#8: the best live music is underground

Somewhere deep in the heart of metropolitan Europe a streetlamp shines its circular beam onto the cracked sidewalk below. Just beyond this flickering glow, a jazz bar tucks itself away into the darkness of shadows, lurking quite deliberately free of any noticeable advertisement. Having to my recollection never previously entered this place, I find my inclination to tug so naturally at its door particularly odd. And especially given the aimlessness of my stride only moments before, to find myself suddenly at its front with a sense of purpose was, too, a bit mysterious. But in my experience, I’ve noticed what you might call a gravity being emitted from spots like this – a subconscious tugging at the lonely shirt sleeves of those passing by who secretly belong. So, after being drawn inside by the swelling of its intellectual heartbeat, I am unable to ignore this club’s intuitive beckoning and I descend into its subterranean divide.

A neon sign illuminates black and white legends along the steep stairway, and I take my time on each step to carefully admire their faces in frames. These stills capture individuals possessing an unmistakable sophistication – an image manifested by time, prowess, and intimate devotion. Their signatures are scribbled beneath typical notes, their penmanship seeming to take on the same frenetic style as their musical background. “Cheers, stay cool,” they say. “Thanks for the memories.”

My eyes pass slowly from one portrait to the next, imagining their raspy voices, firm handshakes, and laid-back attitudes. Awoken from this momentary miasmatic lapse by a crowd of impatient coughers behind me, I apologetically commence down the remaining steps towards the lower door. Perched atop a wooden stool, a female sitting there cross-legged sets down her paperback as we approach and stands with friendly authority. Her colorful tattoos poke proudly past the confines of her clothes, and her piercings number more than my years. Informing us of the live trio performing tonight, she extends a rattling blue top hat to collect our cover. Coaxing a few coins out of my coat, I toss the charge into the cap, smile, and continue on through…

#7: I lived on S. Clerk St.

October 15, 2007: Edinburgh, Scotland:

8.35 on a Monday night I look out my second story kitchen window onto the cold city street below. Over the past few weeks this has become a ritual of mine, both at night and in the morning. Although slightly voyeuristic, this practice of people watching can be quite entertaining and insightful. In general my vantage point is too high to be noticed by the oblivious public below, so usually if I’m spotted it’s by commuters on a bus’ upper level. Not too much they can do to stop me in that case though, so I generally just smile and wave. On this particular evening I sip from a fresh cup of blended tea, put my elbows on the sill, and simply watch on in amazement. My field of vision from left to right might not be more than fifty meters, yet every second activity ceaselessly persists. This is metro-reality in its purest form:

A red-haired couple crosses the street and laughs. The fellow jokingly wraps his plaid scarf around his lady’s neck and pulls her in closer for a kiss. Tiny cars whiz by them carrying the silhouettes of faceless, nameless people, weaving in and out of the two narrow lanes. I can occasionally see within these automobiles mementos dangling from the mirrors, hands shifting gears, and sometimes a dashboard glow. Monstrous Lothian busses chug along these dotted lines as well, pulling over just in front of this window at a popular transit stop below. Basically moving billboards, these double-deckers advertise anything from current movies and plays to liqueur bargains and athletic fanfare. I imagine these displays are less for aesthetics and more to pay for fuel. Their passengers seem to stretch necks taking in the town surrounding them, but perhaps they are merely glancing at their distorted likeness in the window. I also notice familiar white wires dangling from most of their ears, which disappear into their jackets and explain their bobbing heads.

Across the street a body bronzing shop is still in business, and a pale young man in a jump suit enters it with caution. After showing him to his tanning bed, the leathery attendant puts on her turtleneck, leaves the salon, and lights up a smoke. I can practically see her cancerous cells dividing from here, and I shiver at the thought. A pack of dressed up teenage girls pass through her smoke cloud briskly, pretending not to notice the heckling horde of drunken males trailing several steps behind. Further down the road, a cab is hailed by a man in an ebony trench coat and steers over with professional haste. The dark, suspicious character then slides into the back seat, leans forward to dictate a location, and they’re off. The taxi’s absence is soon displaced by a slightly less confident driver, whose car squeals in attempt to parallel park. A portly bald fellow with unusually long arms watches this display with amusement, as several futile efforts are made.

My attention diverts in this instant to a woman coasting downhill on her small yellow bicycle. She has covered not only herself but her entire vehicle with reflectors, and even her basket filled with groceries has been illuminated. The traffic she so obviously wishes to avoid dies down occasionally at this busy intersection, but is more or less constant throughout the day. Pedestrians and cyclists aware of this fact step and pedal with a distinguishable prudence, and look timidly both ways before advancing. A couple now crossing for example seems especially alert. They are dragging a pampered terrier by leash and a dozing infant by carriage. Another child they bear seems to be three months or less away from life on Earth, as the woman’s belly is enlarged.

Simultaneously a scruffy man with long hair, who I swear I’ve seen on this block before, holds a blue cooler in one hand and an empty beer bottle in the other. He is mumbling to himself cantankerously, showing further irritation after stumbling over a loose cobble in the sidewalk. Yellow flashing lights distract me from the drunkard, as they halt just before me. I realize now that this siren is attached to the roof of a garbage truck, which has only paused for a moment to collect a small curbside load of rubbish. Just like the many busses that pass through here, the city vehicle has come and gone efficiently within seconds. After the disposal truck has moved on, a flock of pigeons gather around the freshly vacant trash cans to peck around for abandoned crumbs. They disperse briefly from the filth as a disgruntled bum joins them in the desperate search for gold, but rejoin him in the hunt after nervously fluttering about.

Meanwhile, several students with book bag scoliosis slink ponderously down the sidewalk. They carry the burden of knowledge on their backs, and I assume they are returning home from the library. The amount of styling gel they have applied to their scalps astonishes me, and I contemplate its purpose without solution. As they walk by, exaggerated shadows of their spiky dos are cast upon the wall of an Indian takeaway place to their left. The restaurant has received minimal customers tonight I note, but perhaps it is closed or another nearby spot is favored. I cannot quite tell. The gel kings smoothly realign their step into a single file as they slip greasily past the same woman from the tanning salon. Back outside for another quick puff break, she is this time joined by an additional orangey figure. The two colleagues huddle close together like penguins to share a spark, exhale concurrently, then proceed to talk something over.

Above the salon there are two granite stories of spacious-looking apartments. Through one large window in particular I notice an ostentatious chandelier and broad leaves that extend from a successful indoor plant. For an instant a figure moves about in the room, but then the lights dim and the body disappears. Disappointed to have not witnessed any spontaneous acts of nudity or crime, I again return my gaze to the street level. Finishing my mug’s last sugary mouthful of tea, I take one final glance up and down the avenue: more cyclists, more cell phones, more bags, books, babies, and bronzers – more cars, more busses, more crazies, birds, and couples. My last image before drawing the curtain is of two men passing each other walking opposite directions. One hides his face with a hoody, and the other wears a pink sweater with pride. Their paths cross in the night without the faintest awareness of each other, and without the faintness awareness of me.

#6: Airports are for people-watching

I sit across from the fattest man I have seen in ages. Everything bulges, sticks out. His sneakers are enormous and, yes, I think I can smell them. The man has a round chubby face, which reacts sporadically to notions in his dreams. On his left, and to my right, sits another man, shadily talking business on a cheap looking cell phone. I imagine he gambles, that’s just what his face speaks. This other lady nearby just rests her head in her hands, rubbing the mascara clots of boredom from her eyes. She has just demolished a chicken sandwich and appears either guilty or dissatisfied. Further down in the room, I notice a man who looks identical to an old history teacher of mine. It takes me a moment but I gradually convince myself that there is no plausible explanation as to what he would be doing here.

Regardless, I am distracted at this moment by a pretty young lady with tight pants. She passes by me real close, leaving an inescapable trail of perfume behind her. She’s not quite my type but has a nice walk to her, kinda like how a metronome sways. Somehow unimpressed, I move on easily and keep on looking about. There is so much going on here at once, so much activity. People drifting along in their worlds, ignorant of mine or anyone else’s. They’re reading papers and crossing legs, chewing gum and biting nails. Typing keys and yawning too, they do anything to pass the time. Boxes on wheels get dragged and pushed, sometimes get kicked around. Women in wheelchairs have wandering eyes, the pusher just doing his job. Some sit, some stand, all look tired and lost.

Suddenly their attention is grabbed by a monotone voice cackling bad news over the loud speakers. They whine and they moan, grind their teeth and groan. One dude in particular is flipping out, going ballistic. They’ve revoked his ticket, stripping his rights. He yells and points, waves his arms all around. About every twenty seconds he backs off from the counter and paces around in a circle, gathering his thoughts. Then when he’s good and ready he goes back in to chew them out some more. The ladies with uniforms do their best diverting the abuse, all the while calling for help. Then security shows up looking real mean, heat and cuffs hang by their belts with clout. The argumentative one, who judging by his thin beard really could not be more than seventeen, calms down immediately. Noticeably mollified by their baldheaded authority, the boy apologizes and nervously explains himself. However, I am bored by this predicament at this point, for the quarrel is over and no arrests will be made.

As a puppy barks and a baby cries, I shift my eyes to the more pleasant outdoors, visible through a row of giant windows to my left. The sun shines and the clouds are light, a perfect spring day in March. Men with reflectors are unloading black bags, others drive around with hectic purpose. Inspectors poke around and check the engines, ensuring safety for the trip ahead. Simply amazing how this whole operation works, really makes you think about life. Staring out at my chariot I wrap my head around its existence. It is powerfully sleek and boasts potential energy, a true icon of ingenuity. In no time at all it will hurdle me towards home. I will sit thousands of feet above ground, staring down at clouds and cities as we pass them by. I will be shuttled in this tin can straight across a developed nation, high above all its noise and commotion. Until then, I am just one of the many that sit around here just idly wasting time. I realize all a sudden that these people mean nothing to me. They exist in my world like those background folks in movies do, just so crucially worthless.

I stare now instead at the wavy patterns in the carpet, allowing my eyes to blur the lines. Lingering around in this place sure does suck the life out, I can feel anticipation devouring my body. Again raising my head, I see the sun has dropped a few degrees since last I looked, but still shines sweet over the ant-like workers. They operate as robots would, paid to be programmed. At least they have the freedom of fresh air though, I figure. Better at least than being pent up in this big busy cage, I add. Doomed by layover, left grounded by mistakes, and sick with terminal illness, I close my laptop and open a book. Only three more hours till liftoff…

#5: explaining Life will never be easy

My good friend and sophomore-year roommate Doc MD is, and will forever be, a philosopher. He's a thinker like me, which is why we get along so well. As research for a recent school paper, the Doc asked a group of his closest friends to reflect upon their various perceptions of life. He left the question open-ended intentionally, hoping we'd focus on what was most important to us. But for a matter of minutes a stared at a blank screen, not having the slightest idea where to begin. The following is what I ultimately submitted to the Doc MD, which is only as long as my studying-for-final-exam schedule could allow.

Life. “The endless poem,” as Kerouac called it. As humans we intrinsically search for its truest meanings, yet the outcome is hardly ever fulfilling. We have been graced over time with speech, and thought, and literacy, but our knowledge and understanding of life will forever be limited. For life is not excusive to the human race, nor is it exclusive to our planet. We are but a small piece of an enormous and insanely complicated puzzle, one that we lack the time and resources to solve. So generally when asked the question, “what do you think about life,” I try to avoid answering. I can’t help it. Any response I may offer would be naïve and incomplete, failing to accomplish anything, mean anything, or prove anything at all. Therefore, for the sake of this assignment, I will focus on the simple, and not the overwhelming (i.e. modern-human life on Earth, not the overarching Cosmos, nor the atoms that comprise it).

I believe every cultural being must within themselves possess a set of principles by which they justify their behavior. While the gift of intellectual thought comes hand in hand with the ability to constantly develop these convictions, we must recognize that such ideas might only be rational to ourselves. For this reason, the importance of communication is thus realized. Through the facility of speech, writing, and artistic expression, the human race has been given the inimitable opportunity to voice our initiatives with others, argue for their validity, and promote dissemination. But in these fragile modern times where so many ideological tensions exist (over race, religion, politics, gender, sexual preferences, and the economy for examples) tolerance must prevail. For not only is cultural acceptance an unalienable moral virtue, it ultimately proves vital to our survival on this planet.

We are living in an exciting chapter of human history, but a fragile one nonetheless - socially, economically, environmentally, and etc. A vicious dichotomy still exists between the Global North and the Global South. Wealth is uneven, resources are uneven, trade, justice, and amenities too. In this respect I think life is simply unfair. I myself share the same privilege of walking and breathing on this planet as a twenty-year-old man in Cambodia, yet due to forces beyond my control we are more than a world apart. I think about this fact every single day and wonder if things will ever change. Life has become a competition, and a cruel one at that. The modern world has abandoned genuine values and become obsessed with power, control, money, and global reputation. I am easily depressed by this, since I recognize myself as an undeniable part of the problem.

But there are of course countless good things about life. Despite ongoing violence, hunger, and unrelenting land degradation (etc.), many facets of life on this planet will always be magnificent. Beauty is everywhere, and wonder abundant. There is love, and joy, and companionship. Pleasure, entertainment, starry skies, and ice cream. Wild nights, sun-soaking, technology, and rain. The list is infinite, and different for everyone. I look at life like a gift, like an allowance. We’re on this planet only once in our given form, and we owe it to ourselves and our makers to experience as much as possible. In a way, life exists merely as the counterpart to death. It’s the clearer contrast to something unbelievably more unknown, so we should eat, drink, and be merry in the meantime.

For brevity’s sake, I will leave it at that, although below are some more random thoughts on life that come to mind...if you try this yourself sometime you'll see what I mean about being overwhelmed and unsatisfied. I guess that's just the way it goes sometimes...

Sofas. Submarines. Lobster tail. Childhood. Cycles and systems. Beliefs. Footsteps, walking sticks, and sore legs. Sickness, health. Aimlessness fighting purpose. Trust. Space. Place. Rest and restlessness. Communication. Breakdowns. Laughter, sorrow, side-splitting and toe-stubbing. Success, disappointment. Emotion. Venture, effort, mobility, and sport. Talent, ability. Passion. Anatomy, biology, philosophy, geography, physics, and all-knowledge. The animals, the plants, the utterly bizarre. Freedom, liberty, rights. Madness, confusion, and drug-induced enlightenment. The unknown. The small things, the big things, the imagination. It’s music, it’s a heartbeat, a pulse of electricity. Innovation, ideas, technology. Vision, sounds, touch, taste, and smells. Nonsense. The unexpected. Miracles. Creation and death. Elements. Water, Earth, and sunlight. Magic tricks. Words, language, stories, and poetry. Culture. Shelter and dance. Experience points. Lessons. Responsibility. Family, friendships, and alliances. Beauty. Mountains. Clouds and rivers. The sea. Mama Naitch. Revolution. Choice. Commitment and respect. Exhaustion. Comedy. Training. Fear. Principles. Faith. Repetition. Repetition. Gravity. Weight. Caution. Survival. Breath. Birth. Levels. Mystery. Vacation. Symptoms and sleepiness. Assumption. Inference. Luck, odds, and risk. Consumption. Ins, outs, and in-betweens. Majesty, royalty, demigods and bullshit. Interest, intrigue, and illumination. Alliteration. Play. Simplicity, difficulty, struggle, and ease. Combat. Inertia. Vitality, strength, and the time continuum. Size, scale, and shapes. Style. Colors. Vibrancy and dullness. Characters, situations, drama, and silence. Clamor. Congestion. Sprawl. Endowment, circumstance, and transnationalism. History. Shame. Blood and brains. Vibrations, waves, and adaptation. Evolution. Rotation. Abstraction. Ambiguity. Periodicity. Force. Quickness and entrapment. Sirens, alerts, and emergencies. Preparation. Focus. Ambition. Assignment. Gathering. Plans, blueprints, and backyards. Compromise, treaties, and agreements. Law. Punishment, reinforcement. Spirits, souls, and untold secrets. Childhood nostalgia. Darkness, light. Attraction. Temperature. Fear. Jealousy. Nerves. Connections. Questions. Answers. Maybes, sometimes, evers and nevers. Looks, judgments. Contraptions. Trains, planes, and automobiles. Bikes, wheels. Gears. Tools. Utility. Functions. Expression. Manufacturing. Production. Distribution. Collaboration, coordination, cooperation. Capital. Resource. Domestication. Decay. Direction. Destiny. Discovery. Manifestation. Energy, sustainability. Maps. Venues. Streets. Arguments. Debate. Construction, destruction. Land. Personality. Countenance. Dreaming, wakefulness. Enhancement, reduction. Revision, clarification. Seasons, seasoning, and spice. Stress, relaxation, calmness and calamity. Remembrance, forgetfulness, the past, the present, and the uncertain future….

...May the list go on and on.