Tales of the ‘Rona, Episode 5: Scream In My Heart and Caesura

“What have you seen?

We have seen waves and stars,

And lost sea-beaches, and known many wars,

And notwithstanding war and hope and fear,

We were as weary there as we are here...”

- Charles Baudelaire, “The Flowers of Evil: The Voyage”

CNN’s Jake Tapper called it the “motto of 2020”.

The story went viral, trending in Twitter-verse.

Fuji-Q Highland, an amusement park in Fujiyoshida, Japan, is asking it’s guests to ride its roller-coasters in silence in order to avoid spreading Covid-19.

The park posted a video in which two men are seen riding a roller-coaster in complete silence while wearing face masks.

A Japanese-language message appears at the end of the video.

Google’s translate app converts the message into English as “scream in my heart”.

A Wall Street Journal follow-up report had a slightly different take, translating the message as “please scream inside your heart”.

Scream in my heart.

Tapper is right.

The motto of 2020.

One Twitter user lamented: “I don’t need a roller coaster ride to scream inside my heart. 

It is a daily routine”.

Screaming in my heart, or some variation of that, has been in daily rotation since Saturday, January 25th, a life-altering day.

A day I bought a ticket to a hell-bent roller-coaster ride I never wanted to board.

A day the world stopped, then began rotating to some cross-town traffic, unnerving, un-syncopated, jarringly off-beat rhythm.

In musical pieces, longer pauses are called “caesura” 

(sēˈzyo͝orə) indicating silent, temporary breaks.

Tempo, pulse and rhythm stop momentarily.

It’s a suspension of time.

Caesura.

Caesuras have also been in daily rotation in-between heart screams.

Like the call this week from one of my characteristically upbeat, life is good, “heard any good music lately?” inquiring doctors.

Slight detour first.

This is the doctor who hung back one morning after a team of doctors informed me I’d had a stroke.

“Are you really Nikki Sixx?” he asked.

I’m almost dead and I look like it, and still the comparison.

Poor Nikki.

I gave a half-hearted laugh, we chatted briefly, and he shot me the “rock on/devil’s horns” as he left.

Still does whenever I see him.

Then there was the nurse who walked with me down a hallway the day of my angiogram.

“Are you really Gene Simmons?” he asked.

That was a first.

Look him up.

Poor me.

I smiled, said no, we chatted briefly, and he shot me the “rock on/devil’s horns” as he left me in my room.

Oh, and the late evening shift nurse who, after my carotid endarterectomy, calmly commented in her Polish accent while looking at my chart, “Aahh, you’re big rock star”.

Wait, what?

That’s on my chart?

Sigh.

Part of me wants to reply, “Why yes, yes I am, I am all of these people you think I am, but I was hoping to slip in unnoticed and go unrecognized and now you’ve caught me!”

Let the rumors start flying.

Have you heard?

Franciscan Health now treats big named, big haired, ‘80’s famed rockers!

Right here in the south suburbs of Chicago!

But I don’t and I didn’t.

I behave.

I suppose I bring it on myself.

I don’t mind though, it makes life interesting for all involved.

Detour over.

Back to the call.

Pen and paper?

Good, a few things to go over.

Confirm surgery date.

Time of arrival, time of surgery.

Ungodly early, of course.

Schedule pre-surgery lab work.

Schedule pre-surgery, let’s go over the day-of, messy, necessary details consult.

No, at this time no one can be with you due to Covid-19 restrictions.

You’ll be riding solo.

Get dropped off at the door at dawn’s early light and say your goodbyes.

Make your peace.

(No, he didn’t say that, but it’s how I was hearing this conversation.)

Any questions?

No, well yes, a lot, but...

Good, we’ll see you then.

We’ll talk more at pre-surgery, messy, necessary details consult.

Have a nice day.

Goodbye.

Scream in my heart.

Caesura.

Suspension of time.

Shit’s getting real.

In February, 2006, 50 million albums selling, 9 Grammy awards winning, hit-making machine, 

singer-songwriter Sheryl Crow’s life got shredded.

Her high-profile relationship to cyclist Lance Armstrong disintegrated, followed up quickly by an unwelcome diagnosis.

Breast cancer.

Double lumpectomy and radiation therapy.

When she learned of her diagnosis, Crow revealed that one word took over her thoughts: vulnerable.

She fought back the best way she knew how.

She wrote a song.

“I stare into some great abyss

And calculate the things I’d miss

If I could only make some sense of this...

I crawl into my circumstance 

Lay on the table begging for another chance

But I was a good girl, and I can’t understand how to...

Make it go away

Make it go away 

Make it go away...”

Vulnerable.

Staring into some great abyss.

Making sense of this.

All of this.

From January 25th until today, crawling into my circumstance.

Wanting it to go away.

Make.

It.

Go.

Away.

I believe now, unquestionably, with the benefit of hindsight and a mountain of personal research, that I fell victim to Covid-19.

Far too many similarities and far too many symptoms, far too many variables in antibody testing, far too many doctors and nurses looking at me in amazement when I question what happened.

“What happened? Coronavirus, that’s what happened”.

I believe now, unquestionably, if - and it’s a huge if - more people were personally affected and touched by the ravages of Coronavirus, and would stop politicizing it long enough to do the right things, it would make a difference.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

I was commenting recently in a thread to an online news story - stupid and pointless, I know, but nevertheless - responding to someone who said he knew people who knew people that got Covid-19 and it wasn’t any different than a pesky cold.

No big deal.

A minor inconvenience.

Flu-like at best.

Sniffles, then you get better.

These numbers and stats?

A hoax, fake news, too much testing.

Masks?

A governmental, boundary over-stepping, rights-stripping, controlling joke.

I briefly layered out my story, my vulnerable abyss, naively hoping a mind might change.

Hoping one story might make a ripple.

“That’s your opinion” was the swift, expletive-charged response.

My opinion.

Not just about masks, social distancing, or governmental strategy and decision-making.

No.

My opinion about the entirety of my illness.

My opinion.

I’ll keep my opinion in mind from now on, especially in a few short weeks when I’m being 

prepped for a triple bypass.

I’ll keep my opinion to myself when I think back over these last 6 months of my life, nearly dead because my breath was being robbed, one inhalation at a time.

I’ll remember it was just my opinion that caused and uncovered an avalanche of ailments that may or may not be over after I recover from the next surgery.

And whatever may or may not still be waiting around the corner.

My opinion.

My vulnerability.

My make it go away.

My scream in my heart.

My caesura.

Caesura.

Caesura...

Scattered Riffs and Sacred Lines

* warning * salty language ahead

I was vibing on country.

Maybe old school, maybe Merle, maybe Hank.

Maybe Garth, Urban, Strait, maybe Shelton.

I honestly can’t remember.

Maybe Chesney, Waylon, Bryan or Hank.

They all have the goods, for real.

Might not be my first choice, default or go to music, but a good song is a good song.

Country does rock.

Country delivers.

Looking back now, most likely it was Cash.

That’s it.

Cash.

Johnny Cash.

The Man in Black.

“Folsom Prison Blues”.

“I Walk the Line”.

”Ring of Fire”.

I wanted a rebel, long black coat, “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash”, ultimate bad-ass, don’t-fuck-with-me, I ain’t your boy kind of song.

The lyrics flowed.

The chords were simple, primal, repetitive, punk-ish.

My band - 2BukkChukk - funked it, mystified it, dirtied it, sexed it, and dive-bar-ed it to a Cash-Zeppelin-Stones-Clash unholy union that required whiskey straight-up every time we played it.

I deeply love those guys - Roland, Mike, Tom, and Jack.

10+ years of making sounds that could have been on the airwaves.

Could have been.

Easily.

Wrong places, wrong times.

My comrade in arms Brett and I even brain-stormed a video for this song.

Over whiskey and cigars.

Lots of cigars.

Lots of whiskey.

Lots of long, black leather coat, desert, dusty boot imagery.

Brett undeniably gets me.

Gets the tune.

Video never got made.

Maybe soon, after a few more scars.

Sometimes lyrics are fictional.

Sometimes lyrics are autobiographical.

Sometimes there’s a nice blend.

“Best Tattoo” is unapologetically autobiographical. 

Scarred, frayed, tattooed.

Nothing imagined.

Everything true.

Best Tattoo.

Best Tattoo

I got people I got friends

Some shoot you down some stick around to the bitter end

I got bruises I got scars

Got a little time I’ll show you right where they are                               

Don’t tell me your lies…

I’ve done some things I’m not too proud I’ve done

Been down, wore out, tore up, flat busted out of luck

Ain’t got no money, ain’t got no fancy car

Ain’t got no way to get a Hollywood star…no…

Whiskey and cigarettes and sleepless nights

Too many bars, guitars, and cars, and hazy eyes…

Tired of running, tired of chasing them blues

I’m tired of trying to fight my way back home to you…

I got people I got friends

Some shoot you down some stick around to the bitter end

I got bruises I got scars

Got a little time I’ll show you right where they are                               

Don’t tell me your lies…

I’ve been to places I should not have been

My heart’s been ripped in two thrown out and left for dead

Ain’t got no lovin’ got no soul to spare

But if you want it you can try and raise it up again…

I got defenses I got walls to climb

Won’t let you in or out or touch a piece of my mind

Ain’t nothing pretty ain’t nothing shiny or new

But if you want me I could be your best tattoo…

                                     

Nobody in this world can love like you do

Nobody else I know can heal me like new

So if you want me I could be your best tattoo…

I won’t tell you no lies

Tales of the ‘Rona, Episode 4, pt. 3: Lamentation and Rage

“Where are we now? Where are we now?
The moment you know, you know, you know...
As long as there's sun
As long as there's rain
As long as there's fire
As long as there's me
As long as there's you...”

- David Bowie, “Where Are We Now?”

“At the still point of the turning world.
Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is...”

- T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Notion: The Four Quartets”

The New Yorker recently ran an article titled “Musicians and Composers Respond to a Chaotic Moment: The Pandemic and the Protests Inspire Works of Lamentation and Rage.”
Lamentation and Rage.

I like that.

That’s good.

I’ll be using that.

“Talent borrows, genius steals”, said Oscar Wilde.

And who am I to argue with Mr. Wilde?

The article begins with this:

“On May 27th, two days after a Minneapolis police officer murdered George Floyd, Anthony McGill, the principal clarinettist of the New York Philharmonic, posted a recording of himself playing “America the Beautiful.” 

It is a rendition with a difference. 

McGill begins by swelling slowly into an initial G, from silence. 

When he reaches the portion of the melody matching the words “America, America,” he changes a high E-natural to an E-flat, thereby wrenching the key from C major to C minor. 

He remains in the minor mode to the end. 

Then he goes down on both knees, his clarinet behind his back, as if shackled, and bends his head. 

The video, titled “TakeTwoKnees,” lasts about ninety seconds, but it has the weight of a symphonic statement.

McGill later recounted that he had been searching for some way to respond to Floyd’s killing. 

His wife, Abby, suggested “America the Beautiful,” and as he was trying out the song on his clarinet he played a wrong note and slipped into the minor, at which point he found his message. 

It’s been “We shouldn’t pretend like life and the world is always major because we want it to be,” he told NPR. “Sometimes life is minor. 

It goes off its true melody. 

It goes off of that simple, beautiful melody that we all expect it to be...”

We shouldn’t pretend like life and the world is always major because we want it to be.

Sometimes life is minor.

Sometimes life goes off its true melody.

Sometimes life goes off of that simple, beautiful melody that we all expect it to be.

We shouldn’t pretend.

We.

Shouldn’t.

Pretend.

100%.

90%.

90%.

50%.

40%.

The black and white, indisputable, this-is-now-your-life-so-deal-with-it, truth-telling status of my artery blockages staring back at me from the My Health page on my computer screen screams life has gone off its true melody.

A slip into the minor.

Haunting, minor progressions I’ve been hearing for months.

Nevertheless, my very excellent, incredible, caring, dark-humored, on top of things team of doctors have assured me that I am, cough, “stable”. 

A questionable diagnosis on many levels, but I’ll take it.

The dude abides.

I inquired as to whether or not I could get in sooner, most assuredly a strange request, but due to Covid-19 backups and a waiting list of others whose numbers somehow beat mine, I wait.

And wait.

Lamentation and rage.

I am stable.

If you want to know what life tastes like in the minor key, my morning tea routine attests to my avoidance of stress - and rage - during my time of waiting.

I have a stash of various teas in the pantry with names that include phrases like Zen, Gypsy Licorice, Holy Basil, African Solstice, Turmeric Tantra, Bombay Chai, and the like.

A slip into the minor.

If you want to hear what life sounds like in the minor key, then put together a playlist that would include music similar to the following:

Hello by Adele.

Haydn’s Symphony No. 49, “La Passione”.

Back to Black by Amy Winehouse.

Hurt by Johnny Cash.

Chopin’s Funeral March.

Senorita by Camilla Cabello.

You’ll hear the idea.

You’ll taste and hear and feel the minor vibe.

A palpable, unmistakable vibe.

A time of waiting.

Lamentation and rage.

I am stable.

When we met with our surgeon - “our” being the operative word because my loving, caring wife and my loving, caring family will be cut open precisely at the same moment that I am, figuratively and emotionally speaking of course - my oldest son and my daughter-in-law were listening in on speakerphone.

“You’re stable”, said the doctor, “your heart is strong, but until your surgery you’ll need to avoid stressful situations, like aggressive sex, and...”

And.

And I don’t remember exactly what followed next on that list of stressful situations to avoid.

I do remember thinking “aggressive sex” has to be right at the top of the list of things you don’t want to hear connected to your parents.

Ever.

The doctor must have found some dark humor in this because he mentioned it several more times.

I so wanted to be equally as dark and ask, “Can you explain what you mean by aggressive sex?”, but someday my oldest son may be making decisions for me and in those moments I don’t want him leaning over and whispering in my ear, “Remember that meeting with your surgeon and you asked him to explain what aggressive sex was? Well, karma’s a bitch...”

In this time of waiting, also at the urging of my cardiologist, I made an appointment with an ENT - ear, nose and throat specialist - due to my ongoing vocal issues.

Resulting from my carotid endarterectomy.

Resulting from my stroke.

Resulting from my Covid-19-like symptoms.

Resulting from...my life.

The good news, after sitting in a sound-proof, hearing testing booth, is that my hearing, according to the 

technician, is “Beautiful, your hearing is perfect”.

Something is beautiful.

Hallelujah.

Lamentation, rage, and hallelujahs.

I’ll take it.

I’ll covet it.

I’ll treasure my beautiful, perfect hearing.

My voice however, not so hallelujah.

Not so beautiful.

Not so perfect.

“Years ago I treated Luther Vandross” said my ENT doctor as the probing began.

“He was in town and asked for me, I was young and just starting out, so of course I went”.

Luther Vandross.

The hands treating me treated Luther “The Velvet Voice” Vandross.

That’s something.

“He told me that his handlers and managers thought his voice was like a trumpet - you just take it out of the case every night and blow...” mused the doctor while he was inserting a long, thin tube with a camera on the end into my nasal cavity to view my throat.

It’s as unpleasant as it sounds.

“But a voice doesn’t work like that”, said Luther, “It just doesn’t...”

Luther would need voice therapy, just like I was about to be told I needed the same.

“Vocal paresis”, said Luther’s fixer to me.

“Fortunately your vocal cords aren’t paralyzed, but they aren’t moving as much as they should, and it’s called vocal paresis”.

“A few months of therapy and you should start seeing some improvement...”

Sigh.

Deep, deep sigh.

Therapy.

Ongoing therapy.

More therapy, and more therapy to come.

A few more dreams, a few more restless nights, a few more panic attacks, then the “big one”, the “triple play”, the open heart.

Open.

Heart.

The phrase sounds simultaneously warm and terrifying.

A slip into the minor.

The melody is off.

Lamentation and rage.

And hallelujah.

Don’t forget the hallelujah.

I can hear beautifully, dam it, I can hear.

I know, because something deep inside tells me I know, that I have much to be thankful for.

I know, because my upbringing and my faith story tells me I know, that I should “count my blessings”.

I know that I should grin and bear it, smile and suck it up, carry whatever cross I’ve been given gladly because there are people out there that are far worse off than I am.

I know.

I’ve been around the block a time or two, or seven, or a hundred, or more.

I know.

Still.

A very wise woman once told me suffering is not a competition.

That’s so true it’s almost biblical.

Still.

“At the still point of the turning world. 
Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is...”