Tag: Music

Awake

Matthew Eilar1 Comment

Yesterday I was a little bit late getting started in the morning, but I kind of shook off some of my unhappiness fog and made some progress shuffling around stuff to make my use of space a little better.

When kids started arriving, I went to watch the teen room, which I’ve been doing for the last couple of weeks. We have two middle school girls coming right now, sisters, that are totally weird (which is not derogatory, that’s a huge positive for me) and super into anime and manga and colored hair and weird accessories. The younger one was worked up nearly to the point of tears because All The Shit Had Gone Down in whatever manga series she is reading. Both of them gushed about whatever boy was in it and looked vaguely like this

img-thingand I had some fun making fun of his Tragic Backstory and Soulful Eyes and Husky Voice and the fact that You’re The Only One That Ever Got To Know Him. I told them that anime was building up unrealistic expectations of boys in them, and that they still had to endure like six years of boys trying to express their affection by being jerks and farting.

The rest of the day was not hard, but pretty chaotic. We were down a couple of people.

After work, I stopped by the grocery store because I just couldn’t do prepared food. A couple of weeks ago I redid my budget, and realized exactly how much money I could keep in my pocket if I didn’t spend of prepared food and drink, so I’m trying to be better about it. While making dinner, I made myself a drink, and I guess the alcohol made it before the food did, because I ended up a little buzzed. I ended up playing the piano for a while, just improvising where my heart led me, with wild abandon and many smushy notes. By about 9:30, I felt exhausted and decided to just go to sleep. I started to watch The Interview, which was not so good, but there was some banter involving James Franco and his stinky dick that was so dumb and gross that it woke me back up for a few minutes.

I woke up again at about 1am. When this happens, I give myself about 20 minutes to fall back asleep, otherwise I have to get up and do something productive or I’ll end up watching TV and jerking off all night. I wasn’t going to fall asleep, so I got up, did some dishes, cleaned out the fridge, and decided to do a 3am Winco run. I’ve never had such a relaxing grocery shopping trip in my life. It was nearly empty, I could take my time and wander every aisle, stop and contemplate weird food items, listen to my podcasts, and not be in any kind of hurry or rush or hanger.

It did make me a little more tired this morning than I would like, but I’m sure some coffee will pick me up if I need it.

Roxy

Matthew Eilar1 Comment

Friday

I have already forgotten most of what happened on Friday in the morning and during the day. Presumably I woke up and went to work and worked and came home. The only thing that might stick is a super depressing staff meeting in which we—the lowest level staff—were being asked to “brainstorm” for ideas to solve problems that would not exist if other parts of the organization were whole and functioning. It unraveled into our boss telling us that “everyone from the top to the bottom is doing the best that they can,” and it made me feel like nothing will start to heal the patient until there is someone with some authority that can hold the people under them more accountable than that.

When I got home after work, L was up and getting ready for work. She had a weird emotional energy around her, and I felt like I had to be careful and tiptoe. We worked it out later, but situations like that make me anxious because it seems like lately I have a talent for saying the wrong thing and igniting dry tinder.

Later in the evening, I met up with Jesus Christ at his practice space in innner southeast. We had made some plans to play music and get a little weird. We ingested at around cover charge time, and spent the first hour and a half or so as it was kicking in playing music. JC has been absolutely essential in excavating my musical instincts from years of cruft and self doubt and insecurity. He has done a lot to build my confidence in my own ability to play and keep up with him, and on this night we were in a place where everything was feeling good and we could play without inhibition, surfing on our own musicality. Funky stuff.

Once it felt like time, we decided to head out:

JC: So where do you want to go? We can go get a drink at [gay bar on Morrison], or we can check out the dancing at Holocene, it’s just down the block.

me: Um, do you ever not know exactly what’s in your heart? Like, I can’t decide which one I’m resisting, and whether that means that I should do it or whether I really shouldn’t do it.

JC: All the time, man. When I’m in that situation, I always choose the most life-affirming option.

me: Awesome… I think that means that we have to go dance.

“Holocene,” by Bon Iver. A very good song named for the Portland club, but that has nothing to do with it, and a terrible music video.

We headed to Holocene, where I had never been. It was ’90’s dance party night, and within about 120 seconds of walking in, I hated it. It was filled with people that reminded me of the kids I never felt comfortable with in high school: young, moneyed, and image-conscious (but in a conforms-within-standard-tolerances kind of way, not an Oscar Wilde, my-life-is-my-art kind of way). It was weirdly bright, and the ADD DJ was changing the song every 90 seconds. I find nostalgia targeted at people my age to be distasteful, tacky, uncool, boring, saturated with death instinct, and reflective of a lack of imagination. Jesus led me to the dance floor, where he is brilliant and comfortable. I was having a little drama in my little fucked up brain:

A) I have been to other dance venues with other DJs and other crowds, and I’ve felt comfortable and have had a good time. Maybe I’m not having a good time because I’m uncomfortable and I should get out of here.

B) You always take some time to get comfortable, and you are still you. Whatever you’re on, it’s probably not powdered magic beanstalk, and you should just fake it until you make it.

Fortunately, Jesus was also not feeling it, so we went outside and bitched about the venue and walked over to the gay bar that was the other option.

While we drank, we had a really open conversation where we talked a lot about crowds, and fitting in, and making new friends, and seeking out the right kind of people. I talked a little bit about socializing, and how there are ways in which I have an outgoing personality that makes it easy for me to connect with others, yet how it can feel like what people respond to is a persona that I put up. I think a lot of that has to do with anxiety over being closeted in high school. Gay journalist Andrew Tobias described this phenomenon as the “best little boy in the world syndrome:”

young, closeted men deflect attention from their sexuality by investing in recognized markers of success: good grades, athletic achievement, elite employment and so on. Overcompensating in competitive arenas affords these men a sense of self-worth that their concealment diminishes.

Adam Chandler, a Washington lawyer, describes his best-little-boy persona:

You see, I’ve been in the closet a long time. I slipped up when I asked for a Barbie for my fifth birthday — I wanted only to practice styling her hair, I obliviously assured my parents — but I wised up fast and made a beeline for the closet’s precarious comforts.

I copied how the boys at school sat in their desks, with their knees apart. I observed how they wore their backpacks, using only one of the shoulder straps. I selected an unimpeachably staid wardrobe. And I studied. Boy, did I study.

I tore through middle and high school, craving perfect scores like a junkie in need of a fix. In college, I wrecked the curve for my straight classmates. Each semester, I petitioned the dean to overload my course schedule and sought the presidencies of student groups I had joined just days earlier. By the time I reached Yale Law School, where once-closeted academic superstars are like the hay in a haystack, coming out wouldn’t even have provoked a yawn. No matter. I built a wall of casebooks, hunkered down and ignored the growing hole in my social development.

Dr. Pachankis and Dr. Hatzenbuehler would not be surprised to learn that more than half the men in my randomly assigned “small group” seminar at Yale were gay. Deriving self-worth from achievement-related domains, like Ivy League admissions, is a common strategy among closeted men seeking to maintain self-esteem while hiding their stigma. The strategy is an effort to compensate for romantic isolation and countless suppressed enthusiasms. And it requires time-consuming study and practice, which conveniently provide an excuse for not dating.

Best of all, it distracts: “What Barbie? Look at my report card!”

I was explaining to Jesus that the worst, most insidious part of the best-little-boy persona is that, while it is a persona, it is also me. A theme is going to emerge this weekend of me, not-me, and what the difference between them are. Jesus had some very nice things to say about me and what he sees in me when I am with other people. We both agreed that we wanted to find some more gay friends to hang out with.

We went back to his studio and played for another hour or so. Then, we started to be more aware of our tiredness and our hunger, so we went to the Roxy on the west side. Diners in the wee hours after a night of shenanigans are my very favorite part of late night trouble, so that felt great and very special. After eating, though, I was done. I drove home and fell asleep immediately.

Saturday

I had made plans with L to see Big Hero Six, but neither of us was up for that and it didn’t happen. I slept in until 2pm, which felt decadent and I haven’t done it in forever [but I feel like I say that a lot so ???]. I got a haircut, and went to an optometrist to look at new frames. We (L came a long) were in our old neighborhood because I’m very loyal to hair stylists, and even though it’s barely been six, seven months since we moved away it feels longer. We had dinner at Fire on the Mountain, and it was delicious.

After dinner, I took her up on the offer to hang out with her boyfriend and his friends. His crew are very tight, and have been friends since high school. When I’ve hung out with them, it’s mostly been on Mississippi. Usually both of those things are neutral to OK. Last night, though, something was off. Mississippi is a hipster Disneyland (and if you knew how much I love Disneyland, you know what an ambivalent statement that is). I vary a lot in how I respond to that ambiance and environment: sometimes I’m super into it, sometimes I’m indifferent, and sometimes I feel completely outside it. When I get in that critical frame of mind, I only see the decor as cliché pandering to a demo that exists to be led. It’s not the bar’s fault that known quantities make money.

The high school friends thing meant that there’s a male pack dynamic that emerges, and I’ve never been able to be myself in that context, was never any good at faking it, and I’m kind of allergic to that energy when I encounter it out in the world. So I spent a lot of time trying to fit myself into this thing when I really should have just left because there wasn’t enough on the table to make it worth it to me.

In hindsight, I should have been content with a nearly-perfect Friday night and spent some time just relaxing on Saturday, but it’s hard for me to turn down an offer to hang out. I also realized that I need to always drive myself, even if that means I can’t get shitfaced—which I never want to do out at a bar anyway—because I need to give myself an out when I need it. I was kind of irritated and irritable and spent more money than I wanted on an experience I didn’t even like.

Sunday

Late start, spent the day watching the super bowl and being a luftmensch.

Once I got back to my house I felt like I could start taking some control of myself and tidied up, started laundry, charliework, etc.

I finished Alison Bechdel’s Are You My Mother, a sequel to her memoir about her father, Fun Home. I thought it was great, and has a lot of big ideas about relationships with parents, me and not-me, the utility of therapy, and the crazy thoughts that come into play when you’re in therapy and compulsively think and write about it and do your own research. There’s enough in the book to keep me occupied and thinking for a couple of weeks.

All in all, a mixed weekend.

A brief word on January

Some closing thoughts about January, 2015:

The emergent narrative of this month has been a feeling of renewed inner purpose. I’ve decided that now is a time where it’s very important to take action and not let myself get caught up in overthinking, or get caught up in a compulsive need to seek inspiration. I published 23 posts, and had more visitors to my blog than all of 2014—visitors & views are not the point, but I think it nicely illustrates how more comfortable I am right now with attention seeking. In addition to the blog journaling, I wrote and illustrated 37 pages in my creative notebook. I practiced music for roughly 8 hours this month; I’m aiming for 12 next month, though ultimately I’d like to be playing much more than that.

I spent most of the month sick. The alone time has been good, the fatigue has been not good.

As spiritually energized as I feel, I did not finish any work.

Lasagne

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I was planning on spending my morning helping my friend A move furniture, but she cancelled on me, which was so much the better because I turned out to have a hangover after Friday night.


I got breakfast with RS at a family diner—because most of my social set is 20somethings with extremely narrow backgrounds and interests, being in a dining room with a mixture of young people, families with kids, all the way up to elderly couples getting weekend breakfast, can seem like a human kaleidoscope of overstimulation. It was nice to catch up with him, I’m behind on bills right now and it makes me feel weird to talk to him when that’s the elephant in the room. 

I honestly cannot remember what I did yesterday afternoon, which is a terrible sign of something.

I’ve been thinking more about starting an Artist’s Way group, and I decided that I wanted to have a real copy of the book, instead of the shitty pirated ebook that I’ve been reading. I went over to the Hawthorne Powell’s to buy it and use up the gift card I got from exchanging books the last time I went. It’s incredible how shame works. As I was poking around Self Help—General looking for my book, I was flashing back to trips to Barnes and Noble when I was a teenager, trying to quickly browse the Gay and Lesbian shelf (shelf!). It was in the section near the history and biography sections, a plausible interest of mine, and I figured I had about 90 seconds at a time to browse. Anyway, I couldn’t find a copy right away and I new they had them in stock, but I ended up having to ask somebody that works there to help me. I felt as nervous asking him as 18 year old me would have been to ask for The Joy of Gay Sex or something. I also picked up a copy of Vanity Fair which turns out to be a much longer novel than I thought. 

After getting back from Powells, I made some plans to have dinner with my friend RC. I was happy to have a few minutes to catch up with L, but her boyfriend was over. I was briefly overcome with such an angry irritation at his presence, so I decided to give them both a wide berth because it wasn’t really their fault and I was being petulant. 

RC’s many virtues is that she has a true lack of judgement and true unconditional acceptance, so I felt like I could share some of the new headspace I’ve been in since Wednesday. I felt comfortable enough to share some of the stuff that’s in my artistic journal, which is starting to take shape and form and growing into a real work of art. We got into a long and emotional conversation about the way that we mediate ourselves in order to conform to expectations when other people have power over our lives. It was a good talk, a real talk. 

After dinner, I was really full and a little bit sleepy. I decided that all I wanted to do was really listen to music. I listened to Sun Structures by Temples. It’s neo-psychedelic rock, kind of sipping the same juice as Tame Impala, with the gauzy veils of reverb of Fleet Foxes. I liked it fine, I love it when bands have that almost neo-classical impulse to make interesting music and not just try and distinguish themselves with production gimmicks. At the same time, it’s such a retro project that it can be hard to figure out what a good or bad song would be in context. 

After that, I listened to The Voyager by Rilo Kiley frontwoman Jenny Lewis. I enjoyed these songs a lot, to the point of not wanting to be too critical or pick them apart. The songs are really personal, and I don’t feel like I have too many experiences in common yet, but I can appreciate their artistry. I’m a huge fan of Fleetwood Mac, and I felt like I heard a lot of them in this.

Once I caught my second wind, I went on a tear, just playing piano with the kind of reckless abandon and joy at hearing my own sounds that used to keep me occupied for hours as a child. At some point, I became so focused on making sure that my practice times were productive and focused that I lost that spirit. I became a lot more focused on making sure I sounded good and wasn’t repeating myself into cliché. I don’t think that’s all wrong—I certainly want to get better and make sure that the time I am putting in is useful time!—but I think I’m coming to understand that the time when I can just sit back and enjoy the sounds I’m making are the embers that keep my fire alive. All of the time I spend trying to stoke myself up without giving those embers oxygen is a waste of time and effort.

I decided to go out and hear JP deejay at a bar at midnight. He’s been letting me into movies free at the theater he works at. It turned out to be kind of a bummer, and I left as soon as I finished my drinks.

As I fell asleep, I watched an excellent Taiwanese gay movie called Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow. It’s kind of a cross between Punch Drunk Love and Far From Heaven, a deliberately stylized and retro, with a little bit of a old Hollywood movie musical/Technicolor aesthetic. It’s a very controlled movie, never breaks into laugh out loud funny or anything, but some good performances, and a lot better than the average shitty gay movie I fall asleep to on a Saturday night. 

 

palak

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Today—yesterday—was a wonderful day! Which are the hardest to write about, because one wants to sit back and watch the dying embers of joy, not try and capture them and risk destroying what remains of the feeling.

Spent most of my day thinking and processing the implications of my session with J last night. Read through most of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, and I think I’m going to put together a group to go through it and have some peer accountability. Spent some time listening to Ahmad Jamal, who is somebody that I’m going to have to listen to a lot more of. [The throughline, if you’ve been playing at home, has been: Lana Del Rey to The Byrds to John Coltrane to Ahmad Jamal]

I had to watch teens today. It makes me nervous being around them because of how hard they are trying to figure out what the fuck is going on and how much power they have to be cruel to each other. I can’t look at myself with the same compassion yet, maybe some day.

I stopped by the food carts on Hawthorne for some palak paneer fries at Potato Champion. They’re my favorites. I shouldn’t have spent the money, but when I’m hungry after work is literally the point in the day when I have the least willpower. I would agree to anything, like the Godfather on his daughter’s wedding day.

Afterwards, I went over to J’s studio to jam for a little bit. It’s been really hard to find time for us to play together, and I’ve been dying. It’s taken me a long time to be comfortable accepting that he genuinely likes playing with me, and to not be afraid to take real pleasure in the music we make together and the compliments he gives me about my playing. We complement each other well, and both of us have some envy of the skills of the other.

Afterwards, we went to a little restaurant/wine bar in NW and J had a little food while I had coffee and we had a long conversation about being musicians and artists and the project of figuring ourselves out. It was a conversation that was so white hot with truth & vulnerability & honesty & love & ambition & want &

I almost impulse bought a piano

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I don’t have any money. I don’t have any room for it. I have easy access to pianos elsewhere. But I almost bought a piano a couple of days ago.

Classic Pianos, on Milwaukie and Powell here in Portland, has been having a basement sale to clear out inventory. As I was riding a bus into Downtown, that sign above, $99 piano, caught my eye. I don’t care what the piano sounds like, or how it’s been taken care of. If it plays and is capable of holding tune, 99 dollars is a ludicrously low price for a piano. I had an appointment with my therapist, but the whole time I was in session, a small part of my brain was arguing: “Dude, you have no money.” “Yeah, but, come on, I have $99. And you’re never going to see that price again.” “But you’re starting school next week, you’re going to need money.” “But it’s a piano.”

By the time the appointment was over, common sense had returned. It’s a hundred dollars, but that’s not the only cost associated with owning a piano. Plus, there was no was I was going to get my roommates to go for it. I decided that there was no way that it was going to happen, and I should head home after the appointment.

When my bus stopped at Milwaukie and Powell, there was a person in a wheelchair getting off, so we were stopped a little longer than usual. And in that brief extra time, my heart really wanted to touch the piano on the street, and my brain gave its OK. There was an upright, the one in the picture, as well as a charming spinet. The spinet was more in tune, as well as having a clearer tone, but as soon as I went over to check to make sure all the keys were working, a salesman came outside and invited me to check out the showroom and the basement pianos.

I walked into the store, and was immediately assaulted by the memories of wild pianos I have known. There was a black Bösendorfer, the same size as the one in the Reed College practice rooms. A gaudy white Yamaha baby grand that my 11 year old self would have drooled over. A classic shiny black upright, the piano that I always imagined I would have in my sophisticated apartment, or cloistered away in my home studio. A blonde parlor grand, like that owned by my music teacher. When I went downstairs to the basement, I was even able to find a couple of Baldwin Acrosonic spinets, like the one in my childhood home, though none of them was exactly the same model. Good thing, too. I might have lost it.

I was overtaken with some mixture of happiness, sadness, and a kind of deep excitement. Part of it was the nostalgia of recognizing the different pianos that I’ve formed an attachement to. Part of it was the simple regret that I don’t have a spare $3,000 or $5,000 to throw around right now to do it right. But the best part was a little of the childlike enthusiasm that used to be inseparable from the experience of playing and listening to music for me.

Once I had decided that I really wasn’t in a place to buy a piano, I just spent some time playing. I sat down at a beautiful Yamaha grand, and launched into my memorized five or six minutes of the Schubert Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, D.960. I haven’t made the progress with it that I’ve wanted, but for that amount of time, I can fake some level of virtuosity. There was a feeling of security and confidence that came to me, that this world is not a mystery, that these are things that I know, that this arrangement of black and white levers is neither foreign nor mysterious nor intimidating. These are my tools.

That was such a rush. That feeling of play and excitement often feels like something I misplaced. And retracing my steps these last couple of years can feel like being an amnesiac recovering lost memory. It’s frustrating, because at this point in my life, time feels like this ever accelerating force, like the frontiers of an expanding universe, but unless I have that sense of play, I will always be fighting myself musically. It was good to sit down in that room and play. It reassured me that, you know what, I’ve been doing this a while. I’m not the best, but I know some things. And I can do even better, even greater, if I get out of my own way.