eidolon

These days - melancholy, introspection, apathy and a shameful lack of lust.

Apathy, as of late, has had a much bigger hand in my liife than I would like. I'm going out, seeing friends, catching up with some I haven't seen in years, but the machine that goes ping hasn't in a while.

I've had 'Ol' 55' by Tom Waits stuck in my head for a few days.

In other matters of music and soul, I've spent quite a bit of time, recently, playing my Dad's guitars. Legally speaking, I'm a bass player, but he played guitar for the better part of his life and I wound up inherriting his instruments. Music, not only, being our passion and his profession, but the means through which we were able to communicate with eachother through many of those years that father and son experience turbulence. I've always played his instruments from time to time, but lately, they've been in my hands more than they've been in their cases. It has become more and more undeniable to me that they truly have a life of their own. I'm sure that the emotional connection is no small part of what I feel when I play them, but each of these amalgamations of wood, metal, abalone and plastic have a life of their own flowing through them and, as such, are destinied to carry their own melodies, rhythms and emotions. No two can be played in the same way, even within the same brand and model. To one degree or another, I believe that they impact playing nearly as much as the person playing them. I know people who interpret a statement like that to mean that the instrument hasn't been mastered. I even know a luthier (second to none) who strives to make every instrument a blank canvas. Even with his skill, his instruments have their own souls. I own one and can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that I can feel his talent as a musician and a craftsman in ever blessed inch of that bass. Mastering an instrument or a medium should mean embracing it's spirit, not breaking it.

I feel the same way about cars, too. The mechanics of the vehicle are what they are, and carry their own unique properties, but there's something else at play. It's not merely the difference between an Audi and a Mustang, it's in the way they breathe and carry themselves. Whenever I drive someone else's car, or buy a used one, I feel as though the roads it's driven and the hands that have touched the wheel become part of my experience. I've never gotten that feeling from a new car. Getting into a new car at a dealership is about as emotional an experience as a trip to the eye doctor.

Touch something old that has passed through many hands before yours. Imagine what would flash through your body if you could actually touch the paintings in a museum and feel the brush strokes laid out by those who have been recognized by the worlds of art and history.

I may wind up selling the car I bought a few months back. It's cute and terribly fun, but, among other concerns, the gas mileage hasn't been enough to balance out the overall cost of ownership. Example - A burned out headlight can only be changed by a dealership because the matching bulb is not even sold aftermarket and in order to replace it, a good portion of the front end must be removed. The warranty expires in a couple of months, and I don't believe I'll be able to tend to these matters once it does. Time to bite the bullet and buy something American, which may be a little less fun, but a lot less costly.

Thanksgiving came and went. My family has changed a lot in the last couple of years, and while I'm not sure its for the better, I know it can't be helped. There's a line in 'The Ninth Gate' that sums up my feelings better than I could. It's true without being overly bleak. 'Great families are like empires. Eventually, they too will whither and die.'

The gym has been my salvation as of late. It's been a cornerstone of my life for a few years but has been especially important as of late. Without it, I'd be a terrible combination of physical and spritual knots. Exhausting myself to the point of delirium and halucination is moving me from one day to the next nore than I care to admit.

The flu has been breathing down my neck. Only a matter of time, now.
At least I have plenty of books and a loving bed.

Cheery, I know.

Mose Alison is coming to Chicago soon - next week, I think. Anyone who hasn't heard him should. He'll probably be at one of the older jazz clubs in your city. He's about 80, now and is one of a kind. He sings and plays piano, usually with a drums and bass, and it's just a wonderful experience to see him. He's just an old guy from Mississippi matter-of-factly works through clever, droll and pithy blues and mixes it with the glide of old fashioned aristocracy. For the love of God, the man still wears and ascott from time to time. Go see him. If you get there early enough, or stay late enough, you'll probably be able to buy him a drink and chat for a while - definitely one of the last year's highlights.