Back to the blog. I have a sore throat so I can't call anybody to ramble about whatever I might ramble about. Last time I wrote here I was on one my iconic California road trips. What's to write about day to day life?
So I want to share a story that happened to me recently. Synchronicity, as Jung called it, is when the events of your life take on a symbolic quality, specifically two or more events that relate to each other somehow. It is tied to man's need for "meaning" in his life.
I went to a show two or three nights ago, at a very nice local venue. It has a log cabin theme, but is very upscale, and chic, with amber LED lights providing atmosphere. Larry Yes was opening for Sonny and the Sunsets. I met Larry on a camping trip a while back and his songs are great. He bends the vowel sounds with his voice is a distinct way that gives him a signature style. My friend Landon and I had dinner at the bar beforehand, and Eric joined us for just the music.
It was a great performance, in a great room. Small cymbals hung from the microphone stands of the two musicians. Larry played guitar and baritone ukulele with effects. His comrade Nate played a six string bass, a Squire I think. It's a pretty unique vintage guitar/bass and not a ton of them were made. Nate sings harmony on many of Larry's songs and sometimes their vocal duets are offset, like a call and response. Their performance borrowed from Flamenco and Indian Raga styles at times, and Larry's banter with the crowd was fun.
After their set, we went upstairs to smoke and stood near the firepit on the patio. We went back downstairs and the second act was playing, though I didn't realize it at first when I walked into the room. It sounded like a song being played over the PA, not a live person, if that makes sense. She didn't have any backing band, but played distorted guitar with drum beats and tracks behind her. I made some snide remarks and when she finished I went upstairs again to bid the two guys goodnight, and I returned back to the venue to get at least a sample of the headliner.
Coming down the stairs between the bar and the venue, I saw somebody look at me like they knew me. I was puzzled for a second, and then recognized him. I first met him when I was twenty years old, and a college student. He had a demo tape on the internet and was looking for a drummer to form a band. I loved his music and we played in that band together for maybe a year. They were fun times. We were only just becoming drinking age, and playing the part of the rock star was alluring.
At the end of our golden summer, our bass player moved to college, I kicked out the guitar player for being a weirdo cokey, and then James kicked me out for not wanting his GF to be our new bassist.
After that, we remained friends and his band played at my 23rd birthday party. He lived with me for a month or so after my dad died in 2008, while he was seperating from his wife. He gave me his oil paints when he moved out, as I'd been painting that month.
In 2010, he invited me to be a roommate in his house. I was living with my mom at the time, doing very little with my life, sort of studying spirituality and self-knowledge. The invitation came at a good time and I decided to accept it during a mushroom trip in my mom's backyard.
I lived there with him in NE Portland near MLK Boulevard for a little less than two years. It was a pretty good time in my life, having new experiences, becoming more independent, though lacking clear purpose in myself. I waited tables and went to yoga classes. I walked to Alberta Street and I sat in the parks. I finally moved out because I was running a monetary deficit and I had some strange notion that maybe I was meant to be a station-wagon gypsy.
I didn't get my security deposit when I moved out because the new roommate didn't have the money. So I was supposed to wait for it. Anyway, no surprise, the money never came. By the time I got around to making a fuss about it, the new roommate had caught a chair on fire in his room, and since moved out. So I definitely was not going to get any money. What upset me was not just the money, but that James wouldn't admit any responsibility for the situation, even though the new roommate was his friend, and not mine.
So I didn't talk to James for a long time, over two years. While I knew he was like my brother, I felt I had been disrespected. Neither of us reached out. At one point, somewhat recently, I had a dream where James was there and told me I was a beautiful person. The feeling of the dream was powerful enough to nullify whatever bad blood was there. Still I had not had any contact with him.
Once I recognized him coming up the stairs, as I was going down, he said to me: "I'm sorry I've been an asshole. You'll always be my friend." "I'm not easy to be friends with" he added.
"Neither am I. That's just the way it goes sometimes."
"Yeah I guess so" he said.
We hugged awkwardly on the stairs and said we'd have a beer sometime.
No comments:
Post a Comment