That Iron String

"...I'd hurt a lot of people lately, myself worst of all. What I needed now were the few things left that didn't hurt: the woods and the mountains opening out before me, the unfolding story of moving through them toward an end."

- Robert Alden Rubin, "On The Beaten Path: An Appalachian Pilgrimage"

On the drive back from a Memorial Day camping trip on New Hampshire's astoundingly beautiful Lake Umbagog, my friend Joe and I took a detour down Maine 26 to visit a particular pie stand Joe hits up every year.

It was a gloriously sunny day, and this beautiful stretch of road near Grafton Notch boasted crowded roadside stands bursting with homemade vittles, flea markets that were more like sprawling junkyards, hippie food co-ops, and BBQ trailers. It was a good end to a great getaway.

On a whim, we stopped by an interesting-looking outdoors shop called True North Adventurewear. Amidst a superb selection of backpacking gear that I couldn't afford, I found "On The Beaten Path." Time to again feed my fascination (obsession?) with thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail.

I've needed a lot of time away this summer. I love the city, but the woods, the lakes, the mountains have been calling me in a way that I've never felt. And now that I have a vehicle, I vowed to get out of the city as often as possible. I also wanted to be sure to go to different places, and not fall into the routine, as I so often do, of returning to the same place again and again because I like it, and it's comfortable. I need adventure, and I need to practice taking chances, and seeing those chances through.

When I read that quote from Robert Rubin's book, I was sitting at a picnic table near Salisbury Beach, in the very early morning quiet. I sipped on coffee and felt the new day's sun begin to warm the back of my neck. And when I read it, it struck me so fully that it nearly brought me to tears. That's it. That's exactly it.

So. In August I'm going to do a multi-day hike up in Vermont, on the Long Trail. It's about 50 miles, and apparently showcases the most scenic part of the trail that predates even the AT. And if I do wind up taking the leap and hiking The Trail, the only thing that could stop me (aside from some fairly serious injury) would be my own fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of my own weakness. And damned if I'm going to let that happen. It's time to put those fears to bed.

Oh, and the pie was delicious.

All the alone time

I think I need more time alone that I've ever let myself realize.

When I was a kid, I had no problem being alone. At 6 or 7 years of age I'd sit in the backyard, at a little plastic table under the apple tree, and have breakfast by myself. My mom would come out and check on me, and would ask if I'd like company. According to her, I'd always say "No, thanks."

As a 12 or 13 year old I'd go out into the woods alone and pretend to be a survivalist. Occasionally a friend would come along, but usually I'd go solo and I preferred it that way. I'd sit in my room when my parents would have parties and write on my mom's old electric typewriter, short stories and poetry. I'd watch SNL and sketch the actors. I'd draw and read comics.

But, I always had people there if, and when, I needed them. My mother was always around, and was always willing to spend time with me, and we did a great deal. My sisters and I usually just fought, but they were there.



As I've gotten older the prospect of being alone has gotten a bit uncomfortable. You're not really supposed to want to be alone, after all, what are you, some sort of recluse? Especially in this age, when our most inconsequential thoughts are obsessively shared through a hydra of social networking, the idea of solitude is alien. The silence can be deafening.

But hopefully, when we're done being alone, we can have someone to go to. I guess that's what scares me more than anything: my aloneness could be irreversible.

We surround ourselves with people and things, to distract ourselves from ourselves. We go to work, have social obligations, hundreds of interactions a day. We work these muscles constantly, and as technology speeds up so must our exercise. And when the lights go out, the TV and the computer go off, and we lay and stare at a black ceiling and try to sleep, we feel sore.

So with that, I'm off. I'm going to put on my pack and walk, alone, through the city. But I'll make sure that I let my friends and family know that when I'm back, I'll be so glad they're there.

You have to admit, it's getting better...

On my first day of "Intro to Screenwriting" at Brookline High School (an adult continuing ed program), I saw this on several of the doors of the classrooms.

I guess it's probably not an unusual sight for the kids that attend this school, but to an old fogey like me, it got me thinking.

I went to a pretty conservative all-boys Catholic prep school in the South. There was one kid, Andrew I think his name was, who talked with a slight lisp. This was enough to make this social life a complete nightmare. Constant teasing, bullying and outright threats. If he hadn't been a pretty tall guy and had a few friends, he probably would have gotten hurt. There was some seriously ugly antigay bigotry (and anti-Semitism now that I think of it) at that school.

At the end of my Senior year, there was some sort of function in the auditorium. A few of the popular kids made speeches, relating stories about the years we all spent together. One recounted a "story" - a total fabrication - that involved walking in on two guys who were allegedly getting it on in a bathroom stall. He named names. As the entire place erupted with jeers, obscene shouts, and laughter, I remember looking over at the accused. They were pretty dorky, but hey, weren't we all, and didn't have many friends apart from each other. I was always nice to both of them, even hung out outside of school occasionally. I'll never forget the horrified look on their faces at they sank into their seats; everyone knew it wasn't true, and the hate directed at them that day made me seriously question the value of humanity. I think I knew then that I'd never attend a high school reunion, and never have.

So when I saw this sticker, it made me really glad to know that will likely never happen in this school. Some kids are assholes and always will be, so others that don't fit in will always catch the brunt of their insecurities and ignorance.

But, there was an institutionalized, accepted, and almost encouraged bigotry in my high school, fed by tradition, testosterone, and religion. Not a good combo. The principal eventually had to call order in the auditorium that day, but the damage had been done, and as far as I know the perpetrators never suffered any real consequences and the victims likely never received an apology.

So, even though this is just a sticker on a pane of glass, it represents a sea change. As a high schooler I couldn't even conceive of this kind of tolerance. So anyone who complains we need to return to some sort of past value system, or that we live in an age of "moral decline" needs to consider the quote by John Cage: "I can't understand why people are frightened of new ideas. I'm frightened of the old ones."

Bumming around Bumpkin

I'm not much for mysticism. I figure most things that are considered otherworldly or spiritual are most likely a byproduct of our minds attempting to make sense out of something we don't fully understand. When we wake up in a dark room and could swear that the towel hanging on the door was a burglar, well, that's our brain filling in information we don't have, even if it's inaccurate. Evolution brilliantly fashioned our gray matter to jump to conclusions, even false ones, since not jumping to these conclusions is significantly more hazardous to our ability to pass on our genes: we're better off thinking a towel is a burglar than thinking a burglar is a towel.

As far as I'm concerned, fairies, ghosts, angels, spirits, and gods can be chalked up to this, our incredible imaginations, our primitive, self-defensive assumptions. When people speak of a place being "magical" or having "energy", I tend to tune out.

But walking the quiet paths of Bumpkin Island as the sun sets, I question my philosophy... just a little. It's the kind of place that seems to want you there; when you walk, it's as if the ground is imperceptibly giving way under each footfall, carrying you along like a moving sidewalk at an airport. The air is fresh and smells clean. Boston is small and sits on the horizon as harmless as half-submerged reeds at high tide. The troubles of the city seem stupid and old and far away.

The ferry from Boston to George's Island was right on time, as usual, but the bright yellow water taxi that connects George's to Bumpkin was late by almost three hours. But no matter; I was out of the city, and though George's island has become a bit more polished and "family-friendly" of late, it's still a great place to sit in the sun and salty breeze and kill a few hours reading. The metronomic drums and wild singing of the Native American Summer Festival drifted from the north field and inspired a fleeting fantasy about discovering an unexplored island and a exotic indigenous culture.

After the taxi finally finished moving folks around from Hull and Spectacle Island, it shuttled me from George's through Hull Gut, a quick trip of about ten minutes. As I climbed onto the bobbing Bumpkin pier and followed it to shore, the peaceful solitude of the island enveloped me like a warm bath. I hiked up the soft, winding path with my pack and tent toward my campsite, greeted by meadow voles and catbirds and a red-tailed hawk with a very unfortunate looking mouse in its talons.

Camping, and being out in nature generally, has always been appealing to me. My favorite thing to do as a kid was strap on the old canteen and embark, usually alone, into what little forest hadn't been eaten up by suburban development around our neighborhood. I remember how pissed I'd be when I'd climb that hill or round that bend and another string of framed-out houses shattered whatever wilderness fantasy I was having. As the years passed, it got smaller: the trek through the woods before the sinking disappointment of the sight of a bulldozer.

Rugged camping in a spot like Bumpkin (there are no amenities besides a composting toilet; you have to carry in all water and food) makes us reject the ludicrous myth of "multi-tasking" and usually leads to the question: why do we spend time the way we do? If you want to eat a hot meal, you have to gather firewood, transport the wood to the pit. Separate kindling from the medium and large size sticks, gather up a little paper to get it going. Stoke the fire for a while, gets some coals going, and start to cook. It can be a several hour affair.

Back in "normal life", we try to cook as quickly as possible, maybe pick something up on the way home. To save time for what? Leisure, I guess, which usually involves something like watching TV or surfing the internet. But when you're camping, the act of preparing, cooking, and eating a meal is the leisure. And for me, it's a lot more satisfying, and I try to keep that in mind in my day to day. The pleasure is in the work.
As the sun went down, out on the gravelly spit that points across the bay toward Hull, DCR rangers Nathan and Colleen and I built a fire and cooked a hearty meal of veggie burgers with onion and jalapeño, a roasted zucchini, Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs cooked in a little steel camping pot, and popcorn (in a popper Colleen brilliantly constructed from an old pie plate and a coat hanger). We talked about travel, music, relationships; where we've come from and where we hope to go.

And the spirits that live on Bumpkin, the children with polio who lived in the yellow brick hospital, now scattered ruins; the soldiers who served on the island during World War I; the farmers who leased the land to grow food for the nearby residents of Boston; these spirits were around too, quiet, enjoying the night air, crackling fire, and jovial conversation.

At least I'd like to think they were.

Cinematic Synchronicity: Moms, Sons, and fresh starts

I have a thing for Sally Field. There, I said it. Or, rather a thing for Sally Field circa 1976 to 1984, not the Boniva Sally Field. I mean, seriously, is there anything in the world cuter than Frog in Smokey and the Bandit? The answer, of course, is "no". Regardless, it's probably why Murphy's Romance was in my queue.

Field plays Emma, a tough single mom and horse trainer in this pretty obscure movie from 1985 starring a still-adorable Sally opposite a less-adorable but ruggedly handsome James Garner. Recently divorced Emma starts a new life with her young son (Corey Haim), faces some gender discrimination, befriends lovable liberal shop owner Murphy (Garner)...but when her exceedingly good-looking but no-good mustachioed ex-husband Bobby Jack shows up, she has to juggle his efforts to reconcile, Murphy's increasing interest (despite the three-decade age difference), and her duties as a mother.

Okay, sounds like a winner already, right? Well, it kind of was, despite the original soundtrack by Carole King and David Sanborn (yikes). The 80's got a lot of things right with movies, but synths and saxes over scenes of an Arizona horse farm is not one of them.

There were some problems; the stakes never seemed that high, everything kind of always seemed like it was gonna work out (it did). The bank never tries to take Emma's farm, Bobby Jack never acted like a total psycho, her son was a little too well-behaved. There's a kind of embarrassing dance hall bit when Murphy (Garner) and the ex-husband are competing for Emma's attention. It drags at points, but the scenery is so nice I didn't mind too much. The politics seemed a little shoehorned in. And I already mentioned the soundtrack.

But due to strong performances by Field and Garner and the fact that the quaint town, complete with soda shop/pharmacy, Elks bingo hall, and old-timey movie theater, was a place nobody would mind spending a couple of hours, this movie works. Garner's like a shot of Adavan, coolly nailing the wise widower who's been through the ringer and has come out stronger for it.

A highlight is when Murphy, after being accused of "banging" Emma by Bobby Jack, delivered this line without so much as raising his voice, in that way only James Garner can:

"You are a miserable son-of-a-bitch, you know that? I don't know why she took you in the house; I'd bed you down with the dogs, and I'll tell you something else, mister--you may be a lot younger and stronger, but you're about to get your ass kicked from here to the state line. And I'm wearing the boots that can do it."

Damn Straight.



Okay, so I used the stupid word synchronicity because that's what happens sometimes, you pull two movies off your "watch instantly" queue, you don't know the plot of either, but they are remarkably similar in some major way. Or, maybe my subconscious knew the plots somehow and that's why, after Murphy's Romance, I started up Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (1974).

Like Murphy, Alice is about a mid-thirtees mother (played by Ellen Burstyn) recently extricated from an unfulfilling marriage (via fatal car wreck instead of divorce) and must hit the road and head West to carve out a new life for her and her young son. In both films mother and son look out for each other, both do what it takes to get by, and they are extremely close, dodging the pitfalls of new surroundings and questionable men.

I got it on good authority from separate sources that Alice is a great flick. And I bet most cinephiles would argue that even a somewhat overlooked Scorcese film is better than anything Sally Field's been in. And they might be right. And maybe chalk it up to watching Alice pretty late at night, but I liked Murphy better.

Maybe Alice is a more critically admired movie, but honestly I had to turn it off a half hour before it ended. Again, I was tired, but that movie is too damn long. There were full minutes where I wondered why wasn't that on the cutting room floor? Answer: technically it's a gorgeous movie, and totally ahead of its time in that regard, but pretty shots don't always move the story forward.

I heard Kris Kristofferson was in this movie. By an hour in, and still no Kris, I was starting to wonder if I'd heard correctly. Honestly, that character needed to be in WAY before that. By the time he appears, I've honestly stopped caring. And though a lot of the mother/son dialogue was golden, the kid's starting to annoy me, and as admirable as Alice is, I just didn't like her very much, perhaps due to lack of character development.

The scenes in the diner were just unbearable. I didn't like the spin-off sitcom Alice, and I didn't like it here. Is it supposed to be funny? Is it supposed to be depressing and dramatic? It could be both simultaneously, but it just seemed to swing back and forth willy-nilly. It was exhausting.

And when Kris flipped out and smacked the kid during the guitar lesson, I just turned it off and went to sleep. I was done. I needed him to be a nice guy, not another asshole in these poor people's lives, and I certainly didn't have the patience or interest to see him change, and why.

Murphy showed up within the first ten minutes of Murphy's Romance, and we got a lot of time to get to know him, get to like him. And when he finally gets the girl, it's really satisfying because of it. If Murphy had shown up an hour into the movie and then smacked Ella's boy, I would have turned it off too.

But, maybe I'll watch the rest just for kicks.

Marvin Gaye - Live! (in Oakland CA) - 1974

The first two things immediately noticeable about this album, given that Marvin doesn't start singing for at least a couple of minutes in, was (1) the crowd is going absolutely bananas, and (2) the band is stellar. Neither of these observations comes as a big shock. Beyond that, there's not a whole lot more to say about this except that it's is a near-perfect, spectacular performance.

The arrangements are impressive; songs strung together in a seamless, powerful medlies that make for lots of crowd-pleasing moments. When Marvin starts "Distant Lover" and "Let's Get It On", the crowd damn near drowns him out. The subtle, looping lead guitar part on "Let's Get It On" is wonderfully playful.

Marvin introduces "Jan" as a new tune, explaining that a friend asked him to write a song for her, and he did. Lucky girl. I'd never heard it before, and it's charming. It definitely holds up aside the heavy hitters on this record.

The only problem is technical; some ugly feedback creeps in a couple of times, but other than that, the show is flawless. Marvin sounds amazing, the band is outstanding, the energy is electric... I wish I could have seen this performance, but this recording is the next best thing.

Oh, and dig those boots!

Phil Collins - Hello, I Must Be Going! 1982

I had a premonition that the first randomly selected album would be Phil Collins. Honestly, I did. However, I wasn't even aware that this one was in there. I was thinking No Jacket Required, maybe. I'm not sure why I picked this up, or if I ever even listened to it. It's a little cheesy at points, but there are some nice surprises, and the songs, naturally, are excellently written.

With "I Don't Care Anymore", Phil comes out swinging; he's a bit pissed about a failed relationship. The drums are bombastic and the structure is interesting, with a McCartneyan bridge that appears only once in the middle of the lyrically bitter song. Good way to start out. I thought I might have an idea about how this album was going to go, but then "I Cannot Believe It's True" hits like a 80's TV theme song lost to time. The only redeeming thing about this cut is that if played at a dance party (or possibly aerobics class), folks would get down.

There's a lot of remembering on this album; specifically Phil remembering his huge hit "In the Air Tonight", from the previous year's Face Value. Twice, Phil sings "I remember" in almost the same way he does on that track. Also, in "Thru These Walls", the huge drums from "In the Air..." are replicated almost exactly. I don't mind, I love the way that drum machine sounds. "Thru These Walls" might be my favorite tune; the combination of the real and canned drums is really cool, and the vocal melodies doubled by the synth are great.

The cover of "You Can't Hurry Love", despite it's 80's production stiffness, has a considerable amount of soul. And the "Motown, we salute you!" in the liner notes is a funny touch. But, it seems a little out of place on this album.

"Don't Let Him Steal Your Heart Away", a nice piano ballad with synth swells, and "Why Can't It Wait 'Til Morning", a glossy but effectively heartwrenching account of a fighting couple, showcase Phil's mastery of songwriting. "West Side", a sax instrumental with a Quincy Jones vibe, could have easily been worked into any number of Lethal Weapon movie soundtracks. Not necessarily a bad thing.

We have well drawn ballads that touch on themes of resignation, rejection, jealosy, and desperation. There's midtempo drum machine-driven songs that are Phil's expertise. And we have few upbeat, synthy dance tunes thrown in for good measure. And of course, we're treated to a ton of incredibly performed drumming. This might not be Phil's most cohesive or memorable album, but it's worth a listen.

Dance party songs: "You Can't Hurry Love", "I Cannot Believe It's True", "It Don't Matter To Me"