Something strange and wonderful, something sad, and the musings of a Band Brat

I have a wake to go to tonight, which is ridiculous, but I'll tell more about that in a bit. First I want to tell about what happened to my Mom yesterday. Not likely that I'll ever forget, or that she will, but I need to keep track of these things, and to some extent, share them when they're this amazing.

My Mom had a weird day yesterday, not all bad considering that it was her first anniversary without Dad. Which, I can only imagine how much that sucks, seriously. While I was in school, my Mom first went out and nabbed a job. No small feat in this economy, and it's a pretty decent job, too. Actually, weirdly enough, it's similar to mine. Yay for that.

But the big thing happened when she was coming home later that night. My Mom has that thing in her car, where when you listen to the radio, the name of the song and the artist scroll across this little screen. Except, Mom's has never worked. (Or if it has, then rarely. But I don't remember ever seeing it work.) She was tuned to WLNG (“The best oldies!”) but no music was playing, just the guy reading the news. She parked the car and shut it off, and then the scrolling screen showed up four words—not scrolling--exactly like this:

"JAMES, FIRST LOVE, KISS"

Obviously, my Dad's name is James; pretty sure everyone knows that. And in case I wasn't clear before, even though I was, yesterday was their anniversary. The 38th, actually.

I can't think of any scientific way to explain that. I mean, sure, glitch in the car's computer, maybe a KISS song playing on a different radio station, maybe a combination of titles and artist names all jumbled together, definitely some rational and explainable reason for that function to work that one time, to get a bunch of words like that and for them to stop scrolling.

But the timing and the choice of words is undeniably meaningful. And yes, I used the word "choice" on purpose.

Again I'm trying to work this all into some kind of system of belief that I know to be true. Richard Feynman would have shrugged it off. (There's a story about the death of his wife, and a stopped clock.) Einstein believed in God and it limited him in a time when science was moving forward; he got left behind.

Mark Keali'i Ho'omalu said, "I'd rather not limit myself to others' beliefs and fears." Seems I limit myself to my own, although things like this really break through that self-imposed yellow tape.

My Mom was really happy to receive that message. And, yes, I use the word "message" on purpose.

Tonight's wake, then. It's for an old friend; a good friend. Actually my Dad's friend, foremost. Jay used to play keyboard in my Dad's band back in the 80's. Like most of the people in his band, they stayed friends throughout the years. Through Jay's illness and liver transplant. His death is (to me,) sudden and surprising, because He Was Doing So Well. He was at Dad's memorial, actually.

His one request was for his family to play this song. Trouble, by my Dad. (And yes, he wrote it.) Jay plays on this song. I remember the recording session; it was '81 I think and I was a wee lassie. (I stayed up till 2 AM and finally my Dad let me do some sound effects on his song Night Of The Goblins.) I wish I could listen to this song; it is my favorite. I've posted this song for myself, and posted it in honor of my Dad, but today it's for Jay because he requested it.

My cousins and I were Band Brats. We weren't teenagers or anything; I mean, we were young children: Boychild's Mommy and I the same age (eight days apart,) CeceAnn three years younger. The band really started to get lots of shows and such when Boychild's Mommy and I were about 8, I think. We followed my Dad's musicians around and hero-worshiped them. We gave them nicknames and wrote them poems and stories, drew pictures of them, brought them drinks, got crushes on them, clung to their tuxedo-jackets backstage before curtain. Dad let us sing on stage; we got to wear dresses, or have our own t shirts made up, got flowers after the shows. We all went upstate and stayed in the family's big, ancient haunted mansion before a show and, as children, were oblivious to the grown-up dramas the young adults were getting involved in. It was an awesome, creative, exciting environment and weirdly enough, I never talk about it much. I don't know why, because it defined so many of my tastes and sensibilities.

One day I'm going to get out those old band pictures, scan them and post them. There are tons of them, mostly in-concert ones so it'll be a big project. But it was how I grew up. Eventually I'm going to want to document what a big deal it was to me. My Dad in his tux, playing the audience, hitting every note without flaw. My Mom in her evening dress, keeping everything together and making sure we were all ready. My brother and his then-wife, who also sang and played guitar in most shows, crazy about us Band Brats, and indulgent like everyone else. And the band, looking so fine and so excited to get on stage.

Jay was one of the nicest of the bunch, actually. CeceAnn had the most ridiculous crush on him (she had to be six or seven at the time) and used to follow him around, literally hanging off his back pockets, his belt or his jacket. Then one day in a store upstate, he took a brush out of his pocket and brushed his mustache, and that freaked her out. Because brushes were for head hair, I guess. I have no idea what went on in her little brain. But she used to always yell, "HE BRUSHED IT!" Even years later, any time he would call, or we'd get a card from him (CeceAnn lived with us for a while,) she'd remind everyone, "HE BRUSHED IT!" She saw him at Dad's memorial and they barely recognized each other. When they did, she told him about the mustache-incident, which he found hilarious.

So tonight, Jay's wake. If I was really lame, I'd say something about them jamming together in the sky or whatever, but really the only thing in this sky, in this universe, in this haecceity, is the cosmos. Which, awesome.

And for me. This is the Mark Keali'i Ho'omalu song I quoted up there. It came on my iPod last Monday as I was coming home from Kung Fu. I take a dark, hill-pitchy, twisty, tree-lined road home. I rounded a sharp edge and the trees thinned out. The moon was about the size of a half-deflated bastketball with a side punched flat, and gold. Gold.

Some lyrics:

Question:
What does "beyond the horizon" mean?

It means the limits to one's understanding.
Many people think I push the boundaries,
which also means "horizons."
I don't think so.
Yet maybe that I'm not on the same side of the boundaries as others.
I'd rather not limit myself to others' beliefs and fears.

…
With so many cultural beliefs, the obvious is overlooked.
Hope, faith and trust
are all factors of belief,
yet it all takes consciousness.
This seems to be the idea of comfort,
thoughtful ways to accept the inevitable.
You can change your religious beliefs,
but you can't change who you are.
You are the descendent of your ancestors,
and the ancestor of your descendents.
...

When you sleep,
your unconscious mind is allowed to venture with your ancestors.
It's then that you are most able to connect with yourself.
Even then we sometimes become afraid of what we dream;
yet we are the creators of our dreams,
so why be afraid?

These are the obscurities of Po.

Something strange and wonderful, something sad, and the musings of a Band Brat

I have a wake to go to tonight, which is ridiculous, but I'll tell more about that in a bit. First I want to tell about what happened to my Mom yesterday. Not likely that I'll ever forget, or that she will, but I need to keep track of these things, and to some extent, share them when they're this amazing.

My Mom had a weird day yesterday, not all bad considering that it was her first anniversary without Dad. Which, I can only imagine how much that sucks, seriously. While I was in school, my Mom first went out and nabbed a job. No small feat in this economy, and it's a pretty decent job, too. Actually, weirdly enough, it's similar to mine. Yay for that.

But the big thing happened when she was coming home later that night. My Mom has that thing in her car, where when you listen to the radio, the name of the song and the artist scroll across this little screen. Except, Mom's has never worked. (Or if it has, then rarely. But I don't remember ever seeing it work.) She was tuned to WLNG (“The best oldies!”) but no music was playing, just the guy reading the news. She parked the car and shut it off, and then the scrolling screen showed up four words—not scrolling--exactly like this:

"JAMES, FIRST LOVE, KISS"

Obviously, my Dad's name is James; pretty sure everyone knows that. And in case I wasn't clear before, even though I was, yesterday was their anniversary. The 38th, actually.

I can't think of any scientific way to explain that. I mean, sure, glitch in the car's computer, maybe a KISS song playing on a different radio station, maybe a combination of titles and artist names all jumbled together, definitely some rational and explainable reason for that function to work that one time, to get a bunch of words like that and for them to stop scrolling.

But the timing and the choice of words is undeniably meaningful. And yes, I used the word "choice" on purpose.

Again I'm trying to work this all into some kind of system of belief that I know to be true. Richard Feynman would have shrugged it off. (There's a story about the death of his wife, and a stopped clock.) Einstein believed in God and it limited him in a time when science was moving forward; he got left behind.

Mark Keali'i Ho'omalu said, "I'd rather not limit myself to others' beliefs and fears." Seems I limit myself to my own, although things like this really break through that self-imposed yellow tape.

My Mom was really happy to receive that message. And, yes, I use the word "message" on purpose.

Tonight's wake, then. It's for an old friend; a good friend. Actually my Dad's friend, foremost. Jay used to play keyboard in my Dad's band back in the 80's. Like most of the people in his band, they stayed friends throughout the years. Through Jay's illness and liver transplant. His death is (to me,) sudden and surprising, because He Was Doing So Well. He was at Dad's memorial, actually.

His one request was for his family to play this song. Trouble, by my Dad. (And yes, he wrote it.) Jay plays on this song. I remember the recording session; it was '81 I think and I was a wee lassie. (I stayed up till 2 AM and finally my Dad let me do some sound effects on his song Night Of The Goblins.) I wish I could listen to this song; it is my favorite. I've posted this song for myself, and posted it in honor of my Dad, but today it's for Jay because he requested it.

My cousins and I were Band Brats. We weren't teenagers or anything; I mean, we were young children: Boychild's Mommy and I the same age (eight days apart,) CeceAnn three years younger. The band really started to get lots of shows and such when Boychild's Mommy and I were about 8, I think. We followed my Dad's musicians around and hero-worshiped them. We gave them nicknames and wrote them poems and stories, drew pictures of them, brought them drinks, got crushes on them, clung to their tuxedo-jackets backstage before curtain. Dad let us sing on stage; we got to wear dresses, or have our own t shirts made up, got flowers after the shows. We all went upstate and stayed in the family's big, ancient haunted mansion before a show and, as children, were oblivious to the grown-up dramas the young adults were getting involved in. It was an awesome, creative, exciting environment and weirdly enough, I never talk about it much. I don't know why, because it defined so many of my tastes and sensibilities.

One day I'm going to get out those old band pictures, scan them and post them. There are tons of them, mostly in-concert ones so it'll be a big project. But it was how I grew up. Eventually I'm going to want to document what a big deal it was to me. My Dad in his tux, playing the audience, hitting every note without flaw. My Mom in her evening dress, keeping everything together and making sure we were all ready. My brother and his then-wife, who also sang and played guitar in most shows, crazy about us Band Brats, and indulgent like everyone else. And the band, looking so fine and so excited to get on stage.

Jay was one of the nicest of the bunch, actually. CeceAnn had the most ridiculous crush on him (she had to be six or seven at the time) and used to follow him around, literally hanging off his back pockets, his belt or his jacket. Then one day in a store upstate, he took a brush out of his pocket and brushed his mustache, and that freaked her out. Because brushes were for head hair, I guess. I have no idea what went on in her little brain. But she used to always yell, "HE BRUSHED IT!" Even years later, any time he would call, or we'd get a card from him (CeceAnn lived with us for a while,) she'd remind everyone, "HE BRUSHED IT!" She saw him at Dad's memorial and they barely recognized each other. When they did, she told him about the mustache-incident, which he found hilarious.

So tonight, Jay's wake. If I was really lame, I'd say something about them jamming together in the sky or whatever, but really the only thing in this sky, in this universe, in this haecceity, is the cosmos. Which, awesome.

And for me. This is the Mark Keali'i Ho'omalu song I quoted up there. It came on my iPod last Monday as I was coming home from Kung Fu. I take a dark, hill-pitchy, twisty, tree-lined road home. I rounded a sharp edge and the trees thinned out. The moon was about the size of a half-deflated bastketball with a side punched flat, and gold. Gold.

Some lyrics:

Question:
What does "beyond the horizon" mean?

It means the limits to one's understanding.
Many people think I push the boundaries,
which also means "horizons."
I don't think so.
Yet maybe that I'm not on the same side of the boundaries as others.
I'd rather not limit myself to others' beliefs and fears.

…
With so many cultural beliefs, the obvious is overlooked.
Hope, faith and trust
are all factors of belief,
yet it all takes consciousness.
This seems to be the idea of comfort,
thoughtful ways to accept the inevitable.
You can change your religious beliefs,
but you can't change who you are.
You are the descendent of your ancestors,
and the ancestor of your descendents.
...

When you sleep,
your unconscious mind is allowed to venture with your ancestors.
It's then that you are most able to connect with yourself.
Even then we sometimes become afraid of what we dream;
yet we are the creators of our dreams,
so why be afraid?

These are the obscurities of Po.