“The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change.” ~ Maya Angelou
The above quote is from one of my favourite Maya Angelou poems “On The Pulse Of Morning”. I thought about it recently. It’s the sort of poem that once you read or hear it, the steadfast hope for humanity never really leaves the back of your mind. Like a song or a painting that continues to speak to you on a deeper level, even if you haven’t thought about it in years. Until you remember it out of the blue one day. Or, in my case, out of the pink.
I’ve become an early riser. I do think you can be an early riser, but not necessarily a morning person. I like to be left alone with first thoughts and very little conversation over a cup of freshly brewed coffee. This wasn’t always possible and now it usually is. In these bleaker mornings before the winter solstice, I get up to make coffee and bring it with me to my office, where I turn on only one lamp and sit in semi-darkness to write my morning journal pages. Or I open the folder of my novel to continue where I left off editing the day before. I feel the most creative before troubling world news or the day’s tasks have a chance to filter in, along with the first signs of light at the window next to my desk.
The other morning I looked up from what I was writing to see the entire room around me was bathed in a pink sunrise. I glanced out the window to discover an astonishingly beautiful sky, then rushed to the front door to stand outside, shivering in PJs to snap a quick photo before the perfect moment was gone. Then I went back to my desk, remembering Maya Angelou’s poem about the pulse of morning and new steps of change.
This year I wrote a second novel. All the way from the beginning to a more recent end. I can’t tell you what day I started or exactly how long it took me to complete over many months. I only know I wrote the last sentence before I wrote the first one. For once, the ending was clearer to me than the beginning. I didn’t feel the need to document the process this time, not in the same way I did the first one, as though I was looking for permission to pursue the dream again. To call myself a writer.
After so many years of not writing, I think rediscovery was the complicated journey I needed to take, treading lightly, carefully. I wrote that first novel and my initial blog posts here with a sense of wonder. A sense of this is who I was and this is who I am now. Every thought, every memory shared, was a hidden pathway back to the writer I held on pause for thirty years. Once I rediscovered words, I began to struggle with what next and what does any of this mean? Reconnecting with The Writer has reminded me that creativity, like most things in life, requires confidence. Along with the determination to block out excuses and doubts and obstacles I tend to put in place like a protective barrier whenever something begins to feel too impossible to accomplish.
One morning I wrote in my journal: Word by word by word. That is how a novel is created. That was how both my novels were created. The first one out of wonder that I still had it in me to string along sentences into a satisfying story with a beginning, middle, and end. The second was written with intention. Less wonder, more focus. I already knew I could take the meandering journey from beginning to end. Now I had to figure out the next steps. The way forward that sits in between finishing one journey and digging deeper to start another.
May the coming year bring new steps, new focus, new pathways between yesterday and tomorrow. Renewed hope and confidence.
“Lift up your eyes upon This day breaking for you. Give birth again To the dream.“
We were walking toward the fountain, the epicenter of activity, when an older couple stopped and openly observed us. Robert enjoyed being noticed, and he affectionately squeezed my hand. “Oh, take their picture,” said the woman to her bemused husband, “I think they’re artists.” “Oh, go on,” he shrugged. “They’re just kids.” ~ From “Just Kids” by Patti Smith
I’ve been reading Patti Smith’s memoir “Just Kids” about an early time in her life during her relationship with famed photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. It’s a short book and I could probably read it in one sitting, but I’ve been taking my time because it’s one of those captivating stories that can’t be rushed. It wants to be pondered, with entire passages read and then reread. Their meeting is a chance encounter that happens shortly after Patti moves to New York in the late sixties to pursue her dream of being a poet and artist. These are the years before Patti became a singer-songwriter icon, a prelude to her fame. At the time, Robert Mapplethorpe was also a struggling artist and their different yet similar worlds collided one day when she was working in a shop and sold him a particular necklace she coveted for herself. When I wrapped it and handed it to him, I said impulsively, “Don’t give it to any girl but me.” I was immediately embarrassed, but he just smiled and said, “I won’t.”
Patti and Robert lived together on and off for several years. They were the definition of starving artists, working at low-paying jobs to survive, while fearlessly creating their art during a turbulent time when art, music and politics were at war with each other and sometimes free thinkers were violently assassinated. For a brief time, the two of them found a home at New York’s infamous Chelsea Hotel, where they formed friendships with other artists, poets, actors, musicians, writers and the many lost souls living there. Some residents were already well-known by the late sixties and early seventies, some died while chasing their dreams from the rooms of that hotel, and others, like Patti and Robert, became famous later on.
Ironically, their individual successes were reached by way of the very mediums they avoided at the time. Patti wanted to be a prolific poet, not a songwriter. It was others who encouraged her to perform, to sing the words she wrote in her notebooks. Robert created collages out of other people’s magazine photographs and claimed to not have the patience to take his own photos to depict his provocative art. Their love story was profound, tumultuous, often joyful, and also heartbreaking. We already know they didn’t stay together forever, but even over time and distance, they continued to support one another, calling each other their star, “the blue star of our destiny”. Early in the book Patti described Robert in one foreshadowing sentence: I thought to myself that he contained a whole universe that I had yet to know.
Patti & Robert at the Chelsea Hotel, NY – photo credit unknown
While Patti and Robert were in their early twenties, chasing their creative dreams in New York, I was a young Canadian child living in the suburbs, running around the neighbourhood with my friends, and also hiding myself in my bedroom for hours with stacks of library books. At the same time I scribbled my thoughts into composition notebooks that eventually formed my own long, rambling stories. “Just Kids” has brought me back to the beginning of my creativity. I didn’t take Patti’s starving artist route in my later writing years. I never really wanted for anything. I grew up comfortably, never going to bed hungry or feeling unloved or yearning to escape. But, like Patti Smith, I was a daydreamer and many times felt misunderstood. She said of herself, I was a dreamy somnambulant child. I vexed my teachers with my precocious reading ability paired with an inability to apply it to anything they deemed practical. One by one they noted in my reports that I daydreamed far too much, was always somewhere else.
I was always somewhere else, too. My paternal grandmother taught me how to read long before I went to school by reading with me all the time. Early on I discovered how to lose myself in a story. We read storybooks together first and then children’s classic novels. Once we completed a book, she never asked me if I enjoyed the story. She always asked me how it made me feel. I didn’t know it at the time, but what a gift she gave me in that simple question. Thinking about that put me directly into the story and set the course on how I view writing today. I observe all art with feeling. I can’t listen to music without thinking about what the lyrics mean to the songwriter and to me. I can’t look at a painting and not wonder what the artist was going through emotionally at the time. I always look beyond the layers to somewhere deeper, somewhere else.
I feel fortunate to have grown up at a time, and in household, where books and movies, art and music were discussed at length. There wasn’t an outside world of knowledge for me to Google. My opinions and interpretations were always my own and I was often encouraged to share them. Patti and Robert’s story has made me long to relive the hours I spent discussing a novel with another bookworm friend over many cups of Red Rose Orange Pekoe tea. How one single observation made me reread chapters because I was convinced I’d missed something important. I feel nostalgic for long ago car rides, trying to decipher lyrics in a song on the radio because I’d always heard it one way, while another passenger heard something else. How many times have I sat in a car in the dark, shivering, as I discussed and dissected a movie just seen in a theatre with a sibling, a best friend or a boyfriend? Countless times. Wondrous times.
These days I–and maybe we–consume and don’t take the time to reflect before we move onto the next interesting thing. I’m reminded of my husband’s grandfather, who lived with us for a short time when we were first starting our lives together. He’d yell upstairs to me from his downstairs suite whenever his failing memory couldn’t provide an answer he needed, usually from a book he read a long time ago. We shared a love of literature and poetry, and maybe we understood each other a little better than most. Kindred spirits. If we’re lucky, we get to meet a few of those over a lifetime. I’d always dig deep to try to remember whatever he was asking because there was no internet then, no external way of fact checking on the spot. I soon grew to understand he wasn’t really searching for an easy answer, anyway. He was looking to relive the experience, the feeling a particular story once gave him. It was his way of asking me to come downstairs to talk about it with him without telling me that’s what he needed. Companionship. Understanding. A brief moment somewhere else.
As this year comes to an end, I once again find myself surrounded by stacks of books, notebooks, and manuscript pages. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I find myself here again. Back at the beginning, to the daydreamer I used to be. I rediscovered this year it’s an important part of me and I’ve been missing that key to myself. December feels like the perfect time to savour Patti’s words–her voice calling up from downstairs, reminding me to take more time to let my mind wander and ponder before moving onto the next interesting thing.
It occurred to me looking around at all of your things and your work and going through years of work in my mind, that of all your work, you are still your most beautiful. The most beautiful work of all. ~ Patti Smith, “Just Kids”
“I think music is the greatest art form that exists, and I think people listen to music for different reasons, and it serves different purposes. Some of it is background music, and some of it is things that might affect a person’s day, if not their life, or change an attitude. The best songs are the ones that make you feel something.” ~ Eddie Vedder
Two years ago in the middle of everything going on in the world, my writing muse decided to talk to me again after many years of complete radio silence. It wasn’t the right time. There were a lot of scary things happening. I was fearful for the well-being of my family and my business that I’d worked hard at for fourteen years. Everyone was going through similar fears and some faced worse tragedies. It was a lot to wrap the mind around and I didn’t need extra voices in my head feeding me dialogue for stories I didn’t want to write. One day I’ll share why I think that happened, and where the voices of my characters keep leading me. Right now I want to tell another story that relates to Eddie Vedder’s quote at the top of this page, one I happened to stumble upon while doing music research for the plot of the novel I couldn’t not start writing.
I stopped writing after my mom died in the late nineties. Truthfully, I stopped doing a lot of creative things. The very essence of creativity is feeling. I couldn’t even read a book beyond the first page. I had only enough energy in me to keep moving forward because, like it or not, life went on and people expected you to show up for it. While still grieving for Mom, we learned that Dad’s cancer was back and this time it was horribly aggressive. As devastating as it was to lose a parent suddenly, seeing another battle terrible pain over a long period of time was emotionally brutal. It was a lot to deal with. The first thing I did was quit my job. It was a part-time job working in a bookstore. It was something I did mostly for myself and for the great discount on books, and I loved every minute of it. But I wasn’t sleeping properly and it meant a long drive to work. I wasn’t in the right emotional head space for it. I still tended to burst into tears without warning. So it was just one more enjoyable thing I let go because I was mentally exhausted.
Closer to Christmas, one of the managers at the bookstore called to ask me if I’d come back to help out over the holidays. I was honest and told her I could barely face myself most days, so how was I supposed to face customers? She told me this new temporary position only required me to work weekdays, early in the morning from seven to eleven, shelving books and creating holiday displays. Since the doors didn’t open for customers until eleven, I wouldn’t have to see anyone except a couple of other co-workers. I was tempted. The hours fit perfectly around my husband’s work schedule. He was able to get our kids ready for school each day and I’d be home in plenty of time to pick them up. I thought hard about it and realized I wanted to do it, if only for the distraction from grief. The manager had no idea what she did for me with that call. Or maybe she did because I ended up staying on for years afterwards, even moving to a new store location closer to my home and into full-time hours. That job eventually handed me back motivation and my confidence.
I had to leave the house by six-fifteen to get to work on time. Every morning I left with a big travel mug of coffee and the hope I’d get through the day without crying in public. I couldn’t listen to music during the drive in the predawn darkness. I’d move the dial from one radio station to the next, but every song made me feel something I didn’t want to feel. I tried different CDs I had on hand. It was the same thing. So I drove in silence until my thoughts got to be too much and I’d start all over switching stations again. One morning I settled on a hard rock station. A song came on and I found myself smiling at a memory from back at the start of the nineties.
One time while my mom was staying with me, we decided to take along my toddler and baby to go visit my sister and her family. This sister lived close to me, but I didn’t see her much then because she worked long hours and was busy with teenaged sons, and I was busy adapting to new motherhood. When we got there, I heard music blasting from one of my nephew’s bedrooms in the basement and I was intrigued by what I was hearing. I wandered downstairs by myself and knocked on his door. It took several attempts to get his attention because the music was so loud. Finally he pulled the door open with a sullen expression that instantly softened when he saw it was me trying to invade his space. He hugged me and invited me into his messy room. I’m thirteen years older than him and I’d spent a lot of time babysitting him and his brother when I was around the same age he was then. I was still the cool adult, I guess, and perhaps considered young enough to remember what it was like to want to hear angsty rock music at the highest volume possible. I asked him what he was listening to and he tossed me the CD of his new favourite rock band Pearl Jam. The album was called Ten. I read the song titles. Interesting, I thought. I’d never heard of them. I’d heard of Nirvana and knew about the Seattle grunge music scene, which I’d decided wasn’t all that different from the hard rock and punk rock I’d liked when I was about his age. It just wasn’t where I was in my life musically anymore. My playlist at the time was softer, calmer. Less frenzied.
“You gotta hear this one,” my nephew told me as he started a song over. I sat on the edge of his bed to listen. The song was “Alive”. The emotion and the raw intensity of how the lyrics were sung burrowed into my chest to grip my twenty-eight year old heart. I asked him to play it again, at a lower volume this time. Then I asked him, “Do you think it’s a true story?” It had to be true. There was no way it couldn’t be. It was just too intense. My nephew shrugged. He was focused on the driving beat, while the writer in me heard lasting pain in the songwriter’s words. I’ve since learned that it is indeed a true story about when Eddie Vedder was a teenager and his mother told him the man who’d raised him wasn’t his real father, and that his birth father had recently died. Even if he’d wanted to, it was already too late for him to come to grips with it. There’s other trauma in the song too. I don’t know if that part is real, only the songwriter does. We listened to some more of the album before I went back upstairs to my kids.
A fun nineties photo – New York Times
I remember thinking I would’ve loved this band if I was my nephew’s age. Their music was emotional and honest and electrifying. I thought they were closer to his age than mine. I made that assumption based on the fact he related to them so well. I had no idea then that band members are my age and what I heard that day was many of the same rock band influences. The Stones. The Who. Pink Floyd. My beloved Led Zeppelin. More than anything, it had just felt good to be allowed into someone else’s personal space to hear what was currently most important to them. It reminded me of the times my brothers had let me sit quietly with them to listen to their rock albums. Or when they gave me a new cassette of older music because they thought my teenaged taste could use some fine tuning. It’s the feeling of belonging in a moment, just as you are.
“Alive” came on the radio that morning while I was driving to work, just before dawn lit up the sky for another day without my mom. I smiled tentatively and upped the volume to sing along. Who answers? Yeah. That is the question. It was the first time I’d heard a song in a long time that didn’t graze the edges of my grief and make me want to weep. I was only sad when it ended. I wanted that alive feeling back again, no matter how briefly it lasted. After my shift at the bookstore, I went and bought all the Pearl Jam CDs I could find. I stashed them under the driver’s seat and played them every time I was alone in the car. Alive brought me back to their music, but it was “Given to Fly” that reached my heart this time around.
“He could’ve tuned in, tuned in But he tuned out A bad time, nothing could save him Alone in a corridor, waiting, locked out He got up outta there, ran for hundreds of miles He made it to the ocean, had a smoke in a tree The wind rose up, set him down on his knee
A wave came crashing like a fist to the jaw Delivered him wings, “Hey, look at me now” Arms wide open with the sea as his floor Oh, power, oh
He’s flying Whole High, wide, oh…”
There’s many interpretations of what the song is about. Eddie Vedder has only ever said it’s a children’s fable. Recently I learned it might’ve been loosely inspired by my most loved Zeppelin song “Going to California”, which explains a lot. For me it’ll always be about accepting emotional pain and then not allowing it to overcome me. “And he still gives his love, he just gives it away. The love he receives is the love that is saved.” Hearing those words makes me feel stronger and reminds me how fortunate I am to have always been well-loved and supported throughout my life. For that alone I’d say it’s my favourite. Pearl Jam’s music helped me to get back to myself during a very hard time and I’ve never forgotten it. This is my thank you letter to them.
Flying! Photo credit to New York Times, Wrigley Field
I first saw Eddie Vedder sing “Black” live a long time ago in the MTV Unplugged series. He didn’t just sing it, he lived it. For me it’s the most deeply personal song about heartbreak ever written and performed. I can’t begin to count how many times I’ve rewatched that performance, and all the others in the set, since rediscovering Pearl Jam yet again in 2020. Coincidentally right at a time when I needed another emotional lifeline tossed my way. In 2020 I started on the path of making some crucial personal decisions. I was looking for signs that I was doing the right things at a confusing time. Those timeless MTV Unplugged sessions led me to more of their concert performances on Youtube, recorded at different times throughout their thirtysomething years together. I needed to hear these guys again and there they were. They’ve aged, of course, just like me. They’ve grown softer around the edges, less defiant. More mellow. Well, same here. They still have important stories to tell, and so do I.
They’re one of the few rock bands whose founding members have managed to stay alive (pun not intended) and together, with the exception of drummers until Matt Cameron came along, and the addition of Hawaiian-born keyboardist Boom Gaspar. They live in the Pacific Northwest and Eddie has a second home in Hawaii. I think their vibe might be warmly familiar to me because of that. Jeff Ament is the great bassist and Stone Gossard is a guitarist and co-lyricist. In my opinion Mike McCready is one of the best and most underrated guitarists of his time. Lead singer and songwriter Eddie Vedder has the soul of a poet and vocals that can be melancholy and exhilarating at the same time. Many of his lyrics are infused with references to the ocean (he’s a longtime surfer) and nature, and the need to be alone sometimes, yet always fully present in the lives of loved ones. All the things that feed my soul too.
Seeing them perform live in real time has been at the top of my bucket list for as long as I’ve had such a list. I don’t care that they’re well into their fifties now because so am I. For sure I wouldn’t have appreciated it quite as much had I seen them perform onstage at the very start. Can you imagine me getting knocked around in a wild mosh pit? Not likely. I always need the elbow room to dance. Rediscovering their music has once again pulled me out of my head, reminding me that things will eventually be okay and sometimes change is out of my control and sometimes it’s controlled only by me.
It was finding Eddie’s background music quote that first got me thinking about the singer-songwriters I loved the most during my youth and still love today. It’s what prompted me to journal those memories and then a little shyly share them in this blog series. All the music throughout my life that has made me want to get up and dance, to sing along, to celebrate, mourn, and weep. Lyrics that have healed my broken heart, filled my soul, and gave me confidence to stand up for myself, to take a sudden turn, and to bravely let go of things that no longer matter.
I could never pick just one of Pearl Jam’s albums as my favourite. I could never pick a most loved book either. For me it’s not just about one story, it’s all the stories I’ve ever read, the entire library of words and thoughts combined. I can tell you which of their songs have helped to ease more recent worries: Given to Fly, The Fixer, Sirens and I Am Mine. You should listen to them. Better yet, watch them because Pearl Jam always delivers a comfortable feeling onstage of living fully in the moment. I hope they make you feel stronger too.
Below, in no particular year order, are Youtube links to favourite performances, along with my thoughts and some interesting song facts I’ve uncovered. I’ve already shared my feelings about “Long Road” in my previous post titled Love and Loss in the 90s. That song belongs to my mother’s memory. These belong to me. The performances are best watched on a laptop or tablet, and, take it from me, their music most thoroughly enjoyed with headphones on. There’s strong emotions in the details.
It’s a wrap for this Background Music blog series. Thanks for joining me on the ride. Perhaps Pearl Jam says it best, “I know I was born and I know that I’ll die, the in between is mine.” ~ I Am Mine.
Given to Fly – One of my favourite performances of this song. Love the energy of the massive crowd in London’s Hyde Park. It’s one of Michael J. Fox’s favourite Pearl Jam songs too. They dedicated it to him and his struggle with Parkinson’s while they performed it during their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
The Fixer – A good reminder that if something’s old “put a bit of shine on it”.
Sirens – With all the turmoil in the world, hearing this one never fails to calm me.
I Am Mine – “The sorrow grows bigger when the sorrow’s denied”.
Daughter/It’s OK – This 2018 performance is in their hometown of Seattle, with some changes in lyrics to reflect turbulent times in American politics. I always believe Eddie when he tells me things will be okay. “Daughter” is about a parent’s mishandling/abuse of their child’s learning disability and the lasting effects that can have.
Black – In my opinion, still the most profoundly poetic song about heartbreak ever written and performed.
Release – “Oh, dear dad. Can you see me now? I am myself. Like you somehow.” xo
Alive – The song that made me first sit up and notice them. This early nineties performance was filmed in a British studio that probably took days to recover from all the angst and long hair flying around.
Better Man – A song about settling, not loving honestly. Fun fact: Bradley Cooper modelled his rock star character in the re-make of “A Star is Born” on Eddie Vedder. I knew it when I saw the movie. You’ll see it when you watch this amazing performance in Madison Square Garden.
Oceans – Eddie has said he wrote this love song to his surfboard. It gets me dreaming about walking the beaches in Hawaii again.
Wishlist – The image in my mind created by “I wish I was the full moon shining off a Camaro’s hood” delights me every time because of long ago summer nights spent cruising around with a friend in her brother’s borrowed Camaro.
Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town – Melancholy story about a woman who never left a small town and an old flame who did leave many years ago and by chance comes into her store one day. “Memories like fingerprints are slowly raising.”
Even Flow – A great rock anthem! This video performance of it is absolutely bonkers. Confirmation I wouldn’t have been able to handle their nineties concerts. Band members have said they’ve often feared for Eddie’s life during shows. If you’re interested here’s a video montage of some of his stage climbs and jumps that were captured over the years. Recently I read a funny comment saying that while many musicians were doing heroin, Eddie Vedder must’ve been doing CrossFit training.
Yellow Ledbetter – The lyrics are intentionally incomprehensible to reflect the confusing loss of a brother during the Gulf War and it’s almost impossible to sing along with. In this early version in Mexico the lyrics “I don’t know whether I’m the boxer or the bag” were changed to “I don’t know if my brother is coming home in a box or a bag”. Mike’s guitar solo at the end of the song is always riveting. I love how they all step aside to rest and let him get on with it.
Guaranteed – Oh, this one speaks to me about the need to be on my own sometimes.
Love Boat Captain – “It’s an art to live with pain. Mix the light into grey. Lost nine friends we’ll never know.” Lyrics that include the nine people who were killed when the crowd surged during Pearl Jam’s set in 2000 at the Roskilde Festival in Denmark. Devastated, Pearl Jam quit after that and Eddie Vedder’s idol Pete Townshend of the Who reached out to him after the tragedy because of similar circumstances that happened to his band in 1979. According to Pete Townshend, “When Roskilde happened, I just sent Eddie a two-word message: ‘Don’t leave.’ And they did stay. And I think it was very important that they did.”
Come Back – Sharing the studio version in order to hear the beautiful lyrics more clearly. I can’t get through it without getting choked up.
The Waiting – I’m including this duet with Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers because I’m a longtime fan and it makes me very happy. Eddie’s “Long Way” from his new solo album Earthling is a tribute to Tom Petty’s style of songwriting. I sensed that the first time I heard it, so I wasn’t surprised when he confirmed the inspiration behind the song and many others on the fabulous album during a recently filmed conversation with Bruce Springsteen.
A Roaring Good Yarn 