Black Ribbons Part 4

There are distances we make for others. 

Spaces. 

Between looks. 

They are hard to cross. 

Hidden miles between drinks and conversations. I was lost out there as tea table lights faded into darker hours. 

My eyes - glassed. Not from exhaustion, or beer - this is still the first can half-drunk and warm from my inattention. Not from the haze of smoke. Or the music. 

Distance.

- Do you know how far we are?

"You are being quiet," she nudged my shoulder. 


"A Silent Texan right, Rene?" the table is looking at me, "Pistols at dawn? Cowboys?"

The girl from the alley laughed. Brushed the black ribbons on her wrist, watching for my answer. She'd brought me here to meet friends.

One of which was a wispy-blonde, art student in a red tank top asking me questions about Texas. And conservatives. And cowboys.

"Y'all love your guns."

- How far we are. 

He was wanting to argue.

"No man we don't all have guns." And that's true. Mostly. We don't all carry. I wasn't going to tell him that I didn't know a lot of people who did. That they made me uncomfortable. Just that we all don't. 


"Ride your pony to school?" he laughed.

"No man."

"I just can't understand it cowboy..." He leaned over his drink. Coming just into the light of the candle so the fine blonde hair on his chin glimmered faintly.

He was ready to for a show. He was mad. And needed a way to express it. So he doesn't the night looking for an argument. To make a stand for a hero agains his anger. But he needed a straw dog.  An emblem for everything he thought was wrong in the world. For him, it was a gun owner. A Texan. And though I don't own one I was a Texan and that is close enough sometimes. 

His speech ran. I waited. Feeling my Lone Star getting warmer. And wondering if this would have gone a different way had I not ordered it. If I had ordered a Guinness instead. Or a craft micro-brew... would I be having a direct night then? 

He wanted me to argue back, but I only nodded and gave several sighs that ranged from "I know," to "I know right?" 

Cause for the most part I agreed with him. 

Distances. It's always hard to see how far we are...

"See cowboy," he showed me his wrist.

I wanted to tell him, I'm just not that person. Not that cowboy. I think he's right. But I listened.

Black Ribbons

Him and her. All their friends too. Made them into bracelets or armbands or on a necklace. 

Black Ribbons.

Each one a student lost in the last year. Each one a gun shot fired in some school.

They broke my heart. And I loved them for making a statement for trying to say something. And I loved them for having so much love in their hearts that they would give me a lecture on guns. 

Cause they were angry. Cause they believed change is possible. And something should be done. But the young can only do so much. And they didn't want to forget, and they don't want to sit by,  so they wore black ribbons and talk. And argue. And participate.

- Maybe the distance grew a little smaller.

The waitress came around and everyone ordered again, I did too.

Even though I knew I wasn't going to drink the next. Like I didn't drink the first.

Cause some people need to talk. People need to tell their story. Not about politics. Or policies. But people. Hurt people. Angry people. Scared people. Tired people. They all have stories. Even when we agree. We need to listen. 

I don't pretend to have answers. 

This took place well before the Orlando Shooting or Dallas. They were talking about campus shootings. But this happened right as I was revisiting this memory. And it hurts worse now. That distance. One I didn't want to cross... shrank again. 

And I still feel the same, but I think I need to clarify something about my thoughts. 

We need to do something. Action should be taken. But our dialogue devolves so quickly that it becomes near impossible to discuss how to change. There is anger and name calling, and politicizing and all the worst things that stop us until we quit and move on, waiting for another attack to stir everything up again.

Listen. Sympathize. Love. It is not easy to close distance. No matter how small. It is not easy to open ourselves to our own faults. Cause that's what it will take. Not proving what we feel is right but admitting what learn is wrong. 


-rene


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mood: 

Miles Davis - So What

Black Ribbons Pt 3

-Rene

It was the alley after the show.
Moon rising to midnight over clouds, and the heavy, wet air swimming into my lungs. I feel like it might rain.

-Where are you going?

To the left was main street. The lights of the club front. People wandering from bar to bar and an occasional swoosh of tires against the road. 

And to right. A parking garage standing in concrete darkness. And the sounds of words disappearing.

-Nowhere to go. 
Knowing the places I don't want to be.
Knowing the places I'd rather be.
And to be here
with no where to go

Thinking to myself as a streak of sweat fell down from my forehead off my left eyebrow down into my tear duct. I can still remember the sting of the salt.

"What are you doing out here?" her voice softly groaned, letting her chords relax, frying in her loose shake.

- I hadn't seen her there...

 a door across the alley...

Or had I? 

She was leaning. Though I couldn't see, her bare back to the wall messing with her nails. Hair cut short and jet black. Like her leggings. Like her boots. Like her over-sized jacket wrapped around her waist.

"Well?" she insisted slowly.

"Just getting air." 

One step at a time I left the back door of the club. Feeling a slight breeze run over me. Night. 

"What are you doing out here?"

"Waiting."

And I could feel the sweat on my forehead again. And the cold chill of my shirt wet around from my neck down my chest. 

Shows are a sweaty. Tonight more so. The club had decided to bake me under the front lights. 

Red and Blue. Heat.

She jumped out into the street, "I thought you were pretty good... considering."

I laughed, "considering." 

"I usually don't..." shifting left and right, "it's not my kinda music. Plus they had your vocals way too low." She smiled and started to fidget with a bracelet on her left hand.

"Happens I guess. Maybe next time."

and I saw her bracelet. Black Ribbons. Fringed.

She started walking to the parking lot. "There's a party later tonight."

Of all these places,

where you'd rather be

where you wouldn't

there really is only the place you are

and the places you are going

-rene


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mood: 

A Quick One

Hey everybody

What a week... 

Mixing up a little bit of everything, storms, sickness, work, and a whole lot of planning.

of course writing and rewriting. (a little more than half way through my 2nd full novel idea and that comes in goes in terms of my creativity for it. this week I did get a wave of inspiration about it so yeah!)

Everything is about planning. 

The guys and I in the middle of creating a brand new show. And though I don't have a lot of specifics to share, I can say it'll be something like I have never done before. And that's really exciting. I feel motivated. I feel creative. And ready to share everything we have been working on with the world.

endless possibilities

till next time. when I will  pick up this tour story. that's intertwining some of these disparate characters with a larger story. ended up taking more time than I thought. and a new The Weekend Playlist... wooo. also hopefully start this podcast I've been dreaming about.

ok

much love

-rene

ps. as always like, share, subscribe and if you want to talk you can reach me on this blog, youtube, facebook and twitter

mood: 

Black Ribbons pt 2

The next twenty minuets found me standing outside the motel. Making a few calls on the phone down my list: Dad, Girlfriend, friends back home, and finally any thing I was missing for work.

I was in the middle of texting my girlfriend, about what she did last night when the driver pulled up. 

"Ruh-ne?" he yelled out his passenger window phonetically stretching my name out to it's recognizable limits. 

When I grabbed my case, he popped the trunk and pointed his thumb, before tapping the Bluetooth connected to his ear.

He was mid-way through a sentence when he turned around quickly and asked, "The Metro?" 

"Yeah," 

And he was back on the phone, as we took off.

"I'm just tired of it man. She thinks..." he paused for a minute, listening to the other person as we wove through the city, "Yeah, yeah. The sh** she thinks she can just take from me. Take. Take. Take. All she's ever f*in done."

We hit a red light. And I tried looking out the window, block after block of tinted windows, banks, law firms, basically 'Nothing to look at,' I sighed. 

I didn't want to listen, but there wasn't much else going on.

"Ok, Ok, but listen to this remember last Christmas? We did a whole cross promotion thing, and I'm set up for the interview and she's gone man. I mean vanished from the building...

"Yeah... and it's not a big deal, I'm thinking, they need this done... exactly, let's get this over with.

He turns the corner slowly and we hit another batch of traffic. I'm waiting for a text from Rachel 

- you won't believe this car ride I'm on babe.

"So I do the interview they give me gift bags to give to the team. And they give me this extra camera like one big bonus for doing the interview. Yeah, so later I give everybody their bags and don't think anything of it until like 8 months later...

The car comes to a sudden halt. And the guy turns around still talking to his friend and points up ahead at the line of cars and mouths "2 more blocks"  as his friend is talking "almost."

"Then guess what? She's on about the camera after a meeting... She says, she deserved the camera. And I'm just thinking, what the hell are you talking about? You are serious about a stupid digital camera... Yeah don't you have a phone that can do all this? Just real dumb stuff like that all the time.

"And, and, and," he stumbles, "the real thing is, I don't care about the camera. It's not like I stole it from her. Just, yeah it never even registered that this would be a thing. You know... This?"

We creep up for two more agonizing blocks. As he goes on and on about this fight he is having with a co-worker. Though I eventually learn somewhere just past the start of the 2nd block, that they were more than co-workers.

It's a mercy when he finally sets the car in park.

I pay him. And he doesn't look at me. 

I start walking away from the car towards the venue when I remember the bass is in the truck. And for a second I start to run back, but I see him there. Still yelling about his fight to his friend. 

I tap on his window, "I forgot," I didn't even finish the line while I'm pointing to the trunk. 

And the driver gets startled. I don't know if he didn't recognize me or maybe it was too unexpected. 

Little things. 

Unaware.

So many problems come from little things.

to be cont.

-rene


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mood: 

Dave Brubeck Quartet - St Louis Blues- Belgium 1964

Black Ribbons

White. A single wooden side table held a heavily used coffee maker, and a few pamphlets. The only things on the wall to break up this ocean of white: a red plastic clock and a pastel work of wild flowers framed in a dull gold. 

At the front desk, unaware or uncaring about my presence, a slumped young redhead played on the computer laughing to herself.

I was at least hoping for a place to sit. 

I set my bass down at my feet. Checked my phone for a text. 

the driver: 20 mins

Maybe I should go back to my room... Is that enough time for a nap? For a good moment, I was in another zone. Waiting. Looking at the clock on my phone trying to decide what I should do.

When her voice cut through the quiet-empty, "you in a band?" The desk girl was pointing down at my case.

"Yeah..."

"I was in a band for a bit," she shrugged, "guitar... We fought a lot... Didn't like it."

"I...ugh, well" I hadn't really expected her to say that and it left me stuttering awkwardly, "it can be tough sometimes I guess."

"Tell me," she said. And leaned deep over the counter pulling out a pair of scissors from behind the monitor. She kept her eyes on me. Reaching under her desk, and pulling out a spool of black ribbon.

I laughed, "tell you what?"

She held the spool between her legs, and opened out a piece about the size of a forearm and snipped, "how tough is it for you?"

"It can be like any job I guess," I started.

She raised her eyebrows. Pulled out another piece. 

Snip.

"There are bad days."

Pull. Snip.

"But I wouldn't..."

Pull.

"What are you doing?"

Snip.

She smiled, "Just a project I'm working on. Go on."

"I can't really imagine doing anything else," I finished. 

Watching her continue to cut the ribbons. And lay the strips of black across her desk. One after another. 

One a little shorter. The next longer.

She told me about her band. About how she was always butting heads with the drummer. And how she thought it was all connected to some incident involving Tiffany from Middle School that neither was supposed to talk to, and a back seat of the mini-van. And though it never got heated and they never fought, the practices became fewer and fewer. Their chemistry was colder. 

And one day,

"...she just didn't call anymore. And that was it. Like I still see her," she put down the scissors on to her pile of black ribbons, and stared me straight in the eyes, "we even saw a movie together not too long ago but... we don't even talk about it. The band I mean. Just... it was done."

the driver: hit traffic. another 20 mins.

"Tough," and wondering if there was still time for a nap.

to be cont.

-rene


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mood:

Reflections from a Hotel Balcony...

What will I do from here? 

The question circled along with my finger around the edge of the railing. Cold steel. 11 stories up in middle of the city at dusk. 

In the air were sounds of cars going by. The quiet murmur of people. Bits of yelling. Laughter.

Lives unknown. 

Conversations of wind.

And what do they do? Geniuses? Freaks? Dreamers? Builders? Destroyers? The violence and love hidden away inside the small distant undefined lines that are the faces, costumes, people.

A strong wind came in, and I turned my neck left and right. And  that now familiar pain moved from the base of my neck down. Spread over my shoulder towards my elbow, and finally landing at  my left hand. 

What will I do from here? 

My eye caught a glimpse of orange. It flashed under a street light and fell into darkness. Than again under the next light. 

A woman? A hat maybe? She stopped for a moment under a third post.

Her dress white. She was small. Brunette. And that was as much as I could tell. She was another distant thing. 

A I say a thing, because I can know nothing at all of her. Her life is too big to fit in so small a frame. That I saw her and thought she was like summer. That she could be anything. Tells you nothing of who she really is. And as I wondered, it came to me. 

For her, I was a distant thing too.

11 stories up. A man. Small. On a balcony. A visitor no doubt... but a musician? a writer? for all she knew a doctor or politician? 

And she saw no pain in the shoulder. No questions of myself.

No strange thoughts that would keep me up till 4 am writing in a notebook. 

Melodies of dreams she could never know about. What do I seem to her? What would she call me? Her. Who could also be anything. A doctor. A dancer. A fortune teller. A politician. A business woman. She might be the one with an answer.

So I asked - What will I do from here?

For a moment more, she stood in the light. And from out of my building, two more ladies came out to the street. They waved to each other. Saying hello. Hugs. And off down the street. Moving from lamp to darkness to lamp along the sidewalk.

A strong wind came in. Carrying the sounds of cars, a siren, and the noise of people. Maybe an answer in there too. But I couldn't tell. I am too small a thing.

-rene

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mood (Pathetique) Sonata No. 8 Op. 13 II. Adagio cantabile:

From Here

"It's done..." 

It was hard to hear exactly the words he said. Kept his head hunched down under his shoulder, under the music of the bar, under the people next to us, the drinks, ordering, yelling, laughing. The club was heavy with sound. Just a thick cloud of sensory over-load surrounded the two of us, so his Bogart-esque comments were less dramatic than they could've been. But I heard one thing, "it's done."

And I shook my head. Not to deny him, but just cause that's all I had. All I could give. Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes things are too big to hold much less comment on. And sometimes I get tired of retreading. 'We've been here before. This face. This voice. This argument. I've been here in Denver. In Nashville. I've seen it in Brooklyn and Toronto. I've fought this down the P.C.H. And back through the south, Albuquerque, El Paso, Dallas, Little Rock. So here in a small bar in Indianapolis. I'm not surprised.

He turned away. His head hovering over his half-drank pint. 

You can know something is true with out understanding why. 

"Alright." 

Might be the last word I said before turning towards the merch table. 

I slid behind the table and sat on a tub of t-shirts, watching people pass. Watching the main band play. 

Phillip, the dude working the merch for the other two bands, was on a break. He was older, professional, and always on top of his job, but left whenever he had half a chance.

I was lost there alone, with no thought for a few moments until the band hit a song right in the middle of the set. A pick up from the song before, and the local lighting girl took it as a cue to try some things out.

And just as the bass came in to the song, there was a flash of red. Then blue. Then red. Swiping left and right. Pulses of white from the back of the stage coming at me with the beat of the drum. Flash. Flash. Flash.

I saw the face that spread continents and time. Haunting the spaces between flashes. Between the red and the blue.

White. Cut in shadow by hard lines. Red. Eyes hooded. Blue. Across both sides of his nose. Black. A thin top lip. White. The beard. Red. Staring cold. Blue. The finality of disappointment.  The white flashes.

"Somethings you can't come back from." 

Seemed like a voice from out of time. From another place. 

"They go and go. Hiding behind you. Following close but always out of reach. They won't come back. It's done."

"And if I want to go?"

His lips immobile, but the words were there, "You can't. You can't be the same and leave it behind."

And then I knew, from a thought that was not my own, the words came to me. 

"The I can't be the same. I must change with everything else. I'm not the same. From here. I am new."

-rene

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mood RIP Prince: 

Dogs Pt III

Montreal was quiet. Sunlight poured low and soft. Broken rays across the last few streets as I made my way back to the club. Two more lights, then a left, then over the hill... 

I think...

Seemed like a lot of places were closed. Bars shut over windows and plexi-doors with heavy pad locks. Some things looked familiar, a rooftop, a statue, a falafel shack. But they seemed off, or I was off? Time's I'd like to have my phone. 

I raced across a do not walk before a line of cars, 'I'm usually good about remembering my way,' I'm thinking as I turn behind a grocers into an alley where I came across a group of windows. A row of apartments tucked behind the store front. 

And at the end, about a block down, I can see the sunlight again cutting over a patch of green.

'I've passed thru a park coming over,' I'm trying to assure myself, but there's this little ball of nervousness that I'm lost, 'Has to be the same one.'

I'm about to pick up my pace, when a sound caught me. A crack. Like the split of a tree branch. Something heavy bearing out splinters. I quickly saw in my mind pieces of a branch tearing apart. The crack bounced out over my head down the open air of the alley.

Then a scream. 

A man. Deep voiced and French above my head. I looked around me. Empty. The alley was still. Until I saw an open window on the third floor behind me. 

A black half-window curtain slipped in and out of the alley. 

And the sound of cracking came back. Splintering.

I froze. The window and the curtain gently threw out his shouting. And then the worst sound. Two whacks and the screech of an animal. A high frightened cry of mortal fear. Of weakness and pain. A yelp. And another whack. 

The yelp is nearly imperceptible under this yelling. There are some things that need no translation. Anger is one. Fear is another.

And I'm frozen in this alley. Listening. Phone-less. Useless. A cold witness. And something is desperate in my throat, but the only thing I can think, "Hey!"

Another crack.

"Hey!" I tried louder.

Crack. Crack.

"Hey!"

Then silence.

He appeared head first. Bald. Built like ugly, mustache-less version of Tom Hardy in Bronson. Massive and evil.

"F**k you want?!?" He called down, pointing out a large chunk of wood that looked like a table leg right at me. 

"What's going on?" I answered.

"What?" He said something else I couldn't understand before cocking his head, "F**k off. F**k off right now..." 

And we were still. In a deadlock. 

And I just about ran out of ideas. I could see his anger grow, a nostril flared, a wider eye. And just before he could say anything, another window opened, and an older lady started yelling across the way in French. 

Pointing at him. At me. 

She was vicious. Blue hair. Translucent white skin. And vicious.

Bronson yelled back and the old lady held out a corded phone yelling even more. Then she pointed back at me, and asked something. Tone doesn't need translating either, it was a question. But I missed it. 

"I dunno," I answered.

The old woman brushed me off and went back to yelling at the big guy. 

"No, NO," the bald man yelled back to her, "No."

But by then another neighbor had come out, an older man in his forties put his hand on my shoulder. He was thin, olive skinned. He shook his head and pointed up to the bald man, whispering in French. 

"I don't know man,"

"American?" he asked kindly.

"I've got to go," I said and threw my thumb back to the park.

Slowly walked away towards the end of the alley, and the falling sunset. As the thin man said something behind me. And I left the yelling of the old woman and the bald man. Left with this knot in my soul. But a feeling stayed. Emptiness is not a thing to easily shake. It stays. Like the sound of a crack. Like the sound of a terrified animal whimpering. Like the fear of being nothing but a curtain blowing out into the alley. 

-rene

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Dogs Pt. II

I finally ran out of money on the jukebox and went back to the counter. The bartender had disappeared off somewhere, and I sat humming along to Chet Baker, watching the street. Thinking, the faces here are so different.  

Nice people, at least the one's I've met, but they look so different, and I don't just meant the lack of Mexicans. I mean the people carry differently, they walk differently. Small things that make me miss home. The yard. The family. Notes that burst. A snare cracked down my consciousness. Buried in the slinky bass lines. The loss. And wishing I could be there. Thinking of Lucy buried in the yard. 

"Hey Jesus," I hear called out from down the bar. A big voice from a big man. 

I don't answer. And drink again. 

"Hey Jesus!" he yells a little louder.

I'm not going to answer. Trying not to show that I'm laughing a little cause Abe is the one who is usually called Jesus. Some guy thinks he's being hilarious, gonna try and yell out to me cause I have a beard and longer, dark hair. And even if he doesn't mean anything malicious, though they usually do, it is so annoying. Best to wait it out.

But he stands up. Grabs his pint and starts walking my way, stuttering a "Hey, hey, hey," with every step he gets closer. Until he puts his big hand, palm down on the bar next to my drink. And his hands a rough, and his rings are dirty gold, and his knuckles flat as Nebraska. "Hey Jesus."

And he's breathing now. Hard. He's got a wheeze, that sends a shiver down my spine. And I'm looking at his fingers. The dirt under his short cracked nails. Jesus.

"I don't think I know you..."

"Probably not," I answered calmly. He said nothing, "I'm just passing,"

"American?"

"...Thru."

"Well Jesus," he put a hand on my back and smiled, "You've got good taste." He threw his head back towards the jukebox. "Love Baker... Let me buy you one?"

"I really need to head back,"

"Come on Jesus."

"Nah, nah thanks but I," my mind stopped I had no excuse. "Gonna go." I put down a 20, and went out towards the street. The evening was late. And the air was cool. I took a breath and started walking back to the bus.

-rene

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Lucy, Dogs and Canada

"You shouldn't go," she laughed, "what is there for you out there?" She had an accent, a deep French-Canadian seriousness, that made everything she said feel like I'm back in high school talking to a teacher.

"I don't know."

"No, stay for another," she said already filling another tumbler with ice, "I wanna know about you."

"I," instinctively I went to grab my phone before remembering it was back on the bus, with the battery taken out, the way I usually travel when I cross the border. But that also means I don't have a clock and I have no idea how much time is left until the show, "alright," I conceded. 

The sun was still out... I should still have time.

She set the drink in front of me, put her elbows on the counter around it and leaned in. Settling closer to talk. 

That was when I noticed how long her fore-arms are. I mean she was tall. And big, so maybe it stood out more to me, but I remember her arms looked like two of my arms. Still everything about her seemed gentle and friendly. 

"Do you want to see my baby?" she asked as I was mid-drink.

And before I could answer she was scrolling through her phone showing me pictures of a small dog. I'm not one for knowing breeds, but it had that grey-short curled hair all over it, small face. She had a photo of the dog tucked in between her arm and all I could see was the end of his little face. 

"Do you?" she asked.

"My wife does. She's more the animal one," I answered.

She raised those pencil thin sculpted eyebrows with a look like, 'Well?'

"Ah, yeah, no photos on me. She has... I forget what its called."


The bartender made a stern face.

"The breed I mean. Looks like a little jumpy fox. Jack."

"A Sheltie?"

"Sounds right," and it does, I think Jack is a Sheltie, "The other was a hound dog, Lucy, she passed away, not too long ago."

"Oh," she sighed and looked like she was genuinely hurt by the news.


She reached behind the counter and pulled out a ten. I know cause it's the purple one. "Make some choices," she pointed to the jukebox, "Music man."

I hate this game. I was never good at choosing music for other people. But I agreed and smiled took the bill and began searching for anything 50's. Elvis, The Imperials, Everly's, The Champs, trying to burn through this. 

And I was picking the songs, I cracked the knuckles on my left hand, tucking my thumb right underneath my wedding ring. Right where my hand has a callous from wearing the ring and playing bass.

But a few weeks before I left on this tour my whole hand was busted. When Lucy passed we buried her in the yard, but everything in South Texas is hard Limestone.

The shovels, the long metal pick, just strike after strike of cutting the rock back. Little pieces falling off at a time. Taking the earth out in handfuls. I don't know why we didn't have gloves. 

Soon my hands were filling up with blisters, and that metallic sting just kept spreading along my hands as we carved out a spot for Lucy. 

Oh Lucy. "Got to make sure it's deep enough, she's a pretty big girl..." my father in law said.

"... and the width. Do you think it's too narrow?"

I stepped across the hole. "Looks pretty good. Maybe a couple more inches down."

And we went back to it. My Father in-law, was talking stories of Lucy and when they got her, and how crazy she was, and how sweet she was, and how she loved to lay on her belly, and how she would squeal as if she was telling you how good she felt. All as we kept pulling out more and more rocks.

"Music man?" the bartender called me.

"hmm?"

"Did you pick?"

"Just a few more." I took another drink feeling the glass against my hand. "Almost done."

-rene

ps. as always like, share, subscribe and if you want to talk you can reach me on this blog, youtube, facebook and twitter,