Kirtan No More

I last played Kirtan with Shankara / West Hartford Yoga back in December 2012. It was my last with the group. We had some internal group dynamic stuff going on (the percussionists left the ensemble immediately after that kirtan) and I also had some personal stuff going on - was not 100% happy with the direction of the group (I'm not a big fan of guru-worship, and the altars were getting higher and higher) and I was finding myself so emotionally and spiritually drained following a kirtan that I was physically wrecked for 2-3 days following.


Bottom line: I was giving a lot more than I was receiving, I was becoming resentful of that, and I was not really that invested in the whole thing. It was time to step back. I left on good terms, and have volunteered to set-up and run the sound system for upcoming kirtan events.

Shankara has gathered a new group of musicians, and is getting ready for a Kirtan on October 12. You can keep track of the group on Facebook, here.




It was way back in 2007 that I stepped shyly to Shankara and mentioned that I played guitar "just in case you need someone" - we've had a long and fruitful musical relationship, and it re-awakened my own musical passion that eventually evolved to coming back to the bass and joining the Guinea Pigs. But it was time to move on. Hopefully, Shankara has benefited with renewed energy and ideas from his new ensemble. I'm still trying to figure out what is next in my life - and stepping back from kirtan was one place I'm "making space" for something new.....

Durable Goods

The last time I purchased a canister vacuum cleaner was 1983. I was fresh out of school and with my sears charge card in hand I stocked up on the essentials, including a Kenmore vacuum with a power adapter. It's gone with me through 3 apartments, two houses, and a condo. The power adapter died long ago, the metal extension has disappeared, and the hose is mostly duct tape (and not easily or cheaply replaced).

It's survival all these years is probably a combination of Kenmore quality and my own rather lax standards in terms of cleaning, although it has cleaned up after 4 or 5 dogs over the years. 


I've only used it for the stairs in recent years, and 1980's tech is no longer light (or perhaps my 50 year old arms and shoulders are less amenable to hauling it up and down) So tonight I decided to pick up something new.

First stop PC Richard's, where I looked at what was there (quite a bit) and waited around for someone to wait on me (nobody came) so I wandered over to Target (not much, and what they had was not really that good quality) and Best Buy (too pricey for my tastes).

So back to PC Richard's where a gentleman showed up to sell me a vacuum. They had some really decent prices on larger units (similar to my old one, with a power adapter) but, remembering that I only use it for stairs, I opted for a  Dirt Devil FeatherLite Cyclonic Canister Vacuum which was priced at $99 (totally cool with that) - but when it came time to ring it up, it was on sale for $60.

It's a pretty decent unit, 10 Amp motor, bagless dust canister, HEPA filter. I doubt it will last 30 years like my old one did. But I paid a lot more (in 1980's dollars) for that old guy. And besides, I'm not 100% sure I have 30 years left myself.....

Cleaned the stairs tonight, both sets. Works like a champ!

And the old soldier - off to a Craigslist Free Stuff listing. Someone can probably make use of it, for parts or for a basement or something.

RIP Steve Jobs

In retrospect, not a surprise. Steve's fight with cancer has been much discussed, and his step back from Apple was as much a portent as anything. But still, a bit of a shock and some unexpected sadness as I learned the news last night, while poking around Facebook on my iPad.

I'm an apple-come-lately kind of girl myself. As a techie I've been PC savvy since the early days - cutting my teeth on an HP workstation (something like a glorified calculator with a full keyboard, tiny CRT, and HP-Basic), then graduating to office PCs. I've dabbled in CP/M. But mostly I've grown up along the IBM / DOS / PC / Windows channel because so much of my professional software and applications were PC-only.

Also, as a notorious skinflint, a MAC was just never within reach.

As a musician, one might think that the iPod might have caught my attention. But I've never been much of an earbud person, preferring live music, the car (where CDs are perfectly serviceable) and the home as listening environments, and NPR to music most of the time anyway.

That all changed with the iPhone. I was charmed by the original iPhone but it was still a bit pricey. When the iPod Touch came out, however, I bit. My love affair was short-lived; I left the touch on the back of a vehicle while ballooning and drove off; it was never found. But I was hooked, and it was not long before I traded up to an iPhone 3G.

And last spring, as I turned to corner at 50, I treated myself to an iPad which has remained a favorite tool/toy.

Steve was my generation, my people. The Apple II came out when I was in college, a few of the more well off and geekier engineering students had them in the dorm. I remember marveling at early versions of flight simulator. Steve and Woz and Apple were protoypes of what an engineer could do with his/her life. So to lose him, relatively young and inordinantly privileged, demonstrates that we are all slaves to time and the capriciousness of health and vitality; technology, health care, none of it can save us.

Thanks for the tools and the toys, Steve. Thanks for the changes your visions have wrought on this world. Hopefully you've planted enough seeds and infected enough of us to carry your work into the future.

RIP Bill Morrissey

While in the merchandise trailer at Falcon Ridge on Saturday, I got the news - Bill Morrissey had passed away. Such sad news, especially when contrasted with the joyful folk community underway in Hillsdale - many artists mentioned Bill during their sets. It's going to take me a few days to come down from the Falcon Ridge high to start to process Bill's death.

Others have written more and better tributes; you can find some links on a fansite as well as a short blurb on Bill's site. I've been a fan for over two decades; having heard Handsome Molly on a Legacy compilation. After listening for many years, I got to see him play live, and was surprised at such a deep voice coming from such a slight man. I own a handful of Bill's albums (North, Standing Eight, Inside, Night Train, You'll Never Get to Heaven), and have always been struck by his portrayal of working class New England, and his bittersweet songs about relationships. But I have to say that Friend of Mine, a collaboration with Greg Brown, remains a favorite. Just two good friends, sitting around with a couple of guitars and trading licks, verses, and laughs.

As I unwound from the folk fest, I put five of Bill's CDs that I own into the CD player. The very first notes of Pantherville brought me back to the early 90's - I covered that tune at open mics for a while. Married Man is both hopeful and tickles the funny bone. Handsome Molly, the first song to draw me in; think that's Suzanne Vega on backing vocals. These Cold Fingers - a darker song foretelling perhaps some of his personal struggles. Off-White is another beautiful relationship song, kind of reminds me of David Mallett's "I've Been Around."

Night Train features Birches, one of my favorite songs about relationship - the metaphors and imagery are so beautiful. And on that album, the sad (right now) Letter from Heaven and Time To Go Home

All in all it's amazing how little the quality and tone of his songs changed from the earlier CDs to the later ones. he got a little darker, a little more serious, but one could drop a random song from the earlier days into the later albums and it would not be that out of place.

This year, Falcon Ridge featured a tribute to Jack Hardy who also passed away this year. Folk music has lost a couple of good ones. So it was so sweet to rub elbows with and lend my ears to those still with us - John Gorka, Greg Brown, Eliza Gilkyson, Lucy Kaplansky, Mary Gauthier, so many more.....

Elements Bistro - RIP

Drove by Elements Bistro on New Britain Avenue the other day to find paper on the windows and a hand scrawled message - NEW RESTAURANT COMING SOON.

Stopping by the Elements webpage, the note:

Elements Bistro has closed it’s doors for business. A combination of a bad economy, bad weather, pending reconstruction along New Britain Avenue, as well as competing with the Center and Blue Back was more than we could manage any longer.

For those of you that have unused gift cards, please email elementsbistrowesthartford@gmail.com, we will do our best to take care of you as soon as possible.

From all of the staff at Elements, we want to thank you for your patronage, support and mostly your friendship. Remember when one door closes, another door opens!

Kind of sad - was a good place, and a nice alternative to Tapas or Corner Pug in that end of town. Elmwood seems to be on the verge of something - with the new Stop n' Shop, the relocated Crazy Bruce's, the spiffed up CVS, and the new location of West Hartford Yoga. Too bad Element's could not hang in there. Hopefully something new and interesting will take advantage of the space.

2nd Annual Santa Flight in Memory of Mike Bollea

Eleven hot air balloons rose from the back lot of Southington's Aquaturf Club this morning. The CT Lighter than Air Society (CLAS) sponsored a holiday balloon rally in memory of Mike Bollea, who passed away in March 2009.

Each year in December, Mike would don a Santa suit and fly his balloon, he and his crew handing out candy canes to the kids they encountered on their flight. In his honor, we recreated his flight this morning.

Most of us wore hats and festive garb, although we did manage to field two Santas and one Mrs. Claus. It was a beautiful day to fly, with most pilots heading northeast toward Camp Slopers and Timberlin Golf Course.

After the flight, a toast to our friend Mike, and a meet-up at the Plantsville truck stop for breakfast (not exactly haute cuisine, but a big enough space for the 30 or so pilots and crew)

At left, student pilot Kristen on the burner, initial ascent. Kristen bought a small basket a while back, with room for just two passengers. The propane tanks are suspended outside the basket, and the burner is affixed to a ring connected via cables and carabieners.








Below, the Berkshire Balloons team - pilot in training Kristen, pilot Robert, and crew Jude. The most entertaining balloon team in the state, bar none!

Fully Unexpected

Finished up my last yoga class tonight in Bristol. I've been teaching an adult ed class - six week series, one hour classes, in an elementary school gym.

To be honest, it's a difficult class to teach. The space is a big gym that has been, until recently, pretty cold. If the heat does come on (fairly random) then the blowers are loud and it's hard to teach over them. The overhead lights have two levels - full blast or off. The class tends to spread out to the far corners of the room. And it's just an hour - difficult to get a full practice in when one is used to 75 - 90 minute sessions. I put classes together, I teach, but it's often hard to really feel like I am bringing it....

And yet....this evening as I finished up I got a hug from one student who said her practice has really grown this past year. Another was thrilled to get into an inversion. I left feeling I was doing a decent job, making a difference.

An unexpected bit of affirmation and inspiration. Was on the fence about taking on this class next year, but now.....I think I'm going to re-enlist....

Dad

Mom sent an email last night. "APRIL 19 IS DAD'S ANNIVERSARY. PLEASE SAY A PRAYER! LOVE, MOM" - I so often forget, although I often hit a bit of a sad spot this time of year.

April 19, 1979, my father, William Joseph Russell, passed away. He was at (then named) Framingham Union Hospital, in the midst of an angioplasty attempting to repair a heart damaged by a series of heart attacks. He was not yet 45; missing his birthday by a few days - I'm older now than he ever was; if one were to believe in a corporal afterlife where one retained ones age at death, my dad would be my junior when next we met....

It is perhaps indicative of where we were at the time that none of us were at the hospital - Dad had been in and out of the hospital repeatedly over the past year or so; my sister and I had grown used to stopping by to see him after high school (right now the block from the hospital) and later finding him puttering around the house as he recovered. On some level, his infirmity had become an annoyance; we wanted to ignore it and hope it would clear up, and let us get back to our lives. So on some level, this procedure and his passing were just one more thing in a slow but seemingly inevitable slide that we had grown accustomed to.

I remember driving the family in his 1973 AMC Hornet to the hospital to see him - as the eldest child who had just turned 18 myself, I suddenly assumed a heavy mantle of family responsibility; Mom seemed in no condition to drive. At the hospital, I went in to see him; not sure if they kept him alive via machines until we got there or not, but it was clear that he was gone. I had learned well his lessons regarding torquing down on my emotions, and I did not cry even as I stood over my father's lifeless body.

I don't remember a whole lot about the next few days. I remember a little black humor with my family at the funeral home regarding caskets (Dad wouldn't want something too ostentatious, dad won't care, that sort of thing); I remember tucking a guitar pick into Dad's suit pocket; thanking him for my music. I remember a reception following the funeral at the house; not quite an irish wake but with some lightness and spirit. At my graduation a month or so later, mom presented me with a typewriter that she and dad had picked out together.

Not too long afterwards, I left for college, beginning the slow pulling away from family. My brother took over my bedroom soon thereafter and I slept on the couch or an empty bunk bed when I came home for vacations and summer. I kind of missed the mourning and getting used to a house with one less person in it. My family got a dog soon thereafter - Kyla was a mix of Coyote, Labrador, and Samoyed, she was a companion, protector, and friend - and came to live with me in CT in her dotage. I was with her when she died....

Dad has been in my mind to a greater and lesser extent over the years. I think we miss him most at those times of ceremony and ritual - holidays, graduations, weddings, births. Mom has watched over us kids in the years since - at this point she has lived as a single mother and widow much longer than she lived with her husband.

I certainly I have danced with his ghost in my therapy, on the mat, at various retreats, workshops, and ceremonies. I have moved from numbness to anger to grief; from resentment to pity. For many years I assumed I might follow his lead and expected an early death; my various transformations and personal growth has effaced that surety; I feel like I have a lot of life ahead of me. Death has not touched me much in the years since; having taken Dad, the reaper has been mostly silent these many years save for grandparents and an aunt.

Rest in peace, Dad. Miss you and love you. Not sure I have a prayer today, but you remain in memory; tears have been shed.

His Name Was Anthony

Stopped by the old house this afternoon to say hi to Zippy, to find out that there had been a fire in the old neighborhood. Down at the far end of the street, a man in his 50s died of smoke inhalation. The fire was extinguished quickly, although it severely damaged the house; the first foor bedroom collapsed into the basement.

I never formally met Anthony Varjabedian; although we had a passing acquaintance. He was often sitting outside his home, or working outside as I drove past on my way to the office. In the summer, Zippy and I would walk the dogs past his house, or I'd ride my bike or scooter past, and he'd wave in the way that neighbors will. We never spoke, except for perhaps a quick hello. (Edit: and reading through some of the news reports, he was apparently disabled / mute. So of course we never spoke.....) It is only now that I know his name.

Not sure why but this unexpected death has hit me a little hard. One day here, one day gone. I wonder of the story of his life. Did he ever marry? Did he ever love? How did he come to live alone? And how did our lives come as close as to wave, but not close enough to intersect, to introduce ourselves?

Strange world we all live in.....

Peter Anthony is Leaving

Allow me to reminisce about my friend Peter Anthony, on the cusp of his departure for his homeland of Australia.

I met Peter back around 1990. Coming off a separation, I had started to venture out to an open mike in Bristol, held at a charming dive called "The Common Ground". Sunday nght was folk night (I saw folks like Dar Williams, The Nields, and Aztec Two Step) and Monday nights, Jon Lewis ran an open mike. I'd show up, perform a few songs (mostly covers, although I wrote a couple myself), drink a few pints, and play pool on a ridiculous bar table (small, with all sorts of walls and poles to interfere with shots) as I listened to the other musicians. It was a friendly place albeit a bit rough around the edges; we musicians all came to know each other and watch out for each other amidst the regulars. One of the other musicians was Peter Anthony.

Never could quite figure out Peter. When he first started, he played a beat up guitar held together with duct tape. Perhaps I imagined this but it often seemed to be missing a string or two. His playing did not seem to suffer - Peter could drag more emotion and energy out of a single guitar string than anyone I've met. He'd wander around the stage and one worried he might fall off the stage in a bit of instrumental reverie. If he was sans guitar, he would borrow one, and I occasionally worried about my guitar coming back to me in one piece (it always did).

Peter was Australian, and would occasionally be introduced as the Aussie Bob Dylan. In truth, he was somewhere in the mold of Paul Kelly, Billy Bragg, perhaps a little Richard Thompson.

Peter wrote, or perhaps reworked, some amazing songs. I say reworked because he'd often lead in with "This is a Paul Kelly song that I changed the words, and the music, to" so one was never quite sure of a song's provenance. "One More Boring Thursday Night in Adelaide" was Peter's masterpiece - we'd call for it as a closer to his set. A rollicking anthem, (think Springsteen's Jungleland, but more colorful). "The Shots are Getting Bigger" was, to my mind, the best drinking song ever written by a person who does not imbibe. "Begger on the Street of Love" would make one weep into one's pint glass. "Reckless" was just plain beautiful. "Pouring Petrol on a Burning Man" made one want to stomp feet and play conga's on the table. I am sure there are others (newer songs, less ingrained into my head) - he had quite the canon.

Over the years, I've connected with Peter at various acoustic music venues and open mikes. The Common Ground closed, and the open mike moved down to The Chunky Tomato for a time. The late Equinox Cafe (think that was the name, it's been years) in Manchester. Klekolo's in Middletown. Roaring Brook Nature Center. There were others. Peter would disappear for a while (and I did my own share of disappearing) and then I'd get a call or an email about a gig, and I'd go and listen.

Peter was, and is, a bit of an enigma - I think he'd concur, and proudly. He's been a copy editor at Forbes (ironic, given how politically left he seems), edited the Hartford Business Journal, a chef, a waiter. He has a rainbow flag tattoo on his inner arm. He carries a somewhat rumpled, tattered affect of someone who has perhaps slept in his clothes, or maybe just could not be bothered to fold them after laundering, and is too fond of that old flannel shirt to let a bit of wear and a few holes preclude putting it on. A rogue, a poet, a wise fool, a kind heart. Peter is all those things.

Peter's heading home, to Australia. He's had the bad fortune to come down with some chronic health issues, in a country with no real safety net or health system. So he's heading back home. Ironic that in the 21st century, the folk musicians are emigrating away from this "land of opportunity" - in years gone by the tale of a young lad or lass heading to America to escape famine and poverty became the stuff of folk music.

I'm hopefully getting together with Peter tomorrow morning - one last time. Perhaps the last time I will see him; Australia is a helluva long way from Connecticut, and neither of us has a lot of traveling left in us. But you never know.....

Peter has touched my life with his music, his smile, his impish nature, his fragility. Even though I only see him now and then, I'll miss him. And though I've lost family members and friends; it has been many years since I've said goodbye. I imagine I have many good-byes ahead of me as family and friends begin to age; this seems like the opening shot in the long good-bye.

A few tears then, for an old friend.