Scratching

Kelly just showed me this clip of Mike Realm video scratching along with the sounds; he has some pretty sick skills:

The Full Moon of August

I watched Michael Phelps, champion swim racer, pull his way to a seventh gold medal in the 2008 Olympics in Beijing while competing in the individual swim medley. I could barely count or see his strokes, he was moving so fast, and when he pushed off of the pools walls he gained momentum that bounded him ahead setting another world record.

* * *
"There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music." George Eliot

My friend Dave called me and invited me over for a beer, so I dropped into Heaven Gallery (1550 N. Milwaukee). Inside the second gallery space were rows of chairs occupied by patient music lovers facing a cello , a violin, some kind of big xylophone, some microphones and a piano, all in front of the window that faces Milwaukee Ave.

As the musicians tuned their strings in a low cacophony and the audience murmured, I found a place to sit out of the way. The windows were closed and the room became quiet. and the first strings of the performance began with a violin and cello duo called Wild & Wulliman. Their first piece was called Amore Scaduto. Although I had straggled into the performance with an exhausted frame of mind, they commanded my attention from the opening notes. Picture your heart being played like the pulls of a bow to a string, the tension and release of the sound reflecting notes that move your emotions in ways that you can't even being to understand. I soon got lost in the music and began to realize different layers of complexity to all that had been on my mind.

I closed my eyes, and the musicians introduced themselves. The next song was titled Pastor Hick's Farewell, and was sung by the soprano voice of a woman named Mary Bonhag, accompanied by Evan Premo on the double bass. It's lyrics spoke of the ebbing of love like an ocean tide, and it took all of my will to contain my tears. The low strings are the ones that got me, rustling loose grave emotions that seemed to have settled inside me, lightening them up.

I was so happy to have dropped in. Music is the best thing for loosening tension and unwinding abstract notes... when words can't express all of the complexities that color our experiences, these chords and harmonies can.

Bahai Bike Pilgrimage

I woke up feeling like a tighly coiled rope, my muscles stiff and uncomfortable beneath my skin. It had been a night of restless energy and angst filled sleep. I dreamed of gravity and pressure, of forces pressing in on me like the weight of being under a hundred meters of ocean water. I walked over to my neighborhood coffee shop to start my day as I usually do but with a long stone cold stricken expression, the kind of look that makes people avert their eyes when they see you. My phone rang. It was my bicycle friend.

"How do you feel about riding up to the Bahai Temple? I'm thinking about going up there today. Need some spiritual healing."

"I'm down," I answered immediately, didn't have to think twice. "I think that's just what I need on a day like today. We'll be bike pilgrims." I had been there before, rode the 16 miles during a late night trip with a group of midnight riders about 2 years ago this month. When I walked through its winding gardens under a glowing full moon, I knew I had to one day return to see the grounds on a sunny day. How strange to be compelled back during this moment, and how absolutely necessary too.

After taking care of some business I set myself to cleaning off the drive train on my bike, tuning it and filling it's tires with air. I packed my backpack with my lock, water jug, a dress and a towel, then stepped into my flip flops once again and rolled over to meet my friend.

The ride up to Wilmette began during the hottest part of the day, but once we started heading north on Halsted the cool breeze of the lake kept the sun from being too exhausting. Riding in the busy streets of a highly trafficked city requires absolute, intense concentration so it seemed like most of the time was passed focusing on just surviving in the bike lane. As the miles slipped by in quick succession, I began to feel the exhilaration of my bicycle's movement. It was like I was shedding the hard exoskeleton of despondency. Compressed into the low crouch of the pursuit position, I focused on the rhythm of my breathing. Before long we reached stretches of smooth road, and a song burst forth from my lungs. It was Sam Cooke's "It's Been a Long Time Coming".

At the end of Lake Shore Drive we got kind of lost in a winding path. Our route was influenced by avoiding certain high traffic intersections, detours past streets under construction. When I found myself cycling on a narrow sidewalk lined on both sides with construction fencing, with several large patches strewn together with plywood I started to worry that we were on the wrong path. I felt myself becoming more agitated, especially when I found myself pedaling on top of random piles of sand and puddles on what was becoming increasingly bombed out streets.

"Don't worry, look up!" said my friend, and just when I was about to start looking for a way off of that path, I saw the top of the dome of the temple.


My skin was covered in sweat and felt something like the outside of an airplane after a transcontinental journey. I soaked my towel in water and wiped the salt off of my face and cooled off until my heart stopped racing, before putting on a dress so I wouldn't be striding into this holy building looking like I had just stepped out of the gym.

This is the threshold of this temple. It holds to many of the forms of ancient temple building, including making the journey towards the inside of the sacred space through several spatial stages with its winding gardens.

Here is the view from the top of the stairs:

* * *

Inside, I breathed in the beauty of the architecture and watched the light filter through the windows. I read some of the mystic writings of the founder of the Bahai faith, who was said to have been a divine messenger. This religion is founded upon the principle of the oneness of humankind, espouses equality between men and women, harmony between science and religion, the abolition of the extremes of wealth and poverty, and a focus on universal acceptance.

Here is the most famous of the Bahai faith's sacred texts:
The Seven Valley and the Four Valleys

* * *

One of the things I prayed about was the guidance to find the right path, which makes the entire return trip kind of ironic in retrospect. After a long contemplative walk around the gardens, I was ready to leave. I was not thrilled about going down the same dangerous path that took me to the temple, and felt compelled to stay close to the lakefront. First we crossed this river, and Jimmy Cliff's "Many Rivers To Cross" went through my head.


My traveling companion did not exactly share this decision, and wanted to bike through the city in the interest of getting home quickly. We parted ways unintentionally within the first few miles when we got separated, so the rest of the way home I rode alone. It was just as well, as I was becoming fatigued and the rest of the trip was a focused sprint that took the rest of the energy I had. By now my lungs felt wrung ragged, and about to burst which replaced the dreadful hollow feeling that had been in my chest all week plaguing me. As my muscles burned mile after mile, my chest felt strangely enough as though there was an owl getting ready to explode out of it and take flight. I day dreamed about how nice it would feel to shower and put on some comfortable pants as I kept moving forward. Here is the view of the city from the beginning of the bike path and the last place I saw my bike friend:


It was beautiful, but the view just spoke of how far I had to go. I put my head down and pedalled.

My mind went on auto pilot and I quickly regretted not having any energy bars on hand. I did this whole 35 mile trip fueled with one banana and a quarter of a mango. I have been fasting since the weekend, and this made the journey that much more surreal. The only sounds I registered were the industrial vibrations of machines and the sounds of birds. Voices, traffic and all other sounds were drowned out as I kept my pace. I was becoming more and more lightheaded and focused all of my mental energy on keeping an eye on my path and staying safe.

I rolled in and felt completely wiped out. As though I had rode all those miles on top all of the muscles in the front and back of my torso. I earned my sleep tonight and look forward to having better dreams.

I Hear the Gentle Voices Calling

This morning I hung out with my dad in his office while he prepared for another trip back to Cebu. Tomorrow will be the fourth time in 2 years that I'll be saying goodbye to him - my dad has become a solo wanderer now. He probably had always been one. The work that he is doing is the work of a lifetime, tying together the disparate ends of his life and reconciling things that were done by people who are already dead. He became the head of a divisive and contentious family upon the death of my aunt last year, and is returning there to resolve issues that were left in the wake of her passing away.

My dad had escaped the stifles of his family by studying hard and keeping his head down until he departed immediately upon finishing medical school. He lived on the other side of the world in Chicago for 30 years, until these obligations found him boarding the plane at O'Hare and reentering a world he chose to leave a long time ago. It appears to me that there seems to be some things that you just cannot escape, the biggest battles in life will find you and confront you until you've resolved them no matter how far you've gone to avoid them.

Between buzzing around mailing taxes, writing letters and organizing his paperwork, my dad dj'ed for us by playing his favorite music off of youtube. He was mostly just playing whatever he felt and would even change the song sometimes in the middle of the track. As I tried unsuccessfully to choke back the tears through each song, I realized that there is indeed a romantic and morbid streak that runs deep and wide through my family, a melancholic inclination that can only be soothed with hours long bouts of listening to haunting lilting melodies.

Some of these songs had been played for him on the piano by my grandmother. She was one of a few people in her town who owned a record player (in the Philippines, just after WWII) with which she bestowed this passion for music from all over the world and from every era onto my dad. Did she know she'd be unleashing a million dreams throughout many decades through the power of music? How could she not?

My Dad's Youtube Playlist:

Beautiful Dreamer - Roy Orbison
The Great Pretender - The Platters
Old Man River - Paul Robeson
Ave Maria- Hayley Westnora
Micaela's Aria - Gordana Jevtovic-Minov
Those Were The Days - Mary Hopkin
One More Walk Around the Garden - Sarah Brightman
Vincent - Josh Groban (my dad dedicated this to my brother Ramon)
Old Black Joe - Trapp Family
I Dream of Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair - Don Ameche
Beautiful Dreamer - Marilyn Horne
Once Upon A Time - Frank Sinatra
Malaguena - Lecuona
Damisela Encantadora - Lecuona

I've got to Raammbble!!

Yesterday I ambled past the Frenchmen snoring underfoot in my living room with nothing but a knapsack on my back and headed towards Midway by train after stopping at my friend's house for some quick bong hits. I got on the plane and thought of the drifters who have headed west before, people who have gone to the same place but by jumping trains. Decided that this trip would be a tribute to my literary heroes and the adventurers whose books I read as a kid that stoked the latent fires of wanderlust in my imagination.

When I think of Denver I think of Jack Kerouac... that was his first stop after Chicago in On the Road. He was in turn profoundly influenced by Jack London. Wanderers and hobo travelers heading west while getting more introspective with each mile gained, rambling on and on and on both in print and on foot.

"I've got to Raammmble!!" Led Zeppelin was playing in the bar Jen took me to after she scooped me from the pointed tented airport. We played air guitar solos and ordered shots of whiskey. They were kind enough to hook me up with a bmx bike to cruise around Denver in while I am here. We stopped at Jen's boyfriend Justin's bike shop on our way home and he hooked me up with a skateboard as well... traveling light and in style. Then we raged in typical Hurricane Jen style - she is as rambunctious as I have always known her to be, alternately endearing and terrifying all those around her.

We are heading to the skatepark this morning, but first I am going to the camera store so that these words can be illustrated. This evening we are heading south to stay at a cabin in the mountains.