“If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn’t be called research would it?”

Research: diligent and systematic inquiry or investigation into a subject in order to discover or revise facts, theories, applications, etc

Explore:to traverse or range over for the purpose of discovery; to look into closely; to scrutinize; to examine

 

a river runs clear

Friends and fishermen:

This is the sight where the core of my childhood took place. Rather this is where my favorite childhood went down, the one locked in my brain that gives me the best of memories.   Having not returned to Steelville, Missouri (or Missoura, as they’d say) for a decade, this short three day trip came complete with the whole family (save Eric who we missed… and Clara, Maggie,Gus and Scooter Thomas. How was Bow Wow camp?)

Anyway, I  couldn’t begin to say what this did for my soul. What a river does I think is described beautifully by Norman MacLean in A River Runs Through It. While immortalized by a young Brad Pitt on the big screen, it’s one of my fave reads and could lead even the most air-conditioned bound soul to a day of outdoor fun.His book always awakens memories of playing on the river as a little girl. Rivers in Missouri are rock- bottom rivers, so the water runs clear. And cold: many tributaries of the Mississippi are driven by natural springs. Betcha didn’t know that. Driving by Nashhville’s Harpeth River today I felt sad.  Murky, swampy, and mosquito-laden, I guess that’s how the rivers have to run in the Tennessee South. 

Among the many things that transported me to age 8 and riverside were hours of crawdad hunting, a traditional “float trip” down the Cortouis( that’s French for nothing I think), swimming with sisters in the river, and most special a fishing trip with dad.  While we caught nothing resembling a fish it included five of the most beautiful hours I’ve spent in a while.  Enjoy the kodaks.

 

Une dame royal

A friend is inspiring me lately though I think they are unaware. This is such a phenomenon…how the cadre of one human being seems to find it’s way to the essence of another, like it’s been seeking a suitable host all along. Blown like the wind by the spirit, it secretly settles into the soul while sleeping. Meanwhile both are unaware of the exchange until they wake. I think this happens all the time and is more of a miracle then given credit for. Some times are more special then others, though.

Anyway, driving through Leiper’s Fork today, I was listening to one of the songs I recorded before I left for Europe. I never got it until today, but the song is more autobiographical then I probably ever wanted to believe. Surprisingly I welcomed this realization. Here are the lyrics.

Royal Lady/Greatest of Dividers

Verse:

Fear is the greatest of dividers

Leaving lovers far away

Lose the flame but might still have the lighter

But the hearts buried away

And its 123 to the back of the door

He’s delivered your soul

And you still want more

Chorus

And he cannot explain what he don’t understand

And he cannot find the way

Between a woman and a man

(humming)

Verse:

Crumbles walls with justice

And His mercy leaves her lone on bended knee

Hallowed and holy is the way that

he would like for things to be

But he’s a child of the letter so he knows what he sees

Breaking out of the law don’t always

come so easily

Chorus

He cannot explain what he don’t understand

he cannot find the way between

A woman and a man

(humming)

Bridge

Shes a royal lady down on bended knee

He’s a king whos forgotten how to court a queen

She a princess guarded by an orange halo

He’s a king of nations though he might not know

Leipers Fork August 1st:

 

Hello, Billie.

 

The Real Low Point

HG: Sorry about the surreal but nice comment, disaster.
JR: I thought the ‘apricots in honey’ was the real low point.
HG: right.
And because I can’t resist, a few lines later….
Spike: this yogurt doesn’t taste like yogurt
HG: That’s because it’s mayonnaise
Spike: Oh,right then. On for a videofest tonight? I got some real classics.

Movie, anyone?

Bon Soir. Speaking of French….my real low point as an American-traveling- through was just brought to mind. My real points, rather. Self -deprecation is always fun, so here we go. If you have a personal favorite, don’t hesitate to laugh out loud in embarrassment for me, or even submit your favorite ‘real American low point’ in response. In no particular order, here are a few:
1. Dancing around Gabriella Trapasso’s rooftop whilst beachside clad(Bologna was hot!) to the song American Boy on repeat for one hour.(“chain blinger” is now Gabriella’s favorite word. That and “holler.” It’s sounds much cuter in an Italian accent.)
2. Forcing the 21 year old Spanish-Swiss boy in the seat next to me to listen to Flight of the Conchords Foux du Fa Fa while I laughed and he looked confused.
3. Paying for my 2 euro café con leche with all .05 euro coins
4. Actually believing for a brief second that the elicitations projected from Italian voices came from a place of real, genuine interest and desire for meaningful relationship.
5.Paying 25 euro for a 2 block taxi ride after just arriving in Rome.(still makes me mad)
6. Karaokeing to Lionel Richies Stuck on You somewhere in the south of Spain. This must have been the real low point.
7. Asking Italian hotel employee where the piano was, and him subsequently explaining to me that I was on the piano, piano 4. As in 4th floor up. (actually this might be the winner.)

Oh, the humiliation….It doesn’t count if you were having an out of body experience at the time and were actually aware of the Chevy Chase card you were playing, right? Good…

Now it’s the afternoon and I feel better. Cindy Crawford’s on television trying to convince me that her serum which has a special melon mashed into it- a French melon- is going to make me look ten years younger. Suddenly my real low points don’t look so low.

HEY KIDS, BIG BEN, PARLIAMENT.

 

Nashville

I went for a drive today on a recommendation to try and remember why I love Nashville. Driving down Belmont Blvd having just left Portland Brew, a voice was on the radio that I didn’t recognize. She was being interviewed by the local DJ and was about to sing her last song. As she began, I was thrown back into my Freshman dorm at Miami U, circa 1993(doin the math?), when Sheryl Crow had just put herself on the map with Tuesday Morning Music Club. While i listened to her sing Strong Enough To Be My Man, I was moved by the melody and the simplicity of a guitar and a voice. I’ve always thought this is what she does best. Maybe it’s just what I prefer. Anyway, the point is it reminded me of why I moved to Nashville in the first place- to be around music and to sing, and it was just what i needed to think about today. So, I wound through the streets to my favorite record store, Grimey’s, and indulged in one of my favorite things. One hour and 4 CD’s later, here’s what I came away with:

Sigur Ros- Met Suf Ieyrum Vit Spislum Endalaust -i dont know what it means, just GO buy it.

The Weepies-Hideaway

Madelyn Peyroux-Careless Love

Billie Holiday-The Best Of

Was difficult to say no to Cat Power Jukebox, Dr. Dog, and Bonnie Prince Billy. Maybe next time.

Happy Listening from Nashville.

 

servants of the map

“We’re all servants of the map, braving rivers making tracks”

Woke up to birdies chirpin outside my window to the tune of 530am. Nice. It’s allright, I’m still jet lagged and feeling like its 330pm in Spain. Viva Espana! So only last night I found myself dreaming about what I was doing at exactly this time last week, a habit I’ve grown fond of- if not sick of sometimes. Anyway, it was Andalusia only seven days ago. While most of my globe-trotting, adventure-seeking friends opted for a weekend of debauchery and possible death-by-bull experience via Pamplona, I chose the route of Spanish monks of old. Hemingway would have to wait. La Cartuja was the name of the 1300 year old monastery which was my destination, and it could only be reached by a train which might be described as risky at best, albeit the best kind of risky. No great adventure ever comes without a little risk, right? Sometimes I feel I understand this a little too well. La Cartuja was run by a woman called Karen, and in Spanish she’d be described as a complete “personaje.” Her eccentricities held her together, but after a two hour breakfast and another two hour lunch, more became obvious to anyone who was listening: this woman had a unique combination of intelligences which allowed her to narrowly re-write the history of Spain dating from centuries 8- 11….definitely one of the more fascinating people I encountered on my journey. More on La Cartuja later, though.

So friends… what brings me to the world of blogging? Im not sure really. More reasons then Im probably aware of, but here’s the central thread, or the one that will not leave me alone: Ive not left my room for the last 2 ½ days. Well, that’s not entirely true. Twice to shower and once to dart downstairs to grab some granola and stale graham crackers. My favorite crawler donuts were covered in ants (gross) so I passed on those. My bed, an island at high altitude somewhere lost in the mediterannean, has become such a refuge that I feel brave if I even peer off the edge to see what kind of mess might be found on the ocean floor. Brave, I tell you! At some point after sticking my blistered toe in the water, I think I managed to slip beneath, if only just to snorkel around a bit. As you might imagine, I’m swimming around like a lost fish. Untangling myself from seaweed, avoiding the bigger fish, bumping into coasts. The coast of Italy, the coast of France, the coast of Spain. Portugal. The coast of Italy again…

I need a map. Letters are maps. Letters become words, words become a story, and stories lead us across. The best stories take us by the hand and help us wade through the deep ends of the water. The usher us across streets, on trains through Spain, to deserted beaches in Italy, winding through backroads in France. And, then, back across the Atlantic Ocean.

Home again. I do want to be home again (don’t we all?), but the hard to detect, sub-sea level compass inside says that this ocean must be waded with words. The prerequisite of the beckoning shoreline seems to be out loud words. Words like eager waves, eager to reach the shoreline, sure of what awaits them there.

So writing at the moment feels near cathartic, and that tells me if there’s ever been a time to nevermind the voices singing “shame shame for writing, shame shame for singing,” it’s now. I’m so well acquainted with those voices they appear to be friends. Insidious business those voices are in. Better to turn to the last chapter of Franny and Zooey, and read it over and over, until it finds it’s way deep into my DNA.

So there’s that…wishing you a hammock, some iced tea, and a quiet Sunday.