Music Soothes The Savage In Us, Releases The Primitive, Cages The Demons And Is The Memory We Can Always Count On

It is ironic what can make your heart bleed, isn’t it? For some people it is things that bring happiness and joy, for others, it is that which devastates and brings agony. Most of us are a combination of these things, however. For me, it is music. Music is that which does both for me. I have songs for virtually every mood I am in and the mood that I want to be in. What the music is isn’t so important to this as knowing there is a medium that conveys, nearly perfectly, everything you feel in life. Not everything, no, but enough to call it a majority by a landslide.

The plurality of the available options is staggering, even from the most modern artists. The farther back in time one goes the more exponential the number of things that can be conveyed. Or, and this is a thing that I think is wonderful beyond words, two people can listen to the same song and have diametrically opposite feelings towards it. You can hear me laughing over your weeping and you can see my sobs even as your skin crawls in ecstasy.

Words, while directly describing the feelings from time to time, are not a necessary element. Anyone who has ever listened to Adagio for Strings as arranged by Samuel Barber and felt it the way a great many do knows precisely what this means. Or when you are listening to the bass of the 1812 Overture as the cannons fire over and over or even when you hear the synthesized bass drops of Dubstep. Words may make it easier for things to be understood, but when you feel a song in the center of your soul, you will feel it whether or not it has words or not, I promise.


When I listen to Cry Baby by Janis Joplin, even as I type it in fact, I start to tear up because, of all the demons my mother had in her life, and they were nearly infinite, that woman had a phenomenal taste in music and she passed it to her children. Being the hippie of the family, the folk and acid jazz from the sixties were my birthright and it is one of the few things I can thank my mother for without shaking my head in pain or rolling my eyes with sarcasm. Now while every song in the ten years that were the sixties is not known to me of course, enough are that I can close my eyes and remember the scant memories of childhood that are not contaminated with the foulness of everyday life they were dispersed in.

Couples have songs that they call their own. Whether it is in a laughing way or a way that makes you nearly see their love for one another, they are foundational characteristics of the relationship. My own are near and dear to me and I will not name them, it is one of the few things I keep very safe in a very clean room in the back of my mind that I go and sit in at least once a day with my eyes closed and allow myself to remember and feel everything and anything that was Naomi. I cannot do it all day or else I would be nearly catatonic, but when I need to find respite, even for a moment when the world has told me I am a failure for the hundredth time that day, I think of that room and I crawl to it and listen to these songs and smile with a purity I do not deserve.

I did not forget the anger. Music is a very good conductor of this often misunderstood emotion. It is not good to be violent at all times nor is it healthy to be angry at all times. However there are times when you can release that anger into the world, sometimes even by putting the headphones a little tighter, turning up the music a little louder and letting all of your emotions flow as the music takes away from you the foulness that you do not need and have never deserved.

So I ask you, all of you, during this time when we are all, hopefully, distanced from one another physically to tell me your songs that are the balm for your soul if you are comfortable sharing them. Or, if you are not, then simply listen to one of them when you can and find yourself in your own clean room in your mind and heart remembering that which deserves to be remembered the very most.

I Am Definitely No Baz Luhrmann, Not By A Long Shot, Or A Billy Joel For That Matter

I turned forty the other day and, if I talk to you with any frequency, you know I was not a particular fan of this grand event. Don’t get me wrong, I am over it for the most part now and it sure as hell beats the alternative, right?

There is no wisdom I can convey to tell you how to be whatever emotion it is you want to be when you turn whatever age it is you are about to turn. I am here out of a combination of being arrested and going to jail, finding the right woman at last and dumb fucking luck. If you want to know how to do things, as someone who actually knows, or at least someone who would give you better guesses than I.

That is not to say I don’t have a few tips to get you from whatever number you are at to the next number you will be at. I am not going to bust into a rendition of Sunscreen or, for those of you old enough to appreciate it, We Didn’t Start The Fire.

So, in no particular order, here are the Bear’s Keys To Stuff and Things. ()

  • Drink a fuckton of water. If you need to lookup a fuckton, that is good, it means blind obedience isn’t your thing.
  • Don’t ever forget that even if you believe in reincarnation and know you will be back, this life is worth living to the fullest.
  • There is no such thing as a free anything.
  • Movie remakes are never better than the originals.
  • The books are always better if they came first.
  • Pizza is an art piece, use your imagination.
  • Sex feels good, so leave people alone who do it differently than you.
  • Hating people? Passe much bro?
  • Listen to scientists, the Horror movie industry got that right.
  • Lastly, and most importantly, love.

Yeah, it was stupid and cheesy and you know what, that is okay because I haven’t had a whole cup of coffee yet, so there.

The Mind Of An Introvert In Consensual, Non-Consensual, Social Isolation – Day The Tuesday

I had to go out today. Well, I mean, I didn’t but I did. I went to CVS with Terry to get prescriptions and while I was there I might have bought $40 worth of candy, that I then totally wiped down and sterilized as soon as I got home, then repeated the procedure on myself.

After this, if there is an after this, if I ever see a goddamn baby wipe that isn’t being used to wipe a fucking baby I am going to make it scream in pain like the ashen palms of my hands are screaming as we speak.

A weird sentence I know.

You will note the longer I am in the same house with my children I will become more and more prolific in my writing until a point where I cannot promise that food and water will be as important to me as the tactile orgasm of this little wireless keyboard I have sitting on top of the dead keyboard on this busted ass laptop.

I love my children and them being home is not the issue, not at all. Shit, if you know me at all you know I keep[ my Ducks home too much rather than the other way around. No, the issue is that it is all forced like this.

Now I am not saying we should leave the house, because fuck and that, #StayTheFuckHome.

No, I agree with all of the restrictions if it keeps my Ducks even the most minute amount safer during all of this. Yes, it is inconvenient and annoying to everyone. Yes, I know we are in an economic tailspin, but how are we supposed to be not those things if enough of us get this thing where it is 30, 40, 50 percent unemployment for two decades until the age gap closes again?

I am drinking too much coffee, emotionally eating way too much food and going to bed too late and not getting a lick of sleep until way too early in the morning. It makes for long days, trying days, annoying days.

However, I, like many of you, know someone who has to work in all of this chaos. I know nurses who I cannot imagine are anything short of both terrified and fucking superheroes. Mothers who are so scared they are brave, fathers who are trying everything they can to assuage fears they feel just as strongly.

It can always get fucking worse.

Or, if you are of a slightly Jesus tilt, just remember the old adage. “There but for the Grace of God, go I.” Savor the sweet moments, be strong through the roughest waves, be kind and compassionate to those who do not have the ability to sit at home and work and, most importantly.

Remember this was, at least in part, avoidable and get your ass out to the polls in November, even if you do have to be six feet apart still.

Three Years and Ninety-Six Minutes Now That I Think About It For A Second

I have been sitting here a few days and for the life of me, I cannot seem to get the creative juices flowing when I sit down to write, even though I have a story in my head I am pretty sure wants to come out. I will be patient though, forcing the issues just produces a mediocre product that I would be ashamed to let anyone see anyway. Thankfully, this is me and I always have something to talk about, ESPECIALLY when I have nothing to talk about at all.

I am pretty sure you all know I have a baby brother. Well, he is 37 now, but you get the point. I am also fairly certain that y’all know that he and I share the same birthday, last Monday, the 2nd, three years and ninety or so minutes apart.

This is not going to be a rant about things that I thought about ranting about. No, we each walk our path and hopefully, we will find a grassy spot to meet one day. Until then, I want to tell you a story about him. Not one of those embarrassing ones that I am obligated to tell, nor is it one that shines any other light on him than the best. It was simply a thing that occurred to me this morning and I want to talk about it.

Andy, my brother, was put in a tough spot after my dad died. I mean, talk about emotionally devastating for the kid. He was next door at a neighbors house when it happened and I made, not my mother and I as she often told him, the decision to keep him as far in the dark about my father’s worsening conditioning in the months, weeks, and days leading up to his death a few days short of our 18th and 15th birthdays.

He had to grow up almost instantaneously, or as much as a fifteen-year-old is expected to, and do things that no one his age should ever have to do. He sat there strong and powerful the day or the service, he was respectful and kind to everyone who gave their condolences. He waited the agonizing three months until the ground thawed enough, hurray for Western New York, for us to lay him to rest.

I think that is when we went down our divergent roads. I lost myself in writing and the internet after and he found friends and music and tried to fill his life with constant noise to drown out the things that whisper in your head in the dark of the night.

He did so well at it too. I failed fantastically on multiple occasions, but Andy always seemed to hold it together when he needed to and I was so very proud of him for that.

After mom died nearly a decade later, we were essentially strangers. He lived in Kansas and Naomi, the kids, and I were in New York. We didn’t keep in touch at all really, it was just one of those things that I think I assumed he would end eventually.

It simply didn’t happen that way, not that way at all.

I can count on my fingers, with some to spare, the number of times I have heard my brother’s voice in the half-decade since Naomi died. It doesn’t hurt. I suppose it did at the beginning, but it was wrapped in so many other pains I just dealt with it all at once and learned to live the life I needed to with my Ducks and My Tribe.

That’s it, I think I have anted to say a version of all of that for a very long time and I am glad I got it out. It was not a sad or angry thing to write, just a thing that needed to be laid to rest at very long last.


Love May Be A Four Letter Word, But Not That Kind

With only a very small handful of exceptions, every one of my closest and dearest friends is a woman. This has been the case for the majority of my life. I am sure you can say I gravitate towards women because I need a positive female influence when I had none growing up, but at the end of the day, I feel safer, happier, and more of a complete human being when I have those who identify as women in my life.

I try to tell the women in my life who are comfortable hearing it that I love them every day. I know that might sound odd to a lot of you, but I know from experience that you never know what is going to happen and you should tell your people that you love and you care for them as often as you can. You should tell them you appreciate and cherish them as often as you can because not only is it the right thing to do, it is a thing that you will regret not doing one day, I guarantee you this.

I can get very annoying with it, I am very well aware. I say it after I argue with someone, I say it after I have to rebuke my children, hell I think I tell my cat I love her a lot. There just never, to me personally, is a bad time to tell a human being that you have that level with that you love them.

It is Monday, a week after I turned forty years old with blessedly little fanfare for the occasion. I have to go to the store and buy food, I get to go out into the sun that, for reasons I am still computing I am very happy to see today and, most importantly, I get to write this and hopefully the little story idea that I have been chewing on the last few days that I hope I can make a thing and get my creativity started to where I want it to be again.
Writing about the current medical climate occurred to me until I remembered two very important pieces of information.

First, I know nothing about medicine, virology, epidemiology or anything that could have any insightful information on what is going on right now. I leave science to the scientists and I try to make them smile when I get a chance to with jokes and very bad flirtatious overtures.

Second and most importantly, I have a habit of going to very dark places when I write and I am of the opinion that doing that right now is kind of stupid in relation to medical things, so unless it is a plague that only affects vampires, or a rot from within only the truly Fae can experience, you will have my silence on the matter and nothing more.
I have no advice, no homespun hippie awesome things, I am just Bear, and Bear is not a man of letters that are attached to words longer than some books.

So, until next time my Gentle Readers, know that I do indeed love you all and I will make sure to maybe actually write some things this week so all of you will know that I still have what it is that you all I say that I have, or at least I will try my best to do that thing.