Disc[h]ordance

I’m wondering why I woke up, yet again, in the middle of the night. Too many thoughts running around in my waking hours that when I did fall asleep, these seemingly unrelenting train of thought kept chugging on its tracks even when I am unconscious, that I had to get up and make use of the temporary solitude night always brings.

Partly, maybe, because Tony and I were chatting on Facebook and it always involves music and art, something I have always loved with those short online conversations we have been doing. Maybe, it was because my love affair with my 7-year-old Bandilla 12-string guitar is really coming to an end.

And it was heartbreaking.

All the wood that made the grade to be of musical quality. The craftsmanship it took to build the body from different species of trees. The sound it makes. The long sustained notes filling the air and lingering there like the trail end of a good perfume. The harmony of 6 strings, augmented by 6 more strings to create an ensemble of  unified sound cleanly coming off from the fretboard of mahogany. The brass frets cleanly separating pitch and notes while the fingers press hard against the wood. It’s has always amazed me how something so organic, so Earthly could produce music that has been a part of humanity’s triumphs and frustrations,  the love and decadence, the loneliness and joy. Truly, something you can be proud of as a human – the invention of the guitar. Or any musical instrument, for that matter. But the acoustic guitar is my own selfish indulgence.

And my own 12-string inevitable demise is one of those things that’s hard to get over.

Heartbreaking.

You see,  when I choose my guitar, I go for the feel. The grip of my hand on the neck. The embrace that will keep its body close to mine. The tonality of the wood itself. The sustain. You got to have sustain when you strike the strings lovingly and the sound just lifts up and stays there. Like a memory of a loved one.

Choosing and the purchase of a musical instrument is one thing. Playing it is an entirely different appreciation. Because then you will have to change the strings when you bought it. But to change the strings, you have to be sure you have it tuned. I like tuning my own guitar. Not with an electronic tuner, but by ear, or if a piano is available, but that is rare, so I go for the pipe tuner. And you listen to the songs you want to play, and try to play along. if it felt good, then you have a guitar. Choose the strings you know fit your playing and singing style.

And you make music.

All the skill. The art. The wood. The steel. The influences. The practice. The preparation. You play in harmony with your guitar and it’s like you wrote that favorite song you are now singing.

And that is  going to be your feeling every time you pick up that wonderful instrument and sing the songs you want to sing. Play, however mediocre your guitar playing is, it doesn’t matter. All it matters is the song that resonates.

Hey! It’s me playing and singing!

And you and your guitar just made all those woodcutting, hours of painstaking hard work from luthier shop, and the patience of learning the chords makes it all worthwhile. And you keep playing and singing songs as long as the harmony you have with your instrument is alive, there in your heart.

But it is heartbreaking.

To see and feel that what  used to make good music is at an end. The bridge just wont keep forever. Once it is broken, it will never be the same again. Obviously I’ve tried various ways of keeping the guitar in its form, but the initial break taught me to accept the fact that we will never make music like we used to.

And I am heartbroken.

And I don’t have the heart to throw away a part of me. A part of Big Momma Earth tha grew from the soil and once held its own ecological balance of life forms in its branches and leaves.

Dale Custodio sent me a link for a documentary, Musicwood and while I enjoyed a very interesting look on trees and the guitar industry, It made me feel a lot worse seeing my guitar not being able to make good music anymore.

The worst part is, I have been thinking about the cacophony that has appeared at my workplace , somewhat blindsided me, or maybe it was not me alone who feel this kind of noise, but it is me who heard it like a badly tuned tuba.

I loved that team.

Heck. we made good music with Photoshop and After Effects and Metra and Final Cut Pro.

Man, we were rocking! A group of individuals, from different ways of life, of different skill sets and training, creating beautiful graphics for the news. I still think we are the rock stars of that tv network. The things these kids can make with a computer, it has always amazed me that I could be part of that symphony. It like magic, really.

But even wizards lose their touch.

And an acoustic guitar loses its spirit at the first break. It will not sound the same.

I can do so much to do repairs and think of my own solutions, but in the end, it will not sound the way it used to. A more expensive set of strings is never the answer for a guitar with a broken bridge. because the cracks are on the inside. I had it repaired by a very qualified and skillful guitar tech, but all the same . . . .

It will not sound the way it used to.

So I have to let it go. maybe I’ll look around for a new guitar, but not just now. it’s not like your dog died, so you replace it with another that looks like the last one.

No way.

I’ll keep her remains. Probably take down the strings this weekend. But tomorrow, I go out and see if there’s another place I could play good music. Maybe a  group of people I could be harmonious with again.

But until then, I am heartbroken.

He Knows About Angela Postscripts

Wake [verb]

v.tr.

1. To rouse from sleep; awaken.

2. To stir, as from a dormant or inactive condition; rouse: wake old animosities.

3. To make aware of; alert: The shocking revelations finally woke me to the facts of the matter.

4.

a. To keep a vigil over.

b. To hold a wake over.

It’s when something jolts you out of your stupor, achingly disrupts your otherwise redundant daily activities and you keep yourself from screaming your lungs out from the disorientation and shock from the knowledge and realization that, at least, the reality of temporary existence is absolutely inevitable.

No, it’s not that you have been in a hedonistic state of living, but caught up with the race, work, family, current events, well connected but disconnected, these are times when you step back and look at what we have become, or where we have come to. Or just plain slack jawed at what transpired.

Wake n.

1. A watch; a vigil.

2. A watch over the body of a deceased person before burial, sometimes accompanied by festivity. Also called regionally viewing.

                                                                                        3. wakes (used with a sing. or pl. verb) Chiefly British

a. A parish festival held annually, often in honor of a patron saint.

b. An annual vacation.

One digs deeper with this feeling of loss, of finality, of severance.  A definition suggests a watch, a vigil, and I concur, this life is all about standing watch over those you hold dear. And the acceptance of holding the candle being passed unto you.  Even from someone you hardly know. As I look back, the passing of my own mother, whom I never got the chance to talk to while still alive and

feisty, caring and loving. The death of my mother in law, literally in my arms. An aunt. A childhood friend who got hacked to pieces in the mountains. A kindred spirit and probably the closest I could get for a sister,  bound, gagged, stabbed more than I could understand, lying lifeless and bloody in our apartment.  And just recently, an artist whom I would like to emulate. I’d rather celebrate their lives than skulk in a dark corner.

Wake n.

1. The visible track of turbulence left by something moving through water: the wake of a ship.

2. A track, course, or condition left behind something that has passed: The war left destruction and famine in its wake.

Idiom:

in the wake of

1. Following directly on.

2. In the aftermath of; as a consequence of.

So what now? Those of us who are left behind? Will we shed tear and mourn and grief ? Is it too hard to understand that their course has ended but ours is just turning a new corner? It’s not about death really, but a leap of faith, to go on without them. To burn the bridge in the dark and let the flames light the way on the path ahead. Will we crumble with what’s left or  build something from the remnants, of the ruin, from the ashes.

Ina. Mama. Popert. Raldies. Mamu.

Tirong.

He knows about Angela.

ANGELA DON’T GO AND LEAVE ME TONIGHT (LEAVE ME TONIGHT), 
ANGELA PLEASE BE WITH ME (ANGELA), 
ANGELA DON’T EVER WALK THROUGH MY LIFE (WALK THROUGH MY LIFE), 
ANGELA PLEASE BE WITH ME, CAUSE I LOVE YOU. 

He  even commented, in one of those short banters we had the time to indulge in, that the chorus sounded too juvenile. I guess he was right. Too much weight on the loss. Too much ” what will I do without you” sort of sentiment.

They will never pass this way again. But it would be nice if they could see that we are holding up good and doing the best we can. The longing line from the song may even sound romantic and remorseful, but it just won’t  do to stay in that train of thought.

I’m saying goodbye without looking. Probably for the best. The rains keep coming. Probably the sign of his passing, and all those that went before him.

Move along.

He Knows About Angela

Not many people know about her.

As a matter of fact, very few people seldom remember. It was one night of good brew and great camaraderie among people who are rarely together but when they do, it seems like they know each other pretty well. It was something I treasure every time I went. There are quite a few times, and I mean really few times I went to the gathering of people who have cameras for eyes and art for hearts. Heck, I don’t even see myself as a photographer, but these guys accepted a stray, so that makes these gatherings worthy of their own stories.

And he knows about Angela.

With Jojo, it was pure wit and humor, with Darrell, it was profundity, Mike, Buboy et al, a learning session about stuff I don;t know about lenses, and most of them I still don’t know shit. Tony, the wide variety storylines one can delve into with just one topic.

But he knows Angela.

Okay, time to stop being all cryptic. Angela is a song from Vitamin Z that we hit off on at one time. An obscure 80s album with a couple of radio hits and some great music  in the roster. I made a quip about it, firing a slew of  high points for a song that practically no one heard of, unless you bought the tape, or vinyl, and listened to the album in its entire glory. I remember singing a few lines that made him remember the song  . . . .

AND I REALLY LOVE HER,
SHE’S MORE THAN THE WORLD TO ME,
AND I REALLY WANT HER,
WOULD SHE GIVE ALL HER LOVE TO ME.

ANGELA DON’T GO AND LEAVE ME TONIGHT (LEAVE ME TONIGHT),
ANGELA PLEASE BE WITH ME (ANGELA),
ANGELA DON’T EVER WALK THROUGH MY LIFE (WALK THROUGH MY LIFE),
ANGELA PLEASE BE WITH ME, CAUSE I LOVE YOU.

He pointed out something about the intro, being all too techno but with a touch of good old pop rock. I said it was one of the best songs in the album, even though Burning flame was the more popular one.

And we both agreed Hi Hi Friend is the best song in that particular album.

From then on, it was music all the way, the nuances, the stuff I regret never following up with my guitar playing, and the envy we had for Tony’s Fender.

From left – Jojo, Tirong and me. (Photo by Darrell Sicam)

As I sit here, still sleepy from the lack of it. A two-hour bus trip back this morning from Sucat, Paranaque, was worth the several hours staying with Tirong’s bro, singing some songs, and joking about stuff Tirong might have something to say  to. Turns out I hardly know the man, there were stories I need to hear, adventures I had to take in, and  Momma Orbase just felt like she was glad Tyrone had more friends than she ever knew. She took some much-needed rest at about 2am this morning, and I wish I could have picked her mind about Tirong. But the fretwork of long-haired bro Orbase made it worthwhile to shoot some musical topics and what little bit of history I could glean from him, even while gin was being passed around and I tipped the jigger like cacti thirsty for water.

I hardly know the man.

But he knows Angela.

The interment is tomorrow. I can hardly bring myself to go there and bear witness. I have issues with death and goodbyes. I just like to think he just went off somewhere.

And he knows about Angela.

That makes him one of the few friends worth keeping.