be clever, but it’s that whole voice thing. Giving people the opportunity to have a voice, to say what they didn’t think they could or knew how.” “So, it’s not just about finding yourself or perpetuating yourself, but being a voice for…”
“Those who might not have it,” he said. “Connecting with them and then allowing them to speak up for themselves.” He took a drink, “or giving them a voice to use. You know what I mean.” “The whole idea of this being narcissistic or whatever it is is interesting. You find your voice, so that you can be the voice for others, and if so, you’re spoken out forever. Weird. Cool, but weird.” I took a drink.” So, which do you find to be more important then, the lyrics or the music.” “It’s gotta be everything, ya know, like a good mixed drink. If it’s too much alcohol, some people might like it, but not everyone can really dig it. If it’s too much soda, it might be a little too weak, and sugary, and cheap for some people, but it might be just right for others. So if it’s the right mix, anyone can enjoy it.” “Yeah, that makes sense. You’ve got a couple of albums out already though, right?” “Yeah, I’ve got two albums out under A Gentleman Caller, and I’m on an album with the punk band Robots and Dynamite. I’m working on a vinyl, slowly. That’s just where I want to go. I don’t have delusions of grandeur. I just want to put out a vinyl for that, pun intended, record that I existed.” “Why no delusions?” “Why do them?”. “Well, why not? I mean, artists should get paid for what they do at least.” “Oh yeah, It’s always a benefit to get paid for what you love to do, but I don’t need it as affirmation. The affirmation I’d like is just knowing that people enjoy it. Money’s not my goal. My goal is to be here, to say that I was here, and if I die and nothing else exists, but a record in the fifty cent bin at Record Exchange, then I don’t care. Someone somewhere in this world will know that there was a person named Mathew Pearlman who wrote music, and hopefully it speaks to someone.” “Geeze, why not just have kids?” I laughed. “It might be
easier. A lot of people look at kids as a legacy, handing down a legacy to the next generation.” “A lot of times, you hand down a legacy you don’t want to leave behind. Besides, I’m not big on bringing kids into this world. There’s enough of them that need homes as it is.” “True enough.” “At least with art, with music, I can be very precise with what I want to say, leave behind… and it’s permanent.” “So, how do you come up with what you want to say… precisely?” “Ha. I’ll just dick around with a guitar for maybe an hour or two. If I catch something I like, a riff, a chord, I’ll hum cadences to it or start tossing words around in my head, and then it starts coming together. A lot of times I’ll scratch a song, but keep mixing and matching lyrics with other parts I may have come up with.” “Do you ever set out to write specifically about something? Like the idea of heartbreak, you sad bastard?” “Ha, yeah, no not really. I mean it’s naturally part of the experience. I like sad bastard music. It’s what I grew up on. Anyway, like I said, music is part of my life and those experiences. Things come up, like heartbreak. Some of us have more experiences than others, good or bad. Music, for me, is an extension of those experiences.” “So, what about painting or writing?” “Same thing. When I hit a wall with one, I usually switch to another genre, like poetry or painting, even martial arts, and help tease that idea out or express it accurately until I’ve got it where I want it and can bring it back to music or whatever.” “Yeah.” “If I can’t connect with music, maybe through visual art, or martial arts, or writing. It’s that record of my existence, putting it wherever I can, ya know?” “So, what if you’re forgotten?”
“What happens if there’s nothing after this?” “What do you mean?” “If you’re going to exist, if you’re going to have a record of it, wouldn’t you want the chance to do it while you had it? I don’t need a next. I’ve got now.” I shook my head in agreement, thinking about what he had just said. I swirled the last of the whiskey and water pooled at the bottom of my glass. “Sure,” I said, finishing off my drink. I held the glass up for the bartender to see it was empty. “You might not need a next, but I do.”
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By Colsolidated Telephone Co. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Over the Falls by Robert Miltner
Stepping from the curb into the street, I’m five years old and I feel as if I’m crossing a boundary, border, some ledge at which my known world is being left behind. Behind me is certainty. While this appears a situation of concern, anxiety perhaps, I’m oddly excited, exhilarated. It’s as if I’m approaching the edge of this empire in which I live. Ahead I sense a vast openness, not an emptiness. False images of bright lights and waterfalls appear in my mind.
Unlearned sailors, after they lost sight of the land they had left, feared that if they continued, they would sail off the edge of the earth where they would be eaten by giant sea monsters. To them, these watery behemoths were as terrifying as a torturous eternity in the devilish fires of hell. This was how they felt before they found tropical islands, new coasts, unimagined civilizations.
I come to a stop, as if I am a large rock in the street, the walking throng of people part around me only to reconnect again into the continued wash of humanity. Perhaps they see me as the touched man who sane city-dwellers skirt for fear of being accosted or contaminated: my difference to them is a kind of dis-ease.
Closing my eyes, I imagine myself inside a barrel, about to go over Niagara Falls. I sense the rushed pressure, hear the astounding thunderous sound. I picture men who had done so before only to be found washed up and broken on the rocks. Yet by miracles a few survived, men who talked with a wild and horseeyed look as they recounted those holy moments of suspension, then the falling, the crazy lapidary they tumbled in before they bounced like corks to the surface.
Opening my coat and spreading it wide, the wind catches me, pushes at me. My body rocks on my feet and I feel the desire to be moved in whatever direction the wind is blowing: across the street, over the falls, beyond the ends of the seven oceans. My coat grows full, billows like a sail as I move toward the uncertainty.
D O GO G! DO
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