Crying for the Cranes

This extraordinary thing happened to me when I got married--I got infinitely more emotional. Well, to be fair, I got more emotional about things regarding marriage. It's the reason that the movie Date Night made me cry, as well as laugh. And the reason that I am apparently very concerned about Niles Crane's open-heart surgery on last night's re-run of Frasier. I have no emotional attachment to the Crane family. I barely watched the show the first time around (though I could probably sing you that quirky theme song about tossed salads and scrambled eggs. But that's just because it's catchy). However, when we stumbled upon a re-run that had Niles on a hospital bed and Daphne in tears in a waiting room, I found myself crying as well. I'm not sure what, if any conclusions to draw about this...I just find it so interesting. And it's probably another reason that I shouldn't have children: I'd be an emotional wreck! I could never watch anything...

You can't send a letter to a bird

From The Piano Has Been Drinking to You Can Never Hold Back Spring, Tom Waits is a master wordsmith. He has incredible versatility and the ability to completely immerse the listener in the world he creates. In an industry that gives precedence to a 3 and 1/2 minute dance beat and feels the need to release a "remix" of Like a G6, it is encouraging to have a diamond in the rough like Tom Waits.
He is more like the diamond and the rough... His haggard, vagabond appearance; his bohemian stage presence; his vocals that land somewhere between Louis Armstrong, John Wayne, and a dusty pipe organ--this man is a marvel. A true artist in every sense of the word. Watching videos of him perform Chocolate Jesus, I couldn't tell if he was in a concert hall or under an overpass. And the beauty of Tom Waits is that he seems ideally suited for both. He's kicking up sawdust. He's warbling into a megaphone. He's jauntily tipping his cap. And I imagine he'd be doing this even if no one was watching.

I recently learned that his poignancy extends beyond his hand-crafted story-songs and onto the printed page. Waits is releasing a limited edition book of poetry on Feb. 22 entitled Seeds on Hard Ground. It is available for pre-order on his website. And the U.S. store is already sold out. There are only going to be 1,000 copies of this book worldwide and all proceeds go to benefit homeless services in Northern California.

If you miss your chance or don't have the funds for a limited edition (like myself), all is not lost. An abridged version of the poem Seeds on Hard Ground will appear in another book entitled Hard Ground where it will be paired with photographs by Michael O'Brien. O'Brien's photographs of the homeless were said to have inspired the poem by Waits.

With my love of language, my appreciation of photography, and my compassion for, as Waits puts it in his poem "those left exposed," I am eager to see how the words and images of Hard Ground work together for good.

Here's a sneak peak of a few pages of Seeds on Hard Ground that Waits posted on his Flickr site:



A few of my favorite moments:
. . .

When I was born
My folks wept at my beauty
I was the package that all
Their good luck came in
I was bright and shining, magnetic
And flaming
Am I just something that got eaten
By the gods
And I only just the bag
That it came in
My parents were good people
Shirley and Raymond
They prayed for a child
Just like me
They prayed for a child
Just like me
. . .

Home is a place
To get a letter
If they can find you
I have heard
Because you can't
Send a letter
To a bird
You can't send a letter
To a bird
. . .

God, may we all
Amidst the storm
Safe by a fire
Bright and warm
Send to those
Left exposed
Good will and a
Much wider brim
The keep the pelting rain
From hammering them
. . .

See I remind them all
That there is a bottom
A bottom
I remind them all
That there is a bottom, Lord
Oh yes, there is a bottom indeed
Yes there is a bottom
And it looks just like me
. . .

I am homeless
But I am moving
I am homeless
But I am moving
Maybe I'll take the hound down
Maybe I'll take the hound
Where the grass is green
And the barn is red
Where the wind makes
The trees look like hula girls
Maybe I'll take the hound down
Maybe I'll take the hound
. . .

I'm the bursting bubble
My crown is my hat
When it comes to trouble
I'm the king of all that
. . .

There is also an incredible description of heaven that takes you down the rabbit hole on page 8-9 that I won't write out here to save some length and some intrigue. :)

a little pick-me-up(beat)

It is cold. Bone-chilling cold. And right about now is when I feel there is no end in sight. Actually, that weight normally presses down on me in February, but it's a bit early this year. Our bills are high (screw you, People's Gas) and our spirits are low. We've turned down the furnace and piled on the blankets and will only watch comedies in attempt to brighten our mood. Or musicals. Because when we dance along it warms us up.

When I get like this I try to force myself to do a little bright-side thinking. Tonight the universe lent a helping hand in the form of a drunken, accordian-playing, broken English speaking, Polish man that staggered into the coffee shop where I work. He began telling us his name was John (I think?) and playing polka and asking if the one other customer in there was my husband or boyfriend. I was trying to communicate with Accordian John but all I could comprehend were a few stray syllables steeped heavily in alcohol.

The smell of coffee and vodka fumes swirled around him, but this was overshadowed by the deafening sound of that accordian. I had forgotten how loud they are! Well, I don't know if I had ever really known how loud they were since I have not had very many close encounters with accordian players... At any rate, the volume of the instrument surprised me and all I could do was laugh about the whole thing. I wanted to immediately call my mother who always seems to wind up in similar situations--maybe it comes with the territory of owning/ working at a small business?

While I was enjoying the story-worthy aspects of this event, I was also not going to survive much more of the super-sonic accordian. I wasn't sure if our one customer was up for it either (or all the potential customers that walked right past the door when they heard the ruckus). I finally said, "No polka, thank you" and poor Accordian John looked up at me with his sad, drunk accordian eyes and squeezed out a few last meloncholy notes. "Sorry," I said. And he sort of shrugged, mentioned again that he had been in Chicago twenty years and got up to leave.

I tried to get him to take his coffee to go (because it really smelled like he could use a cup) but he just said goodnight and staggered out onto the sidewalk. My night was made. I'm glad there was at least one customer to witness the whole thing. And that he seemed to be as excited about it as I was.

Thank you, Accordian John, for helping to keep my winter blahs at bay.