I only see the good times & never the bad. It all seemed so peaceful and I guess that it was.

Last night, I decided to venture downtown solo. I went to a free show at Parkside Lounge (strange set-up there, took a few minutes to find the hidden stage) featuring Mike Lovesick & The Sheepdogs. Mike is a fellow Oneonta alum, one of the many talented folks to come out of the music industry program. I've been listening to his stuff for awhile now and after seeing him play live for the first time two summers ago, I try my best to get out to his shows whenever possible. His voice is reminiscent of Chris Martin of Coldplay but his style is more folk & blues. When listening to his EP, the influence of Dylan, Bruce Springsteen and Tom Waits is evident. I've only seen him solo but he has had two different bands in the past. He played a new-ish song "Brightest Room in the House", which he told me he felt was missing something without some group participation. I think despite being a somewhat reserved guy in person, he can definitely hold his own on stage.

Walter at the Pearly Gates is just one of those hauntingly beautiful songs.

After his set, The Sheepdogs from Canada were up. A guy came out of nowhere and started talking to me about the band, asking if I'd heard them, what I'd thought, etc. He'd just heard them for the first time today at work but was excited to find out they happened to be playing in the city that night. It must have been his lucky night because the waitress came by with a free hot dog for him as well. Suddenly I felt like I was in 1975, which is never ever a bad thing. Despite being from way, way up north, they rocked out in true southern rock style. During the set, the guitarist broke a string, jumped off stage searching feverishly for another guitar, ran around wildly for a few seconds then jumped back on stage and shredded. It was pretty epic. Mike told me they were working with Dr. Dog's producer...or something to that effect. It was the end of the night, what can I say.

There is nothing as lucky, as easy or free

I can't exactly pinpoint when my perception of crying changed most recently because it's shifted so many times throughout my (and everyone else's) life. A baby usually wails through the first moments of life, after leaving the dark, warm, comfortable place it occupied for 9 months or so to a world blindingly bright, cold and sterile. Adjusting, he or she must unconsciously struggle to fill the lungs with air to get oxygen in and figure out what exactly is going on, a process much simpler while in the womb. First lesson on Earth: bawling demands attention. Even if only to maintain sanity, no hearing human being can sit through an infant's ear-splitting howls without seeking a way to just make it stop. It is the only real method of communication at this point. Soon the child learns to speak and motives begin to change. Powerfully sobbing tells others you fell off your bike or you really wanted the giant, bouncing ball in the store. It's learned quickly that tears don't always happen spontaneously but you can also stop or start at will. This is especially helpful to get siblings in trouble. The early years of schooling teach that gender plays a part in this display of feeling. Girls can cry because they are considered fragile, emotional and weaker. Boys crying in public is an invitation for laughter and name-calling from fellow males. Of course this varies depending on different cultures and the way parents raise children.
When I was 13, my Nana died. I was alone because I'd stayed home "sick" from school that day with mysterious (but hardly rare) stomach discomfort. My mom had called to tell me and I can't remember what my initial reaction was but I didn't cry. I thought well, that must've been the reason the day felt different. Even though she was 85 and had been in hospital for two weeks, I was genuinely surprised. To me, that situation meant nothing because every breath she had taken stemmed from endurance. Having been given last rites multiple times (including once when my dad was about 7), her spirit had seemed more powerful than death. I felt guilt for not crying. By this age, I had been conditioned to shut out emotions and push them elsewhere in an attempt to avoid the pain. Tears only meant crueler taunting or feeling embarrassment for showing vulnerability. I wasn't male but I wasn't delicate. Her wake was the first and only time I'd seen my father, and possibly any man, cry. My whole world had changed in that moment. With this abrupt disruption and her open casket in view, I bawled hard but as silently as possible, hiding my face in my father's dark suit. During times that crying would be socially accepted and even expected, I wouldn't or couldn't. My mother would cry during episodes of 'Touched By an Angel' or during yet another reading the story of the birthday balloon (now I guess I'll have to tell that one here soon). Something in me wasn't going to allow it.
Maybe after living with Taryn for so many years, that something broke down in me. A few years ago, on a day that I had to be certain all my emotions were in order, she found me blubbering in our living room while watching an Avril Lavigne video. Now, my eyes could water during an emotional point in a film, seeing something exceptionally beautiful or when hearing a heart-wrenching story. Normally, I'm not overcome when I'm sad but when I'm frustrated or feeling trapped by an adverse situation. I feel the emotion run through and come over me, energy that can only be sensed but not analyzed or perceived. I still don't cry very often. But when I do, I know that something powerful has gripped me that I can't just explain or reason away. It must be meaningful when it has been transmitted through that most inherent of communications. I suppose it still is embarrassing, depending on the circumstances but I've no choice but to accept it.

All I want

I wouldn't say I'm irresponsible but sometimes I just follow exactly how I feel rather than doing what I know I should. I'd like to think that those rash choices lead to the best possible outcomes but there is no way of knowing that for certain. I woke up after only one hit of the snooze button to get ready to attend my one obligation of the week. Every piece of me rebelled as I brushed my teeth. What had started out as an amusing way to use my time for a good cause had become something I no longer looked forward to anymore. Although some may disagree with this belief, I can rarely hold a position that I don't enjoy. I've learned ways to entertain myself through mundane activities (singing, making up back-stories for the strangers I see, etc.) but when it becomes unbearable I feel no guilt in leaving because it always feels right. I was in my own reality on the subway, grooving to an extraordinary playlist provided by an apparently mood-sensing shuffle on my ipod, when I could swear it stopped at the same station twice. If there were two 42nd St-Times Squares, I don't really think that the city could handle it. It was strange but it's almost becoming a common thought in my mind that when I know I'm awake, I could maybe be dreaming and some of the worst dreams are the ones where you are at work. I got to my destination 20 minutes early so I decided to waste some time walking around and exploring the area I'm not familiar with. In that short time, I'd gotten surprisingly far away so in an instant I made the decision not to turn back, but keep walking. With no real destination, I leisurely strolled, looking around at designer stores and cafes. I had intended to go to a certain park but accidentally came to another first. Entering, I saw a group of men seated in a circle with their carts and large bags together and they looked as if they were planning a game, maybe chess. Directly to the left of the group was a police officer casually leaning against a fence, glancing in their direction often without staring. It must take months of police academy to master that skill. I continued to walk, for this section was mostly empty and desolate, not at all what I was longing for. The path opened up and suddenly there was a massive fountain in my view. I had been on a journey for something beautiful. A few people were sitting inside of the basin of the fountain (there were parts that were dry) but I sat in a bench in the shade between an older man and a teenage boy. The Dead and then Joni Mitchell played in the background of my thoughts. Two small boys both dressed in superman costumes rode their bicycles with the training wheels still on. Even the superheroes needed to stop every once in a while to get a snack from a mom's purse full of necessities. A grandmother pushed a carriage in my direction and I looked down at the child. Her eyes met mine and she flashed an innocent, unembarrassed huge gummy directly at me. I smiled back and thought 'shouldn't every interaction with a human be this pure?'. Seconds later, a woman pushed an elderly man past me in a wheelchair. His eyes were looking upward, wide and almost straining to take in each countless leaf of every tree surrounding us with an unflinching grin plastered on his face.