December 2, 2006

Howdy Holidays, my friends.

This morning I was anxious to get outside and show off my new ergonomically correct snow shovel. You've probably seen one - it looks much like a regular snow shovel but the handle has a big bend in it so as to allow you to shovel without stooping so severely. I'm for that, brother. The older I get the more foolish stooping for anything but to pick up hundred dollar bills seems to me. Anyway, I timed my shoveling to coincide with the moment that most of the folks on my street step outside to get in the car and drive to work. I wore fantastic shoveling attire: biking tights, ski goggles, a snug, junior high school cheerleading sweater I found at a Goodwill Store, and my new K-Mart cowboy boots. Oh yeah, I also wore a hat - well, not so much a hat as a bowl. A plastic cereal bowl that fits my skull like it was custom made for my noggin, podna. I listened for front doors to open, knowing that once I got to scoopin' real fast with my state-of-the-art shovel, I'd make quick work of the snow in front of my house. I didn't want to run out of snow before my audience could appreciate me so I waited . . . and waited . . . and whistled . . . and hummed and finally! Two neighbors stepped out almost simultaneously. So synchronized in fact, that it seemed suspicious to me. Hmm. What the hell were two neighbors, three houses apart, doing stepping out onto the porch in exactly the same instant!? It just seemed highly unlikely to me, but then maybe I've been watching too many spy movies. I managed to suspend my skepticism as I bent to my furious-yet-stylish shoveling, wheezing like a race horse and tossing white stuff like a high speed snow plow.

Now, I should tell you something that you may not know about me: I have remarkable peripheral vision. Yessirreee, better in fact that your straight ahead sight. I can see all kinds o' shit way off to the side, the way that, say, an eagle can spot a cricket from a mountaintop. Appearing to be entranced in my work; heaving, scooping, tossing, I was actually searching my neighbors' expressions with my super vision, looking for signs of disbelief, admiration, awe. I knew some combination of these was bound to register once they witnessed my prowess on the snow shovel. I shine in many areas my friends, but I'm practically brain-searing when you look upon my shoveling. Still, there is a darker side to my story: ol' Vanity got the best of me. I'll admit it - I'm a vain snow shoveler. I've done it in front of mirrors my whole life, trying out different outfits, poses, facial expressions. (I can look just like Clint Eastwood when I really get to scooping) Caught up in my own appearances, striking pose after manly pose with my shovel, I forgot that it was Garbage Day and the damned truck came lurching around the corner and slid sideways on the ice, ran clean over my new ergonomically correct snow shovel. And my feet. I mean, for a minute there I had feet shaped like man hole covers, only a little flatter. Fortunately, I wear boots four sizes too large. (I won't go into why I want people to think I have large feet) Man, that rogue garbage truck needs to be taken out! It ruined my cowboy boots forever. Oh, I might be able to cut the toes off and swim in them next summer, but for the most part, they are completely unwearable. For instance, they are absolutely unsuitable for use in singing country songs onstage.

Well, I guess I've strayed from the main point of my story - which is my prowess with the snow shovel. The one thing I didn't mention to you is that my high-tech snow shovel is made of plastic. I know. Is that stupid, or what? My neighbors stood there next to their cars, (suspiciously three houses apart) and laughed their heads off at me and my plastic shovel, broken into a thousand little pieces, and my shiny cowboy boots flappin' around like big ol' pancakes on my feet. (did I mention I found out they were plastic too? K-Mart!!!)

So, the moral to my story is this: Do not create situations for yourself in the snow which are overly self-aggrandizing - even if you are brilliant with a shovel or tool of some sort and even if you look especially fetching and manly doing it. For surely, the Garbage Truck o' Life will come along and flatten your feet in front of every dang neighbor (spy?) on the block. I cannot tell you how humiliated I felt, having my neighbors point and cackle at my boots like that. I am at this moment about to hop into my vehicle and go after as many of them as I can catch. I can only hope that they will pause on a steep, snowy road somewhere nearby, unnerved by the prospect of navigating such a slick, deadly incline, and I'll be able to offer them the special kind of help only me and my big front bumper can give. It's just that it's hard to work the clutch in these boots.

     I played a concert in Denver a couple of weeks ago and it was one of my favorite concerts in recent memory. I rent a small church there every year or two and produce my own concert and this year I had the largest crowd I'd ever had - the beautiful little hall was just bursting with love and laughter that night. I'd looked forward to the concert for some time, imagining a night of songs with the theme of Thanksgiving and that's what came to be. It was easy for me to feel thankful, this last year has brought a sweetheart and much love into my life and the beautiful feelings of love and belonging change everything around me.

I'm aware that this season can bring up so much that feels painful and stressful in our lives and I wanted my songs to be soothing and comforting for a night. It's what I ask sometimes in silent prayers as I sing. I look out at the audience and then ask that something in my music be uplifting or healing for us all. I heard someone once say that every song should cause the listener to feel forgiven. I guess that's the kind of music I always hope to sing.

When it snowed here last week I sat at my window watching the soft storm and remembering my childhood in the Texas Panhandle. Recalling what it was like to be excited about Christmas. When I was seven or eight I used to lie under the Christmas tree and look up through the branches at all the colors and shapes. I loved to squint my eyes and cause the bright lights and reflections to smear into stars. Even then I sensed that there was a way to find the magic in things around us. I guess I felt already that you couldn't just go along and expect the world to seem bright and exciting all by itself, you had to participate in it somehow.

I was watching A Charlie Brown Christmas this week - I hadn't seen it in well over a decade - and I heard Charlie longing for a Christmas that wasn't so commercial. I'd completely forgotten the theme from all those years ago. I'd first seen A Charlie Brown Christmas as a boy in the sixties and it struck me suddenly that people have been bemoaning the commercialization of Christmas for well over a hundred years. Maybe hundreds. How amazing that we can start to think that the feelings we have now, the state of our world, is something so very unique to us.

Welcome to my Home

I watched those sweet cartoon characters I'd loved as a kid and thought about how much has changed in me in the decades since. I'm not nearly so sensitive now, not nearly so innocent. But at the same time, those things have not died in me. There is still something inside me that longs for the magic of a Christmas that is truly about giving generously and receiving graciously; about genuine goodwill to all. Is it possible to feel this when our nation is at war? When even Nature is struggling? I know it seems impossible but maybe it's all the more important that we find those feelings of love and hope and goodwill, those feelings of innocence and magic that we felt as kids. Have you ever thought of nurturing them in yourself again? Have you ever walked around town silently wishing everyone you pass happiness and peace? Have you ever tried it for a whole day? Every policeman, every child, every grocery store clerk, mailman, every news announcer and politician and mom and grandma and even every animal you see?

A day might be too much to shoot for. How about ten minutes? Want to try this? I will if you will. Sometime today, make a mental note that you will hold the wish, the prayer or blessing in your heart for everyone you see to feel happiness and peace and security. Keep it up, don't skip anyone. That overly sluggish, gruff ol' guy behind the counter at the post office? Believe it or not, even him. Wish him peace and love and joy. My suggestion is to do this for ten minutes and see if it makes you dizzy. If it does not, extend it another ten minutes. Then another ten. I guarantee you, at some point you will start to feel a bit delirious with joy. Here's what it feels like, in case you haven't felt it in a while: you'll feel kind of weak in your upper stomach and into your chest. You'll notice that you're almost giggling over nothing. Then you'll notice that you actually are giggling over nothing. Well, not really at nothing, you're giggling at how much you love being a benevolent being, at how much you love being alive. This is something you'd lost track of but now you're remembering it and you simply cannot hold in the laughter. Note: Another thing you possibly cannot hold in is your urine. Sorry, that's just a side-effect of the giggling that is bound to become more and more a problem throughout the day. I recommend that you just let go and enjoy. (another reason I wear rain pants this time of year)

So how 'bout it, my friends? Are you willing to look at everyone you meet and wish them happiness? Don't be afraid to tell 'em if you feel you can. And for that matter, forget all this crap about proper Holiday greetings. This time of year I'm practically bursting at the seams to shout out "Merry Christmas to you!" to folks I see around town. I can't be worrying about whether they prefer Hanukah or Kwanza or Festivus or some other dang Holiday. Name any Holiday you like and yell it out to me, I guarantee you I will take no offense. I'll just slap you on the back like a husky ol' boy and holler "Merry Christmas!" right back atcha. (when I get a little more geezer-like, I'll be doing the full-on Santa Suit)

I'll close now so I can tape the antlers on my pooch and get out on the sidewalk for a little neighborhood socializing. I hope you're doing well. I thank you for checking in on me now and again and for listening to my music and sharing it with your friends. Merry Christmas to you.

Yer ol' fren in chilly Seattle,
   ~Michael

I didn't mean to get behind in my wacky monthly website ramblings, but I've just been so busy trying to dress for the weather. It's been a full time job around here. First it was sideways rain, then snow, then high wind and falling trees, then thunder and lightning, then snow again, then sleet and finally, sun. Yes, we have sun here on occasion. I try to take advantage and run outside to stand in it anytime I see it on the ground. All kinds of stuff can be happening around me but brother, I don't leave my sunny spot. So don't go to hollering "Help me!" or "Get it off of me! Please, make it stop!" or nothing like that if you see me soaking up that delicious, pale 43-degree sun on a January day. I may be your good friend, but I won't be able to do much for you 'til the ol' sun sets. As soon as it does though, I'm there for ye, my fren. Unless whatever it is that's all over you is just too scary, in which case, I'll be glad to hand you a rock or something on my way to shelter.

I've recently started recording a new CD and it's an exciting time; slowly watching my songs turn into unrecognizable blobs. I'm serious, I start out with a rather catchy little ditty and the next thing I know, the dang band has turned it into disco. I played the guys a lovely, folk ballad and went to the bathroom. When I came back it was an AC/DC standard.

Despite recent ice and snow, I can already sense spring in the air here. The birds sing differently when they sense warm days and new berries coming. And there are buds already on many trees and bushes. I know our seasons are all out of whack these days, overlapping each other in ways we never saw as kids. By now, if you doubt there is some kind of human effect on the weather, I can only say that you're possibly overdoing the water bong.

Last autumn I hosted a small gathering of folks to talk about what we can do in this time of tremendous weather change to lessen our damage to the planet and atmosphere. I sent out notice to the folks on my mail list and though I got lots of supportive messages, I also received one surly one that started out;

Oh, come on, Michael! Please don't tell me you've fallen for Al Gore's Junk Science!

It went on and on, but I didn't. I choked on my free-range donut. I read a few more words into it and then stopped altogether. I decided I'd rather do something a lot more fun: like step on a rake, barefoot. Instead of wasting my energy trying to respond to it, I typed out what looked like an automatic email response:

I am currently out of the office; performing at a junk science retreat for idiots. I will return when all imaginary tornadoes, floods, monsoons, hurricanes, blizzards and blinding dust storms have subsided.

I never heard back from the person who wrote me but if it was you and you're reading this; no hard feelings, podna. I just get sad sometimes when I fly over the mountains and can't find the dang glaciers anymore. I'll bet Al Gore moved 'em.

Guitars for Sale Recently, I was wandering through my basement, just idling away the time until the electricity came back on and I could walk around upstairs without seeing my breath, and I noted the number of guitars I have that I no longer play. There's my Guild 6-string that I played on my first two albums. I even wrote most of those songs on it. There is my Guild 12-string on which I wrote I Will Not Pass You By on and Waves and All is Clear. It's still got a concert song list from the 80s taped on the side that is so old I was still singing the occasional cover tune during my concerts. There are three other guitars, all used on records and on my tours. I've decided to sell them all. You can take a look at them here on my site. They are for sale for US Dollars (as clichéd as they are, they're still my favorite) but I'm open to ideas for barter as well. Take a look at them if you're interested and feel free to write me about them. mt@michaeltomlinson.com

MySpace At the request of a surprising number of folks, I finally have a MySpace page. It took my webguy, Brian Dina, a couple of weeks to undo the damage I'd done in trying to put up my own site. Which, by the way, I couldn't regain access too. I put it up, I gave myself a password, I could never get back in. What the hell? I wrote down the password. I typed it in. "No Access." You've probably never had a problem like that on a computer and so you cannot possibly relate.

I don't know that much about MySpace yet except that folks seem to enjoy the community of friends they make and enjoy sharing good books, music, ideas, etc. I'm more than happy to have my songs used on others' sites and I'm hoping my having a page up will help a lot once my new CD is finished. You can find me by typing in www.MySpace.com/TomlinsonMichael  or just by going to www.MySpace.com  clicking on Music and then typing my name in the search box. If you have ideas for me that will help me do a better job of posting a site there, please let me know.

I have several of my CDs available for downloading at iTunes and many other paid download sites. The rest of my catalog is in process of being added and should all be up and available within a few months.

I have so much more to write you about and I'll try to get back to it soon. In the morning I'm flying to Texas to visit my mom. When I return I'll tell you all the really good stuff I left out. Thanks for visiting me, for spending a little time with me and for listening to my music. Soon I'll have a wonderful new cluster of songs for you to absorb. I'll leave you with this meandering poem that was inspired by my lovely girlfriend. I hope you enjoy it. Your friend in snow/rain/wind country,     ~Michael

Nothing Else is Enough She pulled off the main road and parked Turned the key off and sat for a Moment in the quiet, following with her eyes The fog along the shore Or where the shoreline must lay Down the long steep stairs to the beach She reached the sand and the soft give Of earth under her feet was reassuring Comforting to a girl who so gracefully Waves arms and fingers About the sky, sifting through breezes for The presence of owls and hummingbirds Gravity is good too, but not her favorite force Best when soft underfoot and conforming Gently to the shape of her The gradual slope of sand pulls her toward Water and mystery It is a natural draw, her own heart as filled with Mystery as any ocean current She parts the fog with her presence It rolls off of her in curly motions Roiling silently in her soft wake, not quite Closing behind her because they cannot Imagine fully enclosing her The sand shapes to the request of her feet Even the air seeks to please her She leaves light footprints in an undulating Path, weaving slightly to the rhythm of Roaring waves that crash and fall, sending tongues of Shining water up the steep shore To lap at her feet When she has ventured a specific but Unmeasurable distance in soft fog She turns toward the water and discovers Who called her here from the highway Insisting that she leave the road and Walk this wet sand There are dolphins, scores of them No, hundreds of them, swimming, leaping, feeding Pelicans accompany them, soaring, diving She stands there breathless, chills Traveling her limbs, heart ignited What can you possibly do at such a wondrous sight But cry? Nothing else is enough After such a long struggle, such a painful journey Of growth and change and healing How holy to be blessed with such a Display of God's creatures and Watery demonstration of Hope Love Gratitude After a time She must go and turns to leave this Magical space when she thinks Father, are you here? Please show Your dear daughter your glorious self And in that instant arises from the sea The face of a sea lion Laughing    ~ for my sweetheart, Patricia

~ Snow & Muffins ~ ~ Snow & Muffins ~ ~ Snow & Muffins ~

The best I could do with what I had This, my friends, is the last day of February and all morning long I've been watching it snow here. The ground is too warm to allow it to accumulate, but it's still beautiful to see the air filled with wispy snowflakes settling against a backdrop of dark evergreens and early-blooming cherry trees. I put my truck in four wheel drive just in case a couple of those dang flakes stuck together on the asphalt and got me to spinning out of control. Plus, it just felt manly. I know women can push the four-wheel drive button too, just not as good.  I dressed warmly and tucked my pooch under my arm and drove to the Grateful Bread Bakery, a half mile from my house. They have a partially-covered outdoor area and in the middle of winter I'm often the only person sitting outside. Their outdoor furniture is constructed of a lovely metal grate, so I bring a warm fleece jacket to line one chair for my little dawg, Bungee, and a big parka to place on my own chair. No matter how cold it is I can sit leisurely back and enjoy my coffee and scone and pumpkin muffin and oatmeal cookie and quiche and bagel and bag o' potato chips while I read the paper. Man, that morning paper is a wealth of happy information, isn't it? Ever pick up the paper and decide you will read only the uplifting stories? Good luck. The only wonderful thing I could find this morning was an article about a possible collapse of the stock market. Hey now! I'll be honest though, I had to force myself over and over again not to look at the story right next to it pertaining to some kindergarten kids who bought a baseball bat with their lemonade stand money and burgled a real estate office with it. That's thinkin', kids! Lookin' for a bit o' quiche As I enjoyed the paper and my morning coffee, I noticed that people were lining up inside the big front window of the bakery, staring in my general direction. I smiled and nodded, tipping my steaming, gurgling mug towards them, figuring that surely they had recognized me as the famous troubadour who pens sensitive ballads an' shit. It took me some time to realize that they were instead, lined up at the glass to enjoy the vision of my little pooch woofing down big chunks of my quiche in syncopation with each time I'd bury my nose in the paper. When I was finished reading a fascinating story about some rare coins somebody had discovered with their teeth in a donut, I finally reached around the paper for my first forkful of delicious quiche - and my cutlery hit nothing but plate. What!? The plate was slick with doggie slobber and the crowd on the other side of the glass was going crazy with howls and cackles, their contorted faces all smeared against the foggy glass. Bungee took a bow and let out a couple of courtesy barks. Damn, I felt taken. From now on, the pooch gets no fleece jacket on the metal chair. It'll be all cold steel under her little belly from here on out.