Teenage Musical Theory

Today was my first piano lesson.

I had been saving $20 a week for the last two years. Thankfully, I had a sweet job at the organic market in Hampden, and by sweet I mean they hired me, which I didn't expect considering I was 14 years old. But I wore my best track suit to the interview, I brushed my teeth real good, and I knew a lot about asparagus so I was pretty confident when I walked into the store and asked to see the manager. I had me a meeting and there was no way I'd be late.

You see, I was raised right. Mama don't play. She would say, "Baby, there ain't nothing you can't do. Just be on time." And she told me this while standing in the basement folding a load of laundry as I sat at the piano and counted the keys: 36 black and 52 white. Ain’t that a bitch. Now, I won’t go badmouthing anybody because Mama said that wasn't respectable, but I did secretly think the piano had the power to integrate in a positive way, which is precisely why I needed to save up for those lessons. I was motivated and I had theories. Theory number one: I needed to master them keys. I figured, if I could play all the notes without favor or fear, I'd: 1) get a scholarship to Johns Hopkins, 2) perform at the Hippodrome, and 3) run for mayor. The keys would spark a new generation of peace, love and happiness!

Mama said patience is a virtue.

I needed to graduate high school first. Fortunately, reading books and studying were my favorite things, besides hugging mama and laughing at the TV. We watched one of those political debates the other night. Everybody was yelling at each other, being mean and whatnot. It was funny in a prehistoric way, but it was mostly sad. It felt out of touch with what people really needed, which was, as mama would say—one love. And there wasn't a stitch of soul in any of those podium pitches to save America. When I'm mayor I'm going to preach unity and affection, I'll speak in iambic pentameter and haikus, the poet in the pulpit, I got nothing to lose. You know why? Because our collective psyche evolves at a snails pace. So I might as well be funky. And there’s a chance humanity will never realize our divine gift of compassion; we’ll just keep slapping each other upside the head until we’re zombies. As a species, we behave like spoilt three year olds; this is theory number two.

Let’s break out the slide rule.

Ok, so humans have been on earth for around 200,000 years, but, we are only three grumpy years into our ultimate destiny of true enlightenment. Now, we’ll assume society will eventually mature beyond this hella bitch phase when we’re around 25 years old. So when we divide 200,000 by 3 we can see that each birthday on the road to self realization happens every 67,000 years. Which means: We should be nicer people in about 1.5 million years.

Anyways.

I'm going to focus on the piano for now. I'm bringing love to the podium, y'all. It's a start.

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The Process

I'm looking for things to write about.

I haven't written much lately other than my journal, but I have been thinking creatively via photography.

I've been reading a lot these last few weeks. I'm taking it slow with The Paris Review Book: of Heartbreak, Madness, Sex, Love, Betrayal, Outsiders, Intoxication, War, Whimsy, Horrors, God, Death, Dinner, Baseball, ... and Everything Else in the World Since 1953. And before that, the Walter Isaacson book on Steve Jobs. The Isaacson pretty much flew by and quenched my curiosity about Apple, while The Review is setting off firecrackers.

Hence
my salivating
to actively rest
fingertips
on sensitive keys
and gentleness.

Ambient piano
stereophonic
on the Yamahas,
a duet of notes
and unicorns
vying for my paws.

Tap, tap, tap
the endless clicks,
an inner frenzy
of love
& happiness.

This is basically how all my blogs begin. Experiments conceived, contemplated, contrived, coddled, criticized, "and some more shit" as my beautiful friend in Harlem would say, and she meant it, with a subtle lean as she sucked the air straight out of her cheek. You could bet on it.

Literary fiction. When you say it like that it sounds rather—infinite. That's my genre, and it should read like Lorrie Moore, whose short story "Terrific Mother" made me swoon. So yeah, I'm looking for fiction, but I think I'll make a t-shirt first, just to be sure it's cool. Simple black cotton tee with letters in white:

I’m looking for fiction.

Folks will approach me when I'm wearing the minimalist couture and they'll say, "Hey, I'm not sure if it's fiction, but there was this one time …" And I'll listen while I frame the shot because you know I'll be hustling a photograph while they tell me all about it. I don't get out much. I'm a homebody. When I'm doing all that reading, I like to be comfy in my bed, laid back, feet up, with a single light focused on the page. But yeah, fiction in the streets. I'm wearing that mantra. And if I'm digging the story they tell me, I'll give them a homemade business card so they can get themselves a t-shirt, for free: because they gave me something to write about.

That's love.

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The House

I love the concept of an alternative gallery space. 

When I visited the Storehouse dispensary in Mount Washington back in March, I was inspired to see some art on the walls by several local artists. It wasn't always like this—art on the walls—but I was stoked about the new direction. Paintings and digital illustrations, very cool, but I didn't notice any photography. This felt like an opportunity, so I decided to track down the manager to see if they'd be interested in supporting a Woodberry photographer.

I had the perfect photo in mind, a mash-up of two images that I captured in the neighborhood of Locust Point and wrote about here. I thought the work—if displayed in a sweet maple frame—would compliment the rainbow signage in the lobby, which also had a stylish wood frame. And the thin white line separating my two photos would play nicely with the horizontal lines that underscored the sativa, the hybrid and the indica, which are varying strains of the cannabis flower. And for bonus points, a mash-up and a hybrid are kinda the same thing, the hybrid being a blend of sativa and indica.

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Hybrid | Baltimore, MD | 2023

The manager was excited, I was excited, everybody was excited. I only had one deadline to meet; make sure the mash-up was hanging in the lobby by July 1st, which was the first day recreational cannabis would be legal in Maryland.

Done. We hung that badboy on June 1st. 

The mash-up will live in The House indefinitely, or until it sells, or until I decide to replace it with something new. It's basically an ALT exhibition that I can have fun with, keep it funky, mix it up. 

There is a t-shirt you can buy at Atomic Books in Hampden that says, "Baltimore: Actually I like it." I'm digging that. But maybe an ALT tee would go something like, "Be: Art, Love & Trees." I know, I’m a hippie.

Find your happy home.

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Church

He finally woke up. 

The room was completely dark except for the playful prism pawing at his feet, advancing and retreating, the spirited rainbow daring his curious toes to wander just beyond the sheet. He was a legit, slow riser, and musing a friendly ghost was something he could do, forever, or until the sun went down. He was, without question—in no kinda rush. These were the little blessings he would preach. Finding those flecks of light in the fog: patience, magic and awe. But now wasn't the time for preaching. No sir, the bishop needed his coffee first, then he would wrestle the pen. He gave up the drink a few decades ago, but the dark roast?—not yet, and not tonight. The first sip was always the best, which inevitably inspired a heartfelt prayer of thanks, chased by gracious hands raised high in the sky. He sang nothing but sweet, heavenly praise. Amen! It was Friday and he had a sermon to write.

I first met the bishop about a year ago. A friend of mines said there was a cool after hours party on the boulevard. I was interested because I was a night owl and I liked to, mix it up, you know. When I entered—the church—which is what they called the joint, it was 2 am and I had no idea what to expect. I guess I was thinking weed, beers, whatevs. But when I heard a scratchy record of Miles Davis and saw folks in comfy chairs reading books and chatting about Michelle Obama, I felt—oddly at peace. Everyone casually acknowledged me as I hugged the wall and walked toward what appeared to be a small, dimly lit stage in the corner. The glances were welcoming and I felt like I was being measured, but in a respectful way. Slowly, the poets, the photographers, the musicians—they all introduced themselves. Then this grey haired dude in a very cool black suit, I think it was vintage, with a thin paisley tie? Fierce. Anyway, he slid up to me, and with soulful eyes, asked if I wanted a cup of chamomile tea.

"Chamomile?" I questioned.

"Yes, chamomile,” he said, so smooth.

"O-kay?" I said curiously.

He smiled, and walked away. When he returned, he told me I was late. Then he handed me a cup of freshly brewed tea in a rainbow unicorn mug.

"This is extraordinary," I raved, after one sip.

"My friend sends me flowers from Santa Barbara. And sometimes sage and lavender, when she can get it."

I took another swig. "So what did I miss?"

"What do you mean?" he replied with gentleness.

"You said I was late."

"Oh, yes. I was just playing. But for real though, my sermon is at midnight, straight up, every Friday night. And you missed it, no big deal. But it's open mic now. So if you have anything you want to share with us, just walk yourself up to that little stage in the corner and tell us all about it. We're good listeners. And we love you already."

I never missed another Friday after that.

Until today. I was in a major funk and I wasn't having it. The dark passenger was kicking my teeth and I was in no mood to hear a bunch a folk talking about this, that and another thing. Bye. I was leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again—attitude. But just as the John Denver song was tweaking my brain I walked past the church. I stood and stared down that faded front door. Blueberry grigio, that's the color he called it. Puts out calming energy he said. The bishop fancied himself a painter back in the day. But hold up. Dang it smelt good. Was that some kind of French roast? I could definitely use a cup of coffee right about now. So I banged on the grigio.

The bishop was startled and nearly spilt his precious brew. "Doors open at 11pm, come back later please.”

I heard his muffled words. I knocked again, louder.

After a series of unlocking clicks, the door slowly opened. The bishop took a long look at me and said, "Let me get you a fresh cup of coffee. Please come in. It's wonderful to see your face." As he prepared my chalice, I instinctively put on a record by The Staple Singer, because, that’s what we did in church. 

"I'm glad you came through," the bishop said. "Alas, I'm not feeling like myself today and I wanted to ask you a question."

I didn't say a word. I just looked at him. What kind of voodoo is he cooking up now?

"I was just getting ready to prepare my notes for tonight's sermon, but, I think I've been derailed. My mojo ain't right. I'm all bent out of shape, and … I could use some help. So, I'd like to ask you a favor if I could."

Now I was conflicted. This mother fucker. "Um, sure?" I said plaintively. 

"Well, I was wondering," and he paused to serve me my cup of coffee, which tasted like dark chocolate and cinnamon. So good. Full on sorcery. He studied my face in silence and continued, "Oh, I'm just not feeling it today. I must have woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I'm getting old and I have no more words. I hate for you to see me like this. Truly. Perhaps … well alright, I'll just say it." 

OMG, he was so dramatic. But the coffee was a miracle. Every sip a different flavor: cardamom, cherry, vanilla.

He gently pointed his finger at me and said, "You will write the sermon tonight." 

He finally asked the question. But it wasn't a question at all, it was like, he simply placed his pen directly into the palm of my hand. Absolute witchcraft. We sat at the kitchen table and savored the silence, the bishop lost in his cup, the pen remembering everything he taught me. I wrote without thinking. 

And then it was midnight. 

I preached about our favorite subjects that evening: love, perseverance and magic. And then someone put on a record. It was Aretha Franklin doing her thing, saying a little prayer for everybody while the bishop made his rounds, charming the house with that—chamomile.

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The Ponies

A few years ago I wrote about nostalgia, and in particular, my fond memories of going to Santa Anita in the late 1970s to bet on the ponies with my family on Christmas day. As far as I was concerned, this was living large, second to none, except for waking up and seeing a bunch of gifts under the Xmas tree. Shower me with riches, bitches! Yeah, I had me an attitude back in the day. I had dreams of being a macho man even though I was a super featherweight. But nah, I wasn't a fighter. I remember getting shoved to the ground while playing basketball in junior high. My head hit the asphalt so hard I was literally paralyzed for what felt like forever. But I kept pushing my skinny attitude on others which abruptly stopped after getting punched in the face by my kinda-but-not-really friend in high school. I'm glad he did that. I had it coming. So yeah, I dropped the tough guy act that sunny day in Los Angeles. But somehow I was still angry inside, always on the defensive. I had a short fuse because I was bullied from an early age. Kids made fun of my nose, which made me hate being around people. My dad felt so helpless the only thing he could think of was to get me one of them new fangled noses. Fix me up, change the way I looked. This all helped in the short term but over the years I suffered the consequences. But this is life; a lot of things have changed since then.

Now I live in the Woodberry neighborhood of Baltimore which is an hour's walk to Pimlico, famous for being the second leg of the Triple Crown—The Preakness. Horses have big noses too. Maybe that's why I love them so much. My nose is a mess these days; it's all kinds of misshapen and full of spider veins, the likely result of premature surgery, booze, genetics and way too much sun damage from my surfing days. I often wonder what I would look like if my appearance was never altered. I imagine I would have a nose similar to Adrian Brody or Owen Wilson, who are both beautiful. But I am beautiful too because I've come to realize that my soul is what matters most.

Why the long face? Sure, it's the butt of a corny ha-ha, but horses have the long face for a reason; it helps them graze the grassy fields while keeping alert for predators. I can relate. I still feel anxiety when I am around people, but this cautiousness has shaped my pictorial aesthetic—which rarely features another human being (or horse).

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A Day at the Races | Santa Anita, CA | 1990

In order to walk to Pimlico from Woodberry I had to cut through the neighborhood of Park Heights, which I recently documented here. When I explore a new area of Baltimore I typically take dozens upon dozens of photos. But Park Heights was different. I spent more time contemplating and less time composing. Park Heights was—once upon a time—a thriving community. But today, the neighborhood is largely impoverished and deteriorating, which are not my favorite conditions to photograph. So instead of taking pictures, I walked cautiously and thought about my relationship to horse racing, which like the community of Park Heights, has significantly changed throughout the years.

The last time I went to a racetrack was in 2011 when I took the A train to Aqueduct. But I didn't go there to bet on the ponies; I schlepped to Queens to make a short ambient video. A few years before Aqueduct, I visited Belmont Park. And before my decades of living in Manhattan, I frequented several tracks in California: Santa Anita, Los Alamitos, Fairplex and Del Mar. My handicapping consisted of buying a Racing Form and channeling Charles Bukowski. Sometimes I would hang around the paddock just to stare a horse in the eye before placing my favorite bet: $2 exacta box, three horses, $12 wager. But like most gamblers, I pretty much lost money on a consistent basis, which is one of the reasons I stopped going. If someone were to invite me to the Preakness, which is coming up on May 20th, I would respectfully decline the invitation, but I would delight in the memories of—back in the day. But the real reason I would stay home is my love for animals. I don't eat the cow and I think horse racing is just another form of abuse. Horses love to run; I'm cool with that. And many are treated with grace and dignity. But I also know that some horses are exploited and oppressed, which reminds me of the neighborhood of Park Heights—downtrodden just beyond the grandstand.

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Said No One Ever

this
of course
so there’s that 
checks all the boxes
right?
i get it
that being said
here’s the thing
how did that work out?
asking for a friend
you know what i mean?
you have no idea
wait for it
deep dive
is that a thing?
look
i can’t not
good luck with that
just saying
said no one ever

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