We bought a small ship, like a very small caravel, about the size of a school bus. My dad, my kids and I took possession of the boat, and boarded her. (I should mention that none of us are sailors.)

We walked down some tight, turning steps and into the cabin. On our left, which was the rear of the ship, there was a sort of built-in high counter or desk. There was a cubby-hole of sorts on the right, with a hinged cover. It (and the rest of the ship) was outfitted with gleaming brass hardware. The dark wood was highly polished. ]

Behind the compartment was an opening in the desk, about one foot square. The opening showed nothing, it was black.

Near the compartment was a portrait of a man, done in porcelain, and affixed to the bulkhead. A small brass plate read “Con**el, shipbuilder, 1806.” I can’t remember the name, but I do remember that my Dad and I read the name differently. A Masonic symbol was affixed below the plate (pleasing Dad, an enthusiastic Mason).

Inside the compartment was a note that read, The keys to the ship are in a forward compartment. Advance down the nearby hatch to meet your doom. The “nearby hatch” was the black opening.

We turned to go forward, and above us on the horizontal beam that formed the sort of hallway we were entering was a big brass plaque, it spanned the width of the ship. In big letters it read, Let not size be your measure of success. That’s where my dream ended.

I don’t know exactly what to make of it.

The water was a beautiful blue, and the black-and-white birds were zipping back and forth, leaving trails of bubbles…it was a moment similar to times when I’ve sat down in front of a monumental, fascinating painting. I was absorbed; I sat there for several minutes without moving.

All of a sudden, around the corner came a big group of high school kids, on a field trip or something. They were clustered in groups of three and four, and gabbing with each other like geese. I heard some “Oohs” and “Ahhs” as they walked up to the tank.

Within five seconds, cell phones appeared in most every hand. The kids held them up, clicked a picture with the built-in cameras, and moved on. Within thirty seconds of their first appearance, they were all gone.

Something about the moment saddened and bemused me a little. I can’t help but think that I had the richer experience. Then again, maybe not. Teenagers and group dynamics being what they are, the kids may have been completely immersed in a rich experience of their own.

I hope that I can teach my sons to slow down, meditate and contemplate. Life is so much richer when you take the time to stop and look. At least that’s how it looks from here.

I noticed that he had on a ragged and worn Ramones tour shirt; it may well have been vintage, and barely fit him. I smiled to myself, because I remembered shopping trips like that, and because I was glad to see a kid from his generation who was obviously looking back upstream.

A little while later, I ran into the kid again, on the bread aisle. He was pushing the shopping cart, and his mom was not around. As we passed, I caught his eye with a jerk of my chin, pointed to his shirt and said, “Gabba gabba hey.”

His perpetual scowl broke for a second. There was a flash of confusion that said, “Why is this dressed-up old guy talking to me?” Then, as comprehension settled in, his face split into a wide grin, and all of his tension left him for just a second.

He nodded back, looked me in the eye, and said, “Awright!” As we passed each other, the connection was broken, and I saw his stoicism settle back over him like a blanket. I hope I made his situation a little more bearable.

I grinned all the way home.

(more…)

But Moe Asch and Folkways were about much more than folk music–it was his mission to collect and distribute all kinds of “people’s music.” Folkways had great recordings of blues, jazz, early country and bluegrass, and children’s music, as well as collections of socially important music like labor songs and civil rights songs. When Moe Asch passed away, the entire Folkways library was donated to the Smithsonian Institution. They produced this great series.

These podcasts touches on all of the Folkways music and history; some episodes highlight one particularly important artist. Pete Seeger, for example, recorded many songs on the Folkways label, and one episode is devoted entirely to him and his songs. It’s full of interviews with him, with his friends and family, and, of course, his music. Another episode focuses on children’s music; some of it is fascinating stuff.

I subscribed to this free series through iTunes, and play it at work or in the kitchen, but no iPod or MP3 player is required. You just need a program on your ‘puter that plays MP3s and can handle podcasts. If you love music as much as I do, it’s worth your time to load up and subscribe.

My kids love Sonny’s more than I do, they walk in like they they own the place. Zeke loves to trade jokes with Larry and watch Larry’s dad, Jr. (that’s Mr. Puccetti to you, son), pump his bicep. We sit in the red Naugahyde booths, kick our feet and relax. Sonny’s is one of those places that exists outside of time–it’s unique unto itself, and every visit is just like the last. Sonny’s Place is probably some kind of important nexus of the universe, a hangout not just for Galveston locals, but travelers of the astral plane. Maybe we’re just too blissed out on cold root beer to see it.

If the ivory-bill could be confirmed among the living, alongside the Hoan Kiem Lake turtle and a few other ancients, I would sleep a little better at night. There’s so much about the natural world that we don’t understand, and much of it is slipping away.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, I think the most successful of my efforts focused on the ephemeral in some way. The Yukon Jack series, which was rendered in chalk and erased every few days; the landscape projection series, which visually reproduced abstracted memories wrapped up with emotions, etc. Some of those still exist, but they had a look of ephemerality, anyway. Even the people-centered stuff I did later focused on singling out one thought (imaginary though it was) out of my subject’s mind.

That focus on the ephemeral could be traced into other aspects of my life, too. For instance, my current work is centered around web content, a kind which lacks physicality and usually has a short shelf life. This blog. I bet I could go on recognizing these patterns forever if I wanted…but that wouldn’t be very much in keeping with the program, would it?

I’ve been watching the mail to see what might show up from my friend Robert, and yesterday a postcard arrived, all the way from Alaska! (Robert, you beat me there.) Robert said once that he had noticed that I always sent him a postcard and he always called me. I guess this time he decided to turn the tables.The note on the back is a little ambiguous, it almost sounds as if he’s MOVED to Alaska:

“Riding up the Alaskan Railroad from Hurricane Gulch, we stop to pick up a traveler. I noticed salmon in a creek with bear tracks on the ground and knew this was his world…then I thought, “This is my world, too.”
Yukon Jack

Yukon Jack was a character that a roommate of mine came up with in college; I took him to new lows by drawing fresh episodes on a 4 x 4 chalkboard every few days in the mens room of the Art building. A few people noticed; Robert was one.

I’m thinking Robert’s writing with the eyes of Yukon Jack, but one never knows about Robert; he may be holed up in some shack up there, getting ready to wait out the winter and see what spring has to offer.

He had an exhibit here in Galveston in the early nineties, and came down and gave a lecture. He was one of the most accessible, plain-spoken artists I’ve ever listened to. I hung around to shake his hand afterwards, and he looked me in the eye and seemed to really appreciate my presence.

There’s a new book out that surveys his work; if anyone’s looking for me a Christmas present already, this might be a good place to start. This post didn’t start out as a shameless plea, but it may as well end that way.