Time slithers on like a poisonous snake. It creates new shapes, memories, and opportunities, but allows dust to settle over its path. Time is an entity we as humans cannot reverse nor fast forward – no matter how deep our vengeance. I choose to believe that our understanding of time is mostly veiled in the unknown – dimensions, lairs, and sheathes wrap around and layer him in clouded mystery. What makes up not even an inhale to time in turn has destroyed my best laid plans. What is a blip to him, is a life to me – a life lost.
It has been said that 'time heals all pain'. Maybe so. But what kind of time are we talking about? Decades? Centuries? Eons? Aren't we still experiencing the pain of the extinction of species? Aren't we still in a deep rut of hate that has been present for hundreds of years resulting from religious fear tactics, manifesting as tyranny and terrorism? Aren't we only beginning to understand the pain of the effect our ignorance and lack of care has had on the environment? I realize these grievous circumstances are immense chasms much bigger than my story – the death of one very important man – but to me, it's the biggest story. It's my life. My future. My broken heart. So time, you bastard, what are we talking about here? I don't feel like I'm healing. I feel bruised, raw, and like a scab that is ripped off repeatedly, leaving no time for recovery – only festering infection and eventual scarring.
Though, as if forced by the neck, I slither on with time. At some points I'm kicking and screaming along the way. At other times, my head is down and I walk aimlessly like a prisoner ankle-bound in shackles. Sometimes, I feel my feet beneath me again, my heart beating – reminding me of my own life – and my monkey-mind quivering in anticipation for something to create. Often, I do create – because it's my nature. Lately, I feel a need-for-speed. Struggling with my usual momentum, I'm wading in a puddle of mud. Searching for inspiration is a challenge when my feet are stuck in the quicksand of tarnished dreams. To be completely honest, I thought my next career move was to be a mother. Now, I'm still absentmindedly blinking at the abyss that sits where my swelling expectations had been comfortably nesting. I'm trying to carve out new beginnings and rousing continuations from tragically aborted dreams.
One unique way I've been dealing with my grief is to participate in life the way I imagine you would. I find myself hovering near the soundboard of a funk show, analyzing the layers of music, the production quality, and the passion of the musicians. I am in conversation with you the way we would be had we been there together, except now it's a silent one. I go to the shows that you would have wanted to be at – as if I'm somehow allowing you to live on through my experiences. I lock into my skis and take a run that I know you loved, daring myself to take on the mountain and the trees like you would. I try to tackle life with your gusto, especially when my own hope is waning. Also, I see your soul absorbed in the lives of those you loved. I remember you telling me about your best wishes for certain friends; and now as I see those desires materializing, through wary faith I allow myself to believe you're the gentle director of destiny.
I've developed a sort-of tunnel vision as I move through our house. Some days it's as though I'm sitting in a tear-stained tomb of shattered dreams. Other days, I am in a vault of treasured memories. I still feel trepidation about moving any of your belongings out of sight. It's still too soon. Too soon to box up what's left of you, label it 'the past', and put it in storage. Much too soon. I still find something every day that I know you were the last to touch. I still sip sparingly from a water bottle you filled up over five months ago, feeling comforted by knowing some of that liquid touched your mouth, your tongue, your teeth – physical parts of you I can no longer be touched by. We all move through the house in a bit of a haze. Beats has a new perch on the banister, near the front door. She stares out the window and often turns her head to me and meows quizzically. Although, she sleeps with me now. When I awake with mysterious scratches, she's made it very clear that I'm not her first choice. Kira sleeps sadly and at great length; she sighs mournfully and often. Kevin does the same thing.
One thing I've learned through this loss is that we never really 'have' anything. We often spend our lives acquiring. We gather and hoard as if we need to prove our status by the amount of stuff we have, the amount of friends we have, the amount of money we have, the amount of knowledge we have. We can lose everything so quickly – stuff, money, people, even our own will to survive. Who do we become we are stripped of what we thought we had? Perhaps true freedom is the understanding that we are able to let go of anything and keep going. With nothing but a heart that continues to beat in this vessel we have been offered, we can continue moving forward – with time in front of us, at our backs, and holding our hands through the march.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Quartz Mountains
Since arriving back in Colorado I've been subject to the magic that is this place. I'm so glad you brought me here. If anyone were to have to go through the pain and loss that I am dealing with, doing it here, in these mountains, in grounding nature, in this beautiful house, and surrounded by these magical people is the best possible option.
As I sit in our home and look out on the acres of pines cascading down the slopes, the beauty is sublime. It has been snowing since I arrived home. I watch the snow cover surfaces, spilling white peace over all that's both alive and nonliving. The powder reminds me of softness and of femininity. Grief is a feminine process. It requires a deep vulnerability, a chasm of emotions, gentleness, a willingness to come apart, and hope. There is no fast forward button, there is no fight that will help one win, and there is no way to bully through it with toughness. There is simply unraveling, opening, and letting grace shine in. This morning, I see that grace in the cool and camouflaging snow. It tells me, "Sami. Things may look monotone now. You may only see one element of this world – loss. But when I melt away, in time, after this frigid season, life will reappear. In time, dear one."
Magic is bred in the mountains. I've been witnessing its reveal since I've been home. Seeing enchantment or maybe even your supernatural hand in my life is heartening. On my first night back in the house, I said my gratitudes and prayers and drifted off to sleep. I was supine in our bed, nestled into the middle, because I no longer have a side. At some point in the night, I woke from my unconscious, yet still in a dreamlike state. I realized I'd awoken because I felt the weight of your body on top of me. I still was laying on my back, but you were laying on top of me. I heard your breath in my ears and felt it on my body, you breathed calmly and deeply, as if trying to relax me. Although I was lucid, I couldn't see you. I knew it was you, but the vision was so real that I became scared. There was someone in my bed with me. I could feel the hands holding me, fingers pressing into by torso, hair near my face, and legs down near mine. How could this be? You rolled to the side onto your half of the bed, taking your weight off of me so my breath could deepen. You spooned me and cradled me in your arms, but I'd become frightened. What if it wasn't you? What if this was a stranger in my bed? I still couldn't open my eyes and felt trapped even though I wanted to feel comforted. Once you sensed my fear, your body drifted away from mine. I felt it lift up into a plane in space over me. With my eyes still closed, I heard and felt what I can only describe as the flapping of wings over my body. It was as though a fan was turned on above my body. Cool air spilled onto me, chilling me enough to allow me to open my eyes and gasp. Awake, eyes open, I saw black and white swirls above me, your pixie dust. I watched the stripes circle on our ceiling for about a minute until they drifted off, and I was alone again. I closed my eyes, shaken up but thankful for your clumsy visit. I think you visited me for both of us. For me, so I am reminded that you are here. And for you, to infuse some of yourself in me. Because since that visit, I've felt different – I've felt a bit more like you.
Wonder continues. As I paced around our house last night in hazy stride, I found a stack of greeting cards that I've received over the past couple months. I went through the stack again, because many of them I'd been too devastated and shocked to actually take the time to really read when I'd received them. I found one that had been sent from Spoons and Daren, an old Vail roomie of yours and her husband. I studied the picture on the front of their card – it was a snowy scene with a smiling bear and a smiling fox in the foreground. The inside of the card was blank and a typed message had been glued into it. I had received that card along with smiley balloons just days after you passed. The bear and fox have carried such poignant symbolism through this journey, but I hadn't noticed them on the card prior to yesterday. I sent Spoons a message, telling her how much I appreciated the card she chose. I know they live overseas, so it couldn't have been easy to find one so perfect and get it to me so quickly. I woke up this morning with a response waiting from her. She told me that they hadn't chosen the card – the local flower shop had. It was just a coincidence that the shop had sent a card with a smiling bear and a smiling fox. I don't know if I believe in coincidence anymore. So I will take the synchronicity as a grinning 'hello' from you.
Last night I watched the String Cheese Incident's show on the internet. The show was nearby, but I'm headed there tonight and tomorrow and felt that three nights is more than I can handle in my current state. I've never watched a show from home before. However, I felt a need to be a part of it last night. I knew if you were going to be around, you would be there. And as I said, I think you've infused yourself in me. It was as though there was no other option than to watch the show.
The second song the band played was 'Sirens'. The lyrics are nearly a literal explanation of what happened the night you died. Members of the band played the song at your memorial. Also, when you were living, you and I had cried and danced to the song. It was a very special moment to witness. I had wanted to be at the show if they played that song. I'd wanted to be held in a blanket of love. I stood in our bathroom and watched the song on my computer screen, alone. I was crying. Beats came into the room. She tends to ignore me most times. She was really your cat. She loved you, mostly. But as I cried and watched, Beats pawed at my leg and meowed repeatedly until I picked her up. It was unlike her. She stared at the screen, watching the lights, listening to the rhythm of the music and my sobs, and purred for the entire song. It's probably the longest she's ever let me hold her. She offered support in a moment when I needed it most though I believe you helped her out with that. The band never finished the song. Maybe at some point over the next two days they'll go back to it and I'll be surrounded with the camaraderie and love from our loved ones when they close it out.
Beneath Boulder lies a layer of natural quartz. In crystal lore, quartz offers balancing clarity, healing, and energy. Quartz also offers third-eye access to psychic vision. It can help manifest ancient wisdom and channeled communication with spirits and other worlds. It also is useful in dream recall. I'm grateful to be nestled into the powerful earth here in these mountains. Life and connection with the spiritual realm feels more intense and unavoidable here. Your signs may be obscure, they may be mistaken as synchronicity or serendipity, but I choose belief. I also think you have a lot to learn in your new dimension. Knowing you, you are figuring it all out, you are pushing the limits, and you are enjoying the ride. I hope that you continue to visit us and you learn to do it less mysteriously. But I will take what I can get. Even when on earth, your love was magic.
Roots run deep, rock deeper, and fire deeper yet. Snow appears as a guise on the surface. We know what is below, but above us is the unknown. Just because we can't see it with our naked, human eye does not mean it doesn't exist. In fact, in my mind, I believe that means it really exists. It exists in a way that is beyond our understanding and it is godly.
As I sit in our home and look out on the acres of pines cascading down the slopes, the beauty is sublime. It has been snowing since I arrived home. I watch the snow cover surfaces, spilling white peace over all that's both alive and nonliving. The powder reminds me of softness and of femininity. Grief is a feminine process. It requires a deep vulnerability, a chasm of emotions, gentleness, a willingness to come apart, and hope. There is no fast forward button, there is no fight that will help one win, and there is no way to bully through it with toughness. There is simply unraveling, opening, and letting grace shine in. This morning, I see that grace in the cool and camouflaging snow. It tells me, "Sami. Things may look monotone now. You may only see one element of this world – loss. But when I melt away, in time, after this frigid season, life will reappear. In time, dear one."
Magic is bred in the mountains. I've been witnessing its reveal since I've been home. Seeing enchantment or maybe even your supernatural hand in my life is heartening. On my first night back in the house, I said my gratitudes and prayers and drifted off to sleep. I was supine in our bed, nestled into the middle, because I no longer have a side. At some point in the night, I woke from my unconscious, yet still in a dreamlike state. I realized I'd awoken because I felt the weight of your body on top of me. I still was laying on my back, but you were laying on top of me. I heard your breath in my ears and felt it on my body, you breathed calmly and deeply, as if trying to relax me. Although I was lucid, I couldn't see you. I knew it was you, but the vision was so real that I became scared. There was someone in my bed with me. I could feel the hands holding me, fingers pressing into by torso, hair near my face, and legs down near mine. How could this be? You rolled to the side onto your half of the bed, taking your weight off of me so my breath could deepen. You spooned me and cradled me in your arms, but I'd become frightened. What if it wasn't you? What if this was a stranger in my bed? I still couldn't open my eyes and felt trapped even though I wanted to feel comforted. Once you sensed my fear, your body drifted away from mine. I felt it lift up into a plane in space over me. With my eyes still closed, I heard and felt what I can only describe as the flapping of wings over my body. It was as though a fan was turned on above my body. Cool air spilled onto me, chilling me enough to allow me to open my eyes and gasp. Awake, eyes open, I saw black and white swirls above me, your pixie dust. I watched the stripes circle on our ceiling for about a minute until they drifted off, and I was alone again. I closed my eyes, shaken up but thankful for your clumsy visit. I think you visited me for both of us. For me, so I am reminded that you are here. And for you, to infuse some of yourself in me. Because since that visit, I've felt different – I've felt a bit more like you.
Wonder continues. As I paced around our house last night in hazy stride, I found a stack of greeting cards that I've received over the past couple months. I went through the stack again, because many of them I'd been too devastated and shocked to actually take the time to really read when I'd received them. I found one that had been sent from Spoons and Daren, an old Vail roomie of yours and her husband. I studied the picture on the front of their card – it was a snowy scene with a smiling bear and a smiling fox in the foreground. The inside of the card was blank and a typed message had been glued into it. I had received that card along with smiley balloons just days after you passed. The bear and fox have carried such poignant symbolism through this journey, but I hadn't noticed them on the card prior to yesterday. I sent Spoons a message, telling her how much I appreciated the card she chose. I know they live overseas, so it couldn't have been easy to find one so perfect and get it to me so quickly. I woke up this morning with a response waiting from her. She told me that they hadn't chosen the card – the local flower shop had. It was just a coincidence that the shop had sent a card with a smiling bear and a smiling fox. I don't know if I believe in coincidence anymore. So I will take the synchronicity as a grinning 'hello' from you.
Last night I watched the String Cheese Incident's show on the internet. The show was nearby, but I'm headed there tonight and tomorrow and felt that three nights is more than I can handle in my current state. I've never watched a show from home before. However, I felt a need to be a part of it last night. I knew if you were going to be around, you would be there. And as I said, I think you've infused yourself in me. It was as though there was no other option than to watch the show.
The second song the band played was 'Sirens'. The lyrics are nearly a literal explanation of what happened the night you died. Members of the band played the song at your memorial. Also, when you were living, you and I had cried and danced to the song. It was a very special moment to witness. I had wanted to be at the show if they played that song. I'd wanted to be held in a blanket of love. I stood in our bathroom and watched the song on my computer screen, alone. I was crying. Beats came into the room. She tends to ignore me most times. She was really your cat. She loved you, mostly. But as I cried and watched, Beats pawed at my leg and meowed repeatedly until I picked her up. It was unlike her. She stared at the screen, watching the lights, listening to the rhythm of the music and my sobs, and purred for the entire song. It's probably the longest she's ever let me hold her. She offered support in a moment when I needed it most though I believe you helped her out with that. The band never finished the song. Maybe at some point over the next two days they'll go back to it and I'll be surrounded with the camaraderie and love from our loved ones when they close it out.
Beneath Boulder lies a layer of natural quartz. In crystal lore, quartz offers balancing clarity, healing, and energy. Quartz also offers third-eye access to psychic vision. It can help manifest ancient wisdom and channeled communication with spirits and other worlds. It also is useful in dream recall. I'm grateful to be nestled into the powerful earth here in these mountains. Life and connection with the spiritual realm feels more intense and unavoidable here. Your signs may be obscure, they may be mistaken as synchronicity or serendipity, but I choose belief. I also think you have a lot to learn in your new dimension. Knowing you, you are figuring it all out, you are pushing the limits, and you are enjoying the ride. I hope that you continue to visit us and you learn to do it less mysteriously. But I will take what I can get. Even when on earth, your love was magic.
Roots run deep, rock deeper, and fire deeper yet. Snow appears as a guise on the surface. We know what is below, but above us is the unknown. Just because we can't see it with our naked, human eye does not mean it doesn't exist. In fact, in my mind, I believe that means it really exists. It exists in a way that is beyond our understanding and it is godly.
Static and Soundtracks
Five weeks ago, life was rich with color and bright with sound – high resolution. Then, that Friday night, my screen turned to static. All of the pixels are still there – but the picture, the color, the sound was lost. Life is static now.
In painful but clear moments, I will have flashbacks to our time together. However in general, it's been very hard for me to remember much. It's as if the trauma of that night caused amnesia, and now I'm left only with bewilderingly hazy memories. I want to remember all of you. I want to remember every breath, every word we said, every time we held hands, and every kiss we shared – but I can't. Like the static screen of an old television that needs its antennas fiddled with, I only get blips and blurry images that pop in for a second or two.
My flashes of memories come and go, and are often onset by my surroundings – sights, sounds, songs, smells, signs. Here's some breaks from the static:
Today as I drove between Desmoine and Chicago I witnessed hoards of mediocre-at-best drivers making their cross-country trips to spend the holiday with family. As I judged and cringed, I remembered my first time driving to your house in Vail. I was at the wheel with you seated shotgun. You lived in Vail for many years so you were very comfortable with the roads, unlike myself. I exited Interstate 70, turned left to cross the highway, and made my way into West Vail. I noticed something strange ahead of me – a... roundabout. Hmmm. What ever do I do here? You, always patient and never curse, said nothing just motioned 'onward'. I did not yield, despite signs. I pulled all the way into the inner lane immediately. The car behind me laid on his horn. I slammed on the breaks, horrified, then swerved into the right lane to make my exit, without a turn signal. My heart slamming, I looked at you in panic. You gave me a funny look – wide-eyed, slight fear, kind of embarrassed to be seen with me, and humor. You said warmly, "Well sweetheart, the good news is, you made every possible roundabout mistake all at once right there, so you can only get better!" I have gotten better. But every time I drive into one for the rest of my life, I will remember that incident.
After moving to Colorado a year ago this week, I got a new car. I'd sold my house in Austin for a good profit and had recently gotten my dream job as the Creative Director of my favorite magazine. I'd had my 2000 Honda CRV since I was in college and had bought it from my parents for $1. So when I was car shopping in Boulder last year, it was essentially the first time for me to choose a car – and I was pysched. I chose a luxury car with more bells and whistles than I knew how to contend with. On one of our first drives together in my new car, you sat down and started fiddling with the moonroof. "Wow, this is so big! Open it," you requested. I started pushing buttons and turning dials – a sunglass case ejected from the ceiling and the overhead lights came on – no moonroof action. You laughed at my tactic and gracefully pushed one button and it opened. Later in that drive, you asked if I knew how to set the clock – it was a few minutes fast. I did not and started pushing buttons all over the console – no clock action. You laughed again and then quickly figured it. We sat in silence for a few minutes as I drove, feeling slightly incompetent. "Do you want to know what I have figured out though?" I asked. "What's that?" you responded. I turned up the music to show you. "I learned how to turn the bass ALL THE WAY UP," I answered, bass pounding. You cracked up and with only a hint of an eye roll answered, "Priorities."
You always thought I'd be interested in how cars work. I am not. I know I like a nice and comfortable one, but I couldn't be less interested in how they move. "There are so many more interesting things I'd rather learn," I'd tell you when you started talking about pistons. "Let's talk about another kind of piston..." I'd joke as you tried to explain. I can add gas and oil. I recently learned how to add windshield wiper fluid. I now know how to open the moonroof. The bass and treble are fantastically unbalanced. And I can read the manual when my bossy car tells me it needs something. So, I am basically a mechanic. I know everything I need to know. Although you continued to try to sneak car talk into conversation every so often, "It's really interesting! There's explosions!" you'd insist, tempting me with fire. It got to the point where we had a running joke about it. You would start to explain something about an intake valve and a cylinder and I'd plug my ears and look at you and say, "MAGIC! Cars go cause of MAGIC!" And that was it. Every time we decided we didn't need to know how something operated, we would blame it on magic.
As I drove my magically propelled Audi across the midwest today, I listened to your iPod – or T-Pod as you have it named. I shuffled through your ten-thousand plus songs. At one point, Patrick Lee came on. It took me back to the first time we both heard Patrick Lee. We were on our way home from Red Rocks in the back of a limo. It was my first Red Rocks show and we hadn't been dating very long – so you were still trying to impress me. (Which you didn't need to do, because you impressed me more and more every day of our time together.) But, in order to transport a good group of friends conveniently to and from the Umphrey's McGee show and avoid drunk hippies from being on the road – we all climbed into the back of the limo. About halfway home, the limo got quiet. Everyone was getting tired and coming down from the thrill of the show. As the conversation died down, we noticed the music. It was the absolute perfect melody for the moment – down-tempo electronica that still sounded man-made and had layered peaks and valleys. "Who IS this," you asked. Nate, who was manning the music, responded, "Patrick Lee."
Patrick Lee's Pacific Soul album became a staple for us from that point forward. At the end of the night, we would cuddle up downstairs on a Love Sac in the puddle room, let Kira out, and groove to Patrick Lee. You would explain certain dynamics in the music. I knew I liked it a lot, but you would help explain why. Some days we would listen to that album while driving through the mountains or maybe when we drove up to get the mail. I played it in my yoga classes a lot – the perfect groove for a flow through a vinyasa. It's the kind of music that made me feel as though I was lying on my back in a grassy meadow, with sunlight on my face, wind in my hair, your hand in mine, and warm love filling my being.
So when I was in the car today and Patrick Lee's 'Southern Cars' came on, I took a deep nostalgic breath. I let it play. As the cheerful rhythm played, I noticed how ugly it was outside. I noticed how the slushy snow looked dirty and haphazard. I noticed how the only trees that had leaves were sharp needles on conifers. I realized everything on the horizon was some shade of grey – even the dead grass along the side of the highway seemed monochromatic. The song continued to play the same melody that I'd heard so many times before during joyful moments – but this time it was different. It was as though the music was now a cruel joke, a parody. "Remember how happy this used to make you?" The music seemed to whisper taunts through a sleazy Cheshire-Cat grin and pointed eyes. I changed the song as I let my tears fall.
My soundtrack is changing. I used to tell you that I thought that The XX song 'Intro' would be my soundtrack. I'd describe how I wanted that song to automatically play from the heavens as I walked into a room. I thought it was the perfect balance of mystery, intelligence, and cool. The song no longer fits. Now, it's Pink Martini's version of 'Que Sera Sera' – haunting, sad, and full of minor chord progressions. Ominously, you always liked the song. I thought it was chilling. I still do.
Our soundtrack was more funky.
We had come back to our tent a bit early after a String Cheese show at Horning's Hideout. We were laying on our blowup mattress relaxing. We could hear people slowly making their way back into Land's End camp - but we stayed quiet, snuggled, and closed our eyes. We needed a breather. We could hear Nate setting up his DJ gear near our tent. When he turned on the speakers, the most ridiculous trumpet melody we ever had heard began to play. We both busted out laughing, breaking the silence in unison. "Yes! I love that someone actually makes this kind of music," you said. "Yes! It's awesome! And that N8tron actually mixes with it," I said. And that was how a silly remix of Bert Kaempfert's 'Africaan Beat' came the closest thing we had to a song. We would play it at the house and dance the most dorky dance around the house together. If one of us were ever in a bad mood, we could snap out of it by playing that song. We always requested Nate to play it, even when it was totally inappropriate for the setting. It made us laugh. It made us dance.
It's hard to imagine hearing playful music without a visceral rawness consuming my chest. Its hard to remember our time clearly, without my own take or exaggeration. For now I have to settle for static - and look forward to the bursts of colorful and clear memories that peek through from time to time.
In painful but clear moments, I will have flashbacks to our time together. However in general, it's been very hard for me to remember much. It's as if the trauma of that night caused amnesia, and now I'm left only with bewilderingly hazy memories. I want to remember all of you. I want to remember every breath, every word we said, every time we held hands, and every kiss we shared – but I can't. Like the static screen of an old television that needs its antennas fiddled with, I only get blips and blurry images that pop in for a second or two.
My flashes of memories come and go, and are often onset by my surroundings – sights, sounds, songs, smells, signs. Here's some breaks from the static:
Today as I drove between Desmoine and Chicago I witnessed hoards of mediocre-at-best drivers making their cross-country trips to spend the holiday with family. As I judged and cringed, I remembered my first time driving to your house in Vail. I was at the wheel with you seated shotgun. You lived in Vail for many years so you were very comfortable with the roads, unlike myself. I exited Interstate 70, turned left to cross the highway, and made my way into West Vail. I noticed something strange ahead of me – a... roundabout. Hmmm. What ever do I do here? You, always patient and never curse, said nothing just motioned 'onward'. I did not yield, despite signs. I pulled all the way into the inner lane immediately. The car behind me laid on his horn. I slammed on the breaks, horrified, then swerved into the right lane to make my exit, without a turn signal. My heart slamming, I looked at you in panic. You gave me a funny look – wide-eyed, slight fear, kind of embarrassed to be seen with me, and humor. You said warmly, "Well sweetheart, the good news is, you made every possible roundabout mistake all at once right there, so you can only get better!" I have gotten better. But every time I drive into one for the rest of my life, I will remember that incident.
After moving to Colorado a year ago this week, I got a new car. I'd sold my house in Austin for a good profit and had recently gotten my dream job as the Creative Director of my favorite magazine. I'd had my 2000 Honda CRV since I was in college and had bought it from my parents for $1. So when I was car shopping in Boulder last year, it was essentially the first time for me to choose a car – and I was pysched. I chose a luxury car with more bells and whistles than I knew how to contend with. On one of our first drives together in my new car, you sat down and started fiddling with the moonroof. "Wow, this is so big! Open it," you requested. I started pushing buttons and turning dials – a sunglass case ejected from the ceiling and the overhead lights came on – no moonroof action. You laughed at my tactic and gracefully pushed one button and it opened. Later in that drive, you asked if I knew how to set the clock – it was a few minutes fast. I did not and started pushing buttons all over the console – no clock action. You laughed again and then quickly figured it. We sat in silence for a few minutes as I drove, feeling slightly incompetent. "Do you want to know what I have figured out though?" I asked. "What's that?" you responded. I turned up the music to show you. "I learned how to turn the bass ALL THE WAY UP," I answered, bass pounding. You cracked up and with only a hint of an eye roll answered, "Priorities."
You always thought I'd be interested in how cars work. I am not. I know I like a nice and comfortable one, but I couldn't be less interested in how they move. "There are so many more interesting things I'd rather learn," I'd tell you when you started talking about pistons. "Let's talk about another kind of piston..." I'd joke as you tried to explain. I can add gas and oil. I recently learned how to add windshield wiper fluid. I now know how to open the moonroof. The bass and treble are fantastically unbalanced. And I can read the manual when my bossy car tells me it needs something. So, I am basically a mechanic. I know everything I need to know. Although you continued to try to sneak car talk into conversation every so often, "It's really interesting! There's explosions!" you'd insist, tempting me with fire. It got to the point where we had a running joke about it. You would start to explain something about an intake valve and a cylinder and I'd plug my ears and look at you and say, "MAGIC! Cars go cause of MAGIC!" And that was it. Every time we decided we didn't need to know how something operated, we would blame it on magic.
As I drove my magically propelled Audi across the midwest today, I listened to your iPod – or T-Pod as you have it named. I shuffled through your ten-thousand plus songs. At one point, Patrick Lee came on. It took me back to the first time we both heard Patrick Lee. We were on our way home from Red Rocks in the back of a limo. It was my first Red Rocks show and we hadn't been dating very long – so you were still trying to impress me. (Which you didn't need to do, because you impressed me more and more every day of our time together.) But, in order to transport a good group of friends conveniently to and from the Umphrey's McGee show and avoid drunk hippies from being on the road – we all climbed into the back of the limo. About halfway home, the limo got quiet. Everyone was getting tired and coming down from the thrill of the show. As the conversation died down, we noticed the music. It was the absolute perfect melody for the moment – down-tempo electronica that still sounded man-made and had layered peaks and valleys. "Who IS this," you asked. Nate, who was manning the music, responded, "Patrick Lee."
Patrick Lee's Pacific Soul album became a staple for us from that point forward. At the end of the night, we would cuddle up downstairs on a Love Sac in the puddle room, let Kira out, and groove to Patrick Lee. You would explain certain dynamics in the music. I knew I liked it a lot, but you would help explain why. Some days we would listen to that album while driving through the mountains or maybe when we drove up to get the mail. I played it in my yoga classes a lot – the perfect groove for a flow through a vinyasa. It's the kind of music that made me feel as though I was lying on my back in a grassy meadow, with sunlight on my face, wind in my hair, your hand in mine, and warm love filling my being.
So when I was in the car today and Patrick Lee's 'Southern Cars' came on, I took a deep nostalgic breath. I let it play. As the cheerful rhythm played, I noticed how ugly it was outside. I noticed how the slushy snow looked dirty and haphazard. I noticed how the only trees that had leaves were sharp needles on conifers. I realized everything on the horizon was some shade of grey – even the dead grass along the side of the highway seemed monochromatic. The song continued to play the same melody that I'd heard so many times before during joyful moments – but this time it was different. It was as though the music was now a cruel joke, a parody. "Remember how happy this used to make you?" The music seemed to whisper taunts through a sleazy Cheshire-Cat grin and pointed eyes. I changed the song as I let my tears fall.
My soundtrack is changing. I used to tell you that I thought that The XX song 'Intro' would be my soundtrack. I'd describe how I wanted that song to automatically play from the heavens as I walked into a room. I thought it was the perfect balance of mystery, intelligence, and cool. The song no longer fits. Now, it's Pink Martini's version of 'Que Sera Sera' – haunting, sad, and full of minor chord progressions. Ominously, you always liked the song. I thought it was chilling. I still do.
Our soundtrack was more funky.
We had come back to our tent a bit early after a String Cheese show at Horning's Hideout. We were laying on our blowup mattress relaxing. We could hear people slowly making their way back into Land's End camp - but we stayed quiet, snuggled, and closed our eyes. We needed a breather. We could hear Nate setting up his DJ gear near our tent. When he turned on the speakers, the most ridiculous trumpet melody we ever had heard began to play. We both busted out laughing, breaking the silence in unison. "Yes! I love that someone actually makes this kind of music," you said. "Yes! It's awesome! And that N8tron actually mixes with it," I said. And that was how a silly remix of Bert Kaempfert's 'Africaan Beat' came the closest thing we had to a song. We would play it at the house and dance the most dorky dance around the house together. If one of us were ever in a bad mood, we could snap out of it by playing that song. We always requested Nate to play it, even when it was totally inappropriate for the setting. It made us laugh. It made us dance.
It's hard to imagine hearing playful music without a visceral rawness consuming my chest. Its hard to remember our time clearly, without my own take or exaggeration. For now I have to settle for static - and look forward to the bursts of colorful and clear memories that peek through from time to time.
You are the music
Last night I went to the 1-up for Roosevelt Collier's Colorado Get Down ensemble's show. I hope you were there with me because I know you would have loved the raw, funky show they threw down. It was exactly the type of music that made you move.
Tons of your friends were there. There was so much love and many two-armed hugs. And we all danced, because funk makes people happy, no matter how sad things are. Because even when people die, their music lives on.
I closed my eyes a lot last night while listening to the show. I imagined that you were standing to my left. I imagined that our arms gently brushed against one another as we danced. I could feel your body. I saw you shaking your hips to the beat. I imagined the smooth smile on your face, stoked on the music. There were so many times when a question or comment would arise in my mind and I would look over to my left to tell you. You weren't there when I opened my eyes.
There was also another part of the show that was really important. The Drunken Hearts were the opening act – your band. Well, kind of.
In the days leading up to your death, you and The Drunken Hearts had decided to part ways. The news was very fresh and you were heartbroken. Since you died very suddenly after the break up with the band, not many people knew about it. In fact, to many, you went to your grave still as the drummer in the band. But you, me, the band, and people close to you knew that was not the case. That night, we took a long walk. I asked if you felt hopeless. You said you did not. You said you felt like you lost a huge part of your identity. But you knew that you would rebuild. You knew this left space for something new. You felt empty, but not hopeless. I understand now too, how emptiness feels.
There were a lot of emotions in those few days for you obviously, and for me as well. I had gotten accustomed to rehearsals in the house every week. Often we would make dinner together for the whole band. Upon moving to Boulder, I spent a lot of the time at home, since I work from the house. I didn't have much time to make a ton of friends. But I did have time to get to know the guys in the band. And though I never told them, I fell in love with each guy in the band. I told you often that I had never had so many wonderful guy friends before. I knew I could call any of them if I ever needed something. I trusted them all. So your departure from The Drunken Hearts was the beginning of a break up for us all, in some ways. There was a dark path ahead. Though I wish more than anything that you were still here, I'm relieved that you didn't have to walk that path.
The reason I write about this today is NOT to bring up demons. It's not to 'out' the band. Your death had absolutely nothing to do with you parting ways with the Hearts – it simply was a dark shadow in the days that turned out to be your last.
Going to the show last night was incredibly challenging for me, but it was also cathartic. Because, Teddy, who you were in life was not dependent upon your position in the band. And while you may have felt empty due to your breakup with them, you went out of this world a lone man – an individual – which is a beautiful thing.
Your identity, to those who love you, had nothing to do with your career. And I know that if you were still here today, you would have recovered, strengthened, and found new passion in another project. I also know that your relationship with the members of the Hearts, in time, would also mend – your friendship and love would remain. Your bond with those guys was more important than business and you were not one to hold a grudge. And while you may have had angst, disappointment, and confusion in your final days – your legacy is not defined by the last three days of your life.
Some people who knew about this falling out questioned my attending the show last night. (And I don't mean with judgement, simply a question.) And the truth is, so did I! But then, I think about you. What would you want? And I also thought about me. What do I need?
You would want me to be surrounded by love. You would want me to be surrounded by music. The Drunken Hearts are what I know, they are familiar. I know every song. I know the dynamics of the sound, the epic solos, the rough spots, who needs to be turned up and who needs to be turned down, every place where you would hit the double bass, where I liked to stand in the crowd, and the girls I stood with. And that's where I needed to be last night. Standing with them, still. Because, despite the breakup, I need The Drunken Hearts. I need them more than ever. And I think they might need me too. Though, really, we all need you.
When I looked at the stage last night and saw a different drummer, it actually made things a bit easier for me. Because I knew, that even if you were still alive, you would not be sitting behind that kit at that show. The new drummer had nothing to do with your death – and that took some of the pain away. And when I looked on stage and into the eyes of the guys I love – I saw men struggling. As Andrew said last night to the crowd, "We're all just trying to figure out how to hold it together". It's true, none of us know quite how to manage without you. We're just doing the best we can and we're all thinking of you along the way.
You were the music, Ted. You didn't need to have a stick in hand or your foot on a pedal to make music – it was all around you because it was in you. Your words were the lyrics. Your thoughts were the cadence. Your movement was the rhythm. Your laugh was the tempo. Your loved ones were the beat. In your honor, my love, the music you made continues. We will never let your music die.
Tons of your friends were there. There was so much love and many two-armed hugs. And we all danced, because funk makes people happy, no matter how sad things are. Because even when people die, their music lives on.
I closed my eyes a lot last night while listening to the show. I imagined that you were standing to my left. I imagined that our arms gently brushed against one another as we danced. I could feel your body. I saw you shaking your hips to the beat. I imagined the smooth smile on your face, stoked on the music. There were so many times when a question or comment would arise in my mind and I would look over to my left to tell you. You weren't there when I opened my eyes.
There was also another part of the show that was really important. The Drunken Hearts were the opening act – your band. Well, kind of.
In the days leading up to your death, you and The Drunken Hearts had decided to part ways. The news was very fresh and you were heartbroken. Since you died very suddenly after the break up with the band, not many people knew about it. In fact, to many, you went to your grave still as the drummer in the band. But you, me, the band, and people close to you knew that was not the case. That night, we took a long walk. I asked if you felt hopeless. You said you did not. You said you felt like you lost a huge part of your identity. But you knew that you would rebuild. You knew this left space for something new. You felt empty, but not hopeless. I understand now too, how emptiness feels.
There were a lot of emotions in those few days for you obviously, and for me as well. I had gotten accustomed to rehearsals in the house every week. Often we would make dinner together for the whole band. Upon moving to Boulder, I spent a lot of the time at home, since I work from the house. I didn't have much time to make a ton of friends. But I did have time to get to know the guys in the band. And though I never told them, I fell in love with each guy in the band. I told you often that I had never had so many wonderful guy friends before. I knew I could call any of them if I ever needed something. I trusted them all. So your departure from The Drunken Hearts was the beginning of a break up for us all, in some ways. There was a dark path ahead. Though I wish more than anything that you were still here, I'm relieved that you didn't have to walk that path.
The reason I write about this today is NOT to bring up demons. It's not to 'out' the band. Your death had absolutely nothing to do with you parting ways with the Hearts – it simply was a dark shadow in the days that turned out to be your last.
Going to the show last night was incredibly challenging for me, but it was also cathartic. Because, Teddy, who you were in life was not dependent upon your position in the band. And while you may have felt empty due to your breakup with them, you went out of this world a lone man – an individual – which is a beautiful thing.
Your identity, to those who love you, had nothing to do with your career. And I know that if you were still here today, you would have recovered, strengthened, and found new passion in another project. I also know that your relationship with the members of the Hearts, in time, would also mend – your friendship and love would remain. Your bond with those guys was more important than business and you were not one to hold a grudge. And while you may have had angst, disappointment, and confusion in your final days – your legacy is not defined by the last three days of your life.
Some people who knew about this falling out questioned my attending the show last night. (And I don't mean with judgement, simply a question.) And the truth is, so did I! But then, I think about you. What would you want? And I also thought about me. What do I need?
You would want me to be surrounded by love. You would want me to be surrounded by music. The Drunken Hearts are what I know, they are familiar. I know every song. I know the dynamics of the sound, the epic solos, the rough spots, who needs to be turned up and who needs to be turned down, every place where you would hit the double bass, where I liked to stand in the crowd, and the girls I stood with. And that's where I needed to be last night. Standing with them, still. Because, despite the breakup, I need The Drunken Hearts. I need them more than ever. And I think they might need me too. Though, really, we all need you.
When I looked at the stage last night and saw a different drummer, it actually made things a bit easier for me. Because I knew, that even if you were still alive, you would not be sitting behind that kit at that show. The new drummer had nothing to do with your death – and that took some of the pain away. And when I looked on stage and into the eyes of the guys I love – I saw men struggling. As Andrew said last night to the crowd, "We're all just trying to figure out how to hold it together". It's true, none of us know quite how to manage without you. We're just doing the best we can and we're all thinking of you along the way.
You were the music, Ted. You didn't need to have a stick in hand or your foot on a pedal to make music – it was all around you because it was in you. Your words were the lyrics. Your thoughts were the cadence. Your movement was the rhythm. Your laugh was the tempo. Your loved ones were the beat. In your honor, my love, the music you made continues. We will never let your music die.
Cheesy
I've become an energy sponge these last couple weeks. My mood and strength are very impressionable. I'm porous and vulnerable. My therapist gave me sound advice. She said to notice my surroundings during the moments when I feel closest to you – where I am, how many people I'm with, who those people are, what's happening in the background – and to keep doing those things.
My friend April flew in from Chicago last night. I arrived at the Denver airport to pick her up a half-hour late. I was paralyzed by the sirens, emergency vehicles, and flipped car I'd passed on my icy drive and was simply out-of-sorts. She was unfazed by the delay when I began my series of apologies. She, a beautiful mess of punchy-colored leather, fur, blonde hair, and good energy, looked at me with an Are you freaking kidding me? As if you really need to apologize for anything right now expression, and climbed in the car. She gave me a two armed hug from the passenger seat and held me for longer than I held her. Before we exited the airport terminal, she had already reminded me of the one time that she had met you, and how it only took that one time for her to know how incredibly exceptional of a man you are, and how complete you had me. I knew immediately that she was the right person to have by my side right now.
Before going back to the house, we stopped at the grocery store where you and I always shopped. She helped me get through a few 'firsts'. The first time entering our local supermarket, where you generally would grab the cart for us, but this time, I did. The first time choosing avocados and knowing you weren't going to be there to eat them – spooning them right out of their skin with a dressing of coconut aminos and hemp seeds. The first time picking out cheese without you, you liked the raw mild cheddar. The first time stopping at the beverage section and realizing I didn't need to buy coconut water, because you liked it and I don't. Your 76% ChocoLove dark chocolate, your marinated rosemary chicken, your favorite free-range eggs, your unsprouted almonds, and your Ben & Jerry's Americone Dream… I walked past it all. I did not put it in my cart. I no longer shop for two. I paid and we made it out the door. I exhaled and a tear escaped the corner of my eye.
This morning April, Kira, and I drove three hours south of Boulder to Mount Princeton Hot Springs. I charged your phone and hooked it up to the stereo as we pulled out of the driveway. We turned on The String Cheese Incident, your favorite band and the artist that monopolizes your data usage. The feel-good bluegrass jams hit my porous ears like water to a sponge. Each song that played ignited a hazy memory.
I had never seen String Cheese until we started dating. In the beginning of our relationship, my little brother, who shares your taste in music, told me which album to listen to first. I would drive around Austin listening to that record. One of the first songs that stuck out to me was Sirens. I remember texting you the lyrics on day, out of the blue: I just want to say I love you / And make sure you feel it everyday / 'Cause if today had been my last chance / It's just something I wanted to say. You sent back a purple heart, an icon of cheese, and an excited response. You were psyched that your new girlfriend was doing her music homework. I remember that song being played at one of the shows we attended together later that year. We wrapped our arms around each other, swayed, and sang to each other. I remember that song being played again, two weeks ago, at your memorial.
As the Cheese songs continued to pour out of your iTunes today while April and I drove, I felt a sense of peaceful nostalgia. It was as if you were choosing each song for us to listen to. You were selecting the soundtrack for our mountain drive. We chatted, we cried, we listened. I imagined that you were sitting in the backseat of my car as we drove, adding in your perspective through the song. Sometimes, along the way, I would even hear your jokes or responses in the back of my head, a silent but distinct voice. I chose to believe in you.
I remember the first time we went to see The String Cheese Incident together – it was my first show and your one-hundred-and-ninety-sixth. It was in Austin on July 3rd, 2013. You were in my city visiting me, but you got to introduce me to your world.
From the moment we were dropped off in the lot, I had never seen someone so plugged in. You knew nearly every other person we passed. People were calling your name with excitement from all corners of the parking lot. You were hugging and smiling. You were introducing me to person after person, spouting off their name and the three other nicknames they also go by. Your eyes were twinkling. You were in the zone and it was incredible to witness. It was spectacular to be by your side, to be your girl. I was proud.
The first song the band played that evening was Lonesome Fiddle Blues. You were off to a good start at getting me to like this band because LFB is a bluegrass song that I recognized from my childhood. My mom is a fiddle player in a band, so the standards are familiar. The nostalgia grooved in my heart and I smiled at you and said, "I know this!" "Alright!" you responded with a proud grin.
Our love grew that night at the Cheese show. Me, seeing you in your light. You, seeing me dig your scene. It was beautiful for us. It got even more exciting when the band closed their first set with BollyMunster. As the bhangra-inspired dance tune flooded my ears, my hips started to shake. Synthe-electronica poured in over the Bollywood bluegrass, I gritted my teeth with anticipation of a bass-drop. I didn't even know what was happening, but I absolutely loved it. "If THAT is what this band is all about, I'm ALL over it," I told you after the song ended. You laughed, knowing I was hyped up over a shameless dance party jam but stoked by my excitement.
Later that summer, we went to Horning's Hideout for a String Cheese Festival. On Sunday, the last show of the weekend, I watched String Cheese play Struggling Angel, a song they had written after Sarah's death, in honor of her. I watched nearly the entire crowd of thousands of people, blanket their arms around one another and pull each other in close. I watched hundreds of people gather around Chris, Sarah's husband, and silently support him with hugs, love, tears, and meaningful appreciation for her life and her memory. You were by Chris's side the whole time, holding him. I watched you bawl through the entire song. I watched tears stream down Chris's face too. I saw so many tears during those six minutes and realized how much support this band was offering those in need. I cried too. They were carrying on your friend's memory with beauty, song, and hope. I never met Sarah, but because of what The String Cheese community created for her (and what she had helped create in them), I feel like I know her. I'm so glad you were so involved in a community of people who take those memories so seriously, that are so in touch with their own emotions and supporting emotions of others in need. It's a beautiful thing.
I haven't heard Struggling Angel live again, but we would listen to it on the new album when we needed a good cry at the house. I only heard BollyMunster one other time with you, at a free show in Boulder. And I haven't heard them do Lonesome Fiddle Blues live since that show in Austin. I thought that my seven shows in the past year and ten months was a good start. But I thought it was just that, a start. I never imagined that eighth show I'd see would be them playing at your memorial.
Music has been really hard for me since you died, my love. It was such an important part of you. It's hard to hear a song without making a direction comparison to you. It's hard to listen without being able to ask you, "Who is this again?" and you being able to chime in with an in-depth description of artist, genre, and song. The String Cheese Incident is the only band I've listened to since you left this place. I've listened to them more in the past few weeks then I did when you were alive. I hear you in their music. I see your smile in their rhythms. I feel your love in the lyrics. I imagine the shimmer of excitement in your eye and you lifting up your arms to shake your hands in your one gimmicky dance move that you always did at the end of a song, the final snap. It's giving me some solace to fill my soul with the music you loved so much.
When April and I pulled up to the hot springs resort, SCI's song Joyful Sound echoed through the car and our hearts. We recognized your actions and your life's meaning as a direct correlation to the words of the song. We sang along, out loud. I cried, because my heart is broken open, your hand isn't their for me to grab, and your hips aren't there for me to groove with. But I smiled because what you stand for remains. I opened myself up and let the music seep in to my porous soul, knowing you would be proud.
Take time to give thanks / Make time to be given / I'm going to stop and think twice / About the way that I'm living
Did I say a kind word / Am I proud of my actions / You know a job well done / Gives me satisfaction
Can I earn your trust / Your love and affection / Just one step at a time / In the right direction
Going to aim for the sky / Keep my feet on the ground / Raise my voice to the heavens / Make a joyful sound
My friend April flew in from Chicago last night. I arrived at the Denver airport to pick her up a half-hour late. I was paralyzed by the sirens, emergency vehicles, and flipped car I'd passed on my icy drive and was simply out-of-sorts. She was unfazed by the delay when I began my series of apologies. She, a beautiful mess of punchy-colored leather, fur, blonde hair, and good energy, looked at me with an Are you freaking kidding me? As if you really need to apologize for anything right now expression, and climbed in the car. She gave me a two armed hug from the passenger seat and held me for longer than I held her. Before we exited the airport terminal, she had already reminded me of the one time that she had met you, and how it only took that one time for her to know how incredibly exceptional of a man you are, and how complete you had me. I knew immediately that she was the right person to have by my side right now.
Before going back to the house, we stopped at the grocery store where you and I always shopped. She helped me get through a few 'firsts'. The first time entering our local supermarket, where you generally would grab the cart for us, but this time, I did. The first time choosing avocados and knowing you weren't going to be there to eat them – spooning them right out of their skin with a dressing of coconut aminos and hemp seeds. The first time picking out cheese without you, you liked the raw mild cheddar. The first time stopping at the beverage section and realizing I didn't need to buy coconut water, because you liked it and I don't. Your 76% ChocoLove dark chocolate, your marinated rosemary chicken, your favorite free-range eggs, your unsprouted almonds, and your Ben & Jerry's Americone Dream… I walked past it all. I did not put it in my cart. I no longer shop for two. I paid and we made it out the door. I exhaled and a tear escaped the corner of my eye.
This morning April, Kira, and I drove three hours south of Boulder to Mount Princeton Hot Springs. I charged your phone and hooked it up to the stereo as we pulled out of the driveway. We turned on The String Cheese Incident, your favorite band and the artist that monopolizes your data usage. The feel-good bluegrass jams hit my porous ears like water to a sponge. Each song that played ignited a hazy memory.
I had never seen String Cheese until we started dating. In the beginning of our relationship, my little brother, who shares your taste in music, told me which album to listen to first. I would drive around Austin listening to that record. One of the first songs that stuck out to me was Sirens. I remember texting you the lyrics on day, out of the blue: I just want to say I love you / And make sure you feel it everyday / 'Cause if today had been my last chance / It's just something I wanted to say. You sent back a purple heart, an icon of cheese, and an excited response. You were psyched that your new girlfriend was doing her music homework. I remember that song being played at one of the shows we attended together later that year. We wrapped our arms around each other, swayed, and sang to each other. I remember that song being played again, two weeks ago, at your memorial.
As the Cheese songs continued to pour out of your iTunes today while April and I drove, I felt a sense of peaceful nostalgia. It was as if you were choosing each song for us to listen to. You were selecting the soundtrack for our mountain drive. We chatted, we cried, we listened. I imagined that you were sitting in the backseat of my car as we drove, adding in your perspective through the song. Sometimes, along the way, I would even hear your jokes or responses in the back of my head, a silent but distinct voice. I chose to believe in you.
I remember the first time we went to see The String Cheese Incident together – it was my first show and your one-hundred-and-ninety-sixth. It was in Austin on July 3rd, 2013. You were in my city visiting me, but you got to introduce me to your world.
From the moment we were dropped off in the lot, I had never seen someone so plugged in. You knew nearly every other person we passed. People were calling your name with excitement from all corners of the parking lot. You were hugging and smiling. You were introducing me to person after person, spouting off their name and the three other nicknames they also go by. Your eyes were twinkling. You were in the zone and it was incredible to witness. It was spectacular to be by your side, to be your girl. I was proud.
The first song the band played that evening was Lonesome Fiddle Blues. You were off to a good start at getting me to like this band because LFB is a bluegrass song that I recognized from my childhood. My mom is a fiddle player in a band, so the standards are familiar. The nostalgia grooved in my heart and I smiled at you and said, "I know this!" "Alright!" you responded with a proud grin.
Our love grew that night at the Cheese show. Me, seeing you in your light. You, seeing me dig your scene. It was beautiful for us. It got even more exciting when the band closed their first set with BollyMunster. As the bhangra-inspired dance tune flooded my ears, my hips started to shake. Synthe-electronica poured in over the Bollywood bluegrass, I gritted my teeth with anticipation of a bass-drop. I didn't even know what was happening, but I absolutely loved it. "If THAT is what this band is all about, I'm ALL over it," I told you after the song ended. You laughed, knowing I was hyped up over a shameless dance party jam but stoked by my excitement.
Later that summer, we went to Horning's Hideout for a String Cheese Festival. On Sunday, the last show of the weekend, I watched String Cheese play Struggling Angel, a song they had written after Sarah's death, in honor of her. I watched nearly the entire crowd of thousands of people, blanket their arms around one another and pull each other in close. I watched hundreds of people gather around Chris, Sarah's husband, and silently support him with hugs, love, tears, and meaningful appreciation for her life and her memory. You were by Chris's side the whole time, holding him. I watched you bawl through the entire song. I watched tears stream down Chris's face too. I saw so many tears during those six minutes and realized how much support this band was offering those in need. I cried too. They were carrying on your friend's memory with beauty, song, and hope. I never met Sarah, but because of what The String Cheese community created for her (and what she had helped create in them), I feel like I know her. I'm so glad you were so involved in a community of people who take those memories so seriously, that are so in touch with their own emotions and supporting emotions of others in need. It's a beautiful thing.
I haven't heard Struggling Angel live again, but we would listen to it on the new album when we needed a good cry at the house. I only heard BollyMunster one other time with you, at a free show in Boulder. And I haven't heard them do Lonesome Fiddle Blues live since that show in Austin. I thought that my seven shows in the past year and ten months was a good start. But I thought it was just that, a start. I never imagined that eighth show I'd see would be them playing at your memorial.
Music has been really hard for me since you died, my love. It was such an important part of you. It's hard to hear a song without making a direction comparison to you. It's hard to listen without being able to ask you, "Who is this again?" and you being able to chime in with an in-depth description of artist, genre, and song. The String Cheese Incident is the only band I've listened to since you left this place. I've listened to them more in the past few weeks then I did when you were alive. I hear you in their music. I see your smile in their rhythms. I feel your love in the lyrics. I imagine the shimmer of excitement in your eye and you lifting up your arms to shake your hands in your one gimmicky dance move that you always did at the end of a song, the final snap. It's giving me some solace to fill my soul with the music you loved so much.
When April and I pulled up to the hot springs resort, SCI's song Joyful Sound echoed through the car and our hearts. We recognized your actions and your life's meaning as a direct correlation to the words of the song. We sang along, out loud. I cried, because my heart is broken open, your hand isn't their for me to grab, and your hips aren't there for me to groove with. But I smiled because what you stand for remains. I opened myself up and let the music seep in to my porous soul, knowing you would be proud.
Take time to give thanks / Make time to be given / I'm going to stop and think twice / About the way that I'm living
Did I say a kind word / Am I proud of my actions / You know a job well done / Gives me satisfaction
Can I earn your trust / Your love and affection / Just one step at a time / In the right direction
Going to aim for the sky / Keep my feet on the ground / Raise my voice to the heavens / Make a joyful sound
Glitch
As I sit here in Steamboat, looking out over a beautiful cascading view of the mountain range, snow just beginning to appear on the runs, it takes me back to our visit here early last Spring. You had a gig at the Ghost Ranch on Friday night. I had a deadline for my job at the magazine. You drove the 3-hour-trek gracefully.
I never knew a man could operate a car with 'grace'. Testosterone, heavy machinery, highways, grace? It didn't seem plausible – but you broke the mold. You, always hugging turns, driving faster than it felt, passing slower traffic with quick ease, and still somehow finding time to give oncoming drivers boater's waves the whole way. You taught me to always stay in the righthand lane except when passing – a traffic concept I somehow missed all these years. You were able to balance the rugged mountain highways, change the track on your iPod, make a funny pun, and open a pressurized kombucha all at the same time, without raising a hair. You always preferred to drive. My nervous acceleration and lack of cruise controlling juggled with asking you to navigate, change the music, and peel me a banana just seemed like more work. You never said it to me directly, but we both settled into that habit. I was just fine with that. Having survived a near death accident when I was younger, I preferred to let you take the wheel.
Along that drive, we drove over Berthoud Pass. As you glided around the turns, we noticed some commotion a few cars back. You continued on the path, not sensing danger and on a time crunch to make it to your gig. Later, we found out that an avalanche had occurred, completely engulfing cars in snow. Everyone was OK, but the road was closed and major delays ensued. We looked each other in the eye and exchanged a few words of gratitude for our safety and timing. I made a joke about how lucky we were that you'd been driving, because if it were I, we would definitely have been inside a giant snowball.
A few miles beyond, as we descended the pass, we hit traffic and came to a stop on the road. We were caravanning with the rest of the band in a few cars and they were ahead of us. Stopped, and obviously not moving for a while, we leashed up Kira and walked her up the road to the guys in front of us. We all shared a bowl, a few laughs, and you probably topped it off with an epic fart. Then we hopped back into the car and continued on our way: quiet, happy, and slightly stoned. It was a peaceful drive.
We arrived in Steamboat later than expected and checked into our hotel on our way into town. The rest of the band was sharing a couple rooms at a motel on the edge of town, but you had gotten us a room at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton at the base of the mountain. I wished you luck and gave you a kiss as you left, hurrying off to sound check. I stayed in the hotel room for a couple hours working. I remember taking a photo: Kira on the bed, my computer open to a page layout, a room service salad, a glass of champagne, and the lit up ski-run with night skiers gliding down the slopes out the window. I posted it to Instagram with a show-offy caption saying something like "I could get used to this groupie lifestyle".
A while later, you arrived back in the room full of gusto and excitement for the gig filling me in on the details of the backline kit, the crowd, and everyone's moods. You ate the food I'd ordered you and we made love, quickly. You changed into a fresh tee, a solid maroon t-shirt that was 'dressier' in your opinion and appropriate for a gig. Your hair was not to your liking so you grabbed a baseball cap on our way out the door. We drove to the Ghost Ranch just a few miles up the road. I remember the exact parking spot you got, directly in front of the marquee reading "The Drunken Hearts". I made a joke about how it was V.I.P. and saved just for us. You locked the doors of the Volvo, grabbed my hand, and we walked under the marquee lights and through the door. I danced all night to your music and we both drank a bit too much. I don't remember going to bed.
We awoke late the next morning, still a little boozy from the previous night's high. After room service breakfast, some extra snuggles, and a quick dog-walk, we made our way to the base of the gondola. Everyone else was moving slower than us so we hung around waiting. It's those moments I miss most – the times when we were doing nothing at all but having so much fun together, just being so happy, wrapped in a blanket of love, not a care in the world.
That day, we skied for a bit, but less than we anticipated because our hangovers kicked in. You were particularly happy to ski down to my level that day because of your headache, but you always did without complaint anyway. Everyone else left to head back home to the front range, but we opted to stay an extra night.
The Wailers were playing a free show at the base of the mountain that afternoon. I took a photo of you on our balcony. You were in your boxers, the gondola behind you, and the band warming up. "Watching The Wailers in our undies," I'd captioned. We walked Kira and found a liquor store. We grabbed pints of tequila, for you, and whiskey, for me, and joined the crowd, stealing nips of each others bottles as we laughed about how ironic it was to listen to reggae in the snow. I told you about how badly I wanted us to visit Jamaica together. I'd lived there as a little girl, and you'd never been. Kira made friends with other dogs and we watched little kids being adorable in their oversized ski gear and mittens. Eventually bored of the scene, and pretty drunk, we went back to the room and dropped off our Kira-monster. We grabbed a bite of food at the hotel's restaurant. We retired early that night, exhausted and saucy. You ordered a dirty movie from On Demand and we made love again, and then again. We drifted off to sleep, wound up in each others limbs, fake orgasms still playing on the screen, empty liquor bottles on the nightstands: a classy scene, indeed.
As I awoke here this morning, the scene was so different. Your absence was so present in my heart and in my world. I slept in a twin bed last night, tossing and turning in the darkness. My mind wandered sleeplessly: I fit in a twin bed now. Alone. A bed built for one. A bed made for a person alone, a person with no partner, a person who does not get to make love. Kira jumped into the bed with me at some point, understanding that I needed another warm body, some comfort. It helped a bit and I slept lightly.
I woke early and wandered around our host's beautiful mountain home. I admired the finishes, the steam shower, the radiant heat floors, and the views. I tried not to think of our home in Boulder, just about to undergo it's own makeover, now halted.
As I trolled through the house this morning, barefoot, sleep still in my eyes – I felt like there had been a glitch in the Matrix. I half-expected Keanu Reeves, with his too-smooth skin and dead eyes to walk out of a closet, garbed in a trench coat, and say, "Sami, there's been a major mix up." Barely surprised by his arrival, I'd retort, "Yeah. No shit." Keanu would say, "Ted wasn't supposed to die. He can't die because we need him here on this earth for the duration. He's too important for the master plan. We need your help Sami." "Anything!" I would say. "We're not sure you're the right person for the job. You will need to keep a secret for the rest of your life and not tell a soul," Keanu would say. "I can do it!" I'd plead. "I just don't know, Sami. You have a higher than usual amount of honesty in your source code and keeping secrets is not your forte," Keanu would insist. "Please! I can do it. I will never tell anyone. Just bring him back," I'd say. And he would. He'd instruct me on how I need to make every decision exactly the same as I had the first time, up until those last few days – then he'd tell me how to change the sequence of events. He'd rewind the Matrix to that morning we woke up, hungover, 9 months ago, just down the road at the Sheraton. Everything would be in place again, and no one would remember what had originally happened, except for me. And I'd never tell a soul and we'd live happily ever after.
I never knew a man could operate a car with 'grace'. Testosterone, heavy machinery, highways, grace? It didn't seem plausible – but you broke the mold. You, always hugging turns, driving faster than it felt, passing slower traffic with quick ease, and still somehow finding time to give oncoming drivers boater's waves the whole way. You taught me to always stay in the righthand lane except when passing – a traffic concept I somehow missed all these years. You were able to balance the rugged mountain highways, change the track on your iPod, make a funny pun, and open a pressurized kombucha all at the same time, without raising a hair. You always preferred to drive. My nervous acceleration and lack of cruise controlling juggled with asking you to navigate, change the music, and peel me a banana just seemed like more work. You never said it to me directly, but we both settled into that habit. I was just fine with that. Having survived a near death accident when I was younger, I preferred to let you take the wheel.
Along that drive, we drove over Berthoud Pass. As you glided around the turns, we noticed some commotion a few cars back. You continued on the path, not sensing danger and on a time crunch to make it to your gig. Later, we found out that an avalanche had occurred, completely engulfing cars in snow. Everyone was OK, but the road was closed and major delays ensued. We looked each other in the eye and exchanged a few words of gratitude for our safety and timing. I made a joke about how lucky we were that you'd been driving, because if it were I, we would definitely have been inside a giant snowball.
A few miles beyond, as we descended the pass, we hit traffic and came to a stop on the road. We were caravanning with the rest of the band in a few cars and they were ahead of us. Stopped, and obviously not moving for a while, we leashed up Kira and walked her up the road to the guys in front of us. We all shared a bowl, a few laughs, and you probably topped it off with an epic fart. Then we hopped back into the car and continued on our way: quiet, happy, and slightly stoned. It was a peaceful drive.
We arrived in Steamboat later than expected and checked into our hotel on our way into town. The rest of the band was sharing a couple rooms at a motel on the edge of town, but you had gotten us a room at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton at the base of the mountain. I wished you luck and gave you a kiss as you left, hurrying off to sound check. I stayed in the hotel room for a couple hours working. I remember taking a photo: Kira on the bed, my computer open to a page layout, a room service salad, a glass of champagne, and the lit up ski-run with night skiers gliding down the slopes out the window. I posted it to Instagram with a show-offy caption saying something like "I could get used to this groupie lifestyle".
A while later, you arrived back in the room full of gusto and excitement for the gig filling me in on the details of the backline kit, the crowd, and everyone's moods. You ate the food I'd ordered you and we made love, quickly. You changed into a fresh tee, a solid maroon t-shirt that was 'dressier' in your opinion and appropriate for a gig. Your hair was not to your liking so you grabbed a baseball cap on our way out the door. We drove to the Ghost Ranch just a few miles up the road. I remember the exact parking spot you got, directly in front of the marquee reading "The Drunken Hearts". I made a joke about how it was V.I.P. and saved just for us. You locked the doors of the Volvo, grabbed my hand, and we walked under the marquee lights and through the door. I danced all night to your music and we both drank a bit too much. I don't remember going to bed.
We awoke late the next morning, still a little boozy from the previous night's high. After room service breakfast, some extra snuggles, and a quick dog-walk, we made our way to the base of the gondola. Everyone else was moving slower than us so we hung around waiting. It's those moments I miss most – the times when we were doing nothing at all but having so much fun together, just being so happy, wrapped in a blanket of love, not a care in the world.
That day, we skied for a bit, but less than we anticipated because our hangovers kicked in. You were particularly happy to ski down to my level that day because of your headache, but you always did without complaint anyway. Everyone else left to head back home to the front range, but we opted to stay an extra night.
The Wailers were playing a free show at the base of the mountain that afternoon. I took a photo of you on our balcony. You were in your boxers, the gondola behind you, and the band warming up. "Watching The Wailers in our undies," I'd captioned. We walked Kira and found a liquor store. We grabbed pints of tequila, for you, and whiskey, for me, and joined the crowd, stealing nips of each others bottles as we laughed about how ironic it was to listen to reggae in the snow. I told you about how badly I wanted us to visit Jamaica together. I'd lived there as a little girl, and you'd never been. Kira made friends with other dogs and we watched little kids being adorable in their oversized ski gear and mittens. Eventually bored of the scene, and pretty drunk, we went back to the room and dropped off our Kira-monster. We grabbed a bite of food at the hotel's restaurant. We retired early that night, exhausted and saucy. You ordered a dirty movie from On Demand and we made love again, and then again. We drifted off to sleep, wound up in each others limbs, fake orgasms still playing on the screen, empty liquor bottles on the nightstands: a classy scene, indeed.
As I awoke here this morning, the scene was so different. Your absence was so present in my heart and in my world. I slept in a twin bed last night, tossing and turning in the darkness. My mind wandered sleeplessly: I fit in a twin bed now. Alone. A bed built for one. A bed made for a person alone, a person with no partner, a person who does not get to make love. Kira jumped into the bed with me at some point, understanding that I needed another warm body, some comfort. It helped a bit and I slept lightly.
I woke early and wandered around our host's beautiful mountain home. I admired the finishes, the steam shower, the radiant heat floors, and the views. I tried not to think of our home in Boulder, just about to undergo it's own makeover, now halted.
As I trolled through the house this morning, barefoot, sleep still in my eyes – I felt like there had been a glitch in the Matrix. I half-expected Keanu Reeves, with his too-smooth skin and dead eyes to walk out of a closet, garbed in a trench coat, and say, "Sami, there's been a major mix up." Barely surprised by his arrival, I'd retort, "Yeah. No shit." Keanu would say, "Ted wasn't supposed to die. He can't die because we need him here on this earth for the duration. He's too important for the master plan. We need your help Sami." "Anything!" I would say. "We're not sure you're the right person for the job. You will need to keep a secret for the rest of your life and not tell a soul," Keanu would say. "I can do it!" I'd plead. "I just don't know, Sami. You have a higher than usual amount of honesty in your source code and keeping secrets is not your forte," Keanu would insist. "Please! I can do it. I will never tell anyone. Just bring him back," I'd say. And he would. He'd instruct me on how I need to make every decision exactly the same as I had the first time, up until those last few days – then he'd tell me how to change the sequence of events. He'd rewind the Matrix to that morning we woke up, hungover, 9 months ago, just down the road at the Sheraton. Everything would be in place again, and no one would remember what had originally happened, except for me. And I'd never tell a soul and we'd live happily ever after.
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