accidentally (or not?)

Well, that was interesting. Yes, I returned to normalcy just a few days ago, and contrary to teasing suspicion, I am neither pale, haggard, crazy, or otherwise reeling from the disjointed juxtaposition of small confined white rooms with beautiful sunny warm days, one of which I got to walk out into immediately post-sleep study.  It’s true that I would have been just a grateful to emerge to 35 degree freezing rain, but instead, I think I may have experienced the best day in February this year.  Lucky. Or maybe, rather: Fitting.

The study was exactly as I anticipated it to be. Nothing was unexpected, save a few minor details.  For the sake of their science, I will not divulge the conditions of this here, but rather offer up what I did to pass my free time there (which was a LOT), and what it all meant to me. Let me tell you I read. I was once a carefree youth with books on the brain, and frankly, it’s been a little while since I marathoned through so much text.   The Authors: Gao Xingjian, Roald Dahl, Philip Pullman, Albert Camus, Robert Louis Stevenson, Noam Chomsky, Milan Kundera, Paolo Coelho, J. D. Salinger, Umberto Eco.  1598 pages read, total, which, considering the several days of not reading, averages to about 160 per day. I thought I would tire of it before I was done, but somehow I didn’t, and I’m still plowing through Foulcault’s Pendulum.

Quite accidentally, (or not?)  a lot of what I read dealt with isolation, in some form or another. Hmmmm….

And a combination of all this food for thought, along with an upsurge in writing that I will gladly attribute to a certain sister I know, I am currently feeling inspired to commit a small act of semi-fiction, that may end up here once it gets more fleshed and boned, and I’ve jolted it with enough volts.  More on that later.

Further quite accidentally, (or still, not?) it occurred to me while I was in stir the correlation of my current circumstances to those of mine near-exactly 1 decade ago.  The act of being a sleep study subject is one of regular, scheduled interactions with a 30+ rotating roster of college- to professional-age Lab Technicians, Nurses, Doctors, all of whom were to me, initially, complete strangers. I’m talking about social sink or swim time.  Complete isolation, and an even more direct internet cutoff (though even that wasn’t as strong a link for me ten years ago) hasn’t been something I have subjected myself to since I left Vermont for my college days and beyond in Portland area, a.k.a. The Rest of My Life, so far. that was January 16th, 2001.  Ten years, 2 weeks, and 4 days later, and I was noting, making that comparison.  I’ve never been too terribly shy with complete strangers. I would like to say I relish it, but I think the past ten years of padding my comfort zone with associates and friends belies that a bit.  Regardless, the immersion into such complete unknown was in many ways a welcome relief for me, despite the love I have for those around me. What a trip, indeed!

And time deprivation, in an absolute sense, is quite nice.  Not all may agree with me, but so be it; all the more for me. Speaking of which, (time, that is) my note here for whosoever reads it must now come to a close. It’s time for me to do some regular, scheduled, work. Y’know, the kind that feeds people, the kind that feeds the social side of my soul.

Oh, and a typewriter.

Today, I leave the world of reality for a fourteen-day sleep study. No sense of time, no regular sleep or light patterns, nothing but me, some books, dvds, cds, and a ukulele. Oh, and a typewriter. My attempt to make copious music recordings while in stir was thwarted at the last minute, so I expect I shall spend a fair amount of time writing. Time to pack up, shape up and ship out! Y’all’ll be hearing from me on or after the 16th.

Bedfellows

I was recently speaking with a dear friend on the subject of love, life, opportunities missed/or not, and the tough choices we are seemingly making as a constant routine. In fact, with the right perspective, one could argue to dissolve the adjective “tough,” if you consider their frequency to be the norm, and thus the easy decisions the exception. But the conversation (hastened by time factors) quickly boiled down to this interesting thought, which I will waste no more time in delivering: Lest we forget, “love” and “happiness” are not now, nor have they every been, the most regular of bedfellows.

Here is where, speaking personally, my stoicism finds comfort in that thought, rather than despair. Because to me this means I am free to love, and if contentment and life-station satisfaction don’t come with it, then so be it. No one ever said otherwise. And it also empowers myself, and I hope others, to make more good and right decisions about the happiness in their life, and the love in their life. Choose that which is more satisfying, and/or which will likely have more long-term life-state fulfillment. Oh, and if you are one who can love and be happy about it, even if for but a moment, rejoice! but never forget the temporary nature of everything. And so, to conclude, of course:

That which is,
should be appreciated as such.
That which was,
as well;
But that which might be
but also might not,
Should be appreciated as not much
at all.

Out of my Belly, Off my Tongue

I have not posted in a couple of months. I will wrap up any significant events in short order, and soon, but in the meanwhile I have something else on the mind. Since taking my recent road-trip, I have been entertaining the idea of applying to partake in a Sleep-Research Study, of which there are frequent and varied advertisements posted on craigslist. These are part of a project studying the effects of certain deprivations of senses, sleep, and substance, should they be otherwise in use in any one subject’s regular lifestyle, on said subject. They ask you to Abstain from all substances, unless prescribed. They ask that you maintain a rigid 8-hour sleep schedule for several weeks before you actually enter the sleep study. Then you go to Boston, and for the duration of whichever study you are a part, you are there in a room, being monitored, being told precisely when to sleep, when not to sleep, when to eat, (though not what, thankfully) when to shower, when to take one or the other cognitive or mood test. When you’re done, in a few weeks a check arrives in the mail. I’m not going to say how much, but it is worth it.

But besides the monetary gains, I do have a certain strange interest in this project, and I am excited to see what happens. The idea of voluntarily subjecting myself to what I romantically envision as a THX-1138-style isolation, minus the persecution has a weird appeal to me. This particular study is to the effects of light levels and different amounts of sleep on reading, which means I get to bring a box full o’ books, of my own choice, and read as many as I can. And I am after all, a user of several different substances, and this so far is where my fascination has so far taken hold:

I have regularly been very conscious of my efforts to be able to enjoy one or the other chemical substance, while maintaining that it is a use of the moment, for the enjoyment of the moment, and not an addictive, or even medical (unless absolutely necessary) use. In short, I am hypersensitive to the idea of becoming reliant on a drug, be it caffeine, nicotine, or alcohol, (the three big ones) but at the same time I strive to uphold an equilibrium with careful recreational use of any one of them; if it’s for fun, then no harm done – not a bad motto. And so in enjoying different scientifically-proven, chemically-addictive drugs, I periodically will break from my normal behavior (whatever that is at the time) to keep myself in check, and honest with myself. But this time it’s all or nothing.

For a month, I’m gonna be straight-edge. Nothing. Not even a whiff of caffeine, ingested through chocolate, or various decaf beverages. No poppy seeds, for fear that I would test positive for opium use. I haven’t been this clean since I was fourteen. I also am going to bed at 10 am every night, and waking up at 6 am. This is, according to modern standards, some pretty healthy living. I am quite excited to see what becomes of me over the course of this month. It’s already been several days, and I have so far not experienced any problems with “no substance.” Going to bed so much earlier is a bit of a wet blanket on my social life, but hey, that’s why they’re paying me. (If I had my druthers, an 8hours sleep schedule would be more like 12 or 1 to 8 or 9, but that’s just how I would prefer.)

And in typical “all or nothing” style, I have been reflecting on my recently altered and now-for-the-first-time-ever-in-my-life restrictive diet, first in wonder, second in a bit of frustration, ’cause frankly, chocolate and poppy seeds are things I would normally not feel a strong desire to keep out of my belly or off my tongue. As long as I have a partially restrictive diet happening, I might as well go for the whole hog, so to speak, or at least something wholly more whole. So I am going to try going vegetarian for a bit, maybe even vegan. My choice is based on those diets’ current popularity amongst my peers, and their touted health benefits. I think my love for cheese, butter, and honey will win over strict veganism, but I am certain I will have little problem avoiding meat.

There is little to say so far, but I can definitely report already that waking up at 6 am has never been as easy as when I get 8 hours to sleep , prior to it. I usually don’t get 8 hours on a night – I always seem to end up busy with something, even a waste of time still keeps me awake, 6 or maybe seven is usually what I operate on – so I am also feeling better rested than otherwise.

Am I excited to do some serious reading? You bet your ass. I was a voracious reader as a youth, and fell somewhat away from that in my late teens, and until recently when coffee shops became my living rooms, and reading became my renaissance. I was advised by my sleep study counselor that most people who do the “bookworm” study fail to bring enough books. I already knew I was going to bring a lot to read; now I’ll bring more.

PS – I have a smattering of pesky outstanding debts on hand currently, and this is exactly where a majority of the money is going to go. That is almost as exciting as what else about this inspires me.

The Thick Midst

Well the fun has been fun so far, in case anyone has been wondering. Right now I write a quick note from Oregon, in the thick midst of an overly ambitious road trip all over these *united* *states.*

1. The Mütter Museum.
When I was adolescent and/or teen-aged, my father and step-mother would visit an arts & crafts expo in Philly once a year, in support of my expo-ing aunt. They on at least one occasion, maybe more, visited the Mütter Museum, housed in the College of Physicians, in Philadelphia. I can remember the tales of deformed fetuses, walls of skulls of clinically insane criminals from the 19th century and earlier, and other freak examples of medical science that I was regaled with, which haunted and teased my not-going-there ass every year until now. I am pleased to say also that while my Junior High School boyhood fascination with the grotesque and weird has not left me, as an older (if not more advanced or mature) person I have found what I would call a “more refined” ability to appreciate it as well. Because for me, now, the focus of this collection is not purely that of shock value; it is to provide wonder, if not the opportunity to study and maybe even understand these abnormalities. From a scientific standpoint, you don’t learn how to cure diseases of fix broken bones from studying healthy examples of humanity that have never experienced such maladies. There is an inherent push to examine and explore that which is not normal, and learn through comparison and experimentation solutions to what ails ya. Ahhh, the smell of formaldehyde in the morning!

2. Maker’s Mark Distillery.
The folks at Marker’s Mark will put on a free, classy tour of their facility, complete with complementary tastings and a chance to give them money via the gift shop. This place appeals to the romantic backwoods Kentuckian in me. Truly in the middle of nowhere, only accessible from miles of winding, narrow roads, I’m thinking to myself, “This is where moonshine came from, isn’t it?,” and hesitantly listening for the theme from Deliverance floating on the breeze… But instead, the road opens up into a gorgeously maintained estate, 200 year-old buildings freshly painted in rich, luxuriant, robust maroon, meticulously mowed lawns abundant, and a small creek meandering lazily about the grounds. The process is fascinating – I am casually knowledgeable of other brewing techniques and practices, but the distillation of a hard alcohol was as yet unknown to me. I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but know that a tour of (probably) any Bourbon, Scotch, or Whisky distillery will likely be worth it. and if you find yourself near Loretto, be sure to make it a part of your travels there.

3. Grand Canyon.
I’ll keep this one particularly short and sweet: Nothing can prepare one for something so Awesome. there are many other experiences that can take that description, but never forget, Grand Canyon is one.

4. Avenue of the Giants.
This is that stretch of US Highway 101 that tours through the Redwood Forests of Northern California. they are Big, and they are touristy, but it is worth it. Keep in mind your insignificance as you observe the lifespan of a recently fallen tree that sprouted around the same time the Chinese were inventing fireworks, the first Counterweight Trebuchets were being developed, and the Toltec Empire Collapsed.

Now, Carina and I are in Corvallis for a few days, resting up on the midpoint of our journey. I guess the pacific ocean is as good a place as any to turn around, and start that long trek east.

Trying to Piggyback/What Isn’t Admirable/Intentioned Intention/But first:

Well, my absence from any updates have hopefully clued any of you reading this that I have been busy with something. The Answer is yes, but I have not been working on “The Project.” “The Project,” I say somewhat sadly, is off.

There are concerns personal enough that I’m not going to share them here. But I had been wrangling with many issues recently concerning the island, the boat, the project, and everything else, and through a combination of many things, I decided to cut now and run, rather than wait any longer to spend more effort and time and money on something that has seemed more and more un-completable and unfeasible as the days have progressed: This project had morphed from a group effort into a one-man pipe dream really quickly. I don’t mind doing the solo thing – I actually feel that I work quite well in that sense – but to do this alone I really should have started alone. This was not a project happening on my terms, and I now know that trying to piggyback my own intentions onto the diverted/canceled plans that the three of us had had together was in this circumstance at least, truly an endeavor that had far too many drawbacks, even when compared to the anticipated payoff. I came to learn, more specifically, that to do something on MY own, requires them to happen on MY terms. This was not happening on MY terms. So, it’s off. But that won’t stop me. What did you expect?

Naturally, I have other things going on. Constantly going on. An as-yet unmentioned player is this project’s saga is the wonderfully patient, supportive, intelligent, helpful, and self-sacrificial lady who I am happy to say has my love (not all of it, don’t worry everyone) and also has some for me, Miss Carina. We had only been dating for a couple months when I announced my intentions to live homeless for the summer and build a cabin in the woods to run away to. I ask, what isn’t admirable in such a woman who will take such information in stride, not even give a second thought to hanging out with me as my bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom, and shower all disappear into thin air and are replaced with coffee shops and the folded-down backseat of an ’88 Volvo Station Wagon? I don’t feel that I am a neglectful person in a relationship, mind you, but I had specifically aimed my focus away from the center of a relationship as has been my norm. I don’t want to gush, but she’s great. I admire a lot about in this person. So I’ve got this relatively fresh relationship going on, that seems to be going well, (though I do my best to keep my intentions and expectations to a minimal, if not unrealistic level.) This, in my view, can certainly warrant whatever attention I care to put forth.

Also, a barely secondary part of the “live on an island and hide from humanity-at-large as it eats itself alive” plan was to be in a place where I can be let alone to make and record and play MUSIC. I learned from trudging, traipsing, and trampling through four and half years of music school that music is not The One Passion of my life as it is for some, but it is my sanctuary still. And I’ve been halfheartedly trying to make a career in teaching piano lessons over the past years, not to mention playing music with a bevvy of wonderful and multi-talented musicians from many areas of the musical world. It hasn’t been mentioned here, but it is a reality in life, that my associates and I who have been sharing a cramped, dank, dark and dirty musical practice space for more than a year (and longer before without me) have recently relocated into a new space with, put simply, Better Everything. (running water in the bathroom) (that’s right, a bathroom that is cleaned weekly by a janitorial service) (five times the space in two rooms for virtually the same price) (better lighting) (wheelchair ramp access for easy moving of big amps and pianos) (ummm….yeah….) So even though hiding on an island as an excuse to allow more and greater creativity would have been nice, there is absolutely no reason not to keep this intention intentioned.

But first: it’s frickin’ summer here. Summer is for having fun, right? I wasn’t not having fun thus far, but there is a hidden pressure in the back of one’s mind when every time one isn’t attending to one’s major and pressing interest. It wore on me, I can assure. I have been adjusting these past weeks to not having that nag in the back of my head whenever I allow myself to more purely enjoy life as it comes at me. It has been really wonderful so far. And there is so much more to come: A week-long camping retreat, recently formulated plans to finish off the summer with a round-trip cruise to Oregon and back, and not to sound too lame, but I am allowing myself to work more, as there was a certain logic previously that if I was putting in 40 or more hours every week, I was keeping myself from the island. Well, that wasn’t necessarily the case, but I can also say for sure that my bank account did not swell with pride at my choice. The rest of the summer is also now meant to be more lucrative, thus allowing the funding necessary for future endeavors.

I will tie up the loose ends that are as they are right now, but this post has been about the big change, and about moving forward. And as one certain C. Cameron has been known to say, Avante!

Currency.

I’m tired of just background/history, because frankly, things are happening, and I want to write about that, if more briefly. Forthcoming will be the first of many entries categorized as “Currency” (as opposed to past tense, see?). They may be banal, but will always be short & sweet if not blunt and with a point.

Drag the Unwilling

I’m no pessimist. Friends regard me as the person who’ll likely be the last one in a room still making lemonade, if you catch my meaning. But to not accept misfortune, bad luck, or what I would perhaps refer to as redirection at best, is still foolhardy, and to stubbornly go against the wind could be referred to by modern diagnoseers as one of those new-fangled neuroses, or conditions. The message is: Be prepared to roll with it. I think Cleanthes said it best – Fate guides the willing, but drags the unwilling.

With that said, and I won’t go into all the details, but the plan changed. What, did I not expect it? Let’s be reasonable here, Cricket has two elementary school – age children, and Tom is raising them with her. What, are they gonna camp out on an island starting in May while they build a shelter, all the while preparing meals, clothing, bathing, and (lest we forget) entertaining and engaging these children with marginally running water, no electricity, &c…?

That’s what you get for making plans. Remember, without plans, we wouldn’t have anything to crumble before our expectant and hopeful eyes. How lame would that be? Lemme tell ya…

Well, as much as things sometimes take time, I like to consider myself a man of action. So am I going to roll with it, and let fate guide me? Here’s where the ride gets interesting. For those of you who aren’t aware, this is the part where the last of the clicking is heard, you reach your apex and start the plunge of the roller coaster. Well, Cricket and Tom have their own concerns, which are admirable and justifiable in their own right, and we are no longer in this Big Project together. What about me? I’ve no children, no pets. I’m recently homeless, by choice for the summer. (Note – I probably would have made that choice regardless of Long Island, as a continuation of last year’s experiment.) Could I do this by myself?

Personally, I’m in the same position as before to do this, oh yeah and I OWN A BOAT NOW. I’ve got the desire and the willingness, most of the materials are already accounted for, and the rest are acquirable by my funding options, as far as estimates go. Do I have the know-how to do this myself? No, but Tom does, and is still willing to help in that regard, on a more limited basis. Is he alright with this? It is his property. The answer is yes.

Well, so far I don’t feel as if I’m going against the wind. Details of the struggle to keep momentum will follow. this has been your Significant Plot Development of the day.

Similar folk be

Johnny Rowell is a character right out of (and also never to be found in) any/every story you’ve ever heard. He is probably in his mid forties, ex-army, born, raised, and living in southern Maine, with a stockpile of mannerisms (and accompanying lexicon) that remind one of the oh-so-thinly-veiled latent misogynistic and homophobic tendencies of white male Americana that have existed and evolved over the past half millennium. He is a storyteller. His arsenal of jokes isn’t unending, but this is one functional drunk who won’t mind telling you the same one every other day, and each time as if it were the first. These are the kind of jokes, mind you, that require a quick 360° scan to ensure any potential offendees are out of earshot; and if you relax those politically-correct nerve-twitches that accompany lighthearted if not off-color humor, you’ll laugh every time. He IS what would euphemistically be considered a “functional drunk.” A more proactive save-everyone-from-themselves-until-we’re-all-the-same-typer would diagnose him an alcoholic. I’m more apt just to let him and similar folk be, but that’s another discussion. And as a functional drunk, I would definitely place the emphasis on functional. His knowledge of the internal combustion engine is unparalleled in my personal experience; and his New England Yankee ingenuity further allows him to improvise more than, say, your average by-the-books mechanic with an otherwise impressive encyclopedic knowledge of such things. He is, rather than so easily put within any stereotype one might try and wedge him into, surprisingly unpredictable. The man has a heart of gold, and for the worth of his knowledge labor and ability, he’ll give you all he can and then some in exchange for an afternoon’s companionship. His warmth and generosity are as raw and real as his loneliness.

Johnny has been an acquaintance and friend of Tom’s for several years. Beyond motor knowledge, he has good-to-professional carpentry and boat knowledge and skills. A year ago he offered Tom the boat he has had parked in his backyard for the past six years. Though not taken up at the time, that offer apparently stood, until with renewed interest, and more acute need, this boat was resurrected by the Great Healer, one J. Rowell. It floated, we knew. Sitting through six brutal season cycles had rendered the minor interior and associated upholstery, &c. quite poor, and would need to be ripped out. The engine had also been sitting, but Johnny had faith, in the motor, and also himself, and when Johnny says he can make it run, He Can Make It Run. For the cost of parts, perhaps ten 12-packs of Budweiser and occasional packs of Newport 100′s over a period of about month, the Iron Duke motor roared again, the propeller raised and lowered itself according to its operator’s controls, and she became fully outfitted for an aquatic confirmation. As I was the person most equipped to fund this aspect of the starting-up of the project, I did, and, partially as insurance and for my own more “actual” involvement, also “officially” bought the boat and the trailer she was resting on from Johnny for $1 each. ($1.05 including tax paid upon registration.)

A mix of emotions, as exemplified here:

and here:

$592.23: Total cost (so far) to put her in the water. I think most experts would agree this is a significant savings, overall.
$750.00: Total cost (so far) for mooring equipment and space in a mooring field off the east end of Portland.

She’s a 19.5′ Cuddy Cabin with an inboard/outboard motor, running on unleaded fuel. Unofficially, her name is “The Hard Way” (thanks Tom.) But more importantly, thanks, Johnny. Some people ride the karma train, and others fuel it.

Easy livin’

The Devil is in the Details. All of a sudden, in what I seem to recall being mid-march, we decided to stop thinking on it, stop speaking about it, to JUST DO SOMETHING, act on it. Assess priorities: what needs to happen, and in what order? What already has happened, What will cost the most in terms of Money, in terms of hours of labor, in terms of paperwork and networking, how are we going to maintain a balance of progression without getting ahead of each other, or the project? It’s fun to talk about the good times we’ll have next year, the garden, easy livin’, etc., but right now, what about supplies, building permits, and how about that existing septic/leach field, is it ready to go, or does it need additional work? Sure would be nice to be able to shit out there, eh? more importantly, what of the well that’s been dug already? The hand water pump works, so oughtn’t we get it set up, and should we test the water to ensure its potability, or has that already been determined?

Oh, and this IS on an Island. We don’t live there yet. How do we get there?

The ferry offers service from Portland; this is tremendously helpful overall, but they’ve also complete control of the Island Travel Market, short of the Water Taxi, which is only for the super wealthy, and even the cheapest way to get a human out there, a monthly pass, adds up quickly. Then you’re still bound to a sparse and rigid schedule of when you leave for the Island, when you leave for Portland, and again, that is ONLY for human travel with light baggage. We need to bring supplies out there. A lot of them. Prices spike when you’re taking freight out there.

So how feasible would a boat be, if we could find the right price?