Art & Music History, Miss Jones, and the Rich Girls: Chasing a Memory and the Writing Process

When writing, if you don't catch a mind train when it passes, it's probably gone.  In this case, I hope not. Commuting across this big, open western valley today, I had a blog post come to me.  I was thinking about an art course I'm developing for the boys' home where I teach and some frustrations that came with it.  But, as I was reflecting, both the big valley and my daily troubles slipped away as I slid back in time.  I assume the road remained ahead of me because I made it home alive, but through my mind's eye, I was back in Miss Jones' Art and Music Appreciation class in 10th grade.

I remember the details of my flashback, but the problem is they are no longer live.  Writing that works is always and forever in the present even when written in the past tense.  That's because for a moment the writer disappeared and became the transparent eyeball Emerson talks about.  I love that state--when the images just flood out in front of you, and you just run behind and write them down as quickly as you can before they slip away.  I guess that's why a writer should always have a notebook or electronic device at hand. I could have pulled off the highway and wrote.

I didn't, so this is a pathetic attempt to resuscitate a moment that died sometime after I pulled in the driveway and our new puppy Oreo attacked me, and when I sat down in my recliner to write after driving back into town with Marci and Everest for fast food, running a burger to Rio at work, and coming back home and watering the garden.

That's what kills writing every time.  Life.  Not past life--that is the source, the well-spring--but current life. It's a damned if you do, damned if you don't scenario.  Life is the the spring that feeds writing, so to write well, you've got to be somewhat present in your daily activities or there will be no images to seep into the aquifer to tap into for future writing.  Yet, the live moment that fuels the piece you're working on now is seldom the present.  You have to let yourself slip away to a different time and place, which means writers are seldom in the moment.  This is frustrating for loved ones because they find themselves talking to someone who isn't really there, but it's also frustrating for the writer because his current life keeps infringing on the source of his inspiration.

And though you can develop best writing practices that increase your odds for success, it's hard to build a super highway out of clouds.  In the creative process, there is no strait and narrow path.  It's more like throwing pieces of plywood out into a foggy bog and hoping you'll find the next footing before the plywood you're standing on now sinks beneath your weight.

What seeped up during my drive home across this big, open valley was a foot in a red sandal rocking nonchalantly back and fourth.  I didn't know her.  I didn't love her.  I don't think I thought too much about her outside of class.  I may have known her name then, but I certainly don't now.  But she was one of the rich girls, and she was wonderful.  The class was full of them.  I had taken art and music history because my brother was an artist and I wanted to be an architect. I didn't know when I signed up for the class that I'd also be crossing over to the other side of the tracks.  But there she is, foot rocking, sitting so sure and casual, head tilted slightly up, looking at an image of Monet's water lilies projected on the screen at the front of the room, slightly kinky brown hair tucked behind her ear where a dainty gold earring dangles, while Miss Jones goes into detail about the painting and the girls say things like, "Oh, I just love that one; we saw that last summer when we were in Paris."

Damn.  People live like that, talk like that?  No one even had to raise their hands.  It felt like we should each have a cappuccino.  I was out of my element; I certainly didn't have it in me to change that reality; but still, there wasn't any place I'd rather be.  I'd sit in this class with these girls who talked like women any day and listen them go on about Michelangelo.  Had I known who Eliot was at the time, I'd have thought Prufrock had a great life and should just get over it.  With women like these, I'd gladly spend my days measuring my life out in teaspoons.  It was a heck of a lot better than standing behind a grill in a stupid uniform flipping burgers to help pay the rent.

Miss Jones was an amazing teacher.  She took us to museums, galleries, even the opera--a long, miserable night that nearly killed me--and earlier today the swaying foot and red sandal led to such an essay honoring a woman who definitely deserves to be remembered.

But, time has passed, it's a different moment, and the star of this essay is not Miss Jones, not even those wonderful rich girls who talked like women, not even Art & Music History, but instead the writing process and the act of chasing a memory.

When writing, if you don't catch a mind train when it passes, it's probably gone.  But if you wait around for a minute, another one might come along.

 

On Natalie Goldberg, Frank O'Hara, Anthony Bourdain, Religeous Writing and Authenticity

Watching an episode or two of Anthony Bourdain on Netflix has become part of my nightly ritual.  Currently, I'm watching episodes of The Layover.   With all the drinking he does, and all his bleeped out language, it may seem incompatible with my religion.

However, my uncle, who was always active in the church, was a big fan of Ernest Hemingway.  When I was younger that seemed like a contradiction, and I assumed because Hemingway's fiction is clearly from an atheistic perspective that my uncle probably had a lot of secret religious doubts.

I no longer think that is necessarily true.  I don't admire writers for shared beliefs; I admire them for artistic integrity, or for having the guts to "go for the jugular," as Natalie Goldberg would put it.

I don't think she necessarily means the big thing, but she does mean the elephant in the room.  It's just that not all elephants are large.  Some sit tiny by a dust ball next to the wireless modem on the antique drop leaf table, and still they suck up all the air.  One doesn't have to confess all to write well.  Sometimes that actually becomes a form of dishonesty--rewriting ones own life to give it drama it doesn't have, not by lying, but by presenting an unbalanced focus on tragedy.

I think Frank O'Hara went for the jugular, which for him was an honest take on day to day living:

an invitation to lunch
HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT?
when I only have 12 cents and 2
packages of yoghurt
there's a lesson in that, isn't there
like in Chinese poetry when a leaf falls?
hold off on the yoghurt till the very
last, when everything may improve

     (from "Five Poems,"  Lunch Poems)

So does Bourdain.  He has these great lines like "I don't think you should put ketchup on hot dogs; I'm pretty sure God would not like that."  What could be more authentic for a chef to say, even an atheist chef?  Bourdain is real in a world of pretense and that is enough for me.

That's one thing I dislike about Mormon culture.  Duty to uphold the image sometimes makes authenticity difficult.  Before coming back to the church, I wrote whatever I wanted to; now I choose my words very carefully.    Yet, it is only through the authentic voice that the spirit is felt.

I'm in the middle of reading an amazing story by James Baldwin, "Sonny's Blues."  It's got that solid reality to it that Natalie Goldberg talks about when she urges writers to "go for the jugular":

I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work.  I read it, and I couldn't believe it, and I read it again.  Then perhaps I just stared at it, at the newsprint spelling out his name, spelling out the story.  I stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car, and in the faces and bodies of the people, and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared outside.

Steadily unfolds a story of being black in America unflinching and unexaggerated.

I'm old; I'm unknown; I live uncomfortably between two worlds--that of a devout Mormon and that of a devout liberal artist--and so there is probably no way I'll ever have any impact on either my religion or my art (the chasm between the two worlds is just too wide), but if by some freakish chance my voice is heard beyond the echoing chambers of my own mind, it will be because I was brave enough to live in that uncomfortable space and not do the easy thing by choosing one audience over the other.  For to do so would be a lie, and only the authentic has a lasting shelf life.

Being authentic doesn't guarantee that a writer will make it, but not being authentic does guarantee a writer will eventually be forgotten.

The Waters of Yellowstone, Part 1: I Stand All Amazed

My son Tyler photographing Grand Prismatic Spring, Yellowstone, June 2014
 

If magma is the soul of Yellowstone, water is her eyes.  Unlike in Hawaiian Volcanoes National Park, we never directly see the molten engine that drives her--and if we ever do, it will be an instant before incineration for us and Armageddon for the entire globe--but through her waters we come to know her well.  This first hit me when we visited in June of 2014.  Although I love the sound of her name, it is not very descriptive of who she really is.  It describes the colors in her Grand Canyon and the color of many of the geyser basins, but Yellowstone is so much more than these.  The 136 square miles of pristine water that is Yellowstone Lake is enough to warrant a national park, not to mention the 63,500 gallons of water per second that flow over Yellowstone Falls, and the varied bubbling, spitting and spewing waters of half the world's geysers which are located within her boundaries.  Simply put, the waters of Yellowstone are astounding.  If you ever find yourself in a bad spot and life has lost its meaning, do whatever it takes and get to Yellowstone.  Whatever power you attribute her art to, the fact that something that beautiful exists, makes all of creation from maggots and Donald Trump to Eagles and Mahatma Gandhi worthwhile. 

Yellowstone Falls

If that seems like a hyperbole, you have never looked out on a herd of bison grazing along the slow, blue Yellowstone River.



The Yellowstone River

Bison grazing near a pool of melt-water, late June 2014

Perhaps that is why I have avoided writing this post for so long.  As a writer, I seldom feel words are inept tools for capturing life.  But, with Yellowstone, it's different.  What is there to say?  If she were a song, she'd be Pachelbel's "Canon"--perfect.  But she's not.  It's one thing for man to show off, and quite another for God to shake out his splendor.

The rest of my life I may struggle with reverence, but looking deep into the waters of Yellowstone, I stand all amazed.

Text and photography © Steve Brown, 2015

 

The Soundtrack of One Life out of 108 Billion, Entry 4: What Does the Fall of Saigon Have to Do with "That's the Way I Like It" by KC and the Sunshine Band and Central Utah?

Photo by Steve Brown: U.S.S. Midway, San Diego 2012

April 30th, 1975.  Dense gray topical skies.  Palm fronds whip every which way as helicopters touch down outside the American Embassy.  Petroleum burns black along the skyline. Panicked people run down the street, bright, silk floral print shirts, trailing them.  A mother caries a baby in her one arm, drags another child (half running, half falling) behind.  There is pushing, shoving at a white iron gate, terror in the eyes, dread for those too late.  A mother turned a way, sobs and collapses to the ground.  Men claw their way up a wall. Over all the noise is the steady rhythm of the blades.

Lan, age 9, is part of the symphony that is the Fall of Saigon.  What specific clamor wakes her up in the middle of the night while sleeping next to her little sister in the belly of an aircraft carrier on her way to a distant land, I do not know.

Reports came in from the outskirts that the North Vietnamese were moving in.  10:48  Kissinger was notified of the desire to activate "the Frequent Wind" evacuation plan.  Approved minutes later.  The radio was to play Irvin Berlin's "White Christmas," the signal for American personnel to move immediately to the evacuation points.  Technology is always at the hands of humans.  Helicopters moved in.  American service men would be the first.  South Vietnamese elite (those who would be retaliated against) had a chance if they had the money, the political ties, the luck at being at the right place at the right time.  It happened so incredibly fast.

What is her story?  What are the images that flash behind her soft eyelids kicked about during REM like silk sheets on hot humid night while she cuddles close to her little sister?

None of this I know about while playing on the merry-go-round behind the swimming pool or floating a pop can down an irrigation ditch while walking home from school.  None of this can I even imagine when my stepfather asks me if I want to drive out to the trailer park by the mushroom plant (an indoor farm) to meet the new families from Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia.

I don't believe I saw her that day.  I could have.  There were so many.  Four cultures briefly coming together.  There was sweet tea that I'd never tasted, chicken fights (boys carrying each other on their shoulders) in the gravel lane, and delicious dishes of meat and rice that men brought out from their single-wide trailers to show hospitality.  There was lot of pointing, a lot of laughing (the only common language), a lot of saying "that number 1," meaning good, and a lot of saying "that number 10," meaning bad, and I suppose a lot of pretending too as worlds collided in a small trailer court next to an indoor mushroom farm beside a freeway in a big, western valley filled with yellow wild rye, sage brush, and black rubble-rocked extinct volcanoes.

When I do see her a few weeks before the end of third grade, I'm drawn to her beauty the way only a child can be: intently, unpretentiously, without fear or guile.  The two third-grade classes have combined, and we are watching a film about these two science guys who journey through the body. It's set up like a news cast, and they are following the spread of influenza through the blood stream. The class has seen it a couple of times, but it's our favorite.  We're on the floor, and I'm throwing pieces of paper at Lynn because I like her. The secretary walks in with three Asian kids and our teacher stops the movie.  The two boys I already know from the evening my dad took me down to the trailer court.  But I don't look at them long.  Lan is all I see. Her long black hair and dark, warm, almond shaped eyes have me.  And she dresses cool too. Tight, white bell-bottom slacks, a white t-shirt, and a silk flower-print disco shirt, untucked and unbuttoned.

This is before my body chemistry changes in seventh grade and shyness kicks in.  It's not long until we are chasing each other during recess, not long before she's at the top of the slide, swinging her hips, that silk shirt open, blowing in the breeze as she sings, "That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it," her long black hair swaying side to side.

All at once I get disco.

But I know nothing, absolutely nothing of what she has seen or the world she has come from.  All I know is that smile has no boundaries.

I was a child growing up in a big, western valley, almost cut off from the realities of the twentieth century, but not quite.  A human catastrophe on the other side of the world gave me a great third and fourth grade that I otherwise wouldn't have experienced, a bit of positive fallout from a war destroyed the lives of millions.

See related post:  That's the Way, Uh-huh Uh-huh, I Like It: Second-Hand Memories of the USS Midway’s Rescue of 3,000 Vietnamese Political Refugees

Gratitude: Contentment in the Midst of Conflict (Alma 34: 38, The Book of Mormon; John 8: 3-12, Holy Bible)

Tomorrow I will be speaking during the church service at the county jail, which I'm very excited about.  The topic is gratitude.  Here is the talk I wrote out in preparation, which I do so that I have done my part.  It is not the talk I will be giving.  I don't use notes.  When speaking in church, I think it's important to leave space for the spirit to speak to those that need it most (usually myself.)  An overly planned talk can get in the way of that.  But I record it here for my children and grandchildren.  Enjoy.

“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer. 

And let faith be the bridge you build to overcome evil and welcome good.” 

― Maya Angelou, Celebrations: Rituals of Peace and Prayer

This is the second talk I've been asked to give on gratitude, and I'm not asked to speak often, so, clearly there is something I am to learn here that I'm not getting.   Consistency, would be my guess.  I am plenty grateful when everything is going my way, but tend to, like so many, throw tantrums (sometimes internally, sometimes externally), when an obstacle is tossed in the way. True gratitude is not based on circumstance.  It is a reverence for the entire experience of being, trials and all.

We all have obstacles.  God gave us life as an obstacle course.  Or maybe he just gave us life, and we perceive it as an obstacle course.   Either way, everyone in this life is on a separate journey.  Other than the love of God, nothing is equal.  Some are born into wealth; some are born into poverty. Some are born to good families; some are victims of abuse.  Some have good health; others live life in pain.  Some are born into democracies; others live under political oppression.  Some have good fortune; others endure one tragedy after another. Sometimes pain comes as a natural consequence; other times not.

So, who am I to speak on gratitude?  Who is anyone?  It's easy to preach an open heart when life is blossoming before you; it's not so easy listen when being devoured by strife.

However, it seems to me that gratitude that will not endure conflict is not gratitude at all.  It's simply the ego enjoying momentary false evidence that the ground beneath us is stable.  True happiness then cannot be built on circumstance.  Its foundation must sink into bedrock more substantial than the material world, which is always in flux.

But how do we find gratitude in the midst of pain or despair?  I've dealt with a lot of physical pain over the past year, and I'd be lying, if I said I was always grateful.  So, this is something I'm working on.  But, I've found a scripture that I think, if we follow it, will drive the pilings down into the bedrock and anchor us to something that isn't temporary.

That ye contend no more against the Holy Ghost, but that ye receive it, and take upon you the name of Christ; that ye humble yourselves even to the dust, and worship God, in whatever place ye may be in, in spirit and in truth; and that ye live in thanksgiving daily, for the many mercies and blessings which he doth bestow upon you (Alma 34: 38, The Book of Mormon).

When two of my boys were to be baptized, I was asked to say either the opening or closing prayer at the meeting (I don't remember which), but I didn't feel worthy, so I prayed about it before hand.  I received what to me felt like a clear answer, not so much a voice, but a thought planted in my head that was not my own.  In my mind, I heard these actual words:  "You are not worthy, but say the prayer anyway."

The impression was strong enough that I felt comfortable saying the prayer.  During that prayer, I had a feeling come back to me that I had long forgotten, a feeling that had slipped away so slowly that I hadn't even noticed it was gone.  I'd simply learned to accept a numb feeling, a void, a constant unhappiness even at what should be the most joyful moments in my life.  I'd completely forgotten that as a child I was generally happy.  It rushed in with great force, and I just had this inner awareness--I am happy.  It was so strong, I was on cloud nine for a couple of weeks until I became use to it.  It felt like when you first fall in love without all the worries of "Does she really like me?"  I knew my Heavenly Father loved me profoundly.  With the return of the Holy Ghost, there was no question about that.

Over the years, I had contended against the Holy Ghost by not following the commandants and over time had lost my connection to the joy the Holy Ghost brings.  For me, it is pretty hard to have gratitude on a daily basis without the assistance of the Holy Ghost.  If I'm not living my religion to the best of my ability, small troubles become big issues in a hurry.  I'm irritable, critical and cynical.  Whereas, when I am living right, troubles seem like inconveniences, and I'm usually able to maintain inner peace even if I don't like what I have to deal with.

The next part of the scripture says, "that ye humble yourselves even to the dust, and worship God, in whatever place ye may be in."  That could refer to physical location, but I think it means more.  It means, as long as we are humble enough to let Christ enter our hearts, and worship God, he accepts us "in whatever place" we are in, spiritually speaking.  Humility, rather than a sin-free life, is the phone connection with God.  Once we know God's love, we must forsake our sins or we no longer have the humility to listen to Him. But Christ does not mandate a level of worthiness to enter the road to happiness.  We may enter the strait and narrow path to eternal salvation at any point we become sick of the darkness of sin.

 My personal experience is that He will listen to us and provide us help even if we are throwing a temper tantrum, so long as we are at that place where we are willing to let in His light.  There was one night in the mid-nineties when I staggered down Mesa Street in El Paso cursing God and screaming, "I want to die" at passing cars. I was serious.  The dull void in my life had grown so big, I saw no reason to live.  I would have ended my life that night if I hadn't been scared. The next morning, I just felt a calm presence say, "Go home, start over."  There was no judgement, just love and empathy.  "Go home, start over."  

I testify to you that there is nothing you could have ever done in your past that would make you unworthy of God's love now.  That is the power of Christ, of grace, of the atonement.  His love is immediate:

3 And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery; and when they had set her in the midst,

 4 They say unto him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act.

 5 Now Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou?

 6 This they said, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him. But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heard them not.

 7 So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.

 8 And again he stooped down, and wrote on the ground.

 9 And they which heard it, being convicted by their own conscience, went out one by one, beginning at the eldest,even unto the last: and Jesus was left alone, and the woman standing in the midst.

 10 When Jesus had lifted up himself, and saw none but the woman, he said unto her, Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee?

 11 She said, No man, Lord. And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.

 12 ¶Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.  (John 8: 3-12)

The world might require restitution; the world might require justice; the world might require punishment.  For some sins, even the church requires penance, not as punishment, but as a means of assistance, of healing, of restoration of the spirit, but Christ requires nothing more than a commitment to get up, dust yourself off, walk out of the darkness, and enter the light. Grace is not earned; it is given; and therefore it is immediate.  That doesn't mean one doesn't have to right wrongs before being fully worthy of the gospel again, but it does mean one has the right to receive the help of the Holy Ghost as soon as one's heart is open for assistance.

The next part of the scripture states, "that ye live in thanksgiving daily, for the many mercies and blessings which he doth bestow upon you."  In order to remain teachable, we must honestly evaluate where we are, and as we all fall very short of perfection, we must know that we truly are saved by the mercy of Christ, that we are blessed by the atonement, and that everything we have is a result of His love.  When we are in that place of true gratitude, consistently walking the strait and narrow path takes care of itself.  It is only when our ego creeps in, when we denounce our short comings, when we complain about our lot, that we are in danger again of wandering off into the darkness.

I pray that we may always listen to the Holy Ghost; that we take the name of Christ upon us; that we humble ourselves and worship Him to the best of our ability; and that we show Him gratitude daily.  For this is the foundation of true happiness and everlasting joy.  

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen

  

   

A Small Backyard Pond Sustains a Community of Dragonflies and Other Insects

The small reflecting pond that has brought the dragonflies.

I'm looking out my front window into the late afternoon.   Light glistens off the wings of dragonflies--a wonder we never had on our property until I decided to put a small pond at the back of the house.  I never imagined that one little act would forever change the environment of our property, but it has.

I've loved dragonflies since I was a child.  I spent my summers with my dad, who lived in Reno, and we often went camping at Eagle Lake in northern California.  My siblings and I would spend hours out on the lake drifting around in a big, orange inflatable canoe.  Close in to the swampy, grassy shores, bright blue dragonflies buzzed brilliantly metallic in the sun.  I loved just lying on my back in the boat and looking up into the eternal blue, waiting for a flash of color to zip by.

I have seen a couple metallic blue dragonflies here, as well as orange and green ones; overall they're not as flashy as at Eagle Lake, but they are still amazing.

Dragonflies, which evolved over 300 million years ago, were one of the first winged insects.  Their two sets of wings move independently, allowing them to maneuver with ease.  They also have huge eyes that allow them to see in every direction except behind them.

I've wondered why I haven't had many mosquito problems this year.  I do have one goldfish in my pond to eat the larvae, but as we are near two creeks and and three irrigation ponds, that really didn't explain things.

But the explosion of dragonflies that has occurred because of my pond may.  Dragonflies eat mosquitoes and other small insects.

Unfortunately, any dragonfly eggs laid in the pond will not survive as dragonflies must have a permanent water source for reproduction.  I assume they are coming from the county irrigation pond, which is just across the field.  If that is the case, the draw of my little pond is probably not doing too much harm to the natural population, and dragonflies are not only beautiful, but they are a natural insecticide for mosquitoes.

My pond also attracts great black wasps (digger wasps), butterflies, and toads, as well as larger animals, such as wild turkey, deer and coyotes.

But, it is the dragonflies, which I never saw on our property as a child, that are a new wonder that can be counted on daily throughout the summer--and not just around the pond.  Their flying range is such that they have livened up at least an acre of our land.

The below demonstration pond is not very attractive, but the steps are clear, and it really is as easy as it looks.  The abundance of new wildlife the pond will bring into your yard will make the small cost and labor so worth while.

I do have a fountain on my pond for show, but as long as you have a goldfish or two to eat mosquito larvae,
a pump and fountain is not necessary.   Last year, I only ran the pump a couple of times.

The Soundtrack of One Life out of 108 Billion: Entry 3: "Monkberry Moon Delight" by Paul McCartney (Nonsense Poetry, Writing and the Creative Process)

It's nineteen-seventy-something.  I'm in second grade, and I've ditched Lynn, my girlfriend, somewhere over by the POD, an octagonal lunchroom separate from the school.  We're playing kissing tag, and it's not that I'm so stupid that I don't know that the purpose of kissing tag is to get caught, it's that her cousin, Lucinda, is more into pinching, and she's very good at it.  So, I've split the scene.

It's warm and snow melting off the comparatively hot pavement creates steam that rises in thin clouds about waste high, and they are golden glorious in the noontime sun.  I've got spring fever and am feeling freaking high. I bellow out Paul McCartney's "Monkberry Moon Delight."  I don't have a clue what it's about, but I love the feel of the words on the end of my tongue:

So I sat in the attic, a piano up my nose,
And the wind played a dreadful cantata.
Sore was I from a crack of an enemy's hose
And the horrible sound of tomato.

Ketchup,
Soup and puree,
Don't get left behind.
Ketchup,
Soup and puree,
Don't get left behind.

I never did figure out the exact meaning of the song.  As I grew older, it seemed to me it might have been inspired by B-grade monster movies, but it also seemed a finger to expectations--artistic, social, political and otherwise, Paul McCartney saying I'll be who I please and do what I please.  It felt very revolutionary to me, and I loved its pure celebration of the sound of language.

Whenever, I'd get upset in high school or early years of college, I'd just fling words down on the page and play with them, make slightly irreverent, irrelevant nonsense out of them, like this:

 More Talk

... Instead I gnarl on a bark stick,
pour on the cats
and say,
"Gee this is very good,
this is very meaty for a stick of wood."

The termites tingle as they slide down my throat.
What would I do for a feast on fat goat?
I'd slit my mother's own throat!

I definitely had nothing against my mom.  I just had something against propriety.  I still do.  I just fight the impulse more.  I'm not so sure that's good.  I think real reverence comes about when you're at least a little open to irreverence.  Paul McCartney could write "Let It Be" and be sincere because he could also write "Monkberry Moon Delight."  If he sat around always trying to write lofty songs, they'd have the impact of Hallmark Cards or the music of Air Supply.

So, to quote Paul--sort of--if you want to write well, leave your cats to Billy Budapest and let your piano be boldly outspoken.