"So I thought you were gone..."

…..and six weeks later, there was a blog entry.

I had some legitimate reasons to not post, but really, I was ready to make this (re)entry weeks ago. It just didn't feel right. I don't know if it stems from my experiences or something else, but I didn't really feel I was in the right place to blog again until now.

Anyway, I suppose an explanation is in order. Like many people, I made the annual pilgrimage to the home of my forebearers for the Christmas holiday. A faulty circuit on a dimmer switch fried my old computer, along with 2.5 unpublished blog entries I will never see again. Honestly, I was pretty upset about all that I had lost. My last backup was November 21st, so it wasn't as catastrophic as it could have been, but in the ten days between the end of school and when my old laptop got exploded, I had done little apart from write. Looking back, there's so little reason to even catalog what all was lost—there are far worse tragedies to experience, be sure. Maybe it's better this way.

Apart from the fried computer, my personal life was battered in a way that left me feeling all of thirteen for awhile. It's so strange...we enter most years feeling stronger than we were previously. We think of things we did or mistakes we made only a few short years before and we smile slowly in the knowledge that we would not fail in such ways again. We revel in our supposedly increasing wisdom and life experience. We start to feel like we have things figured out, at least comparatively speaking. There's a certain mature note about this assurance, it's a voice in our heads that says “see, things will be alright. You're on your way to all you wanted.”  This isn't the brash assurance a lot of us have at a younger age, but a quiet settling of our foundations.

Then, like in all areas of life, something has to come along and remind us that some parts of this existence do not change. We have to remember that very small things (tiny hinges, even) can turn our lives over in an instant. For good or bad, fertilizing, uncomfortable change comes sooner or later, often leaving us reeling at the destruction of our carefully chiseled reality we had so recently been reveling in. We remember that nothing is assured.

Anyway, my tumultuous few weeks left me unable to do some things for awhile, including write in any form. Through December I had written almost feverishly, some of it good, some of it not so good, some of it very surprising. I had dabbled in fiction again and found the waters fairly warm (the decision to go back to such was brought on by a large bottle of Jameson and a lot of Bukowski poetry) After the New Year, I wasn't able to do that for awhile. There's no concrete reason why, just sometimes the words aren't there. But like all difficult times, they eventually begin to pass. It's probably fairly simple—I have a lot of good memories and experiences closely connected with writing, whether for myself or others, in the past sixteen years, it's somewhere I can go and say thing better and with more care than I can ever do verbally.

In addition to the computer death and rough weeks, I also started a new job which has kept me pretty busy for the past three weeks.

Anyway, I will be back to posting regularly again and (barring any new existential crisis) hopefully people still check back here. I know some of them are, because you've confronted me about not updating. It meant a great deal to me that my words in this arena have meant something to some.  I've got a few ideas for what I hope will be good entries, probably a bit more humorous and a bit darker than what I've written here so far (I'm always amazed at how happy this thing sounds, something about the format just lightens me up. Bap.)

Anyway, thanks for all the encouraging words sent to me through various channels, both in regard to this blog and in dealing with my personal life. I'm nothing without the great people I've been privileged to know.

At this moment, I just want to be. I want to enjoy the small joys I find in the day-to-day without measuring them against some cosmic aspiration. I want my actions to be elemental; everything I do should just be the function it serves, unmeasured and uncompared. I want to turn off the third person and just be a man in the world who utterly deaf to his narrator, just for awhile.
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A Life On Tiny Hinges

“the memory is like a train, you can see it getting smaller as it goes away.”

-Tom Waits, Time

"Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid."
-Fyodor Dostoevsky

“it's funny how life takes away the things we didn't realize we loved before we get a chance to miss them”

-Anonymous

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do."

-Mark Twain

There are lot of things I could be doing right now. I could be polishing off the last part of my last final of the semester. I could be writing a letter that I believe is long overdue, or I could lose the rest of this evening in the sweet, mindless, unending exchange of information which only the Internet can provide. I could be calling an old friend who I know has been asking to hear from me. Instead I writing this, slowly. Letting the cursor blink a few extra times, possibly trying to slow its steady, measured tick. Letting my thoughts congeal.

I sometimes feel that the older I get the only thing I truly gain is a more acute awareness of the passing of time.

Have any of us accomplished, felt or created all we had once hoped to when we reached the age we are now? I know, at 26, as I am today, I imagined a very different life for myself even a few short years ago. How many opportunities have we missed to direct our feet onto a better path? How many tragedies, how much hardship have we avoided by chance in the simple decision to stay in, or go out for a single evening. Looking back at the precious (and not-so-precious) people I have met in my life, I note how narrow the window was for me to even encounter them, and thereby build all the things we eventually did. Without some of them would I have been better off? Would I be a wholly different person if I had not gone to this social function, or stopped off on my way home for coffee, and hence not met a person who have so thoroughly changed my life? Without Him, or Her, or Them, how would my life have been different? What doors closed when I opened the ones that I did?

It's often the littlest things open the paths that shape us most. A comment made to a stranger in a restaurant. A secret chuckle with someone else who noticed something you did. I know a couple who was married recently―they met in an elevator which wound up getting stuck for a few hours. Think if either of them had taken the stairs! How different would their lives be? Think of your best friend, your lover, your most painful memory, think about the things which brought them to you, somewhere along the line will be something tiny which could have steered you away.

Looking at the small actions which have changed my life so much, it's not hard to imagine what events could have transpired if I had done things a little differently. I could be a husband right now, or a father, or dead. I could be living in another state. There's no way to truly know what lay behind all the doors I left shut. I'm okay with that, but sometimes it can be pleasant to wonder.

After all, I was one bid in an auction from growing up in Alaska. True story. That wasn't even something I had any sort of control over, but it very easily could have changed my entire life. If one man had raised his paddle and outbid the leader, I would very likely be a completely different person today. All the people I know and have loved would be strangers. If one man had raised his arm. Just one of them.

It's a long shot, but had someone seen my face, the darkness around my eyes, the wrinkles set on my brow and perceived a bit more than they did, had they taken a moment to pull me aside, ask how I was, been a real human being for one second, I might still be working at Amazon.com. Because they didn't, I now have a Master of Arts in History, I have several life-long friends I would have never met, I'm sitting in a room in College Park, Maryland and feeling like I've got so much more figured out than I did then. It's likely none of these things would have come to pass if someone, somewhen, had said a few special words.

If my fourth grade teacher hadn't cried over some silly poem I wrote when I was nine, would I have developed my life-long passion for written word, both the construction and the veneration of it? Would I have missed out all which that mantle has brought? This example isn't as good, as I may very well have discovered it later....but there's no way to know.

How many times have I loosed or bridled my tongue, resulting in friendships forever lost, or forever made? Again, tiny actions so often define us.

I've never met my father. How different would my world be had he decided to stay in my life? How would that have changed my path?

I'll never know the full extent of how these things might have altered my life, and frankly, I don't think I really care. I realize and comprehend that there are people in this world which are defined by what they feel they've lost somewhere along their path. I can understand that: I have my own fixations. I am grateful that regret is something which is alien to me. It is something I've found very little room for in my life. Even the choices which carried years of burdensome consequences aren't ones I've spent a great deal of time wishing to unmake. I've made decisions where I can't imagine that I would be worse off had I decided something different. Crucial, weighted moments which have led to this spot, this night, these words. Wanting to take them back isn't really a consideration, because it's something I can never do.

There are many paths to the end of this life, but we only get to investigate them with our feet.

Sometimes, when I'm debating going to a campus function, or going out for the night, or taking a trip to somewhere new, I'll consider the decision in the light of what the decision could ultimately mean. In all likelihood, I'm not missing much more than an experience which will pass from the poorly-maintained portion of my memory into non-existence, but as I've illustrated so far, I could be missing something big, even the “biggest” thing which has ever happened to me. Chances are slight, but how slight chances have shaped so much of this life thus far. As you might guess, I rarely opt for sitting at home when a chance to do something presents itself. I'm too hungry for that.

Perhaps one day my life will settle, and I'll think a night spent at home is a night better spent than a night in the company of potential (that deadly word) path-making.

Sitting at my desk, with a life full of astounding experiences both cherished and harrowing, I can only believe that the future holds as much promise as the past, even when things feel still.

I think the worst thing you can do in this life is to believe the consequences of something we might do can so vastly outweigh the hallowed occasions we can achieve. We're in a culture of constantly over-estimating risk in social situations. We say nothing, rather than provoking anything. Whether it be offering a smile to a plainly down-trodden stranger, overhearing a conversation and throwing in the surprisingly perfect punchline that immediately came to mind, or talking to that someone you've paid far more attention to than is reasonable. Ultimately, you have so little to lose and so much to gain.

A month or so ago, I shared entirely too much of myself with someone. Even more than I do on this blog. This person plainly didn't see the occurrence as I did, and I can only dream (and chuckle at) of what misinterpretations have transpired. I also don't care...it's my job to be, and be myself, not to be understood or summarized by every person I meet. This doesn't come from some resounding desire to be recognized, rather a utter love of communion with other people. The person who doesn't risk a little now and then ultimately finds only their own muted thoughts to keep their memories company.

I'd rather tell secrets than make small talk, and this course of action has gifted me people in my life who are more beautiful, intelligent, witty and kind than I deserve to know. I especially love the kind ones.

When I have failed, the embarrassment it has cause me has been....barely noted, and generally something I soon find the ability to laugh at.

This life is going to end sooner or later. When it does, we'll count our triumphs and blessings far more than we will our failures. If given the grace of a deathbed, we'll remember the things we did which brought joy to our lives, rather than the times we opted not to say or do anything.

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So long, Charlie.

I've been busy with finals for the past week so I've not had a chance to work on any new posts. However, something came to my attention and really moved me to post it here.

There's a guy named Charlie who isn't going to be on this earth much longer. Charlie is a blogger. He's posted a three-part entry as his farewell to the online community and I think it's worth reposting here. I'm not sure what else to say, but you should head over to his site and read it, though it is very sad. I can't imagine what I would write in that situation, but I doubt it would be as affecting as what Charlie has come up with. Also, make sure you play the song he's included at the end.

Thanks all,

Trevor

http://thefirstbookoftesticles.blogspot.com/
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Good Vibrations: Music's power to keep us together, lift us higher, and make the heavy moments bearable

“When people hear good music, it makes them homesick for something they never had, and never will have.”

-Edgar Watson Howe

“One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain.”

-Bob Marley

I'm not a big fan of the Bob Marley quotation above. It's possibly the most over-used saying to describe what music can do to a person. I understand what Bob was getting at, and generally agree with the sentiment. It just doesn't say enough.

To me, music is one of the greatest forces one earth when it comes to invoking emotions. It can galvanize moods, cause smiles or tears, and generally just plug into the emotional center of our brain in a way that few things can. Music can change people. I realize many aren't as sensitive to these aesthetics as I am, but as I look back on my 26 years, I notice how many of my most-cherished memories are connected with music in some way.

Music can be devastating.

I'm not a cryer. Crying is something I did as a child and have largely forgotten how to do since. That being said, certain things can trigger such feeling in me. 

When I was 19, a girl I had known in passing died suddenly of complications resulting from cystic fibrosis. Not even her closest friends knew she had this condition, and I reflected on the last few parties I had seen her at, where the air was smoky, and there she was, probably miserable, but not showing it in the slightest because she just wanted to live a normal life. I was told by some of her closer friends that she would hide the breathing machines when people went to her house so no one would know. She just wanted to be a normal woman on the cusp of adulthood. She was about two months younger than me, and this particular aspect of her death is what stung me the most—I had found so little of what I sought at that point in my life, and the thought that someone who had had less time could be gone was overwhelming. I spent half of her funeral in the bathroom trying to put myself together. I wonder now how many tears have been shed in private in that particular bathroom. Many, I'm sure. 

Driving back from her funeral, I heard this. It's not something I listen to often anymore, but anytime it comes up on my music library's shuffle I pause for a moment and remember what that season felt like. Even though I hadn't been particularly close to her, it was weeks before I didn't think of her on an almost constant basis. There was something about her that shined. She's been gone for slightly more than seven years now, but I still think about her, and she'll always be connected with certain music for me.

Music can save your mind.

On June 29^th, 2008. I stood in a full auditorium in Knoxville, TN with tears streaming down my face. Tom Waits, on the cusp of his 60s, was sitting in front of his piano and playing a song he had written ten years before I was born. Anyone close to me knows how much I love Tom, it borders on a religion. I'm fond of saying things like “I learned more from him than I did from my father” (which is true) and the best memories I have in my life are closely associated with my with discovery and appreciation of his music. I know a lot of people can't stand him, but any guy who Bob Dylan said was “the best songwriter of his generation” has to have some merit right? I had gone to the concert expecting to be disappointed, Tom was getting on in years, hadn't toured in almost a decade and I expected the show would foremost make me lament not being born earlier.

I couldn't have been more wrong; there are reasons some musicians are considered legendary. Tom put on an A++ show, played for about two hours, and had the entire crowd completely absorbed in what he was doing (I wasn't the only one showing tears). He told jokes. He made us laugh. He made us dance. It was a roller coaster. Before one song, he encouraged us to sing along if we knew the words. He stopped us after about 15 seconds saying that maybe we knew the words, but we'd obviously never looked at the sheet music. He was the consummate maestro. I will never forget that feeling. It was like all that is good in life was in that room. Much of relaying this experience remains ineffable, but of all I've lived through, that concert remains one of the greatest experiences I've ever had. It trumps many achievements, romances, and adventures. So strongly were my ears touched.

Music can create camaraderie.

The summer of 2006 was very hard for me. My life had been upturned and I was largely having to rebuild so much which had been previously undisturbed. I met a young woman through a friend who loved classic rock. I loved classic rock. Not only did we love classic rock, but we loved drinking beer and shooting pool. Those are three things you can build a friendship on. While nothing romantic materialized, we became very close friends in a short amount of time. We became partners in crime that summer, meeting several times a week, sometimes with others, sometimes just the two of us. We'd shoot pool and drink ourselves silly until last call (oh the things you can do when you're 22), then we'd go back to my apartment and stay up all night listening to classic rock albums in the dark. Carol King. Jim Croce. James Taylor. The Beatles (meh). Elton John. Tom Petty. Numerous other favorites I can't recall. 

She was taken out of my life by circumstance shortly after that summer, but I was always grateful for those nights we spent, singing softly or just sitting in silence, brought to communion with each other through simple, heart-felt, adoration of the vibrations in the air. That was therapy. While we're not actively friends today, we retain a loose contact (read: Facebook) and occasionally send each other a line or two from a song we recall. Appreciating the memory, I suppose.

That's probably enough reminiscing. Time to get on to what actually inspired me to write this.

Yesterday I was listening to a podcast. The podcast itself has nothing to do with music, in fact it's about sports (gasp! Who likes sports??). During a break in the show, this song played. Something about it really struck me. I Googled some of the lyrics and found out the band was Mumford and Sons. I'd heard of them before, but didn't actively take to what I had heard previously. Today I purchased their album Sigh No More and experienced something I haven't in a really long time: striking gold.

Some albums are great, all-around works, you find them and believe they will remain an important voice in your life for years to come(Neutral Milk Hotel – In The Aeroplane Over the Sea), some albums lure you in with some great songs, but there is no developed feeling which threads through the entire record, and the album ultimately falls flat (Leonard Cohen – New Skin For The Old Ceremony) and some albums are messes which somehow work (The Who - Quadrophenia). Some albums, you listen to them once, they lie dormant in your CD case or on your playlist awhile, then something happens in your life that makes this particular album the exact thing you need until you get through whatever it is (The Mountain Goats – The Sunset Tree). Some albums just suck (anything by U2). Albums take up residence in our mp3 players and our heads for varying amounts of time, but they all leave a little bit of their residue behind.

Mumford and Sons' Sigh No More is the first truly touching album I've stumbled upon in quite some time. Themes such as love (that real, hard-fought love that takes from you but ultimately gives back so much more than it took), spirituality, hardship, sacrifice, salvation and resilience in spite of such permeate the entire album. The thing is, this is done with a true sense of dignity and maturity, two things often missing from music which focuses on themes such as these. Marcus Mumford's voice takes on these issues with true believability—he's not spouting clichés and rhetoric in an effort to plug into a popular market—he's telling stories in a way which make you believe he feels every word and associates an actual memory with each song. The band waltzes through twelve tracks of melodic modern-folk, each track is unique, but unified by theme and voice. Whether Mumford is speaking of romance, God or an enemy, he brings it all back together by leaving a piece of himself in each track. It's a startling orchestration. There is something very genuine about this album. While the record deals with many hard subjects, there is an overlaying tone of struggle and triumph despite difficulty, pain or past failure. It's a remarkable accomplishment and I can't readily equate it with any other album I own. While it's not quite perfect, it's nearly so.

Suffering is a complicated thing. There's a big difference between wallowing in your troubles and lamenting them. One denotes a pause in progression, the other, sinking stagnation.

I'm not going to quote lyrics at you because I think that's one of the stupidest practices found in music criticism today. It seems like when your typical Rolling Stone album reviewer listens to an album 1.5 times and attempts to write a review they just resort to a brief quotation of lyrics, divorced from the context of the song, and make a few stumbling, cursory conclusions about the album as a whole. Fuck Rolling Stone. Suffice to say, Mumford is able to tackle hard, emotional subjects with dignity. This is not easy to do. The absence of dignity has long dissuaded me from certain popular music. Nothing turns me off to music more than some 30-something fake whining on about teenage romance and how much pain he's in to the backdrop of three-chord pop rock. It's such a farce, and it disgusts me that this is what is passing for an emotionally-made record these days. It taps into an uncertainty widely felt by younger generations these days and creates a caricaturization of actual feeling. It's a joke which celebrates imitation of real feeling.

I don't expect Sigh No More to resonate with everyone as it has with me; we all respond to different aesthetics, if one other person finds something that lifts them in it, that makes all these words worth it.

I purchased the album via electronic download. The top comment in the customer reviews section simply read “this album saved me from suicide.” While that may very well be an exaggeration, after listening to the record and already being intimately familiar with music's power to heal broken spirits, I'm inclined believe it might not be. I don't know where I'd be without music, and without the affinity I have for it, but I'd be far less than I am today.

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Better do this early

I've decided to change the name of the blog. My writing has always tended to wander a bit during it's construction and the new name suits it. Now It's almost part of a gimmick to have posts which don't quite align from start to finish. The old name came from some (purportedly) misheard lyrics and indeed, the blog was nearly called "Misheard Lyrics." True to my Tom Waits love, I decided to keep the name Only In Stone before coming up with the new title. I think it fits. Blogging faux pas #12 committed!

The url and contact information will stay the same.
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My favorite bits of conversation from the past week:

Me: If I ever become a pharmaceutical chemist and invent a drug, I will call it "Reuschelin" after you.


Miss Reuschel: If I become a geological minerologist and find a new rock, I'll name it "Wylite" in return.
~
Me: I live near what I think of as the "Ayn Rand Church."


Jim: I didn't know DC had a stock exchange.
~
Female Friend: I need to whine to you about my guy problems and ask advice.


Me: Okay, but I'm going to speak in rhyme throughout the conversation to make it more entertaining.


Update:


Person: you misquoted me on your blog post.


Me: No, I played it like a journalist and streamlined the content.
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History is broken. Solution: put post-it notes on everything.

History, in all its manifestations, is based loosely on the scraps that the dead have left behind. Many people study history, and enjoy finding out random pieces of information about those great people who have gone before us, but few understand how it is constructed.

I'm presently studying Archival Science at the University of Maryland. “Archival Science” is a deceptive term....because the reality of the discipline is hardly scientific. Even though the scholarly community surrounding this young discipline tries to hammer out a rough rubric for assessing the value of what remains after important people and institutions are gone, I think most archivists would agree that the reality of transitioning what is left behind into a form that researchers can make use of is something left to wide variance from manifestation to manifestation. The entire practice revolves around preserving documents deemed to be of “enduring value.” This is an unsteady term in and of itself, as what is valued changes from period to period and place to place. Two centuries ago it would have been very unusual to save the writings of common people who didn't contribute to political historical narrative. A thousand years ago it would have been inconceivable to save the records of a person who wasn't associated with the government or the clergy (though some obviously survived, largely through the author's personal volition). As flimsy of a term as “enduring value” is, archivists try to do their best to determine what the future will want to be preserved from this time. We're even preserving Tweets now.

What most people don't understand about the construction of historical reference material is how much of it is lost, even today. Granted, much of this material would be seen as having little or no value by most people, but so much which is valuable to a particular audience is forever gone.

We know, roughly, the course of events which comprised the Battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297. We know that the English believed the Scottish rebellion was in its death throes, that the English commander overslept, and that the the Scots were able to defeat a larger, better-trained an better-funded force through patience and effective utilization of the geographic features of the battlefield. What we don't know, are the thoughts of the English commander, John de Warenne, or what he dreamed of as the Scots were able to observe the English and Welsh troops crossing the bridge time and time again, awaiting orders, all the while giving their ragged, half-starved opponents ample opportunity to count their numbers and assess their formations. What we don't know is how many of the men who died there wanted to be there, how many felt patriotic, how many felt parts of themselves slip away when they thrust their weapon into other men. Looking back through the years, historians, both amateur and professional, would love to have some sort of interview with the survivors of the battle. If any were literate, their journals would be invaluable to historians today. We don't have any of those accounts, because at the time no one felt anyone would consider them valuable. We don't know how the widows and orphaned children of the men who fell that day felt carried on with their lives after the men who were responsible for their care-taking were slain. Maybe some of them were relieved. Maybe some of them found hope and escape from what had been a miserable existence at the hands of patriarch. Gender historians would love to have those accounts. I'm not trying to appraise the value of those accounts, merely pointing them out as an illustration of what is lost in history. Even a contemporary figure, such as Ernest Hemingway or Alan Ginsberg, we have their famous works and a few quotes given during interviews or public statements, but do we know anything about what they thought and did on days where they were less concerned with things which affected the broader society? Do we know what Jack Kerouac did when his belly was full, his libido satisfied and his mind sober? These are things historians and journalists would love to know about, and would compose grand works detailing such if only the source material is available, but at the time when they possibly were, who thought to inquire and record?

One day I will die. What I leave behind may be deemed worthy of being put in boxes (or a hard drive, as is more likely) and made available to researchers. Granted, this is only likely if I do in fact accomplish something on a wider scale than being appreciated by a precious few who were able to see value in what I do beyond a personal level. Even this entry may be noted in the Trevor Wylie Collection. They will assume I sat at my desk and hammered out this post in one long night of soul-searching. What they won't get is the numerous (ineffective) revisions this post goes through before reaching the Internet, they won't attach the correspondence that went into revising it, they won't realize I helped edit a friend's thesis chapter immediately beforehand, they won't know the things and people which have occupied my mind even as I absent-mindedly type this. They won't note the ferocity with which I tried to focus on this instead of thinking about persons on the periphery of my life. Every one of those factors is actively shaping this narrative as it spills out of my fingertips. That's what is lost in this entry, even being so textually noted.

If this blog, or anything else I write, somehow survives me, they wont' know the pressures and passions behind each entry. There won't be a BAC measurement for each entry. They won't have that meta-data. But if I ever become something the world appreciates, they'll wish I had detailed such.

How will an archivist describe the notebook next to me? On one page, there are class notes, on the next a diagram of how I would organize a new outreach branch in an organization. As I turn the pages I see things which were all produced within a certain context, but only I know the details of such. A list of emails, are these for personal reasons, or professional? A paper outline. Notes and revisions I suggested for a friend's thesis. Bits of a poem I may never finish. Half a journal entry, placed in this notebook with all these other things because I had no better place to write it down when I felt I wanted to commit those thoughts to memory. An unfinished sketch. Another page just says “-choosing saints” at the top. The next is torn in half—what did I use the half-sheet for? How will anyone decode my shorthand, which requires context of what I was writing about to be even somewhat decipherable? There's a list of phone numbers and addresses of places I looked at when I moved here, complete with an column for assessing what I thought of each (it says “awesome” next to the address where I now reside...how times have changed). What label would you put on this? Miscellaneous Fall 2010? This information is largely worthless to anyone but me, or maybe people close to me, but if Alan Ginsberg had written the same notebook, it would be preserved and read hungrily by many. In this situation, value is derived from association rather than content.

With so much of history lost, can we ever call any accounts complete? How much are we losing? Are we keeping all the things people will want at some point, even if we don't see value in them now? Questions like these make me wonder how little we know about ourselves as a race.

Most people don't think about what they leave behind, but whether it be an archivist or a family member, you should know that one day someone will rifle through your things and try to get a little more of your story from them. Depending on who you are how much you care, you may want to provide a little more context for everything you do.

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