Doug Bruns

Posts Tagged ‘Michael Dingle’

Late Night Thoughts on Listening to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros*

In Creativity, Death, Happiness, Life, Music, The Examined Life on February 1, 2014 at 11:00 am

It is late in the evening and I am especially missing my youth. This is probably why I don’t stay up late. Why subject yourself to such a thing? It isn’t so much missing the days of youth as it is creeping closer to the remove of those day altogether, the permanent remove of everything, frankly. What else would explain why, after so many months absent, I write these notes. It is late at night when we need one another most.

I haven’t been here, …the house, for some time and looking at the statistics I see that a couple days ago I had a spike in site visitors. Yes, even with endless months of no participation there is still a struggling readership. A few days past was the one-year mark of my friend Michael Dingle’s death and maybe that explains the spike. I wrote about Michael a few times. Perhaps friends visited to refresh his memory. A year later I still miss him and miss more the magic potential of not growing old that he somehow represented. We would run our ropes and I would belay him, or him me, and we would climb strong as if there were nothing else. Such is the course of climbing–and the course of friendship. Those moments were singular, or at least seem so, presented by that old trickster, memory. But eventually his luck ran out. And, now on a lonely evening, I think on that and wonder at it all.

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” wrote Fitzgerald. Despite training and wishful thinking I lose grip on the present and drift away, receding from the present. Agreeing with Sandburg, there are too many of me and they all are incomprehensible tonight, all of them in the past tense seemingly, waving goodbye.

But that is the stuff of navel gazing and that never really gets a person anyplace but thinking of their belly and that is never good. Fat or skinny, belly pondering is a dead-end, I suspect. Instead, tonight I listen to music for joy, Edward Sharpe and the merry band of music makers. I am grinning to this music like an idiot and perhaps that is the key. Good music and a smile on one’s face. It is enough to be satisfied with that. But it is late and I get silly in the late hours. “Come dance with me,” sing the band, “over heartache and rage.” Okay then. Tonight I will dance on, over heartache and rage, to the sunny fields of morning. Thank you for listening. Good night.

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*  Yes, I lifted the title. Sort of. For a real writer-thinker, you’d be well served to read Lewis Thomas’s Late Night Thoughts On Listening to Mahler’s Ninth Symphony. 141634

Since we’re on the subject: there comes along occasionally a personality that fills my heart with joy and aspiration, such are the emotions when I watch Alexander Michael Tahquitz “Alex” Ebert, lead-man for Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. I can understand why he is held in almost cult-like status by his fans. Here, listen to the band’s best known tune. Turn up the volume and decide for yourself.

(I’m sorry if you’ve received multiple copies of this post. My tools are rusty and I sent things out before they were ready.)

“Take this,” he said. I refused.

In Travel, Writing on February 21, 2013 at 6:00 am
Mystery Doll of Cusco

Mystery Doll of Cusco

The roof over my office where I write is being replaced. I’ve noted this word “office” before. Office suggests a place where serious business is conducted. There is little I conduct, serious or otherwise, in this space, and such a laden and infused word feels at odds with the spirit of the place.

The building is old, like much of the Old Port, and even five flights up my space has a fireplace and a bold heavy mantle. The fireplace is no longer functional and I doubt it ever was. Who would carry wood up all those stairs? Atop the mantle I keep trinkets from travels. I have a Buddha from Thailand, another one from Tibet, still another one from India, and a beautiful silver Bodhisattva from Bhutan. A room cannot have too many Buddhas. I also have a cast-bronze dragon, long and lean, that I picked up in a market in China. It’s mouth is open and the tongue appears as fire. I just now realize that a fist-size piece of amber I bought in a village in Ecuador is missing. It had a wasp suspended in it, Jurassic Park kind of stuff. I must have lost it in a move. Most unusual is a lead doll. It stands about two inches tall and rests surprisingly heavy in the hand. I was having a restless night in Cusco, Peru, and decided to walk into town. It was dark and the square at the Cathedral of Santo Domingo was empty and I was sitting alone and enjoying the coolness when a man approached me. He was holding a small pouch which he handed to me. “Take this,” he said. I refused. “Please,” he asked. I told him I was just getting some air, that I didn’t have any money. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I came to give you this.” His English was good and he was nicely dressed. He opened the pouch and removed the doll. She is silver and naked and quite beautiful. The man disappeared into the mist. The doll rests in a place of honor on the mantel. Someday I hope to understand what happened that night.

On an opposing wall I have a little shrine, for lack of a better word, to my once-companion, Maggie. I have a couple of pictures of her and her collar. She was often a subject of these pages. Next to her, I’ve pinned a photo of my friend Michael, also now gone. There are other things in the space that I cherish, many of which I’ve attached to the walls with thumbtacks. There are my stamped entry papers to the Annapurna National Sanctuary in Nepal, as well as a thick strand of yak hair my guide, Ram, gave me. He knew I was concerned about a mountain flight scheduled for the next day. The previous day’s plane had slammed into a cliff, killing all but three. The yak hair was to protect me. It did. I have several photographs hung as well, most of them remaining inventory from the gallery I once owned.

I said they are working on the roof over the space, and today upon entering Lucy and I determined that it was not a good day to hang out there. She could not nap on the futon as normal, not with the pounding directly overhead, and I couldn’t hear myself think, not that thinking is always exercised, but it helps. We repaired to home where I write this, noticing, the effect, or lack thereof, an office will have on one. (I note the previous sentence and blame the folks at Downton Abbey.)

Michael

In Life on January 30, 2013 at 6:05 am
Michael Dingle in 2009, on his wedding day.

Michael Dingle in2009, on his wedding day.

I haven’t made all too many friends in my years, and very few of them I truly loved. I learned yesterday that Michael died in an accident. He was a friend and I loved him. He was a member of our tribe here at “…the house…” and showed up in at least three posts, most recently just a week ago, My Breakfast with Michael. I honor him with a post I wrote a few years ago.

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June 25, 2009

Michael, a close friend, considerably younger than me, pitched a shop-worn cliché recently, declaring, “There must be more to life.” He had arrived at that life transition, where with one foot planted in the autumnal flowering of youth, you find the other foot up and striding to that other place, the parking lot of mature respectability. The older we get, the more assuredly we conclude, ‘Yep, this is it, it’s all she wrote.’ I think Michael was expecting wisdom from me. But I came up short. I kicked the dirt and glanced around, nervously. The young feel the urge of expectancy, the call that a unique life of challenge and discovery awaits them. I remember it well. Later, when that call grows hoarse, then turns to a whisper, you wonder what happened. I didn’t know how to break it to him. He was entering a place in life where the wild genes struggle for attention, as the stable genes manufacture cravings for a sofa and a beer and a Sunday football game on T.V. The stable genes always out-maneuver the wild genes. That is maturity at work. Eventually he will understand.

Everyone does.

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Indeed, Michael did come to understand. Shortly after the exchange above, he got married, then, later, became a father. He embraced the “stable gene,” telling me at breakfast last week, “I love my wife, I love my daughter. I love my life.”