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”
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...”
Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is...”
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