America's Military Industrial Complex

Often I write about the demand of submission.  The town currently in which I live often demands this submission.   Figuratively I have written about this submission without specifically explaining what it is.  Submission?  The action or fact of accepting or yielding to a superior force or to the will or authority of another person.  Today only a few minutes ago I was forced into submission by my mother.    I was emasculated, because evidently I failed to complete two tasks only which had been agreed upon less then twenty-four hours ago.  I had not had time to assimilate these tasks into my daily routine.  I did know that the neglect of these two tasks severely would cause my mother acute emotional distress.  I was rushed preparing dinner last evening and mistakenly left a few green onion stems in our slop bucket on the kitchen countertop.  This is a grievous offense, and I knew it at the time.  I was in a rush, because friends were picking me up for a social outing in less than one hour.  Mistakenly I failed to comply to this newly agreed upon protocol.  One must empty the slop bucket directly after filling it.  The slop bucket now unbeknownst to me has become only a temporary vessel for the displacement of food scraps whilst cooking.  It used to be my mother would empty her own bucket, so never before was I taught the lesson that food spoils easily in ninety degree heat and stinks up the kitchen.  I learned it tonight.  Also I took the fall for this spoiled food making its way into our large, green, plastic city-supplied garbage can.  Also it stank to high heaven.  Because I was high on wine last night, these issues avoided my attention.  Be assured that they were made my primary focus upon my mother's now discovered need to prepare her own dinner.  The combination was volatile.  A lack of the necessary evening meal combined with the stink of rotted food inside and outside made for a surly exchange of priorities.  It was not fun.  I was forced into submission.  I was emasculated by my mother.  While she will not admit it, the message was, "You had your social outing, and you have ignored me."  Message received loud and clear.  This is why I do not partake in evening social outings.  I stay at home.  The only social outings I do engage in are with my mother.  They are hers, and they are for her.  I do not enjoy them.  People do not know how to relate to a grown single man accompanying a matriarch.  When I step away it becomes easy, but I cannot.  Women are women, and like Donald Trump would assert, they at times are irrational.  Former Subway spokespeople enjoy child pornography and having sex with minors.  In the current Condition of America, we simply are defined by a mockingly ignorant, "He said, she said."  Our feeble gray matter can't assemble a conclusion, because we have no opinions upon which to draw.  Everything is okay.  I'm okay, you're okay, but we're not.  It is not okay for everything to be okay.  We are conditioned to say everything is okay, because it lessens the anxiety of contesting to the accumulation of wealth by America's and thus the world's oligarchy.  We are conditioned by eating mislabeled food, drinking poisoned water, being irradiated by microwaves, given cancer, and told to sit down and shut up.  Our submission is demanded.  Think not for one second that we are free in America.  We are not.  Other than my submission being demanded by my emotionally frustrated, malnourished, sarcastic mother, my submission is demanded by the world's largest military machine at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.  This is not a delusion.  The upkeep of the world's most capable fighting force is no walk in the park, especially when the 82nd Airborne is involved.  How you may ask is my submission demanded?  My submission is demanded by my urban environment's deluge with refuse from a military industrial complex.  Fayetteville after all is a military industrial complex.  It encompasses the nation's largest military base, and it encompasses industry.  We as citizens of Fayettenam live in the refuse of this complex, and the bulk of this refuse is elusive, invisible, harmless infrasound.  [sic] Reference Vladimir Gavreau.  This is not a delusion, but like the majority of corrupt evil things in America, it is spun.  Ashton Carter.  Did you know this man is the current Secretary of State in the Obama Administration?  I did not.  I had to Google it.  There has been no news about this man and his position, just like there is no news about any issues that deserve review by the American populace.  Newspeak doesn't work that way.  In l984 the real news was reported, and Big Brother changed it to suit his political motives.  This is what we have in America today, and it is frightening.  I was emasculated for not having washed out the slop bucket and garbage can leaving the smell of spoiled food inside and outside our meager middle-classed home.  Daily my submission and subsequent emasculation is required to believe the lies that circulate around me in the media.  Daily my submission and subsequent emasculation is required to ignore the raging war machine less than ten miles from our meager middle-classed home.  The earth shakes, the windows rattle, the aircraft strafe, and the two-mile-long war trains are assembled leaving my emotions confused and upset.  While the pro-military propaganda is rife, if you choose to ignore the fighting military presence subconsciously it begins to rage against you.  In other American cities mysterious daunting aircraft do not fly above the treeline between Fayetteville Regional Airport and Pope Field.  I have yet to discover the nature of each T-tailed, turbo-prop and jet, with an American flag painted on their tail.  I assume it is one of the forty odd Generals employed at Ft. Bragg going out for coffee.  I don't know which is worse, this never ending, paranoid, military machismo, or the corruption of our local medical establishment.  It is common knowledge that Ft. Bragg with its fifty-two thousand soldiers is ripe for the picking of local connoisseur professional people.  We have an ever-expanding Cape Fear Valley conglomerate which overprescribes, bilks, and kills local residents each year.  I know this because my aunt is a nurse in an area that has empathetic and professional health care.  They are not only concerned with the dollar as they seem to be here.  It is a shite state of affairs.  As I roam through the stores of Fayetteville I only can tell myself I am in a horrible dream and that these aging people never could allow a stranger to exist.  This is what capitalism is.  It is every man for himself.  Fuck your neighbor.  Never have I agreed with it, and at no other point in time in American history has our chosen socioeconomic system failed so drastically.  It has.  Capitalism has failed.  We no longer are free, and there only is anarchy to come.  America long is overdue for a revolution.  

Professor Emeriti

I'm not sure why I am getting angry.  I don't get angry very often.  I got angry yesterday, and I know why.  I have become a laid back person.  It is easier by far.  The American South, with its newly discovered Confederacy Predicament, still in the year 2015 demands your submission.  The neighborhood in which I live demands my submission frequently.  This week was one requiring my submission.  Emotionally and psychologically what I am doing is not supported.  I feel antagonized.  I have discovered that my musical interests wholly are not supported.  This notion is reinforced each and every time I post a music video of my own creation.  I am using the term "music video" loosely.  What I really mean is a poorly shot video of me playing musical instruments.  It varies from  Hammond organ, to jazz trumpet, to contemporarily classical piano.  When I write about my other interests including cooking and landscaping, people are interested and intrigued.  I guess they can connect.  When I post music videos the ensuing animosity is palpable.  I will admit I do not make preparations.  Having been a professional musician a majority of my life, always I am prepared to perform music.  It is why you prepare.  Years of music study and practice can yield such a thing.  I know and can perform music well enough to be employable when there is opportunity.  Those opportunities are scarce where I am living.  Sour grapes. My interests are not supported, because there are few that are doing what I am doing.  People can't relate.  I have a flurry of Cowtown friends who do relate.  Most of them are professional musicians.  I follow their activities, because I have worked with most of them when I lived in Columbus.  I feel a tangible connection with each and every "Friend" I have on Facebook who are musicians.  Conversely I have one musician friend in Fayetteville.  Instead what I feel is cold and blatant animosity.  I feel this because Fayetteville is a small clique of old money socialites.  I have not made any attempt to make my musical presence known.  There is no point, because I have not made my personal presence known.  If I did, it would be of no consequence, because Fayetteville is a small clique of old money socialites.  When I moved back home to help my mother with our house, repeatedly she would tell me, "You can't start at the top."  Start at the top?  I have been playing piano professionally on ships since 2002.  By far it is the most challenging music job ever I have had.  My collegiate years of study in composition are what allowed me to excel at this job.  The piano music is so poorly arranged and copied, that one needs compositional skills to figure out what to play.  I excel at this.  Previously I completed all course work necessary for the completion of a Doctorate of Musical Arts in Music Composition at The Ohio State University.  While this never was "the top," I was not reliant upon society to dictate my musical success.  I was creative, prosperous, successful, and scholarly, all because this is what I desired.  I created my own musical reality, and one can do this in an academic environment.  It is its purpose.  Academia is a nurturing hypothetical place in which to prepare for real life.  Many are privileged enough to stay there the entirety of their careers.  It is a prized and coveted job being a college teacher.  Many are not good teachers at all.  Then there is this thing called the "Professor Emeritus."  Recently when I out of curiosity looked at the music faculty roster at The University of South Carolina, the professors with whom I interacted while working on a Masters Degree in Jazz and Commercial music now were labeled "Professor Emeritus."  They are pretty old, old enough to have retired from an active teaching load, but they still retained their professorly-like status.  Each name clearly still was on the faculty roster, although no longer were they employed to teach a full course load.  It must be like heaven.  Teaching college really is like heaven, but Professor Emeritus?  Holy @#$% Batman!  Thus begins my nonexistent loathing of the inequality of academia, and the inequality of the American South.  With the emerging presidential race and and the colorful hopeful Republican candidates, and the newly emerging Confederate Predicament as a result of racial unrest in America, clearly it has revealed itself to me that a small clique of old money socialites control the South.  I do not fit in, because I am an artist.  No one seems to get what I do, and if they did it would not be politically correct to support it.  I have not made my presence known.  In other words I have not "come out."  I have not put on my ball gown and paraded in front of other cliquish old money socialites in attempt to sell myself.  I couldn't give a shit.  I pursue music, because it is the vocation I chose.  I trained.  I studied.  I produce, and why in Donald Trump's hair would my status in any way be governed by a small-minded clique of old school money?  It is.  Fully I believe that these people may be capable of understanding art, but that ability by the nature of the American South is subordinate to society.  Art exists only because of society.  Excuse me?  In the height of the Classical Era the nobility was prudent enough to recognize, understand, and appreciate art.  Hence Nikolaus l, Prince Esterhazy employed Papa Haydn.  Fayetteville has Dr. Menno Pennink.  I have on a very small scale pondered the idea of making my musical presence known to the retired Dr. Pennink.  I am a worthy jazz pianist, and I remember they mentioned an interest in jazz music at a Capitol Room concert.  What's the point?  I have no interest in society.  Always since college I have fancied gaining a professorship in a New England music school donning a Harris Tweed jacket and smoking a pipe.  Still the image is appealing to me, but you must make yourself known.  America is a very small place.  It is evidenced by the flounders who have risen from the bottom supporting a Confederate flag.  It is a predicament, one's national heritage versus civil equality.  

Prostate Health and Cancer Wealth

It would seem urology has come to prize results of a simple PSA blood test.  With only one visit and a small sample of my blood, all ready a prostate biopsy was on the table.  Huh?  The primary impetus for my visit, either lower abdominal or pelvic discomfort was of no interest.  It would seem the radiologist's findings of both a CT and MRI scan were of more interest.  He liked to play with numbers opting to write out the "normal" PSA results for specific age groups of men.  The list of other non-cancerous things which can cause a rise in PSA levels also was not of interest.  Only this number, a simple number, was instigating a biopsy of my deeply embedded prostate gland.  Three doctors later, a surgical hernia repair, a round of Ciprofloxacin, and a colonoscopy in addition to the aforementioned CT and MRI scans, the only thing of interest to the urologist was an elevated PSA level from blood drawn at his own clinic.  He did scrutinize my film, and not to my surprise were the results "unremarkable."  There were no tumors.  His own hand felt my prostate gland.  A streetwalking male prostitute economically is comparable.  Asymptomatic.  There were no tumors.  My prostate was not hardened.  It mildly was enlarged, as I have known for several years.  I have been dealing with the consequences urologically.  Saw Palmetto seems to help a bit.  Stress does not.  I have no symptoms.  My sex drive is normal as is my performance.  I have no problems urinating.  My stream is strong.  My erections are palpable.  Other than being overworked, I believe my prostate is fine.  Give it a rest.  Urology has come to prize results of a simple PSA blood test.  Ten thousand men a year die of prostate cancer, and most of them are elderly.  It can be difficult to discern the normal process of aging and related disease from cancer.  Cancer is more lucrative.  Fifty percent of the people diagnosed with cancer didn't have it.  I am all for early detection, usually because cancer in the prostate gland is slow growing.  Get it early, so early in fact that you will begin worrying about it for the rest of your life.  Your life could begin to revolve around your prostate.  Let's worship the royal order of the prostate.  Let me lie prostrate, while you insert a sonographic probe into my anus followed by a spring loaded needle.  Good times.  It is likely to get infected, the rectal insertion point.  Take some more Ciprofloxacin. Three different doctors later, a finger in my anus that lasted a second or two, not long enough to deduce anything, and almost no physical examination.  Doctors don't practice medicine they way they used to.  Common sense.  A good exam.  Three doctors later and not one of them physically examined my area of discomfort.  When I was diagnosed with my first umbilical hernia in midtown New York city, the African-American doctors examined me.  He pushed his fingers into the tear in my muscle and told me to cough. It was painful, and he apologized.  This is how you diagnose a hernia without an CT scan.  When you self pay without Obamacare, you receive a sixty percent discount.  That means you pay forty percent of the price charged to an insurance provider.  The insurance provider receives sixty percent of your payment for medical attention.  Sixty percent.  Do we really need this system?  Of course not.  This is why my visit to a urologist resulted in a $105.00 blood test that cost $65.00 at Health Works.  This is why a biopsy preemptively is necessary, to pay for his home in Vass, North Carolina.  No longer does it seem to be about medicine, solving a problem, and enjoying the success of your arrived upon wisdom.  It's all about the money, Jerry.  Cancer in America has become all about the money.  

I'm Movin' on Up

Jazz is dead in America.  Thoroughly I enjoyed playing it, when it was alive.  Possibly Wynton Marsalis could disagree with me.  He gets to play.  I don't.  Jazz is dead in America, because we no longer as a nation deserve it.  The ideals in jazz music, the honesty, the love, and the humanity no longer are the prevalent sentiments in America.  If you did assemble all of that jazz and resurrect it for a moment, when you stopped listening and faced reality in America, you would be bludgeoned.  I know this, because it happens to me still, today.  The first time it happened, the reality that jazz was dead, was when I had become abandoned as a jazz educator.  Academia is the only environment that is nurturing enough for certain things to survive.  Jazz is one.  I would guess that if and when I was hired to play a southern wedding, we would play the same beach tunes we did in the 1980's.  This is not progress.  Jazz represented the American Dream, and the American Dream is dead.    It angers me somewhat I bought into this ruse.  I was a a friends home, a bonafide jazz scholar in Columbia, SC, and we had spent the afternoon smoking cannabus, drinking brandy, and enjoy pre-recorded jazz music.  We were listening to "sides."  It is a kind of joy that no longer do I experience.  The feeling that is contained in jazz music is like bliss.  As you can imagine you must be careful with bliss.  Bliss does not do well in America.  We have become a nation of angry, malcontent, psychologically-disturbed serfs.  No one in Washington or corporate America is looking out for us.  Jazz is dated, because it allows the existence of bliss in American society.  We know that this is not possible.  We are a nation of angry, malcontent, psychologically-disturbed serfs.  Serfs don't listen to jazz.  They listen to the Allman Brothers.  I walked out of my friends home happy and content, and was bludgeoned by 102 degree summer heat.  I realized immediately that the only other place I had to go was my own desolate, boring, empty apartment.  It was not a jazz club.  It was not a home with a yard.  It was shit.  Jazz was dead, and it took me quite a few years to realize this.  There were no more concerts.  There was no more studio work.  There was no pay check.  Summer, 102 degree heat, Columbia, South Carolina.  When I moved to Columbus, I tried to take my southern jazz sensibilities with me.  They wholeheartedly were rejected.  The folks in Cowtown were a more die hard group.  There was no riding down the Sunset Strip with the top down and your hand in your girlfriend's crotch.  Instead there was Jimi Hendrix.  Instead of New Orleans jazz, there was Chicago jazz.  I changed.  I changed myself, and it was the best thing I ever did.  I don't play much jazz piano anymore.  I don't play any jazz trumpet, although I am good at both.  Instead I took a job with Carnival Cruise Lines playing in their "orchestras."  When Carnival downsized their music program, I moved to Royal Caribbean.  Never was it as fun as playing in a Carnival band, but the pay was better.  The beauty of a cruise line is they are not the American South.  They don't fancy beach music, plantation homes, and tradition.  They embrace over seventy different nationalities of employees, and they seek to provide mass happiness.  While bliss no longer is possible in America, it is more reasonable on a transient ship floating around in the world's oceans.  I would compose piano music in a music locker below the ship's crew bar.  Off duty crew members would be partying like crazy, and I would be composing meaningful, progressive, expressive music.  The vibe translated.  It was happy.  It was an opportunity.  It was bliss.  

What's Worse, the Confederate Flag or Southern Weddings?

I don't like Charleston very much.  A friend of mine from my Columbia days, a bass player, is playing jazz piano there five nights  a week.  Now is he on the faculty at the College of Charleston teaching jazz.  I guess I should be impressed by that, but contrarily it is surreal.  Pianist John Emche once was the Coordinator of Jazz Studies at USC in Columbia.  I was his Graduate Teaching Associate for two years.  The friend of mine from my Columbia days playing jazz piano five nights a week in Charleston became Dr. Emche's GTA when I graduated.  He is a bass player.  It seems there is more work for pianists.  I am a pianist, but I don't identify with it.  Several jazz pianists have died in recent years.  Mark Flugge, of Columbus, Ohio, took his own life after years of frustration dealing with a cochlear tumor.  A man I did not know, Tommy Gill, was also a jazz pianist in Charleston.  He died last year at the age of 49.  Dr. John Emche died of a brain tumor shortly after I graduated from USC with a Masters degree in jazz and commercial music.  For good reason I have blocked this period of my history from my memory.  I choose not to remember Columbia, because it brings me pain.  There are several reasons why it brings me pain, but I have moved on.  The pain upon acknowledgment still is there, so I must write about it.  It involves  neither the friend of mine playing jazz piano five nights a week in Charleston, nor Dr. Emche.  In a fringe kind of way it does involve Tommy Gill, although I did not know him.  Upon having encountered his untimely death and thus his existence, I was forced to acknowledge my own presence in the Columbia jazz scene in the late l980's.  I choose not to remember it.  I choose not to remember it, because.... Drum roll please!  I choose not to remember it, because ultimately in Columbia I became a failure.  At least that still is how it seems.  It is how I feel, because no one associated with my presence there, except for one extremely good jazz scholar friend, knows me now.  As I peer back in time at my existence then, still it seeks to define me.  That is because those memories still live in someone's mind.  She, like me, chooses not to remember that period of time.  The hazard of neither of us allowing those memories is they stay the same.  I have moved on.  That small window of time no longer defines me in any way.  I have moved on.  I had to move on.  My failure may or may not have been at my behest.  I was disappointed, and as a young, immature, motivated man I took it badly.  The bait was laid, I nibbled on the bait, and then the trap fell shut.  I was on the outside.  The life I had in Columbia for over three years, a privileged life of musical success, was taken from me.  I did not get the college teaching job I had been filling in for as an adjunct faculty member.  Instead it was given to an Eastman graduate with L.A. studio experience.  It was the wrong choice.  It is easy to know you are qualified for a position when you experienced it both as a student and a teacher.  I gave my soul to my academic discipline of teaching jazz and commercial music, and I was an excellent educator.  A Music Education degree from UNC-Chapel Hill assured that.  What I wasn't was a music star.  Never did I want to be such a thing.  I knew it was not realistic.  While jazz musicians then did merit both respect and acclaim, I had no intention of moving to New York to walk the streets in search of playing work.  Instead I recorded some of my original fusion music using the then fifteen-year-old jazz saxophonist Chris Potter.  For him the rest is history.  For me it ruined my life.  Suddenly this small amount of new found fame became my goal, and not by my choice.  Performing at Storyville in New Orleans was an unpleasant trip.  I was a college professor chaperoning a band.  Winning was pleasant as was having my picture taken with Doc Severenson.  That night a nightmare began.  My new role was to be music star, and I didn't want it.  Unknowingly I adopted it in an attempt to win back my relationship, which ended badly.  My clout, my talent, and my intellect all were compromised for a shallow attempt to be a music star.  I failed at this task.  I did not fail being an influential jazz educator.  I did not fail as a jazz instrumentalist.  I failed, because the opportunities that were given to me to allow me to succeed at which I was good were taken away.  One was a job teaching jazz and commercial music at the college level.  The others were opportunities to perform.   Suddenly I was in the same melting pot of wanna be musicians as everyone else.  This humble pie was forced down my throat by a vindictive, angry, and disappointed ex.  It was convenient.  Out I went, and in she came.  The tables turned, the power exchanged, and I fell from grace like a dead horse.  The interesting thing is I do not define myself in any way with this period of time.  For others it remains the same.  Reading Tommy Gill's obituary reminded me that once I held the position of young southern jazz enthusiast.  I was replaced, so I moved on.  When a certain set of circumstances attempt to define you by denying you opportunity, you go elsewhere.  I never wanted to be a music star.  I feigned it, because I was hurt and single.  Mistakenly I thought that by becoming successful in this new arena I would reclaim my glory as a jazz educator.  It was a solecism, and it ruined my life.  Suddenly after six years of collegiate study I began to think my musical value was determined by society.  Society had the right to judge my work.  This society took musical refuge in beach music being played at their wedding receptions.  I moved on.  I went to OSU, and again I studied composition at the doctoral level.  It was the best thing I ever did.  I clung to my old ideals for a while, until I learned to do something more.  I played in a soul/rock band.  I wrote music for the orchestra.  Later I played in a Hip/Hop band, and it was the most enjoyable two years of my life.  With a fair amount of tenacity, I abandoned my jazz teaching ideals and expanded my musical horizon.  I learned to improvise on the trumpet.  I learned to produce music in my home studio.  Eventually I was able to dissect my musical soul from my short-lived jazz fame.  Yes, I produced what probably was Chris Potter's first studio effort, but jazz is dead in America.  It seems jazz abandoned me, so as a musical visionary I moved on.  I circumnavigated the shallow musical sentiments of the South's society, and became enlightened.  No one deserves to suffer forever for being successful.  

Staying Vital, Creating Havoc

I figured out a while back that in most instances we as human beings are not able to actualize our true desires.  Maybe it is these desires that drive us.  Today, almost eight years after George W. Bush was in the Whitehouse, the American Dream is a farce to the mainstream public.  The economic tables have turned, and now new money is in control.  We do not have much say in it.  Billions of dollars are moving around each day, and still our economy is in the ditch.  It is in the ditch, because we have no real goods and services.  When America was great, she was great for a reason.  It took willpower to make that happen.  There was no happenstance.  There was no winning of the lottery.  America became great, because innovators worked hard to become successful.  Today there is little motivation to do such.  We are drugged in our small capsules of life watching Millenials "find themselves."  It is a disturbing vision.  The traditional methodology of success no longer applies, because America has changed.  We are not the same country.  The country we have become also is a disturbing vision.  It is not far from the vision science fiction writers have had over the decades.  Soon firetrucks will be arriving to burn books in our homes.  All ready "the man" has burnt most of the truth in America.  The ashes are on the internet.  Who knew businesses would be the leaders in internet philosophy?  The answer is many knew, and this is what created the internet bubble not that long ago.  America, being a Capitalist country, is not forgiving.  Instead we are ruthless, and we rob our friends for our own sustenance.  A Socialist society seeks to provide equally for all people with a public means of production.  It is history that system, because of human weakness, failed on a massive scale.  Who is to say Socialism can not work?  The recent Uber debacle is the perfect metaphor for today's America.  Businesses practices which have been in place since America's inception are being challenged with new ideas.  It is interesting that Millenial propaganda is strong enough to challenge century old labor practices.  Without history there is no way for anyone to understand their grift.  Why not let people pick people up for little to no money in the name of love?  It is kind of like a self-driving car.  Maybe this is the new Hippie movement.  Today we as Americans have no choice but to live in this closed and immature arena.  The personalities who have shaped America are dying off, and we are left with this.  This is the product of our governments disregard of America's future and her youth.  They know how to write code, but they know nothing of American history.  When cab drivers rage holy war against Uber in the name of their jobs, we should not be surprised.  Also we should not be surprised when youthful American men murder innocent citizens in the name of Osama Bin Laden.  He too was scorned by his chosen people, and he waged revenge.  It is not pleasant being rejected.  As a Christian man fully I understand the concept of abandoning your baggage.  Fully I understand that if you sell your belonging and follow Jesus you could be an influential and important apostle.  Jesus may be on earth, but we don't seem to know it.  His return is prophesied in Bible as is the return of satan.  I don't see Jesus, so I have decided that abandoning my human purpose is not prudent.  In many ways it would make my life easier.  It would make my life easier, because although I am content with my musical accomplishments, I have to continue to live.  If I continue to live it only would make sense if I make use of my Godly directive.  If you know your purpose why not pursue it?  Did Mark Zuckerberg or Steve Jobs achieve their success by selling their belongings and following Jesus?  Would I follow either of these men when our survival is at risk in America? The answer is no.  Computers do not grow food.  Computers do not build shelters.  Computers do not think.  I chose to think, and it makes my life a living hell.  When I think about the things that are important to me and my Godly directive, inevitably my emotional state devolves into a state of depression.  Why is this?  It is because what is interesting to me tangibly is not in my presence.  I can listen to musical pieces, I can watch movies, and I can understand and know how to compose for these idioms, but I am not doing it.  As an academic this is normal.  Academics by nature know many things.  They should be able to teach these things.  I do, but I am not involved with any of them.  I have to read about them.  I have to read about others who have the privilege of doing these things.  This in turn makes me sad.  I miss this process.  The more I think about these things to fine tune my mind in their actualization, the more I am sad because astutely I realize I do not possess them.  It is a quandary.  Must I give up my ideals to be happy?  

The Spaghetti Western

I happened upon Seth Macfarlane's 2014 film "A Million Ways to Die in the West" last night on Direct TV.  I enjoyed the movie, because it was funny and unpredictable.  It is possible it may become a modern cult film like "Rocky Horror."  Mr. MacFarlane is an connoisseur of physical comedy.  The ghosts of Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplain, and the Three Stooges are everywhere in the film, and he takes a beating!  The chemistry between him and Charlize Theron was tangible.  He could have done worse for leading ladies.  A few times I saw Mary Ann Lomax.  A few times I saw the "Monster."  For the most part I was surprised that Ms. Theron physically looked the same she did in other movies.  There was no "Amanda Bynes" syndrome happening, and that is surprising in 2015.  She is a formidable actress.  He carried the film well as both a writer and a leading man.  What became interesting to me was how a "Blazing Saddles" sequel-type film utilized such a polished musical score.  As I watched the western hi jinx on the screen, I began to question if Joel Mcneely was writing musical farce.  His score was eloquent, beautifully mixed, and slick.  The sound of the orchestra was more polished than most top shelf Hollywood films to the point of making me question its choice.  Certainly a score of this type adds considerable dimension to what could turn out to be a fringe film.  Then I began to think this beautiful score could be detrimental.  There is a formula to writing westerns, and while Steven Spielberg possibly has dabbled in the genre references to his first blockbuster "Jaws" only can be perceived as satire.  Mr. Mcneely is a formidable composer and jazz instrumentalist as degrees from both the University of Miami and Eastman will provide.  I found the score to "A Million Ways to Die in the West" not a tribute to the late Elmer Bernstein, but a melting pot of Hollywood blockbuster musical cues.  These disparate cues were interspersed in the film possibly with the intent of being musical satire.  Upon having read an interview with Mr. Mcneely, he divulged that was not the case.  Instead his concept was to write serious film music in spite of the lighthearted antics on film.  I am not sure this worked.  It created a watchable film, but in terms of cementing a concrete and cohesive message...  Well you can figure it out.  It was a challenging project.  Mel Brooks set up the Count Basie band in the dessert.  I found myself wanting a more primitive western sound in the vein of Jerry Fielding or Ennio Morricone.  Mr. Morricone was the musical king of the Spaghetti Western, and one viewing of Sean Penn, Jennifer Lopez, and Nick Nolte acting in "U Turn" will brand the old skool as the best school.  

Film Scoring, Funerals, and the IRS

Sleep is a torment.  It is not supposed to be that way, but our modern American medical establishment is capitalizing on it.  So is The Food and Drug Administration.  I have learned over the years to approach the FDA the same way we approach the IRS.  They are a necessary ill.  Neither is a pillar of virtue, especially when you consider who in America is paying the bulk of taxes to run the country.  The same is true with the medical establishment.  It is not constructed to provide medical care for the common man.  It is constructed to amass money for its purveyors.  Our medical establishment and our FDA are run by pharmaceutical companies.  In essence they are like trusts.  They have chosen the medical profession upon which to base their money-making business practices.  It is of no consequence that this profession philosophically, morally, and ethically exists to aid mankind in ways that are not possibly by non skilled people.  Medicine is a kind of art form, but it has yet to strive to create art for the betterment of mankind the way other arts have.  That is because there is too much money to be made.  When the making of that money is pitted against the humanitarian and altruistic caring for people....  Well you can see the result.  The advancement of medicine now is a political issue.  As a society we make more money treating symptoms, thus advances in medicine are sacrificed.  It is big business, and it is unconscionable.  Stories like that of Michigan doctor Dr. Farid Fata who falsely diagnosed his patients with cancer so he could collect millions of dollars from insurance companies for chemotherapy treatments...   Well you can see the result.  Evil is all around us, and it has encroached at an alarming rate.  It seems every aspect of our lives is assaulted with untruth and deception.  Read the news on the internet.  I once was an avid fan of the World Wide Web.  This was before Federal Communications Commission Chairman Tom Wheeler released a plan that would have allowed companies like AT&T, Comcast, and Verizon to discriminate online and create pay-to-play fast lanes.  Luckily web enthusiasts rallied demanding continued neutrality for free communication on the internet.  Mr. Wheeler changed his position from supporting corporate America to supporting the average American.  While net neutrality temporarily may have been preserved, all ready it has been corrupted on a massive scale.  The selling of advertisement by Google and Facebook to collect revenue has tilted the scales of the internet in the same direction of our medical establishment.  Good cannot prevail in a Capitalist economy.  It can, but not today.  With the disguising of America's history, the undermining of public education, the exploitation of our youth, and the purposeful and manipulative aberration of media America's citizens have become victims.  Once citizens were the centerpiece of American politics.  Citizens were the core of America's existence.  Now we are pawns, and I am getting tired of the fight.  

Full Circle

I had a revelation today, and it was depressing.  You can't live your life as a victim, even if you have been one.  You experience the fall, the pain, and you learn to move on.  While the experience gives you soul, I have found that it is better to move on.  I used my fall as inspiration for a lot of music.  I used those feelings, and then I decided to move on.  Recently I read in a Facebook post that narcissists are victims.  You can't be productive singing the blues for your wounds.  Therefore I teeter back and forth.  When I need emotional resolve and I feel bad, then I remember those experiences.  Then I move on.  When your environment continues to paint you with your falls, it is time to move on.  I am reluctant to write about the South at the moment, because of the controversy with the Confederate flag.  My revelation was that no matter how much I turn a blind eye to my environment and continue to brave a new path of productivity, that environment still is there.  I have ignored it.  I felt twenty-five years is enough time for an environment to change.  I would have hoped that would have meant growth, expansion, and enlightenment.  You hope that things are not the same as they were when you were in high school, but they are.  I was lucky enough to move on from high school.  First it was Chapel Hill, and after four years that was enough.  Then it was Columbia, and after five years it was too much.  I overstayed my visit.  (There is a big story here, but I am bypassing it.)  Then it was Columbus, Ohio.  I was lucky enough to keep challenging myself with new places and experiences, and it paid off.  Never have I been bored or depressed.  Back in high school I would be depressed.  Simply it is because some places will not allow your to grow.  The people that control them will not allow you to be more than they can allow, because they are narrow.  Imagine, a place that can not allow enlightenment.  Instead is fights voraciously for things to remain exactly the same.  That is the American South.  I have experienced bliss in my lifetime, but always it ends.  I can understand trying to make a pleasant situation stay that way, but life on earth evolves.  Also it devolves.  If you are privileged enough to own the rose-colored glasses, maybe this is you.  Maybe if you have fallen, it is the one thing that insists you move on.  You fell for a reason, because there was no place left to go.  I have been told this a few times.  The late Johnny Helms once told me that I did not deserve to find anything better than what they had in Columbia.  He had been to New York, and he had chosen to remain in Columbia so he could eat steak.  It beat starving for a meal in New York searching for jazz fame.  In essence he asked me why I felt I deserved anything more than what I had, and his opinion was I did not.  I should settle for Columbia.  Columbia disintegrated.  The Coordinator of Jazz Studies at USC died of a brain tumor.  I was fortunate because of this to fill in for him for one year as an adjunct faculty member there.  They hired the wrong person, and I told them.  They called it sour grapes, because I wanted the permanent job.  Who wouldn't want a college-level teaching job?  Twenty-five years later in Columbia it has devolved.  It has devolved because the group of professors who created the commercial music program at USC have retired.  Now there is one, and his name is Bert Ligon.  Columbus on the other hand remains steadfast.  Ohio State is a large burgeoning university.  It was when I was there, and it is now.  It has not devolved to my knowledge.  They have made callus and unthoughtful business decisions, but the music remains the same.  It is vital.  I learned more about music in Columbus than anywhere in my whole life.  I didn't learn much in Columbia.  Instead I taught.  With each move I found opportunity and exploited it.  With each move I grasped the opportunities and made them work.  I used them.  I appreciated them.  I made the best of them.  Columbus allowed this.  Columbia did for a while, until I sang, "Sour grapes."  Then I was quelled.  I was quelled romantically and professionally. I did not take it personally, and I moved on.  The South is not a forgiving place.  Her people are proud, selfish, and oppressive.  That is because they want things to remain the same.  The status quo is good enough the way it is, because they are in power.  There is not enough room for another step, so you must fall.  I will not fall again.  I am smart enough to discard my vanity, my ambitions, and my love life and move forward.  Still they are trying to take them away.  

Porkulus, Hillary Clinton, and the Self-Driving Car

The presidential race nicely is playing itself.  "I think Hillary would make a terrible president," says Mr. Trump.  I have to agree with him that she was the worst Secretary of State in history.  In all probability Mr. Trump does not know each and every Secretary of State in America's history, and his view is an opinion.  It also is a generalization.  It is hyperbole.  He is speaking figuratively.  Figuratively is the way the Supreme Court of the United States interpreted the language in the Affordable Care Act concerning federal versus state sponsored exchanges for the purchasing of government subsidized health insurance.  Reason triumphed.  Those crafting the president's health care law could not foresee every possible legislative inroad.  Thank goodness SCOTUS understood this and ruled in favor of the greater issue.  They ruled in favor of the greater good.  Trump is generalizing about Hillary Clinton, and you could not expect him to contrast and compare her performance with each and every Secretary State in the history of America.  That would take much study, and he is busy making millions of dollars building hotels and such.  While I am sure there have been worse Secretary's of State in the history of America, my impression has been the same.  During her four year tenure as the head of the State Department, there was very little about her agenda in the national news.  We saw little of her at all.  Comparatively we saw and heard a lot about Dame Madeleine Albright.  She seemed to enjoy this position of international liaison, and her scholarly accomplishments would have honed her skills as a diplomat.  Hillary not so much.  Everyone knew her appointment by President Obama was a token.  This view is an opinion.  It also is a generalization.  It is hyperbole, but we can choose to believe it or not.  Without ever having seen any of her accomplishments as head of the State Department, I would agree.  The Secretary of State is a large public figure.  We hear about John Kerry fairly often, and he seems visibly active in the job.  The only time Hillary was in the national news was when U.S. Ambassador J. Christopher Stevens and U.S. Foreign Service Information Management Officer Sean Smith were killed by Islamic militants at the American diplomatic compound in Benghazi, Libya.  Possibly no news is good news.  The presidential race nicely is playing itself.  It is difficult to describe the freak show other than comparing it to the Theatre of the Absurd.  All communication breaks down, because human existence has no meaning or purpose, but it does.  To make money. This is not the platform of the United States Presidency, but I am not sure any of the candidates knows what it is.  I am certain they do not understand that successfully interacting with Congress to pass useful legislation for the American people is necessary.  This is an anachronism.  It now is defunct.  No longer is it possible.  This is a opinion.  It is a generalization.  It is hyperbole, but we can choose to believe it or not.  I agree.  It has been obvious.  Our Congress is the biggest bunch of dough boy, radical, incompetent, on-the-take losers in Americas history.  They are political farce, and we should treat them this way.  President Obama has chosen to recognize this issue by evoking his executive powers to make necessary changes for the good of the people.  In the scope of history a coup should be near, but we have been brainwashed by poisoned food, endless propaganda, and technology.  We are so frustrated by our unhappiness and yet lack of ability to object to it, we are the perfect product of the Republican Party.  While we eat pink slime at McDonalds, savvy legislators are busy looking for every loophole in the law to allow them to fuck us more.  Fuck the American people.  That is the new motto of the United States.  Not, "We the people," not "Four score and seven years ago," and not "I pledge of allegiance to our flag."  Fuck the people and especially fuck the young people of America.  We have been doing that since Mr. Bush was president.  Want to go to college?  Lean over.  Technology has contributed to this breakdown.  Why put cops on the street in Fayettenam, when we can put cameras on traffic lights and sit in a room drinking coffee and eating donuts?  Is it any surprise that this Wall Street tactic of moving money around is not helping the crime rate?  You can't move criminals around from a little room with computer models.  Technology contributed to this problem.  Technology has contributed to the gross and continual decline in education in America.  While America's job structure drastically has changed in recent years, abandoning the humanities as a starting place for education has not been helpful.  Now we have tech-savvy sociopaths, students who have not learned the lessons of history by being exposed to them.  Truly we have created a new generations of zombies, and it is frightening.  They want self-driving cars?  What will you be doing when the car is driving, texting or loading your AR-15?  

Technology Nerds and Philanthropy

I don't write well to Baroque or Classical music.  I enjoy aspects of both with baroque music providing the most interest for my ear.  There is something about Telemann, Vivaldi, or Albinoni that gets your blood moving.  It is interesting that music composed from 1600 to 1750 after the Renaissance has this particular tendency. Of particular note and also is heard often in the music of Handel is the continuo in combination with the string orchestra.  Possibly this can be the most defining characteristic of baroque music.  (At least its the easy one.)  Basso continuo is an interesting concept that makes use of figured bass.  The keyboardist is given symbols representative of the harmonies or chords they must play along with the orchestra.  If I remember correctly these chords are represented by the intervals of the chord tones from the bass note.  Also the numerals used in harmonic analysis are helpful, in particular chord inversions.  Simple inversions are 6 and 6/4 for a triad, and 6/5, 4/3, and 4/2 for a dominant seventh.  Interestingly these numeric representations of harmony are not dissimilar from what jazz musicians use to realize their tunes.  While it is a different nomenclature, fundamentally it is the same.  The other difference is the melody of the tune is written on the staff rather than a bass line by someone like J.S. Bach.  All of this aside I like the vigor of Baroque music.  Vivaldi was a pioneer, and I am finding that most music of interest to me at age 52 is anything but what I hear in the current year of 2015.  The same is true for television and film.  This leads me to a disturbing realization.  It also has led to an increased aptitude to learn more about music history.  When mainstream media is talking about self-driving cars, then only do I want to lower my head in shame at the state of philanthropy in America.  We have been misled as a populace, and it is new money that has done this.  Always I have known that walking around staring at one's palm is no way to live, yet we still do it.  Increasingly I see the flock of lambs nibble away at the ripe grass of technology.  It is because that enticing screen, full of its sound bites, entertaining graphics, and purported connectivity is better than what we are experiencing in the world around us.  Let's face it, America sucks.  I do not way that because I want FBI sponsored Cessna aircraft flying over my home tomorrow morning.  They will do that anyway.  Crime is high in Fayettenam, and they are not solving any of it from way up there.  What they are doing is invading my privacy, my peace of mind, and my humanity.  Can you imagine what it is like to have a disturbing, menacing, low-flying aircraft circling your home for hours?  I can, because it happens often.  It happened today, and for the first time I realized its purpose.  Its stated purpose is unknown.  The Federal Bureau of Investigation has a covert fleet of small aircraft for surveillance purposes.  They are operated incognito with fake companies to ensure the safety of its pilots.  How could these pilots be endangered flying high above our heads.  It has entered my mind a few times and against my will.  Why would I spend one waking second thinking about a circling aircraft above my home?  I wouldn't be if it weren't there.  What the fuck?  The Fayetteville Observer reported recently that these planes in all likelihood would continue, because the FBI has been using them for some time.  For what?  The crime rater in Fayetteville is higher than most places, and it is not coming down.  They can fly all of the planes they want, take all of the photographs they want, and review all the video they want and the crime will continue.  Its constituents have nothing else to do, because they are poor.  Dire circumstances produce crime.  I learned this when I had clothing stolen from an outdoor laundry in Columbia, South Carolina at an apartment complex where I was living.  When I walked into the laundry and saw my blue jeans had been stolen, I also saw the perpetrators sitting in their car less then ten feet away.  They were poor.  They were poorly dressed, hence their need for clothing.  They were poorly nourished.  They were poorly groomed.  I understood, and quickly I bit my tongue and made note of the incident for future purposes.  Cessna seems to be the aircraft of choice, and while this small plane is not crucial to our national defense possibly it is part of the defense contracting lobby in Washington, DC.  I have come to realize that these companies largely are responsible for the wars in America.  How else can they stay in business?  With Ft. Bragg being one of the largest military installations in the world less then a few miles away, these large aeronautic companies are close by.  Boeing, Lockheed Martin, and Northrop Grumman top my list.  Second and more important to the overall economy of the United States are technology companies.  Fuck them.  Other than making computing faster, nothing has happened in this arena in fifteen years.  I remember when I used to surf the net on Netscape Navigator, until Microsoft became a bully and demanded that its Internet Explorer be bundled with their Windows operating system.  This action resulted in an anti-trust case initiated and won by the United States Department of Justice.  Microsoft appealed the case and they settled.  Microsoft bullied its competition, something that many American companies continue to do.  The South has continued to fight the Civil War, since the Yankees won.  They have nothing else to do.  Money has influence in America, and more than it has in our recent history.  We are entering a cycle that harkens back to other periods in American history, and it is unnerving.  Trust is the operative word, and they are in control.  It completely is illogical to allow recently acquired money to coin America's agenda.  This is what has been happening, and most obviously it can be seen in the demise of television.  Only the internet can be responsible for this death, and who can say it is a good thing?  With America's deniable addiction to the small screen, television is a thing of the past.  Designers know it.  A small group of creators are corrupting the minds of Americans without our even knowing it.  Every bit it is as strong as heroin, because ironically our environment has been so polluted by corporate America we must have something to make us happy.  No longer can the cool breeze of a spring day bring contentment to a person.  No longer can the refreshing taste of cold mountain water quench our thirst.  No longer can the soothing silence of a peaceful meadow provide a mattress for adolescent infatuation.  Our environment is shit, and it is shit because off all the airplanes, the cell phone towers, the automobiles, and diesel trains.  With the burning of fossil fuels threatening the earth, how can anyone with a conscience even think about self-driving cars?  It is insane.  With all the money Google has think about all the philanthropic deeds that could be done.  Think of how many abandoned animals could be saved.  Think of how many mouths could be fed.  It is an atrocity, self-driving cars, and I am embarrassed to be an American.  

America's Giant Flim Flam

It is difficulty to discern reality.  I can imagine when the telegraph first appeared on the prairie in the Midwest.  Farmers on the rolling plains had a way to communicate with civilization.  Then came radio, a monumental breakthrough in rural life in America.  Television was next.  What was the first newspaper in America?  I would hope that the newspaper would remain as the most steadfast and thorough of the news reporting agencies, but evidently they are struggling.  In three years time internet news reporting has declined in quality at least 50%.  It is the luck of the draw if anything you read on Reuters, the BBC, or Yahoo News is worthy of attention.  Then there is the Warren Buffet lobby.  If I see or hear this ridiculous story one more time, I will know infallibly internet news reporting is a Five and Dime.  They say Buffet has invested in Geico automobile insurance.  It is rather common knowledge Google is working on a self-driving car.  Supposedly Mr. Buffet is shaking in his designer loafers, because car insurance will become unnecessary.  Do you think this is possible?  With health insurance as one of the largest economic systems in America making a few people rich, is it really feasible that the car insurance lobby will allow this to happen to them?  I think not.  Further I have no interest in a self-driving car.  It is the most idiotic thing of which ever I have heard.  It's not going to happen.  Trying building a subway, a trolley, or a streetcar all of which run on electricity.  This is exemplary of the grossly misguided direction of America's young entrepreneurs.  They are out of touch with reality.  Never have I seen a bubble that is so padded with technology money the inventors themselves are living a life up their own asses.  Google is great, and I use it daily.  A search engine company do not philosophers make.  Leave that to the Cohen Brothers.  Plainly and simply the wealth in the world today is in the wrong hands.  The balance has tipped to the side of nerds writing computer code.  Bill Gates has a foundation.  So does Bill Clinton.  Who is doing more for the world?  It is unquestionable that popular culture in America in the last decade screamingly has left the freeway in a uncontrolled lurch.  It is out of control.  One only has to flick on the tube and what recently has become a news story readily is apparent.  We are being scammed.  We are being railroaded.  We are being swindled of both our lives and our money.  Viva Wall Street!  If only now America is becoming concerned that our youth has an addiction problem, we are below the curve.  In previous generations promiscuous gay sex, snorting cocaine, and drinking and driving all have been considered damaging behaviors.  They were well-recognized.  Today our addictions are new, covert, and clever.  They have been slipped into our drinks, under our noses, and into our veins as coolly as the serpent offering up a bite of that apple to Eve in the Garden of Eden.  They're cool, boy.  It is time to pony up, rejuvenate American journalism, and flush the muck.  FLUSH THE MUCK.  

A Mother's Displacement

As another day passes with no sleep, my body aches.  The necessary decompression that must occur for the body to rejuvenate is overdue.  I will have to find a place to sleep in the near future.   I cannot continue in this fashion, because unless there is some subliminal reason why I deserve to be tortured, I cannot expend the majority of my waking energy fending off  bullshit.  That is what I do in Fayettenam.  I feel there are others in my shoes.  I am not the only one struggling to get through each day maintaining a semblance of sanity.  I have curtailed my intake of bourbon, which was my cure for insomnia.  The brutal reality now besets me.  I have known this to be true for some time, but I am in a period of denial.  I am doing my best to live normally in an abnormal place for me.  The solution has been to discard my usual life of music and substitute a life of mundanity.  I do not dislike this mundanity.  It is comforting. It is the only thing allowing me get through each day maintaining a semblance of sanity.  Music does not work.  I have known this for some time.  Because my parents lives have revolved around music for so long, and because my parents are geriactrics,  music only causes me pain.  Either it reminds them of what they no longer have, or it reminds me of what I no longer have.  Over the years I have learned not to be a fatalist. It is not inevitable, and it is not productive.  Contrarily one must adopt an attitude of faith.  Things can and will change, and there are circumstances of existence that predicate stagnation. Life in America today is one of them.  Slowly I am realizing this, and it does not make my plight any more palatable.  Not only am I battling my parents' musical demons, I am battling a gross and widespread public ignorance and lack of respect of the arts.  It is pretty dismal.  Also I have learned that as an artist one can lead society.  When things get dark as they are now (the Dark Ages) a Renaissance can be created by the creativity, intellect, and tenacity of artists.  I fall into that catogory.  It, while dabbling in artistic activity, it crucial to remain cognizant of reality.  My reality is I am living in the home of my geriatric parents.  My father has moved on to a nursing facilty, but my mother is left.  My position is not that much different than hers, when she was experiencing the dementia of my father.  I am watching her slowly fade away back to something with which I am not familiar.  It is a challenge being pushed and prodded daily by what seems like a selfish child.  It is a power struggle, and I cannot lose.  If I do, my parents will outlive me.  My grandmother achieved this outliving one of her sons at the age of 104.  I am not willing to give up my musical responsibility yet, and it is not selfish.  In certain ways I was chosen for this job, and I listen to the Creator.  He is not around much these days, and as I reflect never was He present while I have lived in 'Nam.  This is a clear indicator that 'Nam is hell.  Truly for me it is a living hell.  Experiencing it is not unlike the other hellish episodes I have had in my life.  It is interesting most of these revolve around Fayetteville.  It is because my parents are here. Consequently instead of engaging in a singular life of music, I am engaging in a plural life of family.  As the son I have very little control.  It possiblty is the greatest political challenge, navigating the aging of your parents.  With no sleep the prospect of being productive with my artistic music is naught.  You cannot be productive when you are too tired to think.  Consequently you act instinctually, and this I loathe.  This is how my aging mother operates.  Instead of thinking about issues and addressing them with logic, she engages in stream-of-consciousness drama on a high scale.  It has gotten worse.  In the last few weeks my ears are so tired from hearing this unfiltered barrage of disjunct communication.  I'm not sure it can be called communication.  It is not.  She is not talking to me.  She is talking at me only reflecting each and every minute detail of her day.  I am required like a mindless five-year-old to sit and listen.  It is numbing, emotionally taxing, and depressing.  In addition to my lack of sleep the majority of my waking hours are as a sponge listening to irrelevant b.s.  At times I have tried to explain that this indulgence in selfish actualization is detrimental.  It is.  Nothing that she experiences and therefore conveys to me in a mindless discourse is productive in any way.  Contrarily it is harmful, and this is why she feels the need to displace it on me.  My ears are tired, as is my soul.  

So This is What I Know

I know if you complain about a lobby-protected corporate entity who kills Americans with petroleum fires, they lower the hammer on your head.  If I lodge a formal complaint against a lobby-protected corporate entity on their website about lack of managerial oversight at a local substation, they lower the hammer on your head.  Railroad employees always have done this, because like police officers carrying around too much firepower gives them an inflated sense of power.  Screw your civil rights.  I'm driving a 4000 horsepower locomotive, and I will drive it right up to your house and leave it sitting there idling for the next three days, and there is not a damn thing you can do about it.  Via America.  I know that while once I was a Hillary supporter, once also never was I an athletic supporter.  I don't like to support balls.  I don't want to support a former Secretary of State who sold her political influence under the guise of the Clinton Foundation.  Read the book.  I believe it is due out soon.  I know that after a heartfelt week of successful American civil rights, on Monday the shit storm of American media began.  What used to be thoughtful, spiritual, and Christian reporting in journalism now is the bottom of the barrel tabloid Jerry Springer.  Never have I seen so many concocted, false, and slanderous posts concerning a milestone in American history.  I have decided that while I do not support gays in the military, allowing gays to marry affords them all of the same rights straight couples reap.  Misery, infidelity, suicide, and the list goes on.  Enjoy!  If media had one fifth of a brain, the news will create itself in a few short years.  Hold your wad, Tonto.  I know that while as a country we still engage in sentimental, patriotic, Americanisms America has become a crock of shit.  It is a better crock of shit than ISIL, but the ideology is the same.  Let's kill our enemy and destroy the planet as quickly as possible.  Then we'll have no place to decapitate Christians.  Sorry, I think with my minuscule Islamic penis.  I could be screwing women without killing them, but then again God never has really given good advice.  The meat is better when it is cold.  How many more oil trains must derail and explode, before the FRA decides to do something about it?  Oh, I forgot.  It will take a class action lawsuit or at least five bands singing about it for a decade.  Then things may start a changing.....   I know I really dislike my neighborhood and all of its shysters who take people's money and give them shit.  For instance I have lost a tooth and a half.  The other half cost me three hundred dollars to fix.  I know that there are thieves around, especially on a holiday weekend, and they are in for a big surprise when quiet tempered Paul breaks out the artillery when someone gets too close to the house.  Enjoying solitude in the yard comes at a price, the price of quite a few loaded guns and rifles sitting around in easy reach.  It will be like a video game.  Can you get to the loaded gun without getting killed first?  Try it.  It only costs a quarter, and your life.  I know that the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security do not like the electric bass, especially when it is played loud enough to vibrate the walls of your house.  Their surveillance systems don't hold a candle to the electric bass.  I am glad my hands are feeling better, and I have a new patch cord.  I know how to build a French drain the main vein. It helps divert standing water.  I know how spot nice garbage on the side of the street and when to go get it.  I know now that American symphonic music is a complete and total bust.  It's all about film music and the sound stage.  I'm buying DVD's now.  Too bad there is no radio station that plays film music.  I know that American alcohol like the rest of our food now is shit.  We have a bourbon crisis, and it all tastes like Jack Daniels.  That underground spring they use is spewing up syrup.  Scotch, Ms Moneypenny, but we can't afford that here in 'ca.  Who knew a peat bog could be used for such a quality result?  The Scottish.  I'm one quarter Scottish, one quarter Irish, and one half German.  Wagner.  Strauss.  Then there were the Russians.  We can't forget John O'Connor, and his illegitimate son Donald O'Connor.  Peace out.  (and I mean, "Now.")

Tchaikovsky's 1812, the N.C. Symphony, and a Great Spectacle

I was fortunate to hear the North Carolina Symphony perform Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture last night at the Reed Lallier -sponsored 4th of July celebration in Festival Park in Fayetteville.  The park was teeming, and it was a rowdy appreciative crowd.  As a doctoral level composer, something I keep to myself, it was obvious to me this overture by Tchaikovsky was the most representative piece of the evening.  Using the adjective representative I mean a piece which represents the art and craft of musical composition.  There were a variety of good arrangements on the program, but being the birthday celebration of America necessitated a patriotic-themed program.  There were nationalist pieces from both the Civil and Revolutionary Wars.  Terry Mizesco, the symphony's bass trombonist and composer of "Sketches from Pinehurst," arranged three of these.  There was a guest baritone vocalist, who did his best to actualize an authentic rendition of "Old Susanna."  It was comical but good.  As a doctoral level composer, something I keep to myself, it was comical because an issue was aired that is passé.  It is passé, because jazz is passé in America.  America's true art form is not understood by her current populace.  I am not sure they even are aware of it.  Once upon a time in a land far away there was this thing called jazz.  It was music of African, European, Canadian, and American origin.  It is not common knowledge that the Acadians sailed from Canada down America's east coast to the port of New Orleans where they settled.  It was  more temperate.  The term Cajun is short for Acadian, and they are of French origin.  Jazz is a melting pot, and that is what makes it interesting in its purest form.  We are not exposed even to fringe jazz anymore in America.  The idea that was aired as this guest baritone vocalist begin to sing was lack of swing.  He didn't really swing.  As he sang the words to "Old Susanna" it was if a stiff British opera singer was trying to impersonate an African-American.  His dialect or accent was not inaccurate and far from the roots of American music.  America is a melting pot, so there is a lot of room in which to wiggle.  His performance was the perfect musical metaphor for, "White men can't dance."  It has been a long time, since I was exposed to this musical issue.  No one swings anymore in America, so what is the issue?  The issue is his rendition was not authentic.  The symphony's rendition of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture was authentic, but they get a lot of practice performing music composed by a Russian homosexual.  [sic] Always I have liked Tchaikovsky's music.  He is an excellent orchestrator, and in particular his writing for wind instruments is exemplary.  I can tell it is Tchaikovsky by the scoring of the winds within the orchestra.  What was representative of this work was its form.  Form in composition is what happens from the beginning of the piece to the end.  It is apparent as the overture unfolds that Tchaikovsky emotionally is committed to the work.  He emotes, because things happen for a reason at the right moments in the form.  The orchestration and the rhythms are the most obvious example of this expression.  He uses a variety of metric-type modulations to create tension and release.  It, unlike a Sousa march, does not tool along at one hundred and twenty beats per minute.  It breathes, it evolves, and then it climaxes.  As a doctoral level composer, something I keep to myself, this is what engages me.  I listen to the piece as if it were my own, because I can hear these ideas represented in sound.  Theses are things a composer utilizes.  I wondered if these musical elements were apparent to the rest of the audience.  They were simplistic, and they were obvious, but did they make sense to the other listeners in the same way they did to me?  I could feel Tchaikovsky's emotional flow in the music, his personal expression.  Not many know he was a frustrated homosexual.  I love the music of Aaron Copland also, and he was a homosexual.  I found it to be quite surprising how large and supportive this audience was of orchestral music.  Orchestral music is not for everyone, but I think particularly here in Fayetteville it is in vogue to frequent the symphony.  Often I do not enjoy it, because it is pretentious.  The North Carolina Symphony was not, but its presentation was.  Jazz also has become this way in America.  Why must I stand up and cheer to appreciate quality music?  My life itself does not represent "rah rah."  I have no reason to "rah rah" an orchestra.  Fayetteville is a bit immature in her understanding and appreciation of art.  For some reason the artistic community here is compelled to "rah rah" just about everything they do.  In Columbus, Ohio or Columbia, South Carolina where I have lived, we actualized the music because it was natural.  It was an essential part of one's everyday existence.  It didn't make sense to "rah rah."  The musician's didn't require it.  Music making was a humble experience.  In Fayetteville it is different.  Listeners are encouraged to "rah rah" like it was a sporting event.  Music is more than just a stream-of-consciencness venting of emotion.  It is expressive.  It expresses something of a greater value more than merely supporting an orchestra.  There are a variety of reasons why patrons today are unable to understand this.  They have become known to me in the last few months.   I have come to understand living in Fayetteville, the full realm of human intellect is not possible.  Our physical being is being assaulted too much and too often.  We spend the majority of our time trying to make sense of this assault and trying to maintain our meager lives.  Rarely are we allowed to exist in an unadulterated form giving our minds the needed pastoralism to think great thoughts.  Instead we fend off bullshit.  I have come to understand I live four distinct and separate existences.  They are a physical life, an intellectual life, a subconscious life, and a fantasy life.  When I dream I am in the subconscious.  When I wake I am in the physical life.  Rarely am I in the intellectual life, because it takes discipline.  I am not allowed to be in the intellectual life, because I am too busy fending off bullshit rendered to me in the physical life.  It's a drag expending all of your energy on uncreative thoughts surviving.  This is what America has become.  

An Altered Reality, Rev. Obama

After yet another night of very little sleep, I feel like doing very little.  I am tired.  Physically I am tired, but with a big breakfast and some caffeine I am making myself be active.  I believe this is the plight of millions of Americans and possibly citizens of other countries as well.  "Sleep is a rose the Persians say," quotes Clare Quilty in Nabokov's novel Lolita.  It is where your troubles are supposed to melt away.  For me my troubles begin when I sleep.  After tossing and turning for hours, my skin irritated by irate sound waves produced by diesel locomotives, finally I drift off to never never land.  I have an altered reality, and it is my dreams.  Rarely are they pleasing, except once in a blue moon I get to kiss the girl.  The rest of the time I spend in action, adventure, and thriller scenarios solving problems by which to stay alive.  It is quite the challenge.  I am used to it.  I am not used to being tired all of the time consequently.  It is an interesting sacrifice, your daily life versus a subconscious nocturnal adventures.  I would rather experience my adventures during waking hours, but so be it.  Most creative people are most prolific in the wee hours of the night and morning as was Cole Porter.  His popular song, "Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning," was a metaphor for his draft into the armed services and having to rise to the sound of a bugler at the crack of dawn.  This song served him well later in his life.  I guess I should be thankful, that I have dreamt two small novelettes in their entirety one I have written down and one I have not.  It is new to me this business of dreaming novels.  It has been said that when God closes one door He opens another.  I would prefer to continue my musical adventures, and I am trying the best I can despite my fatigue.  Yesterday was a monumental day in the history of America, and I am too tired to blog about it.  Yesterday was a monumental day in the history of America, because our first African-American president sang the spiritual song "Amazing Grace" during his eulogy for the victims of Emanuel African Methodist Church in Charleston, South Carolina.  Did you hear what I said?  I said, "Our first African-American president SANG the spiritual song "Amazing Grace" on live television to be rebroadcast again and again and again on what will become syndicated television.  This is a watershed event.  While all Americans have known that President Obama is black, he has done an admirable job of dispelling racial stereotypes about black people.  One does not get elected president of the United States by talking jive, eating chitlins, and drinking Colt 45 malt liquor.  One should not receive misdirected persecution for possessing an affinity for the confederate flag.  The seemingly comprehensive admonishment of the confederate flag of the American South is a stretch.  While I do not embrace such an archaic and anachronistic symbol, flying a flag does not a protagonist of genocide make.  There are many ignorant red necks in America.  There are many ignorant gang bangers also. Connecting the will to commit racial hate crimes with a flag....  well, it is quite a conundrum.  I find it quite fascinating that a heinous multiple murder in a predominantly black church in the American south has brought forth such a movement against a symbol.  What about the murderer himself?  Is Dylan Roof connected in any way to this confederate flag?  While I applaud the sudden dissent having lived in an oppressive south for many years, still it is a stretch.  What is more of a stretch is that our first African-American president sang the spiritual song "Amazing Grace" live in public.  What is it that is so groundbreaking about this action?  Everyone in America knows President Obama is black, but not until now have we seen him integrated with the black church.  Who knew he had roots in this stylized mode of worship?  There are black Episcopal churches who adhere to its formal structure based upon the Catholic mass.  Submitting to this social demand President Obama created history in America.  He departed from the Constitution's separation of church and state, and freely acknowledged that God is a necessary part of the fabric of American civilization.  (as it is of all civilizations)  With this trip to Charleston, South Carolina President Obama may have entered America's history books just like our Supreme Court's rulings on the Affordable Care Act and gay marriage.  This is a lot of history for one short week.  Wow.  The president sang "Amazing Grace."  Bill Clinton played the saxophone and not that well.  Governor Pappy O'Daniel danced to "Man of Constant Sorrow."  Boris Yeltsin threw down on stage at a rally in Russia.  President Obama sang the spiritual song "Amazing Grace."  It was an unprecedented event.  A deranged Caucasian youth murdered nine African-Americans at a bible study in Charleston, South Carolina.  Are these lives more important than the lives lost at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut?  Are these lives more important than the lives lost at the Century movie theater in Aurora, Colorado?  Are these lives more important than the lives lost at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado?  The Constitution says no, but cultural heritage says yes.  It says yes, because these people were more high profile in society.  It is interesting, that martyrization is a powerful entity.  The killing of high profile African-Americans practicing freedom of religion in the American South is symbolic of the struggle of the Civil War.  It, like America's original Civil Rights Momement, represents heinous practices against humanity in America.  While students attending school or engaging in the recreational viewing of a film equally are as important as the nine victims in Charleston, formerly enslaved African-Americans practicing their constitutional right to freedom of worship represents a greater cause.  We must ask ourselves if this was a determinate in Dylan Roof's choice of victims.  Could it have been consequential, because this particular church happened to present his correct opportunity to murder multiple blacks?  Did worship and Bible study enter Dylan Roof's mind?  In either case the combination of church and black is too strong an image to suppress.  Let's be thankful it was, because this combination is a fundamental part of America's history and enlightenment.  Let's be thankful a sitting President took a stand and against a common, erroneous, and politically-motivated view, brought God into the presence of America.  

Familiarity and Solidarity, the Human Condition

Lately I have been recognizing a lack of familiarity in my life.  One reason may be I am living in my parent's house.  Once I lived in this house also, but it was thirty-four years ago when I was eighteen.  My interests were outside of this house and for a specific reason.  They were mine.  I traveled and spent four years in Chapel Hill and five years in Columbia, South Carolina.  Later I spent almost a decade in Columbus, Ohio.  Then I spent twelve years living on ships.  Needless to say this house is not that familiar.  Many things have changed.  Many things have stayed the same.  Mostly there was clutter, clutter from my father's life.  At first I set up house and did as I knew how.  I re-capped our Hammond A-100 organ.  I rebuilt my l981 Rhodes 73 electric piano.  I rebuilt my father's 1981 54 electric piano.  I cleaned my studio gear that had been in storage and replaced most of the dead batteries.  Much of it survived.  A few pieces like my Oberheim Matrix 6 rack did not.  Meticulously I arranged this studio gear into a new configuration and hauled it upstairs into my bedroom sacrificing my comfortable double bed.  This gear needed to be in a temperature-controlled environment as did the Rhodes.  I also hauled my Uncle Edwin's vinyl record collection upstairs into the same room.  Slowly this room unfolded into a workable MIDI studio, but it is not familiar to me.  Nothing much around me is very familiar.  My Rhodes is sitting less than ten feet from me under the air conditioner, and because I played it in college I don't feel a connection with it anymore.  I do know that my restoration of it yielded an instrument as good as any recorded Rhodes in history.  That is a tall statement, and while I am sure there are more expensive Rhodes around, this one is perfectly voice to my exacting ears and experiences playing both live and in the studio.  I didn't play trio jazz on this instrument, so I chorded on it in a commercial band context.  The low end was too strong, so rarely did I use my left hand.  When I voiced it, I took this into account consciously attenuating the lower frequencies.  In the future in due time it will serve its purpose as will many of the things I possess.  This Rhodes sitting less than ten feet from me is supported by two Leslie 60 tone cabinets with brand new Jensen Mod speakers.  Although they are quite old, they sound better than most modern keyboard amplification systems.  I forget this often.  Sitting atop this Rhodes is a what now could be  considered vintage analog synthesizer.  It is a Prophet 600, and there is one bad VCA making it a five voice instrument.  This pair of instruments was my first tangible gig rig.  I made a fair amount of money with this set up.  Still it feels unfamiliar.  I can't think of anything off the top of my head that seems really familiar.  The piano on which I learned to play sits in our living room.  While it is a beautiful piece of mahogany furniture, surreptitiously I despise it.  I do have pleasing memories with this house, and they involved Kelly Gooding.  We courted one another in this house, but that is very difficult for me to remember.  Happy memories or thoughts rather are sparse.  Life is a struggle, because of this unfamiliarity.  What is most startling about living here is my physical movements are foreign.  Daily I expect to complete a task that will reveal itself to me in kinesthetic familiarity, but it does not.  Each and every thing I do feels foreign, like I never have done it before.  After assembling vintage skateboards in our garage over and over, these motions now are foreign to me.  Imagine how my piano playing feels.  I am ensconced in a never never land of challenge rarely that ever gives an inch.  The house laughs at me when I stumble like a naive child and cut my finger or stub my toe.  These are things I have not had to think about in thirty-five years.  I have realized living here is a complete different ballgame than what the rest of my life has been, and I don't want it.  It is not mine.  I have done my best to customize this environment by moving furniture to more functional places, and to a small degree it has helped.  Still these new surroundings are not familiar.  What is familiar to me?  Not the bed in which I sleep.  Not the bathroom in which I bathe.  Not the kitchen in which I prepare meals.  None of it is me.  Dirt doesn't change, and although our yard as progressed through varying degrees of carnage mostly it is under control.  There are three new magnolia trees that pee pee leaves all over the lawn.  There is a conspicuous absence of grass, because soil erosion and dampness have encouraged the growth of fungal-laden moss.  I have waged war upon this moss and killed some of it.  It returns.  Our garage has a brand newly insulated outer wall with custom vinyl sliding windows.  It has developed into a desirable large work space, but it is not temperature controlled.  I use a kerosene heater to warm in in winter, and it is effective.  During the summer, it's a throw away unless you are willing to sweat continuously.  It houses my three motorcycles which are familiar.  It houses one keyboard rig, which although it has been extremely problematic the last year also is familiar.  I am not sure I can rely upon it for a gig.  There is a 1971 Fender Rhodes 73 key stage piano awaiting my third restoration.  Mostly I do not feel familiarity here, because what I feel is what my mother feels.  It is the nature of being a son.  

The Federal Bureau of Corporate Security

There was a newspaper article recently exposing the FBI's fleet of covert, privately-contracted, surveillance aircraft.  It occurred to me that these planes are not searching for terrorists.  They are providing security for privately-owned corporations at the cost of the taxpayer.  It is easy to justify this malfeasance with terrorists lurking around every corner.  Lobbyists pay politicians.  Politicians provide free security through the Federal Bureau of Investigation under the ruse of the prevention of terror.  Who are they watching?  It looks like big business to me.  Feels a bit like Socialism, the government running the businesses the way the businesses want.  Most certainly we do not have a publicly-owned means of production.  Who is shit out of luck in this scenario?  A bit of a conspiracy that seems really possible.  

Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, a Modern Marvel

When I sat down at this table earlier this evening, I had every intention of reinforcing some perceptions I received while lying in bed last night.  I knew I would not sleep. (without the aid of bourbon)  I am not drinking bourbon, because after having had a CT scan, an MRI, a colonoscopy, and hernia repair surgery in the short period of a few months, it disturbs my abdomen.  I have no answer, and I did not sleep.  While I laid in bed I made a decision, that this was the time I was going to reconnect with my composed piano music.  For several years after moving back home, I have lost touch with things that are important to me.  It has been a fair sacrifice, because the things upon which I have been focusing are immediate.  They are our house, our yard, and my mother.  While others may be suspect at the order of that list, it is accurate.  A fifty-two years old single adult male living with his mother may be unusual.  Then again since the ongoing financial crisis in America, many things have changed.  It is taking me some effort and resultant pain to accommodate these things.  The most important is one of the things I came to realize again last night while lying in the bed.  I made myself forget what was around me (my parent's house) and analyze musically two of my composed piano pieces.  I put on my Sennheiser noise reduction headphones and scrolled through four playlists of my own pieces.  Picking titles is rather easy, because one of the concepts of these pieces is that the title must be only one word.  I have forgotten in the field of commercial music (and by commercial I mean all music, because every musician would like to earn money from their craft) that there is a great amount of ignorance and verbosity.  There is a great amount of useless sentimentality.  There are a great amount of cliches.  Above all there is a stark, brutal, and incapacitating lack of Modernism.  By Modernism I mean an artistic aesthetic which attempts to reflect the hustle and bustle of a large, noisy, modern city.  My brain is too tired from lack of sleep to explain it much further, but I mean modernism as in the Modern Age where things are sleek, efficient, and free from unwanted emotion.  I mean modern in contrast to romantic.  I don't mean mechanical.  I don't mean robotic.  I don't mean cyborg.  I mean an aesthetic of intelligence and wisdom that chooses to live this way, uncluttered from the sentimental artifacts that kill us over time.  Modernism is a way of efficiently and cleanly expelling those habits which have become anachronistic and detrimental to our future existence.  A lack of Modernism is what has been plaguing me the last year.  I laid in bed and forced myself to forget what was around me (my parent's house) and listen musically to two of my works.  By musically I do not mean expressively.  I mean hearing past the expression and the message and listen to its vehicle.  What language was being used for my message, because I had forgotten.  I have been too busy dealing with a previous and archaic language to be able to remember one I invented for the sake of modernism.  It was rather simple, but having deduced the method I remembered.  
I remembered how I had composed these pieces.  The divide which separates Modernity from simple tonality is diatonicism.  It is what separates J.S. Bach from Stravinsky, Prokiev, Schoenberg, Webern, and Berg.  It is a language, a language of which America knows nothing.  We are held captive in a musical world which bears no resemblance to any of the periods of music that should have influenced it.  America.  Not that long ago we recognized the jazz vernacular as America's musical voice.  That is legitimate.  Now jazz has fallen from grace and we are enslaved in children's nursery rhymes.  In the clearest sense politics are what drive a nation.  When politicians are intelligent, strong, and bold so is a nation.  When politicians are weak, stupid, and self-centered so is a nation.  What is causing this stagnation in America is being at war.  We do not really know if we are at war or not.  It has become so gray like the rest of our existence, politicians can do whatever they like with no transparency.  Truly we are in an American Dark Ages.  While we remain at war our nation will continue to pass time.  That is what we are doing.  I realized this yesterday, when I realized America no longer was modern.  We cannot get down to the business of being America, of inspiring our minds and our creations, until we stop being at war.  War is a distraction, and often it becomes our economy.  Our economy is in crisis, thus war is causing this crisis.  Until war stops our economy will not recover.  Only will we continue to pass time.  

Bitch, Bitch, Bitch

I'm not a big complainer.  Usually I am a doer.  When you health is not one hundred percent things change.  You can't do as much.  You must be careful.  Life becomes more of a challenge, if life weren't all ready enough of a challenge.  My life has been challenging the last two years.  It has been challenging because, "I came home."  We all know, "You can't go home."  I came home anyway, because my dad left home.  He needed to be cared for in a full nursing facility, so his two years of service in the United States Army playing trumpet aided him.  We were able to admit him to the North Carolina State Veteran's Nursing Home.  This change altered my parent's lifestyle, not that my mother's lifestyle all ready hadn't been altered.  Her lifestyle was been altered when my father began to experience dementia.  I witnessed some of this when I returned home from my cruise ship piano job.  During my tenure as a ship pianist it was necessary to store my belongings, so I could travel for extended periods of time living on these ships.  This was convenient, because only it had been approximately one year since I had moved back from Columbus, Ohio.  During this period staying in my parents house and the exact weekend I interviewed for a college teaching position at Western Carolina University my father had a small stroke.  While I was interviewing in Cullowee the phone rang at my boarding house.  It was my brother-in-law who instructed me to return home.  The following year my father was lucky that I was around.  I filled in for him in his band playing left-hand bass and jazz piano.  He had enough gigs, so I felt gainfully employed.  I also enjoyed this time.  It was not long before my father felt well enough to be compelled to return to playing the piano.  It was not a pretty change.  His impetus for change rather than telling me he wanted to return was to come to a gig fully dressed and sit on the front row with my mother.  They proceeded to whisper to themselves, as we tried to play ignoring his intimidating presence.  Doris, our singer, was so uncomfortable she could not remember the songs.  It was an awkward place to be.  Having been duly notified by this politically incorrect procedure, I accepted a pit orchestra job at the Cape Fear Regional Theater playing for the musical "Footloose."  I played both electric and keyboard bass and designed their MIDI keyboard system for use my Marla Ham.  The day after the show opened I received a call from Carnival Cruise Lines offering me a job in their orchestra.  My employment began with them on September 29, 2002, directly after the 9/11 terrorist event.  Through the years I worked for Carnival, Princess, and Royal Caribbean.  During these years I stayed both at my parents house and a few times with my sister and brother-in-law.  Ten years later when I received the news that my father was failing, I came home.  It was a shock.  He called me, "Our guest."  I had to reiterate to him that I was his son, and when I did he attempted to exploit that familial connection.  His dementia was driving him as was ensuing incontinence.  It was a difficult time for my mother.  He demanded her attention twenty-four hours a day.  He would beckon for her every moment, "June......."  To be helpful in the only way I saw possible, I took more ship jobs to earn money.  While I was gone my mother had to make the difficult decision that my father needed to go somewhere.  First she tried the Fayetteville Manor.  Shortly after it became apparent he would need full nursing care.  Retrieving my father's draft card successfully she found a place for him in the North Carolina facility.  While her life may have become a small amount less difficult, mine became exceedingly more difficult.  Everything I had done for the last decade suddenly now was on hold, and I was living in an a changed environment resembling where we had moved when I was in ninth grade.  The changes that had transpired were a metaphor for my father's dementia, not that his home protocol was a cup of tea to decipher.  He enjoyed drama, and thus he enjoyed challenges.  These challenges in my eyes were the antithesis of how responsible people organize and run their lives.  he created problems to solve.  This worked well during his prime years, but created havoc during his later more challenging times.  These circumstances themselves cemented that he no longer could do the things he used to do, not that they were easy to begin with.  I have spent two long years trying to undo these things organizing a house in a logical and livable way.  Second to graduating from UNC-Chapel Hill it has proven emotionally exhausting.  It has been exhausting, because, "You can't go home."