Happy New Year

I must admit that I have been very remiss in 2016 when it comes to my blog. I can elaborate on mitigating circumstances, but will refrain from making this an apologia. Though from the same Latin root as apology, an apologia is not a regretful acknowledgment of an offense or failure. It is a statement of defense for one's position or statement.

While I'm not one to make resolutions at the dawn of a new year, in 2017 I will pledge to shower you with more of my extemporaneous musings and doggerel.  Rereading that sentence, I am not sure if it is a resolution or a threat.

Speaking of resolutions, the practice of making them at the beginning of a new year dates back to ancient Mesopotamia. At the dawn of another year (March in the Babylonian calendar), people would renew their oath of allegiance to the emperor and resolve to serve the empire better.

Another of my favorite traditions is greeting the new year with
fireworks. This also hearkens back to ancient times. Early Americans embraced the idea of explosions on December 31. My favorite story comes from the late-1800's in Colorado. Miners in Denver on New Year's Eve did not have fireworks, but did have quite a large amount of dynamite. Why not! The ensuing explosions caused several large craters on the main street and some damage to nearby buildings. I'm sure it was worth it...pyrotechnics are so much fun!

The obligatory kiss at midnight comes from the gaelic/Scottish ritual of saining. As the new year approached houses and livestock were sprinkled with water as a form of consecration. Through the years, this transformed into a kiss between family and friends.

Another Scot Hogmanay tradition involves opening all the windows in the house to dissipate the bad "airs" of the old year. The woman of the house would walk around with a bottle of whiskey to help fight the chill of the fresh night's air.  Combine that with pyrotechnics and this man is a happy boy!

As January approaches, named for the double-faced Roman god, Janus, take time for reflection. He presided over transitions. From one year to the next, from war to peace, from conflict to resolution. Bid farewell to 2016 and look forward to 2017 with anticipation and hope despite the many inauspicious auguries many expect. As ever - BB

"Hope, Smiles from the threshold of the year to come,  Whispering 'it will be happier'...”  - Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Sing Me Back Home

First my apologies for being lax and lazy. Opening my blog for this entry, I realize it's been quite a while since I last put pen to paper. To be accurate, put digits on keyboard, but that sounds less literate and less alliterative.

The impetus for this blog was the passing of Merle Haggard. A death also spurred the last blog. That is weird. Time to find a new inspiration for my muse? Though I like the phrase "minion of the macabre muse", I should focus on more positive inspiration. My thoughts, now distracted, wander various paths. Get ye behind me deities of digression!

I've had mixed feelings about Merle since 1969. The Byrds, Grateful Dead, The Flying Burrito Brothers and others, introduced me to the wealth of songs from Haggard. In 1969, Okie from Muskogee hit the airways. The song scorned my generation.

Then I heard the stories about Haggard's distain towards those he referred to as "filthy, long-haired hippies." Roger McGuinn and Gram Parsons wanted him to produce  Sweetheart of the Rodeo; he refused. Others asked him to sing on their records, join a tour, but Merle ignored the young upstarts.

I was a big demonstration-goer back then. Whatever the cause, angry protesters could count on my support. I epitomized a scene from Brando's The Wild One: "Hey Johnny, what are you rebelling against?"  Ans. "What have you got?"

New York City May 1970, about 200 construction workers attacked students protesting the Kent State shootings. Dubbed, the Hard Hat Riot, Nixon's Silent Majority, touted them as heroes. I experienced the same during many demonstrations. Spit, bottles, cans, assorted detritus were hurled in my direction. An Us vs. Them mentality ensued. I placed Merle Haggard in the Them camp.

Despite this, the beauty of his songs spoke to me. Over the next few years, Willie and Waylon joined Jerry Jeff in Austin, and the divisiveness lessened. The lines
between country and rock blurred. Music transcended political and sociological ideologies on both sides.

Unfortunately, hate and intolerance seem endemic to mankind. Today the same schism rears its ugly head. The terms liberal and conservative have replaced straights and freaks, but the animosity and prejudice remain the same. Hopefully, music will blur our partisan principles and one day we can join hands and sing Kumbaya, or at least Momma Tried.  As ever - BB

"Take me away and turn back the years. Sing me back home before I die." Merle Haggard, Sing Me Back Home

Surrealistic Remembrances

A key factor of life is death. I am not being maudlin, nor do I suffer from what a psychoanalyst would call existential death anxiety. Long ago I lost any dread of death. Why would one wish to live forever?  The beauty of each day is that it could be the last. That fact imparts life with its mystery and its joy.

I don't know if there exists an exact moment when this enlightenment came over me. However, I can pinpoint the time period and frame of mind. It began in 1972 ensconced in the sylvan setting of Siena College. I explored my inner space, faced my demons and my guardian angels realizing they were in essence the same - yin/yang, sturm und drang. LSD illuminates, but its radiance can be fraught with danger. At that time and place, naiveté and trust in my fellow adventurers kept the darkness at bay.

The awareness that the fabric of the universe enfolds all blossomed within me. I became an animist. Everything from the stars to the dust motes floating before my dilated pupils were one and the same. I had studied the oversoul of the Transcendentalists, the Vendanta of Hinduism, Roman Catholic eschatology, the absurdism of Camus, et. al. But these sterile academic endeavors were faint candles compared to the klieg light of realization that psychedelics gave.

The impetus for my latest reflection was the passing of Paul Kantner. My introduction to what was originally called the San Francisco Sound came from the Grateful Dead's first album. It was early 1967. My older sister was a Beatles fan. Being the typical little brother, I was looking for the most unBeatle band I could find. Before I heard a note, the album cover displaying these hirsute simians (an early reviewer's description of the band) captured my 12-year old imagination.

The next year, Life magazine had the Jefferson Airplane on the cover. Soon, the Dead, the Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service monopolized my hi-fi. At the same time, I came across Hells Angels - The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs. The author's name, Hunter Thompson, meant nothing to me then, but my worm had begun to turn. This led to The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, which led to On the Road. Like Alice, I had gone down the rabbit hole.

In August 1972, my parents had dropped me off in Loudonville, NY to begin my collegiate education. They never suspected that the music I was listening to, and the books I was reading were preparing me to venture through the looking glass.

In the years that followed, I cut my tethers to the straight world and strove to follow the words of Neal Cassady and live my life as art. It wasn't all fun and frolic. My parents feared I'd end up in prison or a psych-ward. In retrospect, my actions seem immature and reckless. Later I filled my heart with regret and shame over wasting time with hedonistic aggrandizement.

That has passed. I now realize every misturn, mistake and misadventure led me to where and who I am today. For good or ill, as Popeye opined "I yam who I yam!" as ever BB

“We are actually fourth dimensional beings in a third dimensional body inhabiting a second dimensional world!”  - Neal Cassady