My Last Waltz

It is a week later and it seem my brain is still relaxing in Margate, NJ. It seems inevitable, at least once during the summer weekend trips that the musical documentary The Last Waltz will make an appearance (this was directed by Martin Scorsese who triples in cool points for this and his love of music, have you seen Lightening in a Bottle? If you remotely enjoy the blues, go see it, NOW!). The setting is typically family and friends who are basically family, sitting, talking, laughing and most likely drinking. Images flicker past, performances begin. It serves as ambiance, as background music and great entertainment, but now also a staple in my summer memories. One of my personal favorite moments, I mean there is an impressive gathering of musicians to commemorate The Band's last concert, but I love during Eric Clapton's performance his guitar strap slips off and he asks them to hold on to fix it and Robbie Robertson picks the solo right up; it's seamless and amazing and beautiful.

How amazing would it be to have your own "Last Waltz" of sorts, as a last hoorah before you leave your earthly body behind? To gather your favorite people, family, friends, inspirations, musicians, whatever and whomever you like! It's quite ego-centric to think that someone like Muddy Waters or Dr. John would show up to commemorate my little life, but it's sure fun to imagine the guest list.

In my mythical Last Waltz, I would want to gather at night under a sky filled with bright stars and surrounded by trees. I would give Charles Bukowski his own table and ask him to simply read his poetry all night long; there would most likely have to be a promise on my end to keep the wine flowing, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Maya Angelou would provide opening remarks, her velvety voice hugging the air and settling on the surrounding branches. I would engage Alice Walker and Toni Morrison in conversation trying to embody their regal sense of tone and power they release on the page. I can't envision music without Tori, but would ask her to sit next to me during dinner as well. Ben Harper would be present for both my viewing pleasure, but also to provide some sweet guitar-ings.

My Nan and Pop would definitely be there, holding hands, finally reunited. My Pop's laughter would set the rhythm for the evening and I could hear him call me Mega-Bucks again. We would sit side by side, pipe in his mouth, as we completed crossword puzzles in our respective leather recliners. My Nan's bean soup would be the first course and I would get to see her smile again and My Uncle Lou's kielbasa would be an appetizer. Ultimately all of my friends and family whom I see now would be there, but I envision a crowd of people who's lives I hope to touch or change for the better in my lifetime.

It would be a glorious party with wine flowing, my favorite foods (so you know watermelon will be there!), guitars, drum circles, banjos, family and friends. It would end as the sun began to rise and the sounds of my favorite things and people slowly faded away.

A Room of One's Own

I am feeling a bit Virginia Woolf-esque today and will try to keep up with the thoughts as they seemingly skip out of my head like stones bouncing across water. I've been having really dark/strange dreams recently. Not every night, but more often than usual. I have this one recurring dream set up like a bad horror film; desolate and dark small town, it's night and I am running away from a hand that is sticking up through the dirt. A hand isn't exactly terrifying, but this hand has Wolverine style instruments extending from the fingers. After running for what seems like forever, I inevitably can't move, I am stuck and the scene usually ends in what reminds me of a high school bathroom; grimy floors, multiple stalls and a never pleasant stench. The hand breaks and chips its way through the tile floor as I curl and cover my head; the tiles crumpling and chipping shooting dust into the air. The hand shoots upward and sometimes I come face to face with my chaser, sometimes not, but if I do, I see my father's face. How f-ed up is that?

A new one I've experienced this week is very Alice in Wonderland. It consists of flashes of color; gold and silver and reds and me falling through darkness. I find myself in a dark room that feels as though it is underground, deep inside in the earth. I am walking, almost floating towards a round table. I see hideous things and intuitively I know each thing, each one represents Dante's vision of the the 7 circles of Hell. I am compelled to sit down and I turn to see my brain's manifestation of Ianna, generally speaking a Sumerian goddess, the earth mother and she places her hand on my shoulder. The touch is warm and safe and reassuring and like most scenes in a dream I instantly can understand and feel myself linked to women across history, across the universe. She kisses my forehead. I wake up smiling and as if just embraced.

I don't pretend to know or understand what any of that means. I believe the subconscious needs to work things out; whether that means unspoken desires, daily frustrations or just strange random things based on experiences or memories from the past. When I have vivid dreams as such I always wish I was more artistic and could capture a scene via some paint and a brush. Alas I am not.

Dreams are strange indeed. Can you a imagine if the whole "no rules" environments and scenarios that play out in dreams applied in reality? Could you imagine a world where people just said what was on their mind or acted out fantasies or desires? Good and bad mind you...chaos! I suppose that's why some dreams can be so scary and regardless of how good or bad a dream is, why it's necessary to wake up.