To a deluxe URL in the sky!
Join me at my new address: http://www.stumblingthroughazeroth.com
To a deluxe URL in the sky!
Join me at my new address: http://www.stumblingthroughazeroth.com
That NAF video stuck with me, and I began to use it whenever things were getting on top of me. I began to listen to R. Carlos Nakai and Mary Youngblood. I began to watch some of the NAF YouTubers out there, like Allen Bruce Ray, Christopher Ciccone and Charlie Mato-Toyela. Please do click the links and check out their videos. These gentlemen take the time to answer questions and respond to their comments, which to me is a sign of respect for their audience, something that seems to be the rule rather than the exception in the NAF community.
As the months went on, I became more and more interested in this instrument, but a part of me nagged, “Oh yay–another instrument. How long on this one? I give it a month.” The stress management aspect really drew me in. I found it hard to imagine a flute player freaking out about anything. Or listening to the demotivational coach in their heads.
(Yes, I could say “flautist” or “flutist”, but flautist sounds very classical and starched, like a symphony tux. And flutist sounds like a superlative adjective, indicating that something has reached peak flute: “This all-piccolo orchestra is the flutist.” Flautist will henceforth describe someone who makes flautas–end of discussion.)
I found out about a powwow happening in my old hometown, so I thought that I might be able to at least meet the instrument, shake hands, and see if we get along. Andy wanted to come along, and I thought it would be a quite good bonding thing and a way to introduce him to native cultures. After a long car ride (by his standards), and a few tense minutes of wondering if I might actually be lost in the county I grew up in, we made it to the campground and paid our admission.
As luck would have it, there was a gentlemen selling flutes. I remember he was an older man, friendly, and his flutes were organized highest to lowest (and of course most expensive), but his gear topped out at about 65 clams, which I now know in the NAF world is super affordable. I was a bit intimidated, so I picked up the cheapest one he had, which turned out to be this very unassuming high C:
As I picked it up, he said, “There isn’t a right or wrong way to play it. You just get on it and go.” This struck me as odd. I expected him to say something like, “It takes years to develop any skill on this,” or at least “Practice makes perfect.”At the time my research hadn’t gone into the philosophy of playing an NAF.
I’d love to tell you that the first notes were where I fell in love, but that’s not what happened. At the time, it sounded like a wooden recorder, which is not bad at all, but I really didn’t know what I was holding. His other, deeper flutes had more ornate totems, combinations of woods, and higher pricetags, but I figured that 30 dollars wouldn’t put me in too deep, and I was supporting a small business, so why not?
I thanked the vendor and left the stall to think about the purchase. We wandered around, tuning in and out to the tribal dances behind us. Andy bought some agate at one stall, and he was fascinated by the flint knapper and the deer hides he had hung up. Before we left, I went back by and bought the little flute I had tried out. As we left, Andy turned to the powwow and said in that carrying voice that only kids have, “Bye bye, Indians!” I hurried him to the car amidst smiles and chuckles from the assembled tribespeople.
So the flute came home and made itself ready to mend my bruised and battered soul–and spent a lot of time alone on my computer table. I would toot on it a bit and then let it sit. I sensed it had secrets to unlock, but I just didn’t know how to get at them. I think what initially put me off was its high tone. I find instruments in the high registers rather annoying, and I assume others do to,which is most likely my imagination. It took other flutes to bring me around to my first.
Today, we’re quite happy together. I’m learning how to make a high instrument work, how to put together improvisations that it likes. This little guy motly sounds happy to me, but he can sound lonely too, especially when I imagine myself sitting on the desert floor in an Arizona canyon, with high, cold stars wheeling over my head, and the blank nothing of a mountain gaping nearby.
This brings me to my sub-project. I’ve reached a point where I want to make a contribution to the musical conversation out there. Writing about flutes can only take that so far; I need to go out on a limb and start playing, and I feel that the flute community would be an excellent place to do so because of its kind and supportive nature. I’ve decided to make a short video for my flutes and let you really hear what each one is like.
But after doing some preliminary videos, just stuff around the house, I’ve discovered that I can’t make a video that I appear in. I just can’t. It doesn’t look right to me because I hate seeing myself on video. So the audio you hear is indeed my playing, and is indeed the flute describe above, but the video are some images from my own archives. All the sound and video work was done with free apps, and the quality probably isn’t what it ought to be, but hell, I’m trying, and that’s what matters. I hope you enjoy it.
Most of my life, I’ve had things. Other people call them hobbies or obsessions, but probably the best description in my case is a thing. When I was in college it was music and playing bass. Lately, it’s been WoW and gardening. With these it’s very hard to trace where they began. I’ve always loved video games, gardening and music, and the beginnings of those loves are lost in my own pre-history. But with my newest thing I want to try to trace the very beginning of it all right here, and follow its evolution as it happens. It’s my new project, and I like projects.
It started last summer while grading. I hate grading papers. I would rather grade 100 exams than papers. For those of you who thought that your teachers loved grading papers, let me pop that illusion right now. Real teachers like teaching, getting in the classroom and making you smarter. Evaluating you is just part of the gig. Grading papers is to English teachers what the act of emptying the catbox is to indoor cat owners. While it’s not our favorite thing to do, it is a necessary byproduct that can’t be ignored. And if it is your favorite thing to do, you’re just fucking creepy.
Anyway, I was getting less and less motivated to keep plowing though the latest intellectual abortion to cross my desk, so I went into YouTube to find my favorite ambient meditation video. After it finished playing, I saw this lovely green forest image in the suggested videos, so I gave it a click.
The flute I heard was more soothing than anything I’d ever encountered before, and staring at that lovely emerald image calmed me down and helped me focus and get through the mental colonoscopy of grading my 26th paper about Poe. Not even Enya can smooth me over like flute music. Give it a listen, and you’ll agree it’s not like the European idea of a transverse flute or recorder. There’s something to this, something deep and ancient and spiritual.
This got me interested in Native American flutes (NAFs) in general. I started reading about what simple instruments they are, how easy they are to play, and how they’re being used to help people with anxiety, PTSD and traumas. I also noticed how different the YouTube comments for NAF players were. They were all supportive and very positive, not the normal hate faucet you see splattering all over even the most universally agreeable videos. Then I started wanting one. You see, I’ve spent my entire life wandering from instrument to instrument, from bass to recorders to Irish whistles, looking for the one that I can pick up and be a god on in ten seconds or less. Strangely, my search has yet to yield such an instrument.
For instance, I always sort of wanted to learn piano, but it’s so intimidating, both in expense and instruction time. I have images of sauntering over to tickle the ivories at a party and get the crowd going with “Tiny Dancer”, but that doesn’t come easily. It usually means being the victim of a piano teacher who somehow escaped Nuremberg, who corrects my posture with a cattle prod and screams, “Now play!” After two years I’ll be able to stumble through “The Wheels on the Bus” like a drunk toddler, and I’ll hate myself for my lack of commitment and failure to meet my impossibly-high goals. Bloody hell, I can get a gym membership for far cheaper and get the same end result.
But the NAF is different. Granted, my untutored fumblings with recorders and tin whistles laid a groundwork, but this really is an instrument you just pick up and go with. If you’re playing from the heart, you’re doing it right.
So that’s how my interest started. My next post will be the next step down the road to a new thing.
So, I got into the beta, as part of the WoW veterans group. It’s about time that playing since before Sunwell got me somewhere.
It’s fun, really. My level 91 copied character got wiped in the last patch, so I’ve been piddling around with a premade 100 DK. I’m having tremendous fun riding around on mounts I’ll never, ever be cool/lucky/time travely enough to own on live. And looking for bugs, rigorously testing quests and dungeons, and other essential tasks, trust me. But this riveting info isn’t why I’m writing. I think I’ve stumbled onto something rather big.
Much has been made recently of flying in Draenor: will we ever be able to, if so, then when, etc. About a week ago, I was in Flight Form in Stormwind on the beta server, and after speaking to the giant Khadgar, I was ported to the ship event and put into humanoid form. I spoke to less-impressively-statured Khadgar, and the cinematic rolled, and I was deposited in Shadowmoon Valley–in Flight Form.
So I began flying. Screenshots or it didn’t happen, you say?
Now, this suggests that even if Blizz doesn’t allow flying, the capacity to do so is there. They’ve designed Draenor with the option to fly in mind, which is very heartening for those who love to fly and who spent all that money to get out there into the wild blue yonder and break the sound barrier. Not that I really care on way or t’other; being grounded doesn’t bother me, as it puts everyone on more equal footing when farming for ore and herbs or trying to complete quests.
Has anyone else seen this phenomenon? If so, let me know in the comments.
A few weeks ago, I found myself at McIntosh Reserve, one of the best-kept secrets in my area. In spring, it’s a simply gorgeous place, with cool, quiet camping sites right near the river, trees in every shade of green imaginable, and Atamasco lilies blooming at Council Bluff. It’s one of those places that has a spirit, and I can feel that spirit best when the weather is warm. It’s the kind of place that gives me a hug when I get out of the car. Crowds usually aren’t too bad there, either.
No, wait. Forget everything I just said. It’s a crappy place, full of poison ivy and hawk turds plummeting from the sky. Yeah, don’t go there. Ever. Stay away.
One of the simple pleasures I indulge in while at the Reserve is hiking, running, and strolling “soles out,” as it were. I’ve been on the trails, along the camping areas, and recently on a couch-to-5K run in the large field adjacent to the river, all barefoot. And I loved every minute of it.
Something happens, something simple and old and charming, that I can’t get if I’m not touching the ground. It’s hard for me to be mean or too far into my head when I’m standing there, between earth and sky. I feel small, among the huge oaks and stones of the reserve. Not small in a bad way, small in the sense of being in my place in the world, in that environment. I feel…natural.
Instead of pushing nature away with walls and screens and wifi, I’m part of it. I hesitate to use the term “earthing”; I’m not sure that I’m ready to venture down that free-market-granola-strewn path just yet. When you talk about conducting magical electric earth energy, people look at you strangely, even more strangely than they did when they inevitably noticed that you aren’t wearing shoes. I will say, however, that after I run barefoot, there’s this quite pleasant electric sensation from my knees down, like the muscles are happy or something.
Going barefoot is a quite nice cure for excessive introspection. One thing that you’ll notice is that you, well, notice more. It’s as if all your senses, not just touch, come to life, and suddenly you’re aware of the path in front of you. You’re evaluating how to negotiate that patch of gravel, or the particularly treacherous mud slick up ahead, the one that could make you perform an impromptu split if you’re not careful.
I hear you saying, “But what if I step in something gross or dirty?” If you step in something, be assured: you will die. You will fucking die. That’s been proven by science. Legions of our ancestors perished from dirt exposure, and you are no different. Same goes for your kids. If they get outside dirt on them, they’ll explode, right after looking at you with big, dewy eyes that silently scream, “Why did you let this happen to me?” Then boom. Kidfetti floating mournfully to the ground. I know it’s true, because the TV, the Playstation, and the superfattygreasy kid foods told me so.
Barefooting requires you to assess the terrain in front of you rather than literally roflstomping it while your mind grinds over the same bullshit it always does when you don’t have a screen going bippy-bip-bip in your face. You can’t think about your bills, your ex, your deadlines, or when you think you’re gonna die. You have to be there, present and in the moment. Think of it as cheap and easy Zen.
After a day like that, as I swing in my hammock down by the river and gaze up into the branches, I often find myself thinking, “Wouldn’t it be great if it could be like this all the time?”
I’d love to go barefoot everywhere, especially in weather like we have here right now. I desperately wish I were one of those people who truly does not give a rainbow-colored shit about what people think, but I’m not. I remember I have restrooms and nuclear-hot parking lots to negotiate today, so I slip my Crocs on and head out, knowing I’ll joyfully kick them off in the car, but also knowing I’ll dutifully put them back on for that trip into the drug store. Would I love it if I could wake up in the morning, get dressed, and step happily out my front door and run all of my day’s errands sans footwear, and not have anybody raise an eyebrow? Absolutely!
Some people find feet ugly or offensive. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that I grew appendages for the appraisal and consumption of the general public. You don’t want to see my feet? Well, I don’t necessarily want to run my eyes over your cottage cheesy thighs, or your husband’s hairy, bulging, exposed gut, or your grey roots that have grown out to the point that you look like a German shepherd. Or your face, which ain’t no oil painting.
But I have the civility to keep my mild distaste to myself, and not comment. People will go out of their way to tell someone that he or she ought to wear shoes in public, but let a woman walk in without a bra on, and the same thing will NOT happen. Not to say that going all chest-commando bothers me; I fully support jiggling in public; it’s going to be my foremost talking point when I run for office.
It’s the monocle-popping shock and horror that I find so irritating, so insanely out of proportion to the offense. I remember viewing a Today show video clip in which a panel of undeniable brain trusts was discussing people who take their shoes and (gasp) their socks off on long flights and dare to place their feet near someone else’s seat. From their scandalized tone and language, you’d think someone had carved out a pig’s anus, fresh from a carcass stowed in the overhead compartment, and draped it on an unsuspecting passenger’s shoulder during takeoff.
Granted, someone’s feet fresh out of a pair of shoes ain’t my idea of a good time either, but how bout some freakin’ perspective here: it just isn’t that bad. It’s at times like this that I realize we may be more repressed and puckerbutted in some areas than our Victorian forebears were.
Also, some say that going barefoot in public is disrespectful to the establishments that one visits.
Am I tracking in any more or less dirt than if I were wearing shoes? Perhaps a little more, but that’s what those rugs at the entrance are for. With a thin layer of good, clean dirt on them, soles don’t pick up any more or less dirt than shoes would anyway.
Some would say that a barefoot patron would lower the tone of the establishment, thereby dissing the place hard, yo. Many is the time that I needed some laundry detergent and a Milky Way, and upon seeing a barefoot patron, I knew that dive just wasn’t up to my standards, and promptly left. I would rather reek of sweat and never know the taste of caramel again rather than lower myself to going to that seedy dump.
Is it because my naked flesh is in contact with their floors? Maybe that’s the dark side of the sensuous enjoyment of barefooting, that I am somehow getting some free, unregulated, untaxable enjoyment out of their virginal floors.
Oh, Dollar General, your floors are so…cool. So smooth and perky. Look at that cheeky shine. They’re asking for it, all polished like that. I’m going to press my naked skin against them erotically with every step. They like that, I can tell. They may look all clean and white, but I’m not fooled. Filthy whore-floors. My stroll down the aisles is just foreplay. After I check out, I’m headed round back to find that naughty little air conditioning drainage outlet and do unspeakable things to it. I’m going to pound your store like a cheap hooker, and there no way you can charge me for the privelige because there isn’t a “building sex” key on your register!
I simply do not understand this argument, how flip-flops, two thin flaps of neoprene between the floor of my local store and me could be the threshold between Downtown Abbey civility and uncouth, discalced savagery. Of course, I know what it really is: it’s fear of legal action. They’re afraid that if someone gets hurt in the store, they’ll be liable. You know what I say to that?
Caveat planipes. Let the barefoot beware.
I understand that by not wearing shoes I am taking a risk. I could step on an errant piece of glass from that broken jar swept up weeks ago. I could tread on a bee in the parking lot median, or stub my toe on an endcap–and I am okay with this risk. If I get hurt, it’s my fault and my problem. Mea culpa.
Wow, you use one Latin phrase, and it just won’t stop.
I guess I’m saying that we need to reassess how we see going barefoot. It’s not dirty. It’s not disrespectful. And if it offends you, look the fuck away. It’s time to take back the simple, free joys of life. Get out of the screen, get out of your head, and get into some mud. I promise you’ll smile.
Oh, hey. You're still here? Really?
Been coming by, just checking in? No? I'll just pretend you said yes, then.
Anyway, pull up a chair! Here, let me dust that off for you. Have a seat, and try to ignore that cobweb cheekily tickling your ear. Enjoy this suspiciously old chocolate bar that I left the last time I was in here, on the house. Yeah, just break that part off. Don't feel bad; I wouldn't eat that bit, either.
So, how's every little thing? Really? Fascinating. Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh.
Me? I'm glad I imagined that you asked! Let me catch you up on everything.
Meet Katie. Wait, she looks quite different now. Let me get something more current.
She's now 7 months old, and quite possibly the most spookily happy baby I've ever seen. If she's not lonely or hungry, she's cool with the world. She came in at 9 pounds, 2 ounces, and for a while she was worryingly coasting on her ample birth pudge, but her eating picked up, and she's currently both fat and happy. Someone once said that the best things in life are round, babies and bubbles being chief among these, and that's certainly true in her case.
Daughters are, to be sure, very different animals. For one thing, they are very different in the behind-the-diaper area. When she first got here, I wasn't at all prepared for the fact that she would have fully complete girl gear at Level 1. O.o
I don't know what I expected, but now that I've had time to think about it, here's what should happen: Girls should be born with just a date down there. Maybe the word “Mattel” too, but that's negotiable. At about 18 (or better yet 30) the Vagina Fairy should visit, tap these proto-women on the crotch with a magic wand, and bink, lady bits!
But no. Instead, I have to worry about every boy's magic wand, from now until the day I die.
/cast Scare Beast
Andy? Andy's fine, thanks for asking. He's doing okay: hard-headed, negotiating, but sweet. He loves to make Katie laugh. For all of my worries about who he's going to become, I think he's going to grow up to be a compassionate person, a good person.
Now, now I understand the saying, “Boys will be boys”. He dashes all over the house, runs in circles (while wearing socks on a laminate floor) right in front of the brick fireplace, and was recently busted at school for jumping on his cot during nap time–all this from a boy whose parents were total teacher's pets in school! Today he stepped on a kid's finger, pulled the hair of a different kid, and hit still another one with a shoe, but it was okay because Andy didn't use his own shoe to do the deed. /sigh. It's hard to be angry with a kid who thrives on making you laugh; even his teachers have trouble disciplining him through the smoke bomb of charm he can toss.
How's WoW going? I'll save that for the next time I see you. When you come back, I'll have everything dusted and the Rainmate cranked up, I promise. I want to whip this place back into shape.