The Pickers

Every Thursday night outside my little home in Prairie View, a little contingent of faded Ford pickup trucks cruise slowly along, quietly searching.  Every so often, a solitary man will hop out, pull on the heavyweight work gloves which ride shotgun, and grab a random item from a random front yard.  Few people know them, no one is angry when they pick up things from their curbside, no one notices when they quietly roll on to the next community.  They are the Pickers, and Prairie View is one of the last neighborhoods that they cruise before making their weekly pilgrimage to the Lake County Scrap Metals yard just down the way.

In nature, when a tree falls as a result of age or wind-driven forces, it will slowly revert back to the earth from which it came.  Generations of Powderpost Beetles and colonies of Carpenter Ants gnaw quietly, day and night, slipping silently beneath the deadfall’s bark and boring into its heartwood.  Over years, even the most stately hardwoods become spongy and soft, as the combined efforts of endless chewing and moisture penetration turn them back into rich, black humus.

In nature, we have the beetles and ants, but in the suburbs, the Pickers do the lion’s share of large object recycling.  On Thursday nights, all good suburbanites roll their trash to the curb, and with it, the occasional large metal object.  The Pickers roll through, with an interior radar which seems almost magnetically drawn to discarded metals.  I’m continually amazed at how quickly they arrive, and have noticed a weird correlation between the size of metal scrap, and the speed at which they materialize.  Upon moving in several years ago, I rolled the first of a pair of old gas grills left behind by the diminutive previous owner to the end of my short drive, only to see an ageless, unremarkable man loading it before I’d returned with the second one.  I helped him load it, though he didn’t need it, and we exchanged broken pleasantries, each trying to speak the other’s native language.  

His name was Sanctius, which once upon a time translated to mean “saintly,” or “holy.”  We’ve always exchanged waves since, and more than once I’ve traded him a few dollars or cold six-pack for an old Cannondale that never should have gone curbside in the first place.  He’s been amused that a square white guy like me can make a mean tamale, and I’ve been amused to find he knows the words to every Johnny Cash song playing quietly inside the cab of his old Ford.

Last week, during a sleepless spell between chemo treatments, I realized with clarity that I may not last long enough to restore the 1985 Toyota 4Runner I found a few years ago on a Nashville Craigslist posting and bought on a whim.  It’s mechanically sound, but like all old red Toyotas from that era, the body is shot and faded to a sickly pink.  No reason it should differ from its owner.  Better to be rid of it, as it is a mocking reminder of what a healthy body should look like, but doesn’t.

I began with a rusted pink quarter panel I’d removed weeks ago and never got around to, and was in no way surprised to see Sanctius’ brown F-150 quietly roll to a stop moments later.  As I slowly carried the second piece to the end of the drive, his dark eyes held mine for a moment, then looked past me to the detached garage I’ve used for years as a shop and man-cave.  When he looked back to my eyes, there was no hint of joy at knowing he’d found a small fortune in scrap metal and odd parts, just the human concern that one person expresses to another in unspoken empathy.  He backed his old Ford up, loaded what he could, then arranged to return an hour later with his younger brother Christopho to load the rest.

Upon his return, Sanctius surprised me for yet another time.  He knows the look of a man being eaten by cancer, he told me, and he and his brother took a few minutes to pray with me, for strength, for courage, for peace.  It was the peace part that resonated most, for it was the kindness of a stranger that most showed me the true meanings of two brothers named “holy” and “Christ-like.”

I know (of) you

It would be easy to casually remark that Stephen King’s 2006 Lisey’s Story is the long version of the old adage, “behind every great man is an even greater woman.”  But the surface telling of a widow obsessively remembering life with her late husband is also a vessel used to explore the lives we live in public, versus those we choose to share only with our dearest confidants.  Anyone voluntarily subscribing to a celebrity Twitter-feed should understand the difference between Knowing someone, and knowing of someone.  Lisey’s unfolding memories underscore this gap, which King refers to as the difference between love and curiosity.

“When you look at me, you see me holistically,” remarks writer Scott Landon to his wife in a memory.  She cares for his person, and his personal well-being.  As a couple surrounded by followers and fanatics, she cares for the person Scott Landon, not the beloved bestselling writer.  As King brings her to life through his first person account, it’s difficult to know when he is simply providing her character’s voice, and when he’s using her to voice his viewpoint on fame and all that accompanies it.  Both voices proclaim that truly Knowing a person comes from intimacy, and the other, a sense of  knowing-of, is depth-less and trivial.

When we know-of someone in the public eye, what really can we say of them?  We know-of those things a publicist crafts while engineering their persona.  We know-of those things which spill out from tabloids, based on secondhand observations of decisions made in private.  We know-of their image, crafted to make us believe they are our dear and trusted allies.  The relationship is one-sided at its best, and unhealthy at its worst.

Truly Knowing a person is being let in behind their daily defenses.  Knowing is having the key to the little door they live behind, to the room where they think, and feel, hurt and heal...and lock when they head outside to face each day in public.  “I was lost, and you found me, I was burning, and you gave me ice,” Scott recalls to Lisey gently in recalled exchange, sitting together in a hospital room after he has been deeply wounded by an obsessed and unbalanced fan.  This is a couple with full access to each other’s hidden places--not only married, but caring and devoted friends.

As with every man and woman who has left their mother and father behind as boys and girls, they bear with one another’s sometimes literally crazy family histories.  The very burdens which can dig in and hurt us as individuals are lighter when shared between two people.  King uses his couple to illustrate the “leaving and cleaving” aspect of married life--leaving behind parents, families, and all other past histories, and cleaving to one another as supportive friends through all endeavors.  

The tightness of Scott and Lisey’s relationship is one I can see in only a handful of marriages around me; two, maybe three.  I’m pretty sure that it’s the product of a unique mindset, and of a unique pairing of people set aside for one another by design.  I don’t believe there is only one person “right” for another, but I have witnessed that there are “perfect” matches, and not just the ones found on the bestseller’s list.  

Her Morning Walk

On Monday, an exceptionally bright young woman walked to her door, pulled on a light jacket, and headed outside for a walk.  She soon met another person, who greeted her warmly, though she was a stranger.  

“Come, have a seat, and learn about ME,” said the stranger, thrusting out a colorful invitation toward the bright young woman.  
“I don’t know who you are, though,” replied the young woman.
“But I’m so INTERESTING!” said the stranger, again holding out the colorful invitation as the young woman continued on her way.

She walked briskly along for several more minutes when a second anonymous stranger greeted her in a similarly familiar way.
“Hello, old friend,”  the second stranger called to her warmly.  “Stop a moment, and let me tell you how USEFUL I am!”
The young woman paused.  “Thanks, but I’m not really in need of anything today,” she replied, continuing on her walk.  
“If you change your mind and need anything, I’ll be there for you--like a trusted friend!”  the second stranger called out from the increasing distance.

The bright young woman had nearly forgotten the morning’s two odd greetings when a third stranger approached her suddenly on the sidewalk.  
“My best friend ever!  It’s so good to see you on the sidewalk this lovely day.  Let’s get caught up.  Tell me all about yourself!”
“Have we met?” asked the bright young woman courteously.  
“Not officially, but I’ve seen you on the sidewalk dozens of times,” replied the completely anonymous random stranger.  “You walk by here all the time on the way to somewhere interesting and useful.  I’d love to know all about it, so that I can tell you all about the completely relevant and beneficial attributes that a completely trustful random stranger with my unique mission statement and helpful service-minded attitude can offer.  You probably didn’t know HOW helpful I can be to you.  Let’s be friends so I can tell you all about ME, and then you can check in on me and see what I’m doing all the time.”

“Maybe some other time...like when I really need something,” the bright young woman replied, and stepped off the sidewalk to hail a cab for the return trip home.  
As she opened the door to the cab, she noticed the third stranger already talking to another person on the sidewalk.  Neither looked up as she closed the door and settled back in the seat.  

“Where to, lady?” asked the driver, with a hint of accented speech.

As they drove along together, they traded the small talk that cab drivers, doormen, and hairdressers make to put others at ease.  They drove past the second and first strangers, both talking to their new unknown best friends, and telling them how useful and interesting they were.

The bright young woman thanked and paid the cab driver, then walked up to her front door in the late morning sunshine.  Within minutes of stepping inside, she had forgotten taking a walk at all, and carried on with her day, unaware of the strangers still greeting their new best friends on the sidewalk outside.

Reduce, Re-use, Re-Sample

In honor of Earth Day, Second Guest pays tribute to the trip-hop genre, featuring three songs from the artists Wax Tailor, Ruckus Roboticus, and Jel.  In a world filled with myriad "old sounds," these three artists share their gift by reducing monotony and boredom over the airwaves, reusing discarded movies and sounds long forgotten, and resampling the efforts of artists who’ve paved the way before them. 

Wax Tailor’s I Don’t Know is a particularly fitting anthem for Second Guest, the blog devoted to the hidden meaning in life.  Happy Earth Day, and happy listening...

-sw

Morton's Last Stand

On his second-to-last “good” day, my Grandpa Morton pleaded with my Uncle Bob not to commit him to a nursing home.  He promised not to cause any trouble, not to get in the way, and not to be a burden.  He’d spent enough time institutionalized, and didn’t want to spend his final days without freedom.  Dementia, glaucoma, and vigorous mood swings ensured life around Grandpa Mort was unpredictable but seldom uneventful.  

Two years ago, Grandpa Mort was asked to leave his home church after hijacking a Sunday service.  He’d sat quietly listening to a lengthy crusade against the evils of the world, then abruptly stood up and walked slowly to the podium.  He’d invited a neighborhood family to join him that day, and to his surprise, they’d showed up.  He had no desire for them to think that all Christians believed the same judgemental brand of faith being preached that morning, and made a snap decision to sacrifice his reputation within the church to preserve its reputation to those outside it.  

In fairness to the pastor that day, few people could match oratory skills against Morton Joseph.  The son of an incredibly critical school administrator, Mort learned quickly that if he could defend himself verbally against his Dad, he could avoid defending himself physically.  By the age of 16, he’d completed his schooling and left home, then worked multiple jobs and served subpoenas while attending the Massachusetts College of Arts and Design.  Eventually he had a breakdown, and spent some time at recovering at Danvers before being released into the watchful custody of moodiness.  He was brilliant, unstable, and kind, but had little tolerance for the overly critical mindset he’d survived as a kid.  As he walked to the podium that day, he was quiet and composed.

In the 15 minutes that followed, Mort deconstructed the fuming pastor’s message, but did so calmly, quietly, and with an easy logic.  “If every time I saw you, I pointed to your faults, would you ever want to sit and share a meal with me?” he began.  “Instead of loftily mocking the world in which we live, could you contribute something meaningful to it?”  His points were simple, delivered in a clear voice which neither wavered nor warbled despite his 80-plus years.  “What does it say of our faith when Christ’s followers only focus on judgement and negativity--instead of God’s goodness and  forgiveness?”  

Several of the church elders tried to cut his time short, but Mort stood his ground.  He’d realized that his church would rather listen to entertaining stories delivered from the pulpit, and that the judgemental flavor of each message somehow left the audience feeling vindicated as they sought shelter from the outside world.  He’d heard the murmured whispers of “Yes, Lord, I’M one of the ones who sees the TRUTH,” and “Yes, Lord, don’t let ME live like those heathens next door,” and  “Yes, Lord, keep me SAFE inside this church, away from the evils outside.” He knew that with each day, his clarity of thought became more fleeting, so better to speak up while he could get the words out.

When he was finished, he stepped away from the lectern and left the church.  It was pretty well known by that time that Mort “had his off days,” so most of the congregants chalked it up to senility.  But those who really knew him knew that when his mind slipped, his left hand curled up as if around a ghostly paintbrush, and both his hands were clearly working  as he punctuated his speech that morning.  That a “crazy person” could speak so eloquently and so calmly was never asked nor answered.  Speaking out of turn was taken as a sign of his weakened mental state, for surely no sane person could find fault with the pastor’s inspiring words....

On his last “good” day, Mort called a cab and disappeared.  He left an articulate note, but it was written in oil paint and covered the entire dining room table.  It was painted in the same brilliant style Mort always worked in--predominant dull tones contrasted by sparingly applied vigorous accent colors.  He offered no clue as to his destination, only to list several friends and family members by name and tell them how they’d brightened the darker stretches of his life and days.  The cab company later reported that he’d been dropped off near Montrose Harbor, and that the driver had to help him open the door because his hand was curled up and couldn’t work the latch.  

Love is a Strong Word

My Aunt Hester is a five foot tall Filipino immigrant who first learned to speak English from a collection of Steely Dan albums her brother played continually in their small apartment.  Her English is flawless today, unless she pretends not to be able to speak or understand it in order to eavesdrop on strangers.  She loves to drop a few broken and heavily accented words, then listen to every detail of a conversation not meant for her.  She kept a pet dish towel named Rikki for years until my late father accidentally threw it away, but that is another story.

A few weeks ago she told me, “Learning English is very very difficult.  It’s not the syntax and grammar--a child can learn that--but it’s the slang that makes it...sneaky.”  I’m pretty sure she meant “tricky,” but I knew what she meant.  Part of understanding is listening in context.  

Hester’s husband is my Uncle Bob, an owlish man who met Hester while serving as a missionary to her village.   One warm afternoon on a construction site, Hester noticed Bob’s sleeves rolled up to reveal the portrait of Donald Fagan and Walter Becker inked onto his meaty right arm, and Steely Dan added “matchmaker “ to their repertoire that day.

Their language barrier chaperoned the engagement, and as Bob’s ability to speak Tagalog and Hester’s ability to speak English flourished, so did their feelings for one another.  Long before it was ever spoken, their friends and families knew they cared deeply for one another.  Hester invited Bob to family meals, and would prepare him special dishes for each occasion.  Bob would bring gifts for her and her family, and spent weeks building a carport for her father, though their family had no car.  They spent time together and shared with each other, each learning what the other liked, loved, and enjoyed.

It was somewhat of a surprise to Hester when Bob first said it in her language, because he got it completely wrong.  Instead of “Mahal na mahal kita,” he used the slang phrase “Lab kita.”  Imagine sitting face to face with your significant other while sharing an intimate moment, only to have your mate say “love ya!”, and this was Bob’s first attempt at verbalizing his feelings for her.  To this day, “Lab kita” is still the way they sign notes to tell each other they care, and both smile at the memory from over 30 years of shared history.  

My neighbor Nick the Greek told me over a glass of ice-cold raki that Americans use the word “LOVE” way too much and for way too many things.  “You people say you love hot wings, you love watching reruns of ‘Lost,’ and you love your iPhones.  What’s worse it that you say you love your Mother, children, and your wife--and you use the same friggin’ word.  In my book, that’s nasty.”  When I looked at him with a puzzled expression, he continued.

“There’s four types of the word LOVE that Americans stole from my language,” he continued, “and if you don’t believe me, Scotty, look it up in a Greek Bible.  That’ll set you straight.”  So I did, and it turns out Nick’s right--we Americans do use it pretty freely.  Any time we see the word LOVE in an English New Testament, the writers were using one of four forms of the word--and each has a completely separate meaning.

The first stems from the Greek root ‘philos,’ as in ‘philosophy’ and ‘Philadelphia.’  It’s a fondness for something, or liking it a lot, or a brotherly love.  The second is ‘eros,’ and it’s an affection tinged with desire.  Eros gets down and funky with that special friend--a Barry White kind of love, and the kind that gets chairs thrown at people on Jerry Springer.  ‘Storge’ is the third, commonly known as familial love--the love of a parent to child.  The last and largest is ‘agape.’  This is the purest love--sacrificial, selfless, without an agenda or wish list.  It is most often the word translated to describe the love which God demonstrates to humanity across time.    

So I can safely say that I philos a nice glass of bourbon while strolling in my garden.  People date each other and experience sexual tension based on an eros love, then settle down, become good parents, and raise their children based on the storge kind.  Only when we’re selfless and free of an agenda can we claim an agape love, but this is the strong word which shapes communities and alters the courses of our lives.  

My Uncle Bob is pretty near deaf these days.  In 2006, he bought a pair of noise-cancelling Bose headphones--the kind that look like you’re a 1970’s dee-jay spinning the hits--and spent the better part of two summers listening to bootlegged live Steely Dan albums at a disturbingly loud volume.  The resulting damage has left him unable to hear anything but the highest volumes, but unfortunately Hester has never been much of a shouter.  He wrote me an email last week as we traded health updates, and confided that while he misses hearing his wife of 35 years say the words “lab kita,” he sees her actions speaking in a tone he still clearly understands.  

“Love IS a strong word, Scotty,” he wrote.  “It’s just that it’s not necessary to say it in order to show it’s there.”

You can watch Steely Dan performing live in Manassas at the following link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KDVz3jzyjQ

On Mystery and Understanding

Early this morning,  a clear, quiet voice suddenly revealed the meaning behind Grown Backwards, David Byrne’s beautiful album romanticizing modern life within an urban setting.  Like the image of a screen suddenly switched off in a darkened room, key lyrics remained in my mind’s eye, and understanding poured in--after weeks of passively listening to Grown Backwards, understanding had arrived--but where was its destination of origin?  My insight  had a temporary quality--had the notes not been recorded hastily in a journal, I would have lost my memory of the moment entirely.

Byrne’s album is the work of a master artist, a legend who still innovates.  Not content to rest upon re-hashed versions of his work as the frontman of the Talking Heads, his latest works are the product of forward-looking Byrne.  In a world of re-releases and re-issued digitally-remastereds, Grown Backwards is new, fresh, modern...and completely recognizable as a mature David Byrne fully expressing his unique gifts in songwriting and arranging.  

My understanding arrived only after posing a baseline question:  What is this album about?  Snippets of lyrics floated through my home and little car, and a gradual picture emerged:  the album is meant to be an ensemble, thematic issues are threaded into its fabric, and each track is a snapshot in the life of an urban inhabitant.  

Clarity arrived in understanding that “Glass and Concrete and Stone” describes an urban ecosystem.  “Dialogue Box” hints at our relationship with modern communication, while “She Only Sleeps With Me” evokes a man’s relationship with a woman (who happens to make a living in adult entertainment.)  A pair of songs written in Italian speak to appreciation of cultures beyond my own, those which are strikingly beautiful even though I cannot fathom them.  Understanding, like painting with watercolors, is a gradual process.  It can develop quickly at times, but is only complete with time.

In the preface of David Sylvester’s collection of Rene Magritte’s artwork, it is noted that the end result of the surrealist painter’s enigmatic work is mystery.  We’re cautioned not to find meaning in the images not implied by the artist.  As my understanding of the painter’s catalogue and expression grows, so will my opinions--but my opinions are not knowing, only speculation.  I can no more know what Magritte’s images imply than I can know what Byrne’s lyrics reflect--even a most educated step toward understanding is still unfounded conjecture.

There is tremendous mystery in understanding, and the potential for tremendous understanding in mystery.  As I watch perennial plants emerge from dormancy in my garden, I recognize and anticipate their return.  15 years ago, I couldn’t identify one of them in the peak of their growing season, but with years of study, I recognize them by the first half-inch of emerging foliage--the mystery has yielded to understanding over time and with great effort.  

Last week, I listening to a sermon which covered a portion of the New Testament book of 1st Corinthians.  “If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing,”  reads one of the verses.  The understanding of the passage comes in its perspective on knowledge and faith--attaining greatness in either area is nothing without demonstrating love.  The mystery of the passage remains in a lifelong effort to demonstrate that love in a meaningful and lasting way.