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Author Archives: Johnny Nowhere

The Chronic Fatigue Cycle of Life

I’ve felt horrible the last four days.

I’m lucky to have a peanut butter sandwich on days like those. Cooking a full meal is akin to climbing Mount Everest. If it weren’t for boiled eggs, oatmeal, and milk, I’d probably dry up completely.

This morning however, I woke up at 5:00 without a headache. This, in and of itself, already puts me in a more positive frame of mind. After cleaning litter boxes and filling food bowls, I sit to rest, and vape while I quaff two cups of coffee. These are the only two ‘treatments’ that I rely on to get me into ‘work’ mode. Sometimes they make a big difference. I don’t trust doctors or the FDA anymore. How can they prescribe something to treat my condition, when they claim that they don’t even know what the hell has caused it?

I look at the studio equipment that I disassembled over a year ago. I really want to put that thing back into the operational mode, but today there are more pressing matters to attend to. The house has gone to hell over the last four days and I simply have to clean up.

I start the dishwasher, and drag a load of clothes into the laundry room. As that process plays out, I run my big, yet lightweight microfibre floor duster, then draw a big pan of hot water, and add plenty of bleach.

I have a big kitchen, a big den, the laundry room, and a bathroom to mop.

I’ve been in the ‘process’ of tiling the floors for the past two years. A few years back, my son helped me take up all of the carpet, because vacuuming that nonsense was becoming close to impossible for me.

I have three portions of the kitchen in a sort of ‘grid’. I mop one grid, then rest, vape, and drink more coffee while it dries. Then move on to the next portion. I have the entire floor done within an hour. Sufficiently warmed up, I start on the den, which is also where I ‘live’. My bed and everything is in there.

The rhythmic back-and-forth motion of mopping is beginning to make my back ache and tire, but I do my best to ignore the pain.

Half-way through the den, the washer signals that the laundry is ready to go into the dryer, but it really is nice outside today, so I haul the bed linens out to hang up and dry. Sun dried bed sheets are one of the finer things in life.

Another hour later, the den and bathroom floors are finished. I rest up and look at the studio equipment again. I’ve got at least twelve sketches of new tunes recorded into my phone, and I feel pressed to get them properly recorded.

I haven’t produced a new CD in almost three years, and am beginning to think that the format is a waste of time and energy. Owing to the fact that I am a visual artist as well as a songwriter, it only follows that I feel it necessary to do all of the cover art and liner notes myself. I’d like to just quit production of CDs, however the artist in me eschews mp3 files, and feels that in order to truly release songs, they must at least be recorded to CD to count as a ‘work’. I come from an era that the purchase and ownership of a physical product was part and parcel of a ‘music collection’.

I reflect on my immortality, and hope to the heavens that I do not die, leaving a bunch of orphaned tunes on my phone.

After putting another load into the clothes washer, I sit down at my desktop to work on a generation of my on-line genealogical tree that has been giving me a problem, but this is not what I really want to do. I see enough of this on days that I can do little else. Besides, the light from the screen hurts my eyes.

I need to get back to work. After folding the dried clothes, I empty the dishwasher, and then sit down to rest and vape. Darn it. Where did the time go? It’s a quarter to eleven, I’ve drained an entire pot of coffee, and I need to cook something. Won’t everyone be surprised when they get home! Oh, boy! A hot meal.

But I’m already feeling the effects of my efforts, and I’m thinking that tacos sound extreme enough for what is left of my energy reserves, so I start cooking the meat and chopping the onions. Repetitive motion tasks seem to be the worst. Onion chopping kills my arm now. The onset of fatigue is so quick that it still leaves me incredulous, but there was a time that I was capable of butterfly curls – 50 reps of 25 pounds – without breaking a sweat. Glory days.

After eating, I’m shot. Food affects me like a Valium, and sleep becomes unavoidable. While lying in bed and checking my Twitter feed, I glance across the room at my recording equipment once more. How many times in the past few years has this scenario played out? I can only hope that tomorrow will be as productive as today was, but experience has taught me that tomorrow I’ll most likely feel as if I’ve been beaten with a rubber hose because of today’s efforts.

If I’m lucky, I’ll feel better in a few days and will be able to begin the cycle all over again, but my chance of ever getting the studio back together looks slim from this side of life.

By the way – in the event that something unexpectedly happens to me, the code to open my phone is PEnnsylvania 6 – 5000. If there are any tunes on there, I would like to think that one of my musically inclined colleagues will take it upon themselves to finish those tunes for me.

CFS Worst Case Scenario (Typical Day)

I’m going to write a bit today, not about music, but about this damned affliction that I have mysteriously been strapped with, generally referred to as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

I’ve only attempted to relate this disease in one or two other blog entries, but it seems to garner a decent bit of attention when I do, so I’m going to take a stab at it today, primarily because today is one of those days that I almost think that I’d be better off dead, although that may sound a tad harsh.

No, I’m not contemplating suicide. I don’t have the guts to do that to everyone else involved in my life that such an action would inevitably and adversely effect. The stigma surrounding CFS alone is bad enough. The inability, or unwillingness, of the scientific community to get to the root cause of the disease is enough to drive an individual into deep depression, and to withdraw from society.

No fun can be had. No breaks can be taken. Nothing is available that will alleviate the constant dull headache – the constant pressure at the top of my eyeballs and consequential sensitivity to sunlight. Nothing can take away the God-awful feeling of constant sluggishness that I feel from the moment I rise to the time that I fall asleep.

I have most recently described the feeling as one of having a constant hangover, coupled with that of coming down with influenza. I am aware that this may be impossible for those who do not suffer from the affliction to identify with this notion, or even believe that it is possible to feel this way 100 percent of the time, but I can assure the reader that this is the way that it is.

And then, I have to awake and begin the day. The difficulty of having to get through a day, accompanied with these symptoms, cannot be over emphasised. There are things that need to be done around the house, and I have to do them. The smallest tasks are sometimes nearly impossible to surmount, because the symptoms that I have just outlined are only baseline symptoms. Sometimes they are considerably worse, and other days they are marginally better. On the better days, it almost reminds me of how good I used to feel. If one is not careful, this will bring on a bout of depression, and I learned that lesson the hard way, so I must put that out of my mind, and be glad that I’m having a “good” day. It is almost laughable to refer to it as good.

One has to rest several times while washing the dishes. One has to rest after cleaning the cats litter boxes. One has to rest while sweeping and mopping the floor. One has to take breaks while cooking a meal.

Some have asked, why not use a dishwasher? Because washing dishes gives me something to do.

Others have asked why I don’t order out. Because it’s too expensive, and again, cooking gives me something to do.

One inquired, “Why don’t you lose the cats, dude?” Because the cats give purpose to my life. I talk to them, I fuss at them, I cry to them, and I tell them my troubles, and they respond by nuzzling and marking me. Sometimes that in and of itself is annoying, but I tolerate it, because if I were completely alone, I would begin to question the value of my life, and that is best not to ponder.

What it seems that many do not understand, is that as humans, we want things to do. If we begin to strip away ‘doing’ in order to ‘not do’, then our lives reach a point to where we feel useless and unnecessary.

Lacking the ability to do an honest day’s work anymore, one’s life becomes amazingly empty. I used to imagine having nothing but all the time that I required to do nothing but write and record my music. Having reached this point however, has been a mixed blessing, as recording music has become a major task. Singing is a task. I have to pause the process and rest between verses, because singing requires an incredible amount of energy. Either it always did and I didn’t notice because I had a seemingly endless store of it, or it did but it didn’t matter because I had said endless store.

These dishes – the litter boxes – the mopping and the sweeping. These tasks have taken on new meaning in my life in the past nine years, and if you can’t imagine how that must feel… you should consider yourself very fortunate indeed.

A Sample Day In The World Of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

Successfully dragging myself from the bed at 6:58, I’d gotten dressed. As I sat there resting afterward, I found myself mulling over the discussion that I’d had with five new friends that I had discovered on Twitter the day before.

A lively exchange ensued, an we typed freely as if we’d known one another for years, and in a way – we had. We all suffer through the same relative hell. I can really connect with someone who speaks my language. No one else does.

“I need to get in there to try and start writing while my brain is fresh.” I told myself.

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‘Fresh’ is a relative term these days. I knew that by 11:30 – which in normality, would’ve been my “wide awake and running on all eight cylinders” time – I would be approaching worthlessness. On a good day, I might even be able to stave off ‘The Fog’ until 12:30 with the application of copious amounts of coffee and nicotine via vaping.

Here, one might say, “Oh, I have mornings like that all the time,” or “There are studies that suggest that too much coffee is bad for you,” or “nicotine is a dangerously addictive drug, and may be carcinogenic.”

Well, let me take this opportunity to clear up a few misunderstandings. I’ll take these in the order in which I presented them.

1) No, you don’t have mornings like this. Don’t patronise me because it pisses me off more than you could ever imagine.

In all of my 51 years before contracting CFS, I never ‘had days like that’. Never.

Not even on those ‘mornings after the night before’ when I was in my twenties. After playing music while sweating profusely, expending energy as if there were no tomorrow, drinking tons of beer afterwards, smoking cigarettes, and staying up until 2:00 in the morning.

2) Coffee and Nicotine are what keep me running – no – idling until the effect wears off. You have your drugs, I have mine, and I utilise them for a completely different reason now. My headache is usually anywhere between a dull ache above and behind the eyes, to a really bothersome piece of shit on the crown of my skull. Caffeine keeps it at bay. In my world, that nullifies all of the studies anyone can throw at me. I won’t take aspirin for reasons which I’ll outline later. Nicotine actually provides a bit of sharpness to otherwise dulled cognitive skills. Gives the brain a bit of an edge, albeit a dull one. Vaping removes all of the bad things relative to smoking and leaves you with the single saving grace. Besides, although it may be addictive, so are lots of things that the FDA approves, except that nicotine doesn’t come with a laundry list of side effects.

Besides, I’ve been through the entire health kick, beginning in my thirties. Lived the life. Quit drinking, quit smoking, quit eating at McDonald’s. You get the picture. But a little wasn’t enough, so I kept going. I lost a little bit of fat, began walking. Miles. After a few months, I began weight lifting. Then I bought the Trek 1000 and began the cycling routine I’ve written about before. I was in the best shape I’d ever been in. By God, I’d earned it too.

Until I was three months into my 51st year. Within a two week period, I went from 50 – 70 mile rides to feeling as if I were fighting the gravitational pull of Jupiter.

I had a doctor say, “Well, you are getting older…” Then I outlined the above scenario. No. Not that quickly did I ‘get older’.

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Okay! So I’m dressed and up. First order of the day: Make the freaking coffee. Drink a big glass of water. Then clean out the litter boxes, and fill the water bowls. Sitting down to rest afterward, of course. The activity that I just described ‘exhausts’ me. I inhale deeply, and blow out forcefully as if I’ve just completed a half days work.

Yes, it is embarrassing to admit. What else can one do? I’ve just gotten started, and already I feel the same way I felt when I finally lay down the night before. This is no exaggeration.

Nonetheless, having only begun I get up after a couple of minutes, grab the floor duster and do the kitchen. This is something that requires a serious application of sustained energy. Then sit down to rest. Huffing and puffing.

Repetitive actions are the worst. I used to do building renovation. Carpentry, drywall, painting, laying tile. All of those tasks require repetitive action. Hammering, sanding, sawing, or the constant back and forth motion of brushing or rolling paint onto a surface. Hell, I can’t even knead dough now without giving out, so I can’t enjoy baking bread like I once did. Sometimes preparing a meal takes two entire days.

The CFS affects every part of my life, and completely ruins what was once a great living.

But hey, I’ve got to begin writing, and it is now 7:30. Time’s a’wastin’ as my grandfather liked to say. So I park my ass in front of the computer. I have the screen turned down to perhaps 33% brightness because the disease has also affected my eyesight. Bright sunlight or artificial light makes my eyes burn and hastens the headache. Nobody knows why.

I gather my thoughts and begin typing. This time is crucial, because no one is up yet. It’s Saturday and the others are sleeping in. Which is groovy, because the slightest thing is capable of distracting me. Gone are the days of multi-tasking. I’m lucky to be able to concentrate well enough to do any one thing well.

Paleface is pawing at the water bowl. It is empty. Did I not fill that damn thing up? I stop what I’m doing to inspect. The one that he has chosen to drink from is bone dry. What the hell is wrong with me?

Did I not mention the constant forgetfulness that accompanies CFS? I look back across what I have typed. I haven’t mentioned it. What the hell is wrong with me?

I begin to type again. After two cups of coffee and working for some time, I ‘come to’. I am hunched over not unlike Quasimodo. I feel as if I’ve sat this way for a week. I straighten up and it hurts. I check my phone. Did I hear it alert? Where the hell is my coffee cup? Holy shit. It’s 9:30. I haven’t thought about what to do for dinner. If I don’t get cranking soon, I won’t have dinner done by 6:00 this evening. I’ll feel as if I’ve been beaten with a hose by then, so I have to start now.

And speaking of eating – sooner or later, one must eat. I hate eating these days, because this signals the end of my morning. Food does me the way that Valium used to. It hammers me like one cannot imagine. I have to lie down and sleep for two or three hours after eating, and I’ve tried everything. Eating lighter, different foods, nothing works. I can eat a few graham crackers with peanut butter (crunchy) and have a spoonful of honey. BOOM. The ‘edge’ afforded by the caffeine and nicotine becomes as dull as a rubber knife within fifteen minutes.

After I wake up around 4:00, I never regain the edge that I’d achieved that morning. It’s like running on fumes the rest of the day, until, finally, I will take two aspirin, one Benedryl, and go horizontal at 9:00. I’ll feel marginally better in the morning, but not for long.

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But that doesn’t matter. People are stirring now, and my concentration is shattered. I have to get dinner going.

You guys have a good day. Captain out.

The Benefits of Being a Student

I haven’t written lately. For those who have noticed and wondered why, the reasons are varied and legion, and have little to do with anything in particular. I did not plan on it, it just occurred, so there was little I could do in the way of informing anyone of any intent on my part; I simply went with the flow.

But whatever the case, I arrived at a point at which I felt I had said just about all that needed to be said. Until today.

I’ll be turning 60 years old this Summer, and it gives me cause to reflect. I’ve been kicking around in pretty good health most of my life – that is, until the CFS thing, which I’m still battling going on nine years now – but it has recently become apparent that I may be coming upon some of the most turbulent years of my life. There is also the realisation that I may only have twenty years left, at best.

I don’t need to tell you how quickly the last twenty years have passed. If you haven’t gotten here yet, it won’t be long, and if you have – well then, I don’t need to tell you about it.

It almost feels like a version of the ‘crossroads’ theme, wherein one begins to wonder if he has done everything that he intended to do when he was younger. Or perhaps, whether or not the things that he did was the right thing to do.

Recently, my daughter inadvertently caused me to call this thought to mind and inspect the content.

Neither of my two children have elected to have children of their own, which I happen to think is the ‘ultimate responsibility’ of one’s life. At the ripe ages of 32 and 36, I’m assuming they will never know the feeling, and will thus miss out on one of the most pleasurable, and in some ways tormenting, passages of life.

In a less therapeutic sense, this gives them nothing but themselves to think about, and thus they never will be able to truly remove themselves from the centre of their universe. An unfortunate circumstance to be sure. One day I fear they may find something missing that they cannot quite put their finger on; for at the very core of our existence rises the irrepressible urge to leave something of ourselves behind, and there is no better thing to leave but a living, breathing organism that is a product of oneself.

So, I suppose one could say that the last 59 years have been a learning experience.

I’m thinking that this was, at one time, something that was understood by those younger generations, and that they viewed older people as having good information to impart, simply for the asking. This at least appears to have been true in the culture of the Far East.

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During my twenties, I became more than ‘a little’ curious about the origins of religion, and studied each one with a voracity that I can no longer muster. I studied them all, attempting to find the common thread in each. Although raised in the Deep South in America, I could not embrace without question the Middle Eastern teachings of the Jews nor that of their rebellious son and miracle worker. Blind faith was required to swallow these pills, and this was something that was not a natural part of me, and attempts to instill it through fear had failed, and only succeeded in making me more determined. The only thing that I had carried away from all of the regularly scheduled programming was the quote, “Seek, and ye shall find. Knock, and the door will be opened”.

I studied Hinduism, bought the Rig Veda, and the Upanishads, but found the personification of man in deities far too dated and cryptic to my liking. I studied Islam, but quickly realised that there was nothing there of value. I burned my Koran. The author was clearly not writing as an enlightened individual, but one filled with hate for his fellow man.

When I found the Dhammapada, a Buddhist text, I began reading it expecting little in return. It took some while before I began to detect a certain ‘taste’ in these scriptures, but it was enough to keep me interested, as the translation was so incredibly clean and uncluttered. I also discovered that, at its core, Buddhism is not a religion, as many believe, but a philosophy of life. As I became more interested, I studied the different ‘branches’, and determined that Japanese Zazen seemed to me the purest form, and decided to attempt to practice the art.

Over the past thirty years, I have held to the philosophy, and, along with P. D. Ouspensky’s The Fourth Way, keep the Book of Buddha beside me on my bed, as it is one of my most beloved texts. At this point, I feel as if I have become a well versed student of the philosophy of Buddha. Enough so that I keep it to myself. I concluded that talking about Buddhism is the worst thing that one can do, so I’ll stop here.

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My oldest child, and only daughter, who lives many hundreds of miles away, visited last month. I was overjoyed, having been forced to live without her nearby for the majority of her life. My influence on her was not as I would have preferred it, but the cause for the distance between us was one of her choosing, as she freely admits. After she departed, it seemed like a dream, and I was saddened by the feeling that I no longer knew her.

As of late, I was contacted by her, and blindsided by her attempts at blaming me for all sorts of her personal suffering, the greatest transgression being that I was unavailable to her for the majority of her life. She then informed me that she had recently been studying Buddhism – Zen in particular – and implored that I ‘resume my studies’.

Ah – kids. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.

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Yes indeed. Wisdom is wasted on the elderly.

 

 

Progressive’s ‘Liberal’ Use of the Term ‘Democracy’ Inconsistent

It has come to my attention that many of my more ‘progressive’ compatriots use of the word ‘Democracy’ suffers from, not only misapplication much of the time, but also perplexingly oxymoronic application.

By definition, the word means
1.) A political system ruled by the people, either directly or through elected representatives. Or
2.) The doctrine that the numerical majority of an organised group can make decisions binding on the whole group.

Or, as Thomas Jefferson would have said, “Wherein 51% of the People tell the other 49% what they can or cannot do”.

Okay, let us test the first definition against fact: the U.S. House of Representatives presents a new bill to the Senate for approval. The Senate guts the bill, rewrites it, refuses to have it read on the floor of the Senate (as per law dictates) and passes it, late at night, the day before taking recess, in a closed door session, referring to it as a ‘Christmas present’.

To great media fanfare, the President signs the bill into law as quickly as possible. Polls taken by various organisations reflect general disapproval by the majority of the People, say 72%.

So where is the application of the ‘democratic process’ in this convoluted example of reality? Easy, there isn’t one. This is of no concern to many wordsmithing hypocrites who proceed to spin the hell out of such unscrupulous behaviour, excusing the act through the use of all sorts of emotional adjectives, despite the fact that the ‘majority’ of Americans, in this case, doesn’t agree with the law that has been forced upon them.

The same group has also displayed the same sort of inconsistencies when referring to ‘equal rights’ for ‘minorities’, a term whose precise definition seems increasingly static and difficult to nail down. The word may be used to describe any of those who represent those of a fiscal, material, intellectual, religious or ethnic minority. One can easily see how an individual may fall into one or more category, thereby making them members of ‘multiple minorities’.

I find use of the word, as well as the precedence set by it, extremely troubling. For instance, if precise records were kept, any particular ‘minority’ who ‘becomes comfortable’ enjoying all of the benefits of being such, may find themselves stripped of said benefits once ‘critical mass’ is achieved through reproduction of said minority or death of a particular ‘majority’, or once another group becomes ‘more minor’ than the first. It is predictable that the first group, having grown accustomed to such preferential treatment may revolt after the withdrawal of such, and not altogether unrealistic to presume that leaders of such groups may even resort to manipulation through population ‘quotas’, thereby insuring that they remain the selected minority.

A minority is generally the thorn in the heel of the majority, who, through constant belly-aching in respect to ‘inequality’, receives some sort of special treatment, which is opposed to equal treatment under the law. It soon dawns on even the lowest form of idiot that ‘the squeaky wheel gets the grease’.

A minority was responsible for the smoking ban. It all began with a small group who, through their incessant whining, convinced the FAA to implement a smoking restriction on commercial flights of less than two hours. Through tireless lobbying and legislation, the anti-smoking zealots have nearly succeeded in having the smoking of tobacco declared as illegal.

It is therefore conceivable that certain shiftless members of a government may make concerted efforts to subdivide the populace so that minorities eventually make up the majority, with a different set of laws to govern each.

“O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!” – Walter Scott.

So much for ‘democracy’ in a Republic.

The World Is Changing and Has Taken Me Hostage

Many years ago, I came to the conclusion that I wanted to own a shortwave radio. Nevermind the fact that I didn’t know anything about shortwave, or what would be waiting for me there. The medium simply offered the capability of hearing things I’d never heard before, and the radios had all kinds of knobs for adjustments and tweaking. Besides that, nobody else I knew listened to shortwave broadcasts, and that gave me even more reason to pursue the endeavour.

My first exposure to these fantastic devices came to me by way of the thick annual Radio Shack catalogue which at one time came through the mail. Radio Shack seemed to have one of everything back in the days before mobile phones and computers came along. They should have never attempted to change their business model, because they had a developed a unique niche in their market, and lost their identity in the newly booming digital world.

But out of all the items that the catalogue featured, my favorite section was all of the specialised radios they offered. There were receivers specifically designed for eavesdropping on police, medical teams, fire departments, train yards, ham operators, and yes, shortwave stations.

The primary impediment for me at this time, was of course money. Multiband radios were generally big, and expensive. Back when twenty dollars could purchase what two hundred will now buy, $229. for a radio was a dream that I could only envision. I used to think to myself, ‘If I were rich, I’d buy a shortwave radio.’ The thought of boats, automobiles, and houses never entered my mind.

My initial infatuation with the shortwave waned, and as years passed I married, and started a family. But within three short years, my fate once again changed as I found myself single again and embroiled in a messy divorce. The year was 1981.

With young daughter in tow, I moved back to the town that I was raised in, got a couple of part time jobs, rented myself a small house, and concentrated on the acquisition of new audio recording equipment in order to re-immerse myself in the music industry.

One Friday evening, after getting paid, I dropped my daughter off to visit my parents for the night, and then stopped into Radio Shack to pick up a couple of microphone stands. Something in the window caught my eye and made me stop in my tracks before even entering the store: The big DX 200 shortwave that I had lusted after so many years ago was displayed there, with a hand written sign which read, Closeout Item! Last one left. 50% off!

I walked out of the store that day, not with mic stands, but instead a big box with the coveted radio inside. I stopped at the corner market and got a six-pack. This party had been a long time coming.

As the sun sank lower, I popped a beer and began to build a long wire antenna, which would be required to hear the transmissions on the radio. I didn’t bother to ask my landlord if I could install it, because I knew that it would be all but invisible. I stealthily twisted a screw hook into the eve of the house and, tying a length of paracord into a slipknot, slid it onto the hook and tossed the other end of the paracord into my window. Once back inside I assembled the insulators and bare copper wire and waited for nightfall.

Soon it was dark, and I tossed the finished antenna out the window, grabbed a ladder and sneaked to the garage apartments behind my little house. Propping the ladder softly against the building, I uncoiled the antenna, climbed the ladder, cranked another screw hook into the apartment building and, hoisting the antenna up, pulled it taut and tied it off and scurried back inside with my ladder. My covert work had gone smoothly, and undetected.

I filled a bong, and when it was cashed, I went back into the room with another beer and prepared for the moment of truth.

After attaching the antenna lead to the radio, I turned it on. The big drum dials lit the room up with a warm glow, and the static was punctuated with unfamiliar undulating howls and electrical crackling. I cranked the dial and before long, a big, strong station was booming through in English. However, the news programme was full of strange headlines and weird stories of World War II. Finally at the top of the hour, a powerful voice boomed out, “This.. is the External Service of Radio Moscow!”

I flipped out. I was listening to a Soviet broadcast!! I turned down the volume and looked around. I began to wonder if this was even legal activity, or if I would be viewed as a Communist sympathiser if anyone found out.

I reckon I stayed awake most of the night listening to Radio Beijing, Swiss Radio International, Radio Yugoslavia, and the BBC World Service, among others. I was in complete awe that I could lie on my bed and listen to a radio station on the other side of the World. The impact of how amazing this was at the time will probably be lost the younger reader. These days, we’re so used to turning on the computer and getting Tweets from all over the globe, and news broadcasts from Al Jazerra, the world seems like such a small place in comparison. During the eighties, when cable television was just coming into widespread availability, I was the only person that I knew who was able to get news from other parts of the world, without being at the mercy of the American news services ‘filtering’ what they thought I ‘needed’ to know.

Flash forward to a couple of nights ago.

I climbed into bed, plugged my Sony MDR-7506 headphones into my android, opened the University of Twente website (which is located in the Netherlands*), accessed the Wideband WebSDR, and began sliding my finger across the screen to tune into shortwave stations that were audible in that area of Europe at 2:00 GMT.

As I lay in the darkness, I stared into the screen, and wondered why this hobby no longer held the excitement for me that it once did.

* For anyone who may be interested, go to: Faculty for Electrical Engineering, Mathematics and Computer Science

Overuse Of the Word ‘I’ Reaching Epidemic Proportions Worldwide

Having received more than a few inquiries from my Facebook friends and ReverbNation associates about my intermittent activity on the Internet, the following explanation is offered. As most everyone knows, these sites are capable of consuming huge hunks of time and it is with this knowledge that I have made a conscious decision to avoid the computer in order to devote all of my energy to songwriting, recording, and turning wrenches. Therefore, for the past month or so, I’ve been immersed in recording, guitar repair, and cylinder head work.

Inasmuch as the songwriting portion goes, there is, what I like to refer to as ‘passive’ songwriting. That is to say that I don’t ‘try to write’. It has become my modus operandi to simply let the music and songs come to me as they will, and the process works out rather well. Once in the ‘recording mode’, the songs just begin to filter down, and all that is left for me to do is to get onto tape what I hear in my head. That may sound somewhat esoteric and arcane, but this is simply the best way to describe it.

If I try to write, everything tends to turn out sounding redundant and contrived. This I hate. Once the process begins, however, it is something that is quite constant, and I find it more conservative in regard to total time spent to give myself over to it completely until such time that it ceases of its own accord, thus my absence from the Internet sites is duly noted and addressed.

I do like to post a blog on occasion when a subject comes to mind. It helps me keep up appearances.

A bit more on writing to those who may be interested.

A couple of weeks ago, my son was reading a piece I’d written earlier.

“You’ve used the word ‘I’ too many times,” he observed. It was humble pie directly to the face. My own advice had come back to haunt me.

“True,” I conceded, “but I was writing about me.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he continued, “you can always reword a sentence to avoid overuse. You used it six times in one sentence.”

He was right. I was identified with my subject matter and there had been a strong emotional attachment, which explained everything.

For many years now, it has been a practice of mine never to write a song in first person. To my way of thinking, this leads to no good. It also is the best way to develop writer’s block, create boring subject matter and come across as being self absorbed. When one writes in this fashion, the possibilities are immediately limited to ones’ own experiences. I don’t intend to speak for anyone else, but life has been pretty boring insofar as writing songs about me goes.

At best, all first person writing is good for is a couple of sappy love songs, and few more blues songs after the relationship has gone kaput.

Now, we all can name songs which have been written about courtship, and then there’s a couple of wedding tunes, but can anyone name a ‘We’ve Been Married Twenty Years’ song? Not too many ‘Honey, I’m Picking Up a Gallon of Milk and a Newspaper, See You at Six’, or ‘Meatloaf Serenade’ songs out there, are there?

Sure, there are songs full of promise, and tunes such as ‘I Love You More Today Than Yesterday’, but I can’t say with any amount of certainty that Dude was married when he wrote that.

This isn’t to reflect badly on marriage, it’s just that there’s such a limited amount of material there.

Unless you want to count that stupid ‘Pina Colada’ song by that guy whose name I don’t even remember.

Oh yeah. Rupert Holmes. What a dillweed.

Damn it.

Now that nonsense will be playing in my head all day long and I won’t get any work done. Sheesh. I hate that freaking song.

See why I stay off of the computer when I’m trying to write and compose?