My Music Friend

I've never really had a music friend before.  I've had friends who shared a mutual affection (read: obsession in the case of U2 and my bestie, Megan) for a band or singer.  And I've gone to concerts with boyfriends or boys-who-are-friends and had a few too many beers lounging on grassy lawns listening to who-knows-who do a sound check. I've managed to drag a host of people to Dulono's for bluegrass and a few actually agree to be dragged again.

But I've never had a buddy who loved pretty much everything I love about music.  Kim is the first. Now, we diverge in some ways.  Kim has not yet been schooled on the awesomeness that exists in much of country music, her experience having been tainted by some too-poppy quasi-country hacks. But she respects Tammy Wynette so she can't be a total lost cause.

And my tastes can run a bit more mellow than Kim's on occasion.  I can spend a good month of my life dedicated to the National and emerge without feeling too suicidal, and I think maybe that would drive Kim to madness.

But my best music memories in the Twin Cities have been with Kim, slightly divergent tastes notwithstanding.  The important aspect of our balance is that we both, quite simply, want to be THERE. The radio is nice, CDs are nice, iPods are nice.  But whenever possible, whenever tickets aren't exorbitantly expensive (and sometimes when they are), whenever we can justify a week night outing that will result in a painful weekday morning, we want to be there.

We joked last night that we're rather doomed by the weather.  Every show we've seen has been cursed by some facet of awfulness in that regard.  The first show we saw together, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, was one of the more disgusting concert experiences of my life.  It had to have been 95, 80% humidity, and the venue was packed.  We squeezed as close as we could to the front (Kim is a squeezer, moreso than I, but her habit has rubbed off on me and now I want to shimmy as close as I can to the stage).  The smell of pot and patchouli was enough to make the beers we were drinking somewhat superfluous, but drinking water would have been lame. I was wearing a short skirt and a thin tshirt and within 20 minutes both were soaked with sweat. All we did was dance, laugh, and comment on how amazingly unattractive we'd both become.  At the end of the set, when everyone was drunk and soaked in sweat, the lead singer, Alexander, had the brilliant idea that we should all sit down. This was not a soft, grassy field.  This was a beat-up, needed-to-be-repaved-30-years-ago lot full of bodies too bunched together for what would become a sit down.  But slowly everyone maneuvered.  I was standing next to some kid in his early 20s who was clearly enjoying some sort of herbal experience and he patted his knee and said, "don't worry, just sit on my lap."  So I half-sat on an infant's lap and half-sat on pavement that left tiny pieces of concrete on my thigh when I stood up.  By the time Kim and I wandered back to her car, we were exhausted, danced out, and in desperate need of a showers.  And I have never enjoyed a show so much.

We've seen other bands, too, many in equally hot and steamy environments (considering how rarely it gets like that up here it does seem odd that Kim and I manage to pick the concerts that boil), and some in the rain (Rock the Garden 2011), and some in both (Bastille Day block party). Sometimes the bands have been amazing, sometimes they've been okay, sometimes there have been surprises (I had no idea HarMar Superstar resembled Homer Simpson).  But what I love about Kim is that she's up for all of it, all of the imperfection of live performance, coupled with the excitement of hearing voices you love sing songs you love.

And I think mutual musical affection is a key connecting point for me, perhaps moreso as I get older.  There are seasons of your life that feel impossible to describe.  But if I tell Kim I have been listening to Bon Iver nonstop for a month, I know, in some small but not insignificant way, that she knows what the month feels like for me, what comfort I require, what music makes the days a bit more palatable.  And vice versa.  There's a communication possible in music choice and attachment that transcends "how was your day?" and gives a fuller picture of the answer than "it was okay."

I know, on her bad days, Kim needs to hear something with a beat worth dancing to, even if she isn't up to it.  And she needs music you can eat soup to, with her pup in her lap, that makes the stress feel less insurmountable and the question marks of everyday life a little less daunting.  And Kim knows that on my bad days, I just need some The National playing in the background, and I need a text message reminding me that David Bowie exists.

Dead Last

Yesterday I ran the Trail Mix 25K (15.5 miles), a race I ran the year before and loved (somewhat).  The weather last year was abysmal, incredibly muddy with a heavy snow the entire length of the race (3+ hours for me).  By the time I got back to my car last year, I had to blow on my hands for several minutes just to be able to safely grip the steering wheel.  I wondered, briefly, what frostbite might feel like.

This year the weather was infinitely better.  It was overcast and somewhat chilly to start but after an hour I'd removed my long sleeve tshirt and was comfortably running in a tank top and windbreaker.  No mud to speak of this time, so the towel I'd thrown in my car just in case I was a mud-caked mess went to no use.

This race felt a little different for another reason, too.  The day before the race I went to the race website to get directions, race start time, etc., and just happened to click on the link providing last year's finish times.  It was the first time I'd ever seen my name printed last. DEAD. LAST. It didn't bother me too much, honestly. I remembered how much fun I'd had and how intense a workout it had been, and it seemed silly to be frustrated at myself a year late.  Plus, I vaguely remembered that I'd signed up for the race a bit on a whim, without having trained up to 15 miles for any recent runs.  But still, I have enough pride to be mildly irked at the thought of coming in last, even if I knew there were those who 1) never showed due to the poor weather and 2) quit after the first lap. Last still doesn't feel awesome, no matter how many ways I manipulate the placement with niceties.

This year I knew a couple of other people running the race and having people to talk to for portions of the trek certainly helped.  But shortly after I began the second lap, my headphones completely died and I started to edge a little ahead of my running companions.

I don't run often without music, but every time I do so (usually due to technical malfunction) I'm amazed at how much better I run.  In ways, the movement is more relaxed as I'm not switching up my tempo due to a new upbeat song. But it can also prove more boring depending on how active an imagination I have at the time.  Luckily, yesterday I had enough mental fodder to keep myself occupied through 7+ more miles of hills and that belated wounded pride faded with each person I passed.

I know that it doesn't matter how fast I am or how many people I beat. I run because it makes me feel healthy and strong; it gives me mental and emotional balance on the days that lack both.  I've never been concerned about my times other than how they compare to my own average or goal speed.  Shaving 17 minutes off last year's time does feel good.  Beating 14 people (after beating nobody last year) feels pretty good, too.  But more than anything, I enjoy beating last year's Me.

Steve

I learned last night that I lost a friend last week.  His name was Steve and he'd been in my bible study for nearly two years.  We'd bonded over both having lived in Louisiana for a spell and swapped hurricane evacuation stories.  He was quiet, reticent even, and did not share much of his life.  But he showed up at 7pm most Tuesdays to share a bit of the Bible and our group prayed for him weekly.

I wish that I could say his death was a complete shock.  I'd feel better about that.  But he'd appeared ill for a long time, a subject I broached once or twice but didn't press as he always claimed to be fine, only tired.  I do not know how Steve died, but I know he'd intended to keep whatever battle he was fighting private and I suppose, even in death, he was successful.

The memorial today was very small.  His family drove from out-of-state, just the four of them, and expected to remember Steve alone.  Steve's mom called a friend from Steve's phone, however, and that friend called me.  So the four of Steve's family were joined by four of Steve's friends, still a quiet group but Steve would have appreciated the symmetry.  We prayed together, said the Lord's prayer, shook hands and gave hugs, told small stories. All what people do at such things.

But what struck me, and what always strikes me at funerals/memorials, is how impossible it is for me to fathom standing in a room like that, with those tears and that heartache, without God.  Steve hadn't told his parents about his bible study.  When his father met me he wondered, tearfully, if that was because Steve worried his parents would disapprove of his being involved in a non-Catholic group.  But his father just said how happy he was to know Steve had been reading the Bible, what a comfort it was to find a Bible in Steve's condo, how any father would just want to know their son was seeking God.

I cannot begin to imagine the loss of a child.  The only thing I can vaguely imagine would be if I lost my brother or my sister, the two people who, even moreso than my parents, understand every intricacy of my past and present.  And I would mirror Steve's dad's words on that point.  It would matter so little to me what roads and missteps and explorations led them to God, as long as I could trust that they got there, that they believed, that they recognized Truth.  The priest at the service today echoed that sentiment, knowing that Steve had begun attending a protestant church, focusing on the steps of Steve's journey (parents who baptized and raised him in the church, a personal exploration of God that led him to study other Christian beliefs) and stating that the joy of that journey is that it sought God. Not Catholicism.  Not Protestantism.  The God of the Bible. The God whose death and resurrection we just celebrated.

And it was not lost on me (nor on anyone in that room, I imagine) that at the time of that Easter celebration, when I was singing of a Wondrous Cross in a wooden pew 3 blocks from where I sit now, Steve was singing, too, next to his heavenly father.