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Lost Christmas

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NYC Killing 2019

Like a straight-line, linear graph (this is my lab background rearing its ugly head) …

… emotional intensity rises as we inch closer to Christmas.

Must be all that Harking and Jingling and O Holy’ing

The good, the bad, the beautiful, the tragic. The amplification soars.

I feel this intensity every year… my emotional core was struck deeply this past week by the news of a senseless cold-blooded murder of a young woman – a daughter, a sister, a student, a musician – in a New York City park.

Any parent will tell you that likely the most gut-wrenching and worrisome part of bringing children INTO the world, is still being alive to usher them OUT OF the world.

Nothing can prepare us for this.

Although I once experienced a close call many years back, I can only pretend to understand the inner devastation that cuts into a mother or father for the remainder of their days, upon the loss of a child.

So, as a kind of catharsis, I’ve “penned” a set of lyrics this week leading up to Christmas, that attempts to capture a bit of the heartbreak in losing a child, like the family of Tessa Majors … the unexpected, the shock, the despair.

Crimson Christmas

CRIMSON CHRISTMAS   (A Parent’s Lament)

by Larry Green

INTRO:

If she wasn’t young and pretty
would they care?
If he wasn’t an agitated kid dressed out in civvies
would they care?
Are thoughts and prayers enough for us
to show they care… when
the past is our only gift left to unwrap

Verse 1

Silver bells and mistletoe laugh
why would she walk those steps
in darkness alone?
gaudy glittered trees and romantic chaff
frosty wreathes over blood-stained snow
our goodbye epitaph

Verse 2

What ghostly happenstance
brought her to this savage moment
this chain of devil’s chance
from a day of season’s fa-la-la’s
from a life crammed full of plans

CHORUS

Headlines rage
screen lines scathe
tears scorching scars
ripped into our hearts
who asked for this unwanted fraternity
lasting for eternity

Verse 3

Her jacket torn and gashed askew
down feathers fill the evening sky
her heart that lost its beat
her bro that’s lost his feet
her guitar left deathly quiet

Verse 4

There’s little left inside this shell
please god I’ll bare my chest with glee
slash me deep to spare her tears
Crush my face in gravelled snow
I’ll forgo life’s wine and years

Bridge

Our morning seems to never come
Snow angels turn your heads in shame… while…

CHORUS

Headlines rage
screen lines scathe
tears scorching scars
ripped into our hearts
who asked for this unwanted fraternity
lasting for eternity

… and the past is our only gift left to unwrap.

tessa guitar

majors family

The Lamp Is Burning Low …

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winter ghost 2.jpg

Winter almost ghosted us here …

As we creep alongside the start of a new month, there is finally a tiny white cupcake frosting layer on the ground.

Typically by this point, the Okanagan Valley has reliably weathered through a bum-chilling cold snap (or two) where the temperature slips downwards to -15C, occasionally even -18C or so.

Even though the temperatures haven’t dipped much below -5C this season, and snow has been virtually non-existent, the vistas outside my windows are at long last those that resemble true winter. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas….

It’s in these greyer days of winter when my mind absorbs the darkness and wanders to the family and friends and acquaintances whose footsteps can no longer be heard treading the halls of real life.

In many ways, it’s surreal, like maybe they never truly existed, like whispers in the forest.

I know they did, but it still feels dreamy, water slipping between my fingers.

I had grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles, in-laws, neighbours and friends; real fleshy, imperfect people who lived the same as me, ones that breathed and worked and fucked and worried and laughed and shit and sweat and dreamed…

moon dream

I dreamed of my boyhood friend Frank the other night.

When Frank died in a motorcycle accident in 1989 (age 32) I sobbed my memories and smiles and worries as I read the mournful letter his Mom sent me.

Her writing was a grief-laden waterfall of tears in words.

I washed over that painful parapet along with her in the bittersweet memory of youth lost. Heartbreak poured across the page from her pen.

I once saved Frank from the certainty of high school suspension when he was falling down drunk at a Grade 11 dance … we played touch football in the summer and street hockey beneath winter street lights … he and I shared a strange enjoyment of growing Venus Flytrap plants … he trounced me regularly at chess and ping-pong matches … we ate up the love in his Mom’s Hungarian cooking whenever – day or night – we walked through the door to his house … we consoled each other when our hearts were broken by pretty young attractions …

Thirty years on, and he, and others, still live inside me, the laughter and the tears.

We all carry an inner vision of those who mattered to us and are gone, those who were a part of shaping us from rough pieces of clay … I never met 3 of my 4 grandparents and yet I still envision them as components of my real world … a puzzle piece in my creation.

When I play my guitar quietly in the dim light of wintry evening darkness, my mind and heart wander the bygone roads where so many have travelled, where so many have faded into the fog.

These lives are the profusion of faces and voices I’ve known or known of … those whose memory lamp is burning low but not yet extinguished … within me.

candle burning

 

 

 

Sunshone On My Shoulders

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… something touched me deep inside
the day… the music died… 

Long EZ plane 2

October 14, 1997 – A gorgeous sunny late-afternoon over the ragged coast edge of the Pacific Ocean. The plane went into a steep bank, then in a surreal second, plunged downwards in an abrupt nose-down descent.

Yes, another news report, the kind we encounter from time to time as we go about our normal day.

We listen but our heartbeat doesn’t change rhythm or pace, our eyes don’t cloud up with misty tears. 

At first, rescuers could not identify the pilot’s body because the face was burned beyond recognition, but authorities were later able to identify him by his fingerprints.

But once every year or two, a report of this nature catches our interest more than others. When you get to the list of names below you’ll see what I mean.

John Denver, the singer and songwriter who was the voice of wholesome sincerity and simple country pleasures in the 1970’s, died when the light plane he was piloting crashed into Monterey Bay in California.

A Rocky Mountain High battered into a deep-sea low… the day… the music died.

The experimental Long-EZ aircraft was macerated and mangled into the earth and rocks… in a momentary inhale, the metronome lost a tick of its time forever.

The death of those who’ve affected our own world, our outlooks, our philosophies, have greater meaning and impact than those of strangers. It’s natural.

John Denver

This morning I’ve been practicing one of John Denver’s 1970’s hit songs, Sunshine On My Shoulders, on my guitar.

I’ve put this tune with it’s simple melody and simpler yet moving lyrics on my set list to play at an Open Mic tonight.

The distinctive, repetitive hammer-on of the G chord into an Am7 is instantly recognizable and comforting in its lilt. Then, the chorus hook transition from Am7 to Bm to C invokes a deep inner emotional tug, stirring up smiles and tears.

Simple stuff but it reminds me of the power of music.

I’m a sucker for the purity and simplicity of John Denver’s songs.

While playing this song, my (lack of) focus veered and soared away into the clouds with the music.

Maybe it was the distressing thought of young hockey players tragically perishing in a bus crash this week.

Maybe it was the heartbreak of lost potential, the devastation of what could have been. Futures denied.

……………….

Whatever the volcanic heat and pressure that rose upwards, it brought to the surface of my mind the many other musical performers besides Denver who’ve perished in airplane mishaps over the past 50 years or so.

Ricky Nelson

  • Glenn Miller
  • Buddy Holly
  • Patsy Cline
  • Jim Croce
  • Otis Redding
  • Jim Reeves
  • Ricky Nelson
  • Stan Rogers
  • Lynyrd Skynyrd

The death of musical icons (I was crushed when Harry Chapin died in a car crash in 1981) is often like losing a close family member or a treasured pet.

A fragrant puff of smoke rises in a gypsy dance then dissipates in the breeze. Gone.

Maybe you were deeply affected by the death of Elvis or Whitney or Kurt or Michael (I don’t even need to list their last names, you know who I’m referring to).

We live the trajectory of our lives to our very own very personal soundtrack.

The writers and musicians who gift us this soundtrack meld with our soul, helping to explain us to ourselves and others.

Don’t you think every funeral or Celebration of Life should be accompanied… not just by the photos that show us what the lost beloved looked like as they grew and aged from childhood to (hopefully) old age, but…

… also the musical sounds that communicate and define that flesh and blood human in ways truly deeper than their physical appearance.

  • A devout Christian should have Amazing Grace and Rock of Ages resounding.
  • An ardent Naturalist should have bird songs and ephemeral new-age music.
  • A Spiritualist should have yoga chanting and sitar strings sending them off.
  • A deeply-felt Feminist should have the sounds of Joni Mitchell and Lady Gaga and Pussy Riot and The Dixie Chicks.

Paul, a good friend of mine in Hamilton, will need to have a week-long Celebration of Life to begin to capture his love of the musician community. It is an entity unto itself, the way we worship the superhuman skill set of a Wayne Gretzky or a Lindsay Vonn or a Michael Jordan. He was handcuffed to music, all music, all genres, at birth and the keys were tossed away.

Of course when Don McLean opined about the airplane crash that killed Buddy Holly (and Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper) and the day the music died… he was feeling that deep sadness that envelopes us when a treasured limb is cut off. The feeling of loss is cavernous and raw and slow to dissipate.

Snap to it now.

All this talk of premature dying has me down in the dumps (yeah, it’s grey and cloudy outside too!).

I’m going to pick up my guitar and raise myself from the depths with a couple of verses of Rocky Mountain High. I want to feel and hear the eagles soar…

John Denver and so many of his harmonious brethren have flown and are gone, but they’ve left us with lots of tunes to help us arise and feel the joy of Sunshine On My Shoulders.

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely
Sunshine almost all the time makes me high

John Denver with muppets.png

 

 

 

Stuck In The Middle With You…

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snowy pumpkin.jpg

I’m trying to laugh.

There’s snow and ice on the ground suddenly, just 3 days post Hallowe’en … and the ghouls of early November have laid havoc and challenge across the streets and life paths.

Cosmic jokes.

This morning, I studied a homeless woman crossing at a corner in downtown Penticton, doggedly pushing a shopping cart filled to the gunnels with who knows what.

Like a heavy lawnmower in thick grass, it was a difficult push for the poor lady dressed in an old Salvation Army coat, scarf and gloves. The small wheels on the cart were chattering like frigid teeth over crusted ice.

In a surreal juxtaposition, pea green leaves still clung to the large maple tree overhanging the street.

She may have been young, maybe older. With her head bowed, and layered up against the chill as if attired in a niqab, who knows?

Do I know this woman? – maybe she’s visited the soup kitchen on one of my volunteer days – but with her face totally covered, it’s impossible to say.

I try to envision how she finds respite and comfort somewhere in the gloomy rawness of the grey cloudy day ahead but I’m drawing blanks.

I’m trying to find some humour in her situation.

Isn’t there humour somewhere… somehow… to be found in every situation?

If she dressed like that in mid-summer, I could have a belly laugh at her comfortable eccentricity. Or… if she had a Canada Goose perched on top of her cart watching out as her navigator I could laugh.

Humor-Quote.png

Bill, a man I’ve worked for, and with, for close to 30 years died suddenly this week.

He was a man who could find humour.

He’s dead and I hurt.

I hurt like when I see a wounded animal in agony. It makes my gut knot up and cry out. I hope he felt that his life was worthy… that he had done the best he could.

A rapid, candle-snuffing heart attack stung like an angry wasp as he hung Christmas decorations at home.

The irony (but not humour) I suppose is that he spent his career skillfully slicing into thousands of cold corpses, detecting and probing for clots and other sources of cursed invaders that initiate a final breath.

The thief that stole his last breath was a tenacious clot similar to innumerable ones he’d seen over the decades.

Bill and I weren’t fast, bosom buddies, but we were friends.

When together, we talked easily about our kids’ exploits, our travels, and frustrations with medical bureaucracy.

We laughed a lot and enjoyed each other’s company. Bill’s amiable smile unearthed nuggets of humour in most situations even when he was acting his curmudgeonly best.

Bill was like raconteur Stuart McLean in real life. Bill gifted me smiles.

I’ve attempted to locate some humour in his situation.

But Bill is gone from this world.

Bill is gone from his family’s world.

Bill is gone from my world.

Bill is a ghost now in the minds of those that cared.

So where’s the humour?

If he’d had a heart attack and survived, I could have sighed in relief, then found some laughs in the dietary and lifestyle changes that might have magically transformed this big teddy bear curmudgeon into a vegetarian fitness guru.

I can burst out in laughter at the mere thought of seeing Bill dressed in tight yoga wear.

yoga man

The shopping cart lady and Bill remind me of the “polar opposites” in life.

I don’t like this life deal where some of us live in warm, luxurious comfort while others exist in stiff and frosty discomfort.

I don’t like this life deal where the delight and joy of new birth is mirrored by the shock and pain of unanticipated death.

None of us has the choice of where we begin or…  where we end.

Life is about opposites.

Life is warm and cold.

Life is joyous and tragic.

Life is hello and goodbye.

Or perhaps as Susan Sontag said, “Life is a movie; death is a photograph.

Life is…

… a movie with your beginning, your middle, then your end.

The middle? The sweet middle is all about understanding and choice.

Let’s face it, your beginning is sheer luck and random chance.

Two unrelated amorous people make a carnal choice to build a person that is you. You don’t get a vote! Nope, none…

But there’s a nugget of beauty in this story.

The diamond gem is that you and I have the opportunity to write our own middle, and how the middle shapes the ending.

The “note to self” in the street lady pushing her cart and in Bill’s departure is the reminder to constantly remember that we make the middle, the funny and messy middle, we make the proactive choices every day that shape our world, for better and worse.

Every person’s “middle” is different, but a satisfying ending is written in that middle.

Little by little, I’m still learning. Little by little I’m still growing.

Little by little I’m paying attention and keeping my eyes and ears attuned to the small stuff that all adds up to the the BIG stuff that is life.

I’m trying to laugh today, but honestly, there are small tears tickling the corner of my mouth.

inside out.jpg