26 May 2012
Woke
this morning with difficulty getting out of bed, due in part to
soreness from soccer the other night, yet due in larger part to the
lonesomeness of the house. A patter of rain on the roof, the flush
green trees and white bell flowers of the courtyard. Where is my
little Ada tramping about the rooms calling for us to make breakfast
and start the day? Prying myself out of bed, the first thing to do
was make a fire, give some soul to the house. I put on a coat and
carried the wicker basket outside to the wood pile under the dripping
eaves, came back in and made a snapping fire in the hearth. Then with
Weekend Edition on the radio keeping me company, made coffee,
eggs and toast, tidied up the kitchen and ate breakfast at a table
very empty despite the newspaper sections scattered across it.
I have
one duty today: to get out query letters for the novel. Duty lends
structure, but not purpose. That must come from within. Oh where oh
where is my Anna and Ada to distract me from it all?
The
question we are faced with is the question that is always there, even
if at times the noise of family life obscures it: what am I to do
with my life? Practically speaking the question appears as: what am I
to do today? But that is just an incremental exercise of the larger
dilemma. And if, like most of us, you don't have a sure answer for
the primary question, then merely spooning coffee grounds into the
pot can feel like a colosol effort against the question of existence.
This is where religious types might step in and coach faith and
purpose found in god. But it's also where more skeptical souls might
eschew those comforts for the hard-earned insights of doubt. Sartre's
protagonist in “The Wall”, knowing that by not doing nothing he
has condemned his comrade to death. In Buddhism there's a maxim: the
roots of your doubt must be as deep as the roots of your faith. We
can't get too cozy in our ideas about the world or our own existence.
Discomfort is like a poker at the fire, keeping the logs turned over
and the artistic flames snapping.
Speaking
of discomfort, last night I wandered into something pleasantly
strange. Tired as I was, I couldn't stand being in the desolate house
and went for a walk downtown just to get some air, a drink, a view of
the piled silver clouds left over from the rain, a catch at whatever
randomness might throw at me. And for my efforts I found a band from
Italy (from Treviso, in fact, not far from Venice) playing at a
coffee shop on Main. Father Murphy is their name, and by how
good and obscure they were, I couldn't help wondering what the hell
they were doing in this tiny venue with only about thirty people
watching them. The three-piece included a skinny guy on guitar, a
woman who looked like Patty Smith on keyboard, and a mad genius on
drums. Adjectives? Haunting, deconstructive, Noise but clean,
cerebral, ceremonial, a continuous contorting dirge that comes at you
in shearing waves that make you think of industrial warehouses on the
outskirts of Milano. The vocals were more melodic wail than singing;
the drumming more likely to convert the kit into a cello or a sheet
of torn silk than to produce rhythm; the guitar a fiercely plucked
harpsichord. It was all just dark enough to make you wonder how the
musicians could endure their own lives.
But
then after the show I talked with them and they turned out to be
perfectly charming, kind, polite Italians. (It's so typical to meet
some rough-looking Italian punk and they're the nicest cordial kid
you'd ever want to introduce to your nonna. All good mamma's boys at
heart!) I didn't catch the drummer's name, but we chatted about
Treviso, the punk scene in Portguero, the six-month tour they were
making across the U.S., the long stretch between Chicago and Seattle
that had them stopping over in SLC and Boise, the friend of their
producer who set up this weird little gig. I told him I'd never seen
drums played like he did. Yes, he replied, he was trained as a
violinist and always forgets he is playing drums. He was excited to
see Seattle and Olympia, as Nirvana and Cobain were big inspirations
when he was young. I met the other two band members, thanked them for
the incredible show, and we wished each other a reunion in Italia.
And
then I walked out into the quiet night. And for a little while I'd
done it, forgotten my doubt, left my little patch of existence for
the nether realms of a punk band from the land of my ancestors, the
land of my escapism.
