‘Who Told Tomorrow Tuesday’s Dead?’

I think that’s one of my favourite lyrics ever.

No, not the words in the nursery poem, the words in the title.

I know. It’s Wednesday, but I was thinking about that song, and the guy who wrote it, a lot today .

I’ve talked about him before – in the context of another song. A song that helped to set the story of my life, thus far. Truly. It helped to put me on my own particular Road to Find Out in ways both conscious and un-.

And given the crap that’s been going on around here the past while, and the results of yesterday’s election in the States, I really feel like I need an interlude of Cat.

Seriously, neighbours? What’s going on down there?

Not being an American, you’d think that the results shouldn’t be bugging me so much. To be honest, I didn’t pay the midterm election all that much mind. We have had a fair bit going on north of the border, and, honestly, I’m sort of out of sorts about the whole reactionary-engagement-with-politics-thing that seems to be epidemic (and more problematic, on this side of the Atlantic anyway, than a particular virus I could name) lately.

But I just. Don’t. Get. It.

So. Let’s intermezzo, shall we? (yes, I used intermezzo as a verb).

Yusuf Islam is out and about on his Peace Train… Late Again tour (forever the most dexterous of wordsmiths. How GREAT a name is that for Cat/Yusuf tour?). I wanted ever-so-much to go and see him when he comes to town- he’s playing Massey Hall, which is certainly one of my very fave venues for live-and-intimate shows in my hometown.

But… tickets went on sale just as I was boarding a train headed for his hometown, so I wasn’t really in a place or position to be online and looking to buy. The show sold out in a matter of minutes.

This is partly because, other than brief television or special appearances, he hasn’t toured North America since 1976. Yes, I said 1976. So I’d imagine that there are a whole lot of people like me desperate to see him and say hello. Since I was six the last time he hopped the pond to play shows, it kind of goes without saying that I’ve never had the pleasure of his company.

And I’ll be missing him again. He has, rightfully and rather impressively, made sure that scalpers and those crummy and criminal ticket resale companies won’t be able to (easily) get their hands on tickets and fleece his fans, so there aren’t even any tickets floating around on Craig’s List or the like.

I admit that I’ve been creeping his fb page and checking out the set lists as he plays to his first North American audiences in almost four decades, and living a little vicariously through those who will have the privilege of hanging with him for an evening.

The Road to Find Out and Tuesday’s Dead aren’t (so far) in the rotation.

It’s understandable- he has such an incredible and extensive body of work that includes bigger hits and better-known songs from the eleven albums that he recorded as Cat, back in the day, and he is also playing selections from his 2006 and 2008 albums, An Other Cup and Roadsinger, and his brand new offering, Tell ‘Em I’m Gone.

But. Those songs.

One of the many beautiful things about music is its accessibility. I can go back and listen to the songs any time I want- or, for that matter, sing them to myself when tuning in (and tuning out) with the Shuffle Daemon isn’t appropriate.

The lyrics have been written on my heart- and they are in my head when I need to call them up for a listen.

Two of his albums, Tea for the Tillerman (1970) and Teaser and the Firecat (1971) are among my all-time favourite records. Of his, certainly, but by anyone, really. I grew up with them- and still know the lyrics to all the songs.

I have a bit of an uncanny (for lack of a better word) knack for remembering lyrics (and the accompanying tunes, of course- but the words are paramount, for me). Some of my old friends still bug me about this ability for recall- but I don’t see anything all that peculiar about it, myself.

It’s part and parcel of my way of engaging with the world- concentrating on those things I find important, or beautiful, or educational, or fun. Or any combination of any and all of those things. It is the primary way that I attempt to be mindful of my context and present in my life. There are distractions aplenty, but focusing on something and really appreciating it? It leads me toward gratitude and appreciation of the relevance and reliability of my fellow human beings, usually when I most need to be reminded of these things.

Great words deserve remembrance. Whether they are shaped like stories or speeches or songs (or poem- which are songs without music), they carry power and retain import that speaks to both their specific contexts and, in the case of the best of them, to their timelessness. The ones that hold the most wisdom transcend temporal settings and retain the ability to impart vital imagery.

If I make a mark in time, I can’t say the mark is mine.
I’m only the underline of the word.
Yes, I’m like him, just like you, I can’t tell you what to do.
Like everybody else I’m searching thru what I’ve heard.

Whoa, Where do you go? When you don’t want no one to know?
Who told tomorrow Tuesday’s dead

Oh preacher won’t you paint my dream, won’t you show me where you’ve been
Show me what I haven’t seen to ease my mind.
Cause I will learn to understand, if I have a helping hand.
I wouldn’t make another demand all my life.

What’s my sex, what’s my name, all in all it’s all the same.
Everybody plays a different game, that is all.
Now, man may live, man may die searching for the question why.
But if he tries to rule the sky he must fall.

Now every second on the nose, the humdrum of the city grows.
Reaching out beyond the throes of our time.
We must try to shake it down. Do our best to break the ground.
Try to turn the world around one more time.

Tuesday’s Dead is something of a thematic follow-up to, or continuation of, the examination of his quest for meaning and understanding of the world he sang about in On the Road to Find Out. Crazy love for both these tunes.

A number of interpretations point to Xian imagery contained in the song (as is the case with Road, as well), but, like my readings of pretty much everything else, I see the themes as being without specificity of creed, denomination or over-arching system of belief. They are human lyrics- that acknowledge the wisdom of the past, the movement toward the future and our ability to work toward change.

There are those who have suggested that the whole thing about ‘Tuesday being dead’ has to do with that old fortune-telling nursery rhyme up there ^^^^^

If Tuesday=Grace, a possible exegesis of the line thus follows that the biblical concept of Grace is that thing that isn’t dead.

I get that interpretation. I don’t agree with it, but I get it. We all make connections that resonate and make sense and create meaning for us. If Xian exegetes want to appropriate the song, it’s all good. My interpretation is far more humanistic (go figure).

The rhyme, recorded as early as 1838, but with traditional versions going back far longer, had a dual- to describe the personalities and help to set the destiny of children born on each particular day of the week. Its later iterations have changed up the characteristics, moving them about in accordance with specificity of interpretation and association.

One version switches up Wednesday and Friday’s characteristics- based in the Xian superstitions regarding bad luck and Fridays (originating with a story about a crucifixion). Being a Wednesday myself, and not especially woe-full, I tend to prefer that one…

Yusuf has said that he’s not entirely sure exactly where he was going (coming from?) having some unknown individual telling ‘tomorrow’ about the death of Tuesday. It’s one of those random lyrics that just fit. Which makes it all the better, as far as I’m concerned.

We don’t always know what we’re talking about. And that’s okay. It’s part of the whole human-thing. We hash it out as best we can- and, in so doing, often come up with the wildly wonderful in the process.

So.

One more time.

Let’s keep trying to turn the world around. In spite of those who attempt to rule- the sky, the earth, the people- based in fear and misinformation and polarizing politics.

I’m not saying anything new here. But allow me to underline his underline, and the underlines of all those who came before him. And continue to echo the mark of his voice- 43 years- and counting- after the fact.

Safe, and peaceful, travels, Cat/Yusuf. Better late than never. Please come back and visit again soon.

Bonus (not-at-all-woeful) Wednesday feel-good tune? THIS one, by my beloved Monkees (written by David Gates- of Bread). It mixes up the days even further- and I’m not sure I like the ‘you’ll live your life apart, now’ as Wednesday’s foretold fortune found here- but hey. It’s all in the interpretation…

The Road

It’s been a long week- with a whole lot happening that has made for a whole lot of dis-ease. It’s Friday. This morning, as I walked to work, the first song to pop up on the Shuffle Daemon was one I wrote about a little over a year ago while feeling a little down and disenchanted.

Interestingly, while I was on the fb last night, I noticed that Yusuf’s page had a post in the feed asking for best Yusuf/Cat memories.

This is my fave of his songs (and boyohboy is it hard to choose a fave from his catalogue) and, like it always seems to do, it snapped me into a semblance of clarity.

However long-lived or truncated that clarity might prove to be, it’s leading me into the weekend with some thoughts in my head and a song about positive energy in my heart.

As my buddy Doobster noted- with his characteristic insight and ability to strike at the central point- on one of my posts a little while ago, ‘we’re all in the same boat and there’s no such thing as a hole in just one end’.

So.

‘Sometimes you have to moan when nothing seems to suit ya, but nevertheless you know you’re locked toward the future.’

The song encouraged me to have a very productive day- at work and, since I’ve been home, on some of the things that I’ve been neglecting lately. Enough wallowing. Time to grasp at the clarity and get back to contributing rather than complaining.

Happy weekend everyone.

colemining

It seems, lately, like I’ve strayed from the originally plotted course for this forum.

I love the stories, don’t get me wrong.  They are my life, so to speak, and they can do so much to help us heal this world.  There is undeniable wisdom to be found within their characters and plots and ultimate messages and they deserve examination and re-contextualizing for our time and circumstances.

Looking at our myths with new lenses can truly aid us in moving forward.  Perhaps not repairing the injustices of history- that is beyond even the significant power of myth- but certainly helping to advise us when we are searching for the right way to proceed from here.

But something happens when the seasons turn in Toronto.  Especially after a longer than usual winter (although the meteorologists would say that this one just past was more in keeping with historical temperatures and snowfall)…

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Papa Kaz- Part 2

I have always been surrounded by storytellers.  Some of them aren’t aware of their gift and others pass it off as ‘just telling stories’ and never pursue the art beyond their incredibly fortunate immediate circle of friends and family.

Sometimes they are our elders- those with experience of the world and their immediate environments, having lived through times we now consider history and who tell tales of those times to those of us privileged enough to listen  Other times they are younger folk- with imaginations that are rich with images and symbols that are both universal and unique.

I have previously written about some who have influenced and entertained me through their stories in song and myth-making writers whose stories entertain, enlighten and inspire my own creativity.

I will continue to write about those bards among us- the ones who are able to make a living from the stories they tell- and who live to tell their stories- but the unheralded storytellers in my life deserve to have a little of their own Interworld ink.

————————————————————————————————-

… When he retired he chose to do so completely.  No Emeritus for Kaz.  He bequeathed to me his library- of books, maps and slides- which still hold pride of place among my own collected works here in my living room.  A friend-  another of his precious protégés- and I took him for lunch and Scotch (his poison of choice) on his last official day at the university.  The meal went on for some time, as he regaled us with tales of his time in Germany and in the classroom in the Roman Catholic high school in Queens.

We remained in touch as I completed my course work and worked on the dissertation that ate my life.  He was always there to listen to my frustration with the writing process- or the university bureaucracy- and he managed to talk me back from the edge more than once.

Then, the weekend after I (finally) defended my Doctoral thesis, he and his lovely wife joined friends and family for a champagne and hors d’oeuvres gathering.  He offered the first toast- expressing his pride in my accomplishment, especially in light of the fact that I chose a subject and approach that was challenging and outside of the norm, and congratulating me for taking the more challenging path, as seems to be my wont in all things.  Then he called me a ‘real teacher’ and told those assembled that, in addition to my drive for excellence in research, I ‘belong in the classroom’.

No higher praise.

I think I felt more accomplished in that moment than when I was told that I had successfully defended the thesis and when I took that walk across the stage to collect the piece of paper that marked the achievement put together.

Or any time since, really.

Fast forward a number of months and much had changed.  I’d moved back to my hometown after a period of personal crisis and was looking for new directions.  I received word from a close friend we held in common that Papa Kaz had cancer.  And that the prognosis wasn’t great.

That night I wrote him a long letter, recalling my most treasured moments in his classroom and in his presence, trying to describe what his guidance and continual support means to me and how I still feel his influence whenever I get up to teach.  I attempted to put into words the impact he made on me- as a student, a researcher, a teacher and as a person.

Despite the care I took with the letter, I knew it fell short and that I would have to do better.

Doing so would require returning to a town I had no interest in visiting and facing down some memories I’d have preferred to keep buried.

But this was KAZ.

He looked weakened, but in no way diminished, as we sat on his front porch and talked for hours.  He knew he didn’t have much time left, yet his voice was as strong as I remembered.  He told me stories of what he had been up to in the past while, of his family, and flashbacks to his years in Germany and the characters he met there- some of which I had heard before, but still greeted like old friends as we revisited the tales together.

But most of all, he continued to advise me.  I was thinking about going back- yet again- to school.  To get a Master’s degree in Teaching and the membership in the Ontario College that would come along with it- all with a view to an eventual government job writing policy and setting educational standards.

He reminded me that I belong in a classroom- but that the classroom doesn’t have to be a traditional one, or even a physical one.  He also reminded me that a true teacher continues to teach, regardless of circumstance or specificity of career direction.

He continued to lead me by his example.

Although we ended the conversation with his assurance that we would hang out again when he came on a visit to Toronto, that was the last time I would see him.  The cancer he had fought for far longer than anyone expected claimed him half a year later.

My current Sitz im Leben isn’t really one where I thought I’d find myself.  I am still searching for the next direction and a job that will provide some meaning while permitting me to contribute something of value to those around me.  Not a fun process, but each day I have to get up and keep trying to get it figured out.

People who have been gifted with a life filled with wonderful characters like Papa Kaz are not allowed to squander those gifts.

I will find my classroom, whatever form it might take, and follow his example- as best I possibly can- and continue telling the stories that describe our humanity.

Just like he taught me.

I’ve mentioned before that Cat Stevens has one of those voices that is as familiar to me as members of my own family and closest friends, and that he remains a beloved tutor in the ways of the world.  He helped, in a very real way, to set me on my particular road to find out.  His wisdom, expressed through songs of timeless beauty, reminds me of Kaz, and the lessons he sometimes had to force into my stubborn head.  I may still struggle with the teachings, but I never fail to hear his voice when I do so.

And more often than not, I still end up following his advice.

Just sit down, and take it slowly.

Will do, Papa Kaz.  Will do.

Ex Libris

Still in recovery mode after a wonderful cottage weekend.  Read BOTH books and started a third- which, thankfully, one of my friends had brought and finished.  Responses to the stories will come but I’m having a bit of trouble shifting my brain out of glorious neutral right now.

I was thinking about the conversation that I had with the young woman at the bookstore checkout last week- how the Kobos et al are great tools but that things like a long weekend on a dock somehow demand the tangibility of an actual book- and the following piece came to mind.

It was submitted as an entry to the latest Canada Writes creative non-fiction competition.  I remembered that it hit on the very discussion I had with the cashier and echoed my recent post about Cat Stevens.  That type of synchronicity should not be ignored.  

Our stories connect us and help us through difficult times.  Whether they reflect musings about the unknowable/incomprehensible aspects of life or recount slices of our personal and collective experiences, they are worth recording and retelling.  We are all storytellers- after our own, particular,  fashions.  We tell our stories to each other, and on behalf of others who can no longer do so.  This is one such storytelling slice- about the power of memory and the joy and comfort of books.   

One wall of my basement apartment living room is lined with bookshelves.  To the casual observer there is no rhyme or reason to how the thousand-plus volumes are displayed.  There are a dozen shelves that are reserved for the texts that represent my former life as an academic- including the 250-page dissertation to which I devoted so much of my adult life.  But while the rest appear to be haphazardly placed, I can find any given book immediately should I go searching, something I do frequently.  Friends who visit often ask about the collection (as do the family members who had the misfortune of helping me move), and the questions have only increased with the advent of e-books and tablets that are rapidly replacing the more traditional forms of the published word.

I have no problem with the new formats- anything that makes reading convenient and accessible is an invention of great worth, but I believe there is an inherent, and almost sensual, aesthetic value to a book.  The feel of a book, the substance and weight of a treasured hardcover by an author I love, the slightly musty scent of an older volume, and the joy of physically turning the pages evoke an almost-atavistic response that a touch screen will never replicate.  But more than that, for me, books can be old friends, and not just for the stories they tell but for the memories they evoke.  They are markers of time, reminders of when they were first read.  I am a consummate ‘grab whatever is at hand to use as a bookmark’ artist and so I often come across surprises when picking up an old friend to revisit.

I remember the first reading of a story rife with the language and images of a tropical climate, but with a subtext of mothers and daughters, and history.  Delighting in the beautifully crafted pages, detailing a love affair with a city, and offering insights about mental illness, dementia and getting by in the context of things outside our human control.

The book returns a sense of time and place; specifically the ratty armchair in the basement apartment, occupied for the first reading of the book on the night the little tortoiseshell kitten came home.  Drinking bourbon, because that’s what the book suggested.  Even if I was in Ottawa and it was autumn, and chilly outside.

Then, years later, on a day off from a loathed job when I should be accomplishing things of substance- cleaning, buying Christmas presents, applications to jobs more suitable and challenging- there it was again.  Glimpsed out of the corner of my eye while dusting, and despite all good intentions I was pulling the novel from the shelf to enjoy a day just for me- to revisit old, fictional friends and luxuriate in beautiful language as an antidote to the day to day mundane and ridiculous crises that have become my working existence.

A chapter or two into the novel I found the bookmark.  It was an email dating from a time before emails were a daily reality, things to be read, answered and forgotten.  Or used as communication with friends in far off places.  This one came from my Dad, addressed to the three of us, me and my sisters.  A short note detailing the first diagnostic definition of what we had all been sensing for some time. A name for the awareness that something was seriously wrong with Mum, the woman who had been the foundation and heart of our family.  12 years ago; the very beginning of the complete loss of her, finally giving that loss a name.

Subject: Mother

Date: Fri, 27 Oct 2000 17:26:10 -0400

“Dear girls,” he wrote.  “Last week I sent a letter to Dr. Matthews concerning mother.  Today, at her previously arranged appointment with him, I invited myself to go along, having given mother the letter yesterday.

The upshot of this is that the doctor’s diagnosis is that mother is suffering from dementia.  ‘Dementia is a condition characterized by a progressive decline of mental abilities accompanied by changes in personality and behaviour.  There is commonly a loss of memory and skills that are needed to carry out every day activities.’  He tells me that he believes the form that she has will cease further loss at some point as contrasted to Alzheimer’s, in which the brain progressively loses its ability to function.  He is attempting to have other expert doctors at Sunnybrook examine her to try to determine what form of dementia she has.  But this could take up to two years.

 He advises that at this time the dementia is not treatable.

 Dad”

Taking a break from my reading, I mentioned, also via email, that I had found the letter in the book to one of the true, flesh and blood, friends of my life.  She asked how it made me feel, cutting to the heart of the matter as she is so good at doing.  Almost 40 years of friendship makes that kind of directness possible, and necessary at times.  The distance between us melted away with the question, and recalled how the distance between me and my parents and sisters seemed at once negligible and insurmountable when I first received the email in 2000.  I was at a remove in all senses of the word, and at a loss as to what I could do to make it all go away.

Of course, nothing could make it go away.  What followed was seven years of confusion- of watching a loving, beloved, active, amazing woman slowly and painfully lose all connection to those who loved her, and to those whose lives were touched immensely by her presence and grace in the world.  But they were also years of learning about immeasurable depths of love and compassion in my father as he gently cared for her until the very end.

Coincidently my Dad, who is more computer savvy than some people half his age, forwarded one of those infernal ‘feel good’ email chain things that afternoon.  It was about being in the winter of his years, and about appreciating life, good health, working for what you feel is important and getting past regrets and moving on.  Since I had just had a disappointing series of interviews that didn’t end in the job I was hoping for that week, I couldn’t help but feel that the message was directed at me specifically, despite the fact that my sisters and others from among his many friends were copied on the email.  Somehow the guy manages to keep us all going while embracing life with an enthusiasm that leaves the rest of us feeling as though we are irrationally bogged down by pettiness and irrelevancies.

That night I re-read the novel, by an author I have loved since I first encountered her work at the Leaside Library as a teenager.  I spent the afternoon, and then the evening, sitting on my couch while Cat Stevens played in the background, and as I drank a Kilkenny- no bourbon this go-round- with the first light snow falling outside my window as Toronto became blanketed for the first time this year, I thought about Mum, and family and the holiday season fast approaching and counted blessings for the first time in a long time.

I petted the two cats I have now, the grey and the black (the little tortoiseshell and the tabby I had when I first read the book are long gone, yet remembered with love), and I took comfort from them and from my family and friends, my memories and the awareness that I was inside on a cold winter night, the first harbinger of even colder winter nights to come.  There is music and beauty around me.  And always, and forever, there are the books that take me back in time and memory as I continue on my “road to find out.”

As the music on the iPod shifted to a Skydiggers song, one that I would certainly hear at the annual Christmas show at the Horseshoe, I was overwhelmingly thankful.

I love my books.  They are markers of my history, my present and my future.  A residence without books can never be a home to me.  The knowledge that there are new stories, and friends, out there waiting to be discovered is a miracle I take for granted, but I will always return to my old friends and the comfort, perspective and memories that they bring.

The Road

It seems, lately, like I’ve strayed from the originally plotted course for this forum.

I love the stories, don’t get me wrong.  They are my life, so to speak, and they can do so much to help us heal this world.  There is undeniable wisdom to be found within their characters and plots and ultimate messages and they deserve examination and re-contextualizing for our time and circumstances.

Looking at our myths with new lenses can truly aid us in moving forward.  Perhaps not repairing the injustices of history- that is beyond even the significant power of myth- but certainly helping to advise us when we are searching for the right way to proceed from here.

But something happens when the seasons turn in Toronto.  Especially after a longer than usual winter (although the meteorologists would say that this one just past was more in keeping with historical temperatures and snowfall) and a strange spring- which turned on a dime from October-like weather to that of mid-August and back again- the fact that true summer finally seems to be in the offing diverts my thoughts toward our music more than our tales.  However well-written and relevant those stories may be.

Add to that the desire to bury my head somewhat- for a time at least- and avoid the insanity that seems to be happening globally, nationally and locally at the moment, and all I really feel like doing is letting the songs take me away from the increasingly disturbing nightly news reports.

It’s the weekend- and the sunny day turned into a pleasant night.  While out for my evening walk, I could hear the sounds of NXNE concerts off in the distance, and feel that extraordinary buzz that arrives in Toronto once the patios are open for good.

The songs in my head are warring for ascendency- I hardly know what to listen to first.  Like much beloved siblings sparring for a parent’s immediate attention they have been creating something of a crazy-making cacophony.

As I rounded the corner towards home, passing the church’s marquee sign which this week is asking “What would God have you learn?”, this one won:

While I love Yusuf Islam’s recent music, and greatly admire his philanthropy and the great work he has done to educate the world about Islam since his conversion, to me he will always be Cat Stevens- and his songs remain inseparable from my vision of ‘summer.’

All of his early albums evoke campfires and s’mores, quiet companionship by a lake under a sky full of stars and- later in the summer- the aurora borealis.  Whether he knows it or not, he is truly the Bard of Ontario’s Cottage Country.

The first strummed chords of Wild World and the pain- and resignation-filled overlapping of the two voices in the last verse of Father and Son have become part of my core.  I can hardly remember a time when I couldn’t run through their lyrics (always a means of centering myself, collecting my thoughts and shutting out the crazy) and feel better about things in general.

But THAT song, the one that won the night tonight, spoke to me directly the first time I heard it.  As if we were walking that road together, Cat and I.

“I hit the rowdy road and many kinds I met there, many stories told me of the way to get there.”

The driving force of my life has been, since I can remember, the need to know (often to my personal detriment), coupled with the awareness that there will always be more things to learn, from all those we meet on our roads and from the “good books‘ we pick up along the way.

I love that he acknowledges the need to “kick out the devil’s sin“– to disconnect from the idea of some kind of inherent evil within us- and that, ultimately, “the answer lies within.”

We do have the answers- through our collective knowledge and connections to each other and the Earth itself.  We just have to turn down the idiocy white noise mundanity stressors of daily life and pay attention to those voices that are telling us what we instinctively know.

Under the ongoing tutelage of Cat Stevens, I guess my thoughts have returned to our myths, mediated by the music, after all.

On this last spring weekend before the solstice takes us into the summer-proper I encourage you all to “listen to the robin’s song saying not to worry.”  We have each other, the innate curiosity to keep trying to explain our world and the stories and songs that draw us together to keep on walking this road to find out.  Enjoy.