Identity Theft

THREAD BARE

I am having some difficulty with the notion that I have lost my identity. In actual fact, I am having more difficulty allowing that I may never actually have had an identity that was uniquely my own. I might take solace in the admission (and even that by so recognizing this reality that I foment opportunity to actually incubate and bring an identity to fruition) However, it is the pangs of sadness and the dull ache of resonating with the hollow sense I feel which holds my attention.

While I may feel as though my sense of self has been hijacked, it simply is not true. One must possess a thing to have it stolen. Yet, one may certainly feel loss for something they have never possessed. I have, apparently, been in possession of an ideal and not of something actual. I will not go so far as to declare the ideal to not be real, but, I will offer that, real or imagined, it has eluded my grasp. Perhaps I have been owned by a thing rather than the owner? All I know is that I am reaching for something and not finding it. I have reached back into my past and find only vague references. I have existed on inferred instead of imparted substance. I have been running on fumes.

I am very much a child of American Pop Culture. As such, I have a keenly developed knowledge base which is inclusive of nearly all subjects but shallow in depth. I take consolation in that I have more depth than most I encounter, but that is far from a triumphant statement. I am fantastically suited to engage anyone in a dinner party conversation or make a good contestant on a television game show. Just avoid prolonged exposure before I begin repeating my anecdotes and stories. In bursts, I am engaging, insightful, and intriguing. I am perfectly suited for life on the talk show circuit as celebrity filler. My life is a collection of sound bites. My age perfectly positions me to span generations both before and after my own. I am a social chameleon. Finding this to be so is very distasteful as it was never my intent.

I was born early in the year, 1962, and by two years of age was requesting my Beatles albums as each was released in America. I was cognizant of the volatile times in which I was a mere child and have never become calloused to the social upheaval or carelessness of the times. I have, however, lived long enough to watch all that was ignored or adored (either deliberately or by a willfully self-induced narcotic fog) prove that history repeats itself. We are very much behaving as those of thirty-five years ago. Our amusement – especially in the form of stimulants, has taken priority over any collective will to participate in meaningful ways in our world. We are extremely sensitized and energized but also detached and anesthetized. There is no drive from within. Like the coils of wire in a transformer, we are induced to motive force only while an external source supplies us. That was how I “lived.” I was induced. The overdriven circuitry of twelve inch Celestion speakers coupled to the weak vacuum of British valve amplifiers stirred me inside. The decades I have experienced, especially the early ones, were a time of wonders and magic.

The 1950s were just before my life began and the residual traces of them had a saturating impact upon me, The 1960s were an explosive spectacle and that included technology and other things from which I have benefited while at the same time I have also endured the detriments of the cultural loss of purpose. But, for myself, I had the magic and the inspiration and found my center in the music; and the Beatles were, of course, the epicenter. When all else failed, the Beatles never had . . . until the 1970s. I took their disbanding as hard as if my parents had divorced. Now, that I have experienced divorce, the loss of the Beatles had just as great an impact upon me. So, recently I have waxed nostalgic and reached back for the sounds and sense of self in which I steeled myself in my formative years and it was gone. Sadly, the Beatles were demi-gods for too much of my life and now that their mortality has begun to take them from me, yet again, I find no comfort anymore. And, now that I am able to play the music which was so elusive and mystical a thing I no longer enter the temple with reverence but rather ritual.

The thing is this. I never needed to go in search of God as He is far too in love with all of us to wait and take that chance. God does not hide. I knew Him before I knew of the Beatles or anything else I saw as wonderful. So, I am not disillusioned and without hope but I am without definition. With the enchantment gone from my daily activities I am just so uninspired. This is tragic. I used to write poetry and music and draw and design and invent; no longer. I still tinker with my music but I have lost the connection I require to give of myself in that way. I have no audience. I was about to insist I have no one to whom to give myself but I must correct that. Music is so personal but it is also self-centered. I have become so reticent to push my own ambitions and desires that I simply do not care to write about or for me in a song. So, not living by every word sung by the Beatles and not replacing them inside with my own voice leaves me without dimension. As a consequence I have gone from speaking from my heart to brooding in my head. A curious thing is how I have replaced the failed structures in my emotional world with the comfort of mathematical postulates. Still, I am an undefined expression and far too variable to plug into this function of living.

I so want to solve the unknowns and perhaps become the sort of artist to inspire others as I have been blessed to experience. Perhaps it is good that my heroes are dead so that I take the courage to act.

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You Scratch My Back and I’ll . . . Never Mind.

When I was first starting out in the business world I was a draftsman for a computer company just at the birth of the Personal Computer. That meant that my compatriots were all significantly older – basically the age that I am, now, and perhaps even a decade more. I have nothing but gratitude for each and every one of them as I was the typical brash, cocky, arrogant, life-will-never-hold-me-down punk. I bragged and strutted around and really had no ill experiences to quench my fire. These people embraced and loved me anyway. There are still times I wonder about what happened in the rest of their lives after we no longer worked together. Some of them were of World War II vintage. In fact, Fran, the only draftswoman in the crew, got her chance in engineering because of the war. She had become a drafter because of The Draft of all able-bodied young men to go off to battle. This was way before affirmative action and equality in the work place. There was no glass ceiling when Fran started her career. It was steel and concrete and stenciled with the words “Keep Out” when she decided to take on the system. I winced as she tolerated an endless stream of demeaning and sophomoric sexual innuendos and constant barbs and jabs. But everyone respected her knowledge and skills and there was no man her better. Once in a while I would act my age and get a frown of disapproval or a comment like “grow up” from the pit (typical reference to a pool of designers or draftspersons) only to have one in particular apologize and say, “I’m sorry, I forget that your only 19 because you usually seem so much more mature.” I could live off a comment like that for a week, at least.

But, what I did most of the time while getting the benefit of all of their collective years of knowledge was to study their lives. It was such a cross-section of America represented in that group and every personality and temperament was on display. Each had or was having their own trials and difficulties but the disturbing trend among the men was a general expectation that relationships – both professionally and romantically - were disposable and not expected to work out. There was a classification of contract employee known as “job-shopper,” or, “jobber.” These were temporary assignments and basically free-lance arrangements. One jobber, in particular, stood out because he was an artist that spent most of the year on his small yacht, island hopping in the Caribbean. When money would run low he would take a short-term circuit board design assignment. His art was to paint large canvasses using multiple colored paints and the naked bodies of women as his brush. His work was not slapped together during drunken orgies. It was very well thought out, laid out, and executed. A memorable example was one in which the full length of one woman represented the body of a butterfly and two other women in curled postures formed the wings. He represented the full caricature of the job-shopper mentality. No authority was recognized or given more than obligatory lip service and no responsibility was too important that it could not be abandoned. This was the prevailing attitude of most of the men I worked with in that department. Nearly to the man, all were divorced. Some had been divorced several times. I wrote the whole group off as immature, irresponsible, lazy and quitters. There was, however, one peculiar similarity shared by the very different personalities. I observed that lonely men had back scratchers.

A previous post discussed my attitude to losing. I equate losing with failure. The last place I intended to lose was in love. I had my share of dating women that were totally wrong for me but irresistible nonetheless. I had some very specific ideas and a checklist of requirements for the compatible future mate. I got all of those and more with my wife. Neither of us had come from families with a history of divorce. Both sides of our families had preserved marriage through every obstacle and struggle. I would never divorce and my wife believed that about herself just as strongly. Fifteen years after meeting we were over. She moved 1900 miles away and left me stunned. I had failed in every area most important to me as a man. I had become those losers I had disdained two decades earlier. All of the ensuing stages have followed. There was a very eager participation in the belief I could woo her again, as I had at the start. There was no involvement of third parties to make it messy. Surely I was worth her love? There are no such guarantees. That it has been over five years and she has gotten along seemingly effortlessly without me is its own proof. Even if she has done so stubbornly she has succeeded where I have failed nevertheless.

So although I still don’t have any higher opinion of those men or view them less harshly I must count me among their number. And of all of the myriad things I miss of living and loving with my wife – such as turning around to share an experiential moment with someone no longer in the room . . . I miss her enthusiasm when scratching my back. I even miss those preemptive words, “Pick, pick, pick” used to give me less than fair warning she had found some blemish to dig into. Gross, maybe; but a fond, bitter-sweet, and painful memory. I will always miss the heat of her closeness, the fire in her fingernails, the glow in her voice and the delicate warmth of her touch. And I have invested in a back scratcher. Mine is made of the über grass, bamboo. It adds comfort to a solitary man’s day where the flame has nearly gone out.

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A New Wrinkle - Season Finales for BONES and House M.D.

First things, first. No, that is NOT my belly . . .

For those that have not seen one or both of these finales I am not going to play the spoiler. (I'm rude, not insensitive.) I am going to say that I found both of them disturbing in appropriate ways. Whoever the sadistic forces were behind these productions got it just right. I am saddened and extremely curious where each goes from here. I am also going to ruminate on the myriad subtle details of each for several days and then I will be bored out of my mind until the seasons begin again in the Fall.

I have yet to find a suitable outlet for expressing what goes on in the House universe but I have come across a very good (which, coming from me is an 11 on a scale of 10) blog site for BONES. Its host does a thorough job of turning over every rock to unearth the faintest whisper of news about the show, its cast, crew, producers, catering service - the works. Visit Obsessed with Bones and check it out for yourself.

Due to the duplicity of my nature I find it curious that I can embrace both of these shows and somehow identify with a character in each. I am not alone, there are people that especially concur that I am the real life persona of Dr. Gregory House. Based on the last scene in the finale when he is betwixt and between I'd have to say it's definitely true.

In BONES, I totally "get" what Agent Seeley Booth is all about. I don't have his distinguished service record but I live by the same creed.

So, somehow I can be a self-serving, manipulative - direct, brilliant, ass like House but I am also the all feeling, morally-centered defender of the wronged. Go figure.

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My life do me like a MOTOWN song

" . . .

Hang ups, let downs

Bad breaks, set backs

Natural fact is

I can't pay my taxes

Oh, make me wanna holler

And throw up both my hands

Yea, it makes me wanna holler

And throw up both my hands . . ." **

My life really is a compilation of Motown songs. I can not delineate just how much is subliminal influence and how much is pure coincidence but I have been observing the signature impact on my life for some time.

Music is the underpinning to the core of my being. In fact, my epitaph (should they find my body or not merely dump me in a reinforced, plastic lawn bag) will likely be an old Elton John/ Bernie Taupin piece, “This Song Has No Title (Just Words and a Tune).”

Many people claim such an intimate link between music and their souls and some I would actually believe and acknowledge as authentic. Mine is certified. I grew up before digital music and also when people actually played instruments and wrote original material and did not merely sample someone else’s creativity. There was this thing known as A-N-A-L-O-G. That is significant on so many levels and I will give it its proper rant another time. Sufficient for this diatribe is that analog is a continuous passage of time. Digitized anything is a quantization which is a rate of bits and pieces with gaps and missing stuff. There is so much irony in how much stuff those born in the “digital age” miss and are not even cognizant.

Now, I am by no means a techno-phobe as I was personally involved in designing and introducing such products as . . . oh, the desktop PC and data over voice telephony that made the Internet far more real than anything in Al Gore’s imagined contributions. These are digital products. Some valid music has been and is being made with digital equipment and the sonic possibilities are remarkable. It’s just too bad no one has stepped up to demonstrate this AND, for the purposes of my argument, digital recording techniques lose too much in the translation from the analog world in which we live. This is not a lone, crazy man’s opinion. Recording studios are spending large chunks of money to find, restore, and adapt analog amplifiers and effects processors into their LED and LCD clustered studios to breathe life into their products.

Anyway, more to the point of this post is that I am so tuned into the music that usually within a note or two I know what the song is by the ambiance and atmosphere captured on the recording. I feel and hear the breath of acoustic instrumentation. I sense the dynamic coloring of the microphones used and to what recording media it was transferred. I just do. I am just a person extremely attuned to such things in my environment. I do this without deliberate effort.

I have the same awareness when I walk past a woman, by the way. From as far away as five feet I detect the pheromones being radiated from the back of her neck and know where she is in her ovulatory cycle. No cologne or anything else masks this from me. I just take note of it as casually as registering the color of her car if she were driving past. I have even told women that they are pregnant before they or their test stick knew it. This has been tested on several occasions by skeptical, female friends and colleagues. I have never taken advantage of this knowledge. If women have a sixth sense then I claim a sixth “scent.” Oh, to dissuade any women from being horrified about “smelling” (I know this is a huge area of fanatical concern for women to freak out about) Don’t worry. This specific scent is not offensive regardless of what day it is.

Relax.

As long as you are creeped out or even perversely intrigued I will share a few other bits of candor with you. I shave dry and pull off bandages meticulously and slowly. I also sleep with my eyes open and in such a shallow state of unconsciousness that I carry on conversations (which I do not recall when awake) in which I have been known to sit up and ask and answer questions. Now you know so much about me. Pleased to meet you. And, you are . . . r-u-n-n-i-n-g . . . away . . . hmm. Fine.

Somehow I will steer this back to the music.

All of this sensory perception is probably related to my Attention Deficit Disorder with Hyperactivity and a cherry on top. The things that regulate “normal” people’s thought processes do not work in my case. It creates all sorts of interesting possibilities for really poor human interaction. But it also makes me sensitized to things that the body usually has mechanisms for dulling the reception. That’s right – I’m calling YOU dull. For example, I can feel my hair grow. This is one of the recognized oddities associated with ADD. But as far as music is concerned these same failed mechanisms allow me to really sense music so deeply. I really also believe I am very sympathetic to the souls of the musicians and artists. It is just second nature for me to have a song lyric at my finger tips that is appropriate for whatever situation I encounter. There are often times where I will be examining my mood or trying to determine how something is affecting me and I will suddenly become aware of the soundtrack playing in the background of my thoughts. Invariably, my subconscious interjects what my conscious mind has yet to fully realize.

So since I am so trusting of music and the meaning it has for me I am taking a look at how dangerous that just may be. This has nothing to do with backward masking and satanic messages. There is, however, a very subtle power in the things expressed in music. Am I allowing too much influence? Many times I have heavy philosophical arguments with the stereo because of my strong reaction to either the real or implied intent of the lyrics. It is very easy to allow an idea that would otherwise meet critical evaluation “slip past the guards” because it’s packaged in a catchy tune. Now since my formative years occurred in the era just before AM radio ceased to be relevant I was basically weaned on the Beatles and Motown. Therefore my tutors in how to be a man and to face the world into which I found myself growing up presented my instruction in three minute bursts. The impact of all of my teachers was pretty much history by 1974. That means that between the ages of two (when I asked for and received my first Beatles album, in 1964) and my twelfth birthday I was immersed in the sage counsel of John, George, Paul and Ringo; Sam Cooke; Jackie Wilson; Smokey Robinson; Aretha Franklin; the Supremes; The Temptations; The Spinners; Gladys Knight and the Pips; Otis Redding; and, Marvin Gaye. There were other influences but these certainly predominate.

Consequently, I have filtered my understanding of life and love through the words and fisheye lens of the music I probably sing in my sleep. I know I sing it in the shower as I prepare to face the world each day. You know, if I examine this too closely I may well be horrified. Music is so personal and it isn’t hard to imagine that I have personified what I’ve listened to all of these years.

I became acutely aware of this is in just the previous several months. Just turning on the radio was too painful. Even before my marriage crashed and burned I had become depressed and stopped doing anything creative. I stopped writing altogether. I wouldn’t even pick up a guitar or keyboard. I just . . . couldn’t. At the time I could not account for this. After the divorce I sort of allowed for such behavior but had no insight. Music is so intimate but it isn’t exclusive – it’s inclusive. A song puts it all out there. Whatever the writer or performer is experiencing gets broadcast with the knowledge that they are making themself naked (meaning: exposed, vulnerable) to the world. It’s a desperate pleading. It’s a cry of anguish and for help and for understanding and recognition all rolled together. I realized why I couldn’t listen to the music. Music is to be shared and I have no one to share it. I would be begging to be heard by someone deliberately not listening. I couldn’t take the rejection. I couldn’t share my life with anyone.

I also recognized that I shifted from listening to viewing. I turned down the sound and started watching movies. Movies allow you to eavesdrop into another person’s world without needing to make a personal investment. You can live vicariously without living at all. I think it’s why pornography can suck the soul right out of you. You can imagine whatever selfish pleasure you need to without regard for anyone at all. You can reward yourself when no one else will. Then you can pretend you have some affirmation and solace. I now observe other people – synthetic people – actors – pretending to have romances and find love and live. Music allows no such voyeurism. You have to participate in music.

It is unfortunate that the music that shaped my thinking mostly involves pleas for forgiveness, break-ups and begging for second chances. But, that also happens to be where I find myself.

I ain’t too proud to beg, sweet Darlin’ . . . ***

Footnotes:
** Marvin Gaye - Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)
*** The Temptations – Ain’t Too Proud to Beg

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