One hundred thousand souls

via GIPHY

I am :: a creator

I ran across this some time ago and liked the comparison. I am a creator.

I am :: a man who appreciates music

My mom sent me to this today.





A man stood at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.

A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.

A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tugged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, of the thousands that passed by, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best violinists in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written for a violin on a violin that was worth 3.5 million dollars.

Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100.

This is a true story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize artistic talent in an unexpected context?

An interesting question drawn from this experience:

If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?

Here is the original article in the Washington Post.

In this example in D.C., had I been there, I would have been the only person who would have sat there, late for work or a meeting or whatever, and listened to the entire forty-five minute performance, and left everything I had on me as a tip.

That's the way I am.

I would like to believe that I don't miss much in this life.

And here is Joshua Bell playing Beethoven...

What I do is not who I am :: Part I

I wrote this back on May 17 as part of my "I am" thread. The thread was intended to be a journey of self-exploration and self-analysis for me. I intended to lay out some really deep, very personal "stuff". Because, you see, what I have been "doing" in my life for the past 30 years has really not been working. I'm in a strange place in my life right now. I find myself on a strange and unfamiliar path. A path that I chose with open eyes, open arms, open mind and open heart, but a path that I did not want. How's that for irony? A path that I looked down, and out of curiosity or some masochistic emotional need, or some lesson to be learned, I chose to walk this path.

But here I am. Now. No regrets. Really, no regrets. I was all by my doing and conscious choice. I am who I am today because of that path. I just want to understand. I need to understand.

For whatever reason, I hid this post as a 'draft'. I'm not sure when exactly I hid it, or why. I have a tendency to do that. I write stuff and never publish it. I also write 'em and post 'em and then pull 'em - sometimes. Perhaps that is as it should be.

Anyway, here it is...


I don't remember if I read this somewhere, or if I came up with these words myself. "What I do is not who I am." It was an epiphany of the highest order for me. So simple, yet so remote was the understanding. Distant. Shrouded by fog. Clear and muted at the same time.

I remember writing the words on a yellow legal pad. I can't remember now exactly when it was. Six years ago in Aspen? Was it ten years ago? Quite possibly it was as long as thirteen years ago - in Dallas. Thirteen long years. Gone in a blink.

I very distinctly remember coming to the realization that I had become my job. My job was me. My entire identity - "who" I was, was "what" I did. What I did for a living. What I did for dollars. I was a workaholic of the worst variety. I would go into the office at 5:30 in the morning and not leave until 6:30 or 7:30. My logic at the time was that I wanted to miss the horrible rush hour traffic of Dallas. Go in early before it started, leave the office late, after it had subsided.

I remember drinking cold, stale coffee at 4:00 or 5:00 pm. The dregs of the pot.

I was a sick fuck.

There were times, under the heavy burden of single-handedly running a new division of the company, that I would stay even later - until 11pm or 1am. Sometimes, I would just get a room at the hotel next to the office and not even go home.

It was also, unfortunately, my escape from an unhappy marriage. One that was doomed from the very beginning to fail. But that is another story. For another time.

The saddest part of all, is that my daughter remembers me never being home. Now that, I regret.

Above all else, to thine own self be true...

Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...Above all else, to thine own self be true...

To thine own fucking self be true, this time, dickweed...

Call it full...What a fool I am...

My little moon meter down at the bottom right of this blog tells me that the moon is "waxing gibbous"...99% full...let's just call it a full moon...tonight...and tomorrow night...and more or less on Friday night...

I've felt it the past couple of days...it's not a bad feeling, in general, although it can be a downer at times...it's more of a gut feeling...that things are somehow amiss...things in the world...kind of a general uneasiness...it's difficult to describe, because it's so very subtle, sometimes I miss it myself...

It makes me want to listen to songs like this...and remember someone special in my life...who is no longer in my life....except in a memory...

Sometimes I forget to remember her...I was with her right now...today...five years ago...in Malibu, California...and it was to be the last time ever I saw her face...

What a fool I was...what a fool I am...still a fool...

I think I figgered out what I want to do when I grow up...

But without so much drama...without the extreme apilado...Gavito-'esque' you might say...when I'm 84...dancing with a 24 year old potranca...

Sorry, I'm male, what can I say...

I am hurt.

The lyrics....

"Hurt" by Johnny Cash

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything

[Chorus:]
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here

[Chorus:]
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

I am, I said.

I'm just a bit embarrassed to admit that I like this song by Neil Diamond.



Here are the lyrics:

LA's fine, sunshine most of the time
The feeling is laid back
Palm trees grow and the rents are low
But you know I keep thinking about
Making my way back

Well, I'm New York City born and raised
But nowadays, I'm lost between two shores
LA's fine, but it ain't home
New York's home but it ain't mine no more

I am, I said
To no one there
And no one heard at all
Not even the chair
I am, I cried
I am, said I
And I am lost, and I can't even say why
Leavin' me lonely still

Did you ever read about a frog who dreamed of being a king
And then became one
Well, except for the names and a few other changes
If you talk about me, the story's the same one

But I got an emptiness deep inside
And I've tried but it won't let me go
And I'm not a man who likes to swear
But I've never cared for the sound of being alone

I am, I said
To no one there
And no one heard at all
Not even the chair
I am, I cried
I am, said I
And I am lost, and I can't even say why

I am, I said
I am, I cried
I am...

I am a churning urn of burning funk.

There are thoughts, memories, floating around in my primordial ooze. They float like big, puffy, white, cumulus clouds on a hot summer breeze, materializing out of and dematerializing into, thin air.

They sail like ships across the surface of the ooze, but sometimes they may dive below the sticky, viscous surface and get lost for years sailing around the thick deep. Or perhaps, they are not below the surface, but rise above it, and sail across the vast wild blue yonder of my mind. Where exactly they are, I don't know. They are not lost. They are there. They are.

I took an interest in music at the age of 12 or so. 7th grade. 1972. I heard what my older brother and sister played. Jimi Hendrix. The Doors. Santana. Janis Joplin. Richie Havens. Jefferson Airplane. Blind Faith. Savoy Brown. The Rolling Stones. James Taylor.

Turntables. Eight track tapes. Reel-to-reel. Hi-Fi. LP. Vinyl. The guys and gals who envisioned and created digital music and the iPod were not even born yet, I bet.

James Taylor was one of my favorites. I am a churning urn of burning funk.

I am not me.

One of my favorite quotes is...

"Any life, no matter how long and complex it may be, is made up of a single moment - the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."
Jorge Luis Borges

I hope my single moment comes soon.

I am not me.