May

We Three Old Guys loved this poem by our friend OB. He granted permission to use it as a jumping off point for some of our own reminisces. Hope you enjoy Tom’s poem – and perhaps it will spark some reflections for you as well.

If you have any topics that you would like to share, send them along to 3ogblog@gmail.com or provide them as a comment.

May: by Tom O’Brien

In May, I reminisce a lot.
I know the reason why.
Lately I‘ve been looking back,
Thinking about and dreaming of
The people who have shaped me.
My family and friends
Loves and confidants,
Colleagues and acquaintances.

All have had an influence.
Not equal but significant.
Some have left their mark and gone.
Others still have sway.
I often wonder who I’d be,
Where I’d be and what I’d be,
Without them in my life.
I reminisce a lot, in May.

Works of Art

OB wrote this at the beginning of the May – and here it is the last day of the month. I’m writing this during a day of constant rain! A day like today seems appropriate to consider those folks who are dear to me. In particular, special individuals who have departed this life.

Now I have to confess to a semi-creepy habit: I save obituary cards. To be clear, I don’t seek them out. However, I will pluck one up at a funeral to honor the life that is now gone. But then what? I just can’t bring myself to discard them – it’s like throwing away a marker that they lived. I see a responsibility to witness the significance of their existence. It’s like Harry Bosch says: “Everybody counts or nobody counts”.

What if we thought of ourselves as curators of an exhibition of a person’s memory, considering each life as a work of art? Of course, this is a mental exercise – how would you go about it? I considered two special friends:

Michael N. Comiskey (‘N’ for No Middle Initial): I’m looking at a picture was taken in May, 1969. In it, my wife Linda, Mike, and myself are relaxing after college graduation. Mike is resting his right elbow on my left shoulder. Linda looks beautiful, I look dour as usual, and Mike is smiling. His smile captures his spirit. Mike and I were roommates for four years and I know that smile well! Now we were all ready to set sail on our adult lives.

Mike had all the tools to succeed in any endeavor. He had a presence: high school track star, president of our college senior class, a congenial fellow adventurer. His raspy voice could gather friends or quiet a room. When I think of Mike, the names of Dylan Thomas, Jack Kerouac, and Che Guevara, come to mind – people that passionately embraced life’s exploits. Mike joined AmeriCorps and rode his motorcycle around Texarkana for a year’s assignment. I expected Mike to enter public administration or become a writer, but he did neither. Instead, he drifted among a number of jobs, finally delivering potato chips to bodegas in the Bronx.

He confessed that the blackouts started in our junior year after bouts of drinking. On a very sad day, his mother called to let me know that Mike had died of heart failure at 38. Minutes later, his father called back to be clear that it was alcohol that had killed Mike. The rage and grief in his voice made me wonder – and not for the first time – that if the heart were a chalice, how much pain might it possibly hold?

An exhibit for Mike would be rich with literature; it would have a listening lab where his rendition of “Waltz Me Around Again Willy” would play (google the lyrics: illuminating) along with his favorite Dave Brubeck album, Take Five. I’d add the painting, Nighthawks, by Edwin Hopper and his fashion formula for wearing primary colors.
Philip N. Whittington (Again, ‘N’ for No Middle Initial) – also, he is the artist formally known as Homer. You see, Phil’s mother altered his birth certificate to change his first name and birth date. Phil discovered in his 80’s that he was born Homer, had a different birthday, and also had a living sister. Phil’s mother did this in an effort to make sure that his father could not trace him. She also had difficulty caring for Phil, so he spent time in a juvenile home and later, with an aunt who lived in the Adirondacks.

A former paratrooper with 60 jumps to his name, he graduated from Paul Smith’s college in forest management. He was the guy lumber companies would drop off in a wood lot with a map and compass, in order to evaluate the condition of the property.

Phil also had an alcohol problem and was a mean drunk. He recounted – and owned – all of his bad behaviors. Like Mike, he also had blackouts (he was told that once threw his best friend into a bonfire). However, the difference is that Phil beat his addiction and was 30 years sober when we met. He was on a quest to straighten out the mistakes he made earlier in life.

If one word could describe Phil, it would be ‘charming’. To me, he was a role model for ageing gracefully: Phil accepted his mistakes and made no excuses, just an effort to do better. Phil exercised for 45 minutes every day – even trying dance lessons and tai chi to alleviate his Parkinson’s disease. He strived to be open to change and live a life of acceptance. He taught me to turn wood and model how a person needs to let go, in order to move on. Phil died on Christmas Day at 88 years old and had no doubts that he would be called to his home in the cosmos. My exhibit for Phil would include his many large bowls and treenware from all species of wood; it would include art pieces that were colorful, since he loved to experiment with colored dye and paint in his works. It would include the oak bowl I made after his death which has the natural star at the bottom – his sign that he made it home.

The Paths Offered Up to US

I like Tom’s call to remember those who have touched our lives. It recognizes that we are not just a sum of our separate experiences but rather an accumulation of those experiences shaped by the words, actions, gestures, and relationships of all of the people who have moved in and out of our existence. Somehow, mostly without conscious intention, we absorb those communications into our everyday lives and adapt, adjust, and transform who we are or were into a slightly (or sometimes significantly) different version of ourselves.

As I think back about the more memorable interactions, I remember my 7th grade art teacher who had enough faith and determination to help me draw a pair of chickadees that actually looked like chickadees and my Little League baseball coach who convinced me I could actually play 2nd base. But in my experience, often it’s been a simple gesture or word from another that affirmed a belief or a risk taken, at just the right time to influence the future me. Additionally, as I reflect on those who triggered a change in me it was what I learned from a negative experience, a failure, or a poor role model that made a difference. That is, I was inspired to not follow what I was told or repeat what I observed but to seek another way that was more compatible with what I believed to be better or right. As a result, I am grateful for those individuals too, for giving me those unfavorable experiences that would drive me to improve.

Tom’s poem exudes gratitude for all the people who played a part in shaping his life as well but then ends with the question of who and where he might be without them. I remember one evening in college walking back from town with a person who offered me a choice, a new direction that would absolutely have given me an experience that would have been so radical to my “then” existence that I’m convinced my future would have been entirely changed. But as we were walking, we passed another friend of mine heading in the opposite direction who I had been looking for earlier. We stopped to chat and in that brief exchange I lost my nerve to seize that radical opportunity and changed my mind. I turned and walked back to town leaving behind what I could only imagine would have been a very different future. And that’s one that I remember vividly. How many other turns in the road did I take that brought me here? No matter! I have no regrets…but as Tom says, I wonder.

“I Go to Seek a Great Perhaps!”

Francois Rabelais

Reflection On Reflecting

This was a difficult piece for me to respond to. And equally difficult to figure out why. When Tom first mentioned that May was his month of reflecting, I tried to envision a month when I ever spent the time reflecting. I realized that I tend to be more emotional than cerebral. My quiet moments usually lean toward remembering and reliving, trying to recapture the emotions of the time. To me, reflection requires experiences, things that have happened to me along the path of my life, plus memories, events that had special significance to me, and time to look back and analyze those events and memories. That requires a great deal of thought and rethought whereas I tend to be more spontaneous and speak before thinking which has often gotten me into trouble. Perhaps I should reflect on that! When Wally submitted his piece, he caused me to reflect on our friend Mike. But it wasn’t until Wally mentioned Mike’s raspy voice that it brought me right into the room and having conversation with Mike. Without Wally’s reflection I would have missed an opportunity to lay back and really remember Mike.

What Henry’s writing did was give me permission to look back and review things in my life that may have helped determine who I eventually turned out to be or who I may still turn out to be. He suggested that the course we thought we might take could, at the drop of a hat, make a U-i.e. and may find us going in an entirely different direction than we were headed. And that struck a chord with me. I was always a scrawny, skinny little kid who got picked on constantly, bullied, shoved around. I learned early on that if I could make the bullies laugh, they might forget about sticking my head in the garbage can on the way home from junior high. I had some success with that through junior high but high school was a little bit different. I had honed my skills by then and my humor became more sophisticated and wise-assy. So much so that in senior year I was voted Wise Ass of the senior class. There was no space for me in the officers’ page of the yearbook like there was for Best Dressed, Smartest, Best Sense of Humor, etc. But I was ok with that. Reflecting on this now I see multiple effects this had on me. It helped me survive, I discovered I could hide a lot of unhappiness in humor, and gave me hope for a more mature way of thinking in the next big adventure in my life, college.

I never had any problems with animals, pets, small yard creatures and as a result felt safe around them and just kind of assumed that being a Veterinarian would be the logical occupation for me. I carried that around with me for the first two years of college. All signals seemed to point to that as the logical direction to head in. I was comfortable around them, they seemed to be attracted to me and all was good. Then reality began to strike after I had a conversation with my parents mid junior year. Vet schools, in particular Cornel, were very expensive. Where was that money going to come from? It would mean an additional three years of study and possibly internships and blah, blah. blah. Great, now what? This is when I reflected a lot. Looking back over time what other things grabbed my interest. My aunt was a high school English teacher in Pennsylvania, and my brother who was 8 years older than me was an elementary school teacher in a very prestigious school district on Long Island called Garden City. I always looked on him with some envy because he was like super teacher. He would be written up in the Long Island Press for some innovative thing he did, his classes always put on big musical productions, he was Super Teacher! I began to reflect over my years in school and trying to remember things that impressed me. One name kept emerging in my thoughts, my 9th grade English teacher, Mr. Kraftowitz. He was an older man but full of life and love for his subject matter. If we did something really well, he would draw a cartoon on the top of our assignment. Mr. Pear Head. His head would be the shape of a pear with 2 big ears, big eyes, a wide grin, and a large fedora type hat on his head. I don’t know why that image stuck with me so prominently. I remember he was teaching us about colons and semi-colons and he had us write 2 sentences -one using a colon and one using a semi-colon but we had to act out the sentence in class and use our bodies in a way to indicate a colon and a semi colon. I don’t remember any of the actual actions, but we had a blast. He made something really boring fun! That impressed me and made my decision for me.

I had a long conversation with my brother over the summer asking him how he came up with lesson plans and ways to keep the kids involved and told him I was scared that I wouldn’t have enough creativity to keep kids interested or engaged. He told me to relax about it. He said sometimes things just pop into your head and not to be afraid of them. The crazier they seem the more the kids will like them. I kind of adopted that theory and used it all the time. I was going student teaching that coming fall semester and scared out of my mind. I had just had a course in Children’s Lit. I thought I would be bored out of my mind, but I loved it. Our term project was to read a kids book to the class and make it interesting. I think Charlotte’s Web had just been published and I decided to read that to the class of soon to be teachers. I planted some wool spiders that my mom knitted for me around the room, in some desks, on the chalk holder and such and began reading the book. It wasn’t scary at all but every now and then someone would jump and yelp a little when they found a spider amongst their stuff. My professor, Dr Kochant, a grandmotherly-type lady, was so impressed she told me I could use her as a reference when applying for a job. That gave me real confidence and comfort. And after my student teaching was done the following semester, my supervisor whose name was Dr. Jane Vreeland was doing her final observation of me before the end of student teaching and was talking to my cooperating teacher who was really old school (we recited the Lord’s Prayer each morning). He was evaluating my student teacher experience in his classroom and gave me very high ratings and she said to him that she had been very concerned in the beginning about my ability to discipline and to present material in an interesting way but that was before she saw me in front of the classroom and that I actually came to life while presenting lessons. I guess I have to admit that even though reflection was never my strong suit, it comes at you when you least expect it. Reflection is good for the soul, the mind and the body. Thanks, Tom, for coming up with this word!

Featured

Thrills and Chills

It turns out that while the brain loves predictability, it celebrates surprises – at least, small ones. Those little momentary shivers we sometimes feel are a result of those surprises. There’s even a term for that: ‘frisson’.

Although this sensation can be connected to a startle of any kind (remember the horror movie The Tingler, where some audience seats were connected to a mild electric shock generator?). Most of the time, however, frisson is a sensation associated with music — and specifically, a change in octave/pitch.

Researchers have determined that during a song, a 1% change in a tone can cause a frisson. The change may occur while the momentum of the melody is increasing in pitch/tempo – or decreasing in pitch/rhythm. It has been reported that a Rolling Stones song, Gimme Shelter, was boosted by Merry Clayton, whose raw wail: “Rape, murder, it’s just a shot away” in the background vocals helped make the song a hit. In fact, a film clip was made about this situation: Twenty feet from Stardom. I listened to the clip: her phrasing is plaintive and close to a low howl. Which is interesting, because the kilohertz range of a human scream is precisely where human hearing is most receptive.

Frisson is a term that explains some memorable songs for me. Do you ever get a ‘chill’ when listening to a favorite tune – or become surprised by the direction of a song? Children’s a Capela Choral groups can do that for me. Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man also produces that result. Copland is known for changing the loudness of his compositions (soft to loud), but I think the depth of the orchestra often surprises me when more instruments are suddenly brought to bear at a particular moment. It seems to create an extra dimension of sound. But that’s not only what causes the tingle for me; rather it’s the pristine/plaintive harmony of the horns. Maybe the saturated orchestral sound reinforces the little frisson?

Other, less bombastic, music can have the same effect. The first time I heard Joni Mitchell’s Conversation, I was laying on a bare hardwood floor at the same level as two large speakers. There is a point where the intro brings in strident guitar chords followed by Joni’s voice and then it kicks up a notch when she changes octave with the lines, “Comfort and consultation, He knows that’s what he’ll find”. It was as though the small room expanded into a large auditorium. Sound filled every corner – no doubt augmented by sound bouncing off the hardwood floor. I definitely felt a momentary chill – as well as a feeling of there being “something more” out there. Who knows what that “something more” was or is… but I still feel echoes of that sense when I hear that song. Joni is characterized by her ability to change octave and try different harmonies – and maybe the that’s the common denominator between Fanfare horns and Joni’s intro.

So, I talked to audiophile friend to ask his opinion. He said “Well, it sounds like you are talking about ‘brilliance’, when there is an overload of treble”. It turns out that the vocabulary of acoustics has its own language: fullness vs. clarity, warmth vs. brilliance, texture and time intervals for reverb, blend and distribution, ambiance and presence. While I would have thought that these terms were solely poetic descriptors, I found mathematical definitions which involved decibels, tone repetition, and time between reverberations. It was as though a new door had opened to a land that was brand new to me, but well-traveled to many enthusiasts. Did you know that there is a ‘Frisson’ community in Reddit? Some posts debate where a frisson starts (arm or scalp?) – or is it different than an ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response)?

There are times when I wonder if in our striving to pinpoint a concept, the deconstruction of the elements makes it more difficult to grasp the essence of the experience. I guess I’m a gestalt person and prefer to think the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

Yet, I have been working my way through a Spotify “Frisson Playlist” of 700 songs that has been compiled. Many of the pieces aren’t what you might expect. There’s plenty of diversity: classical, rock, blues and country tunes. Each is related only by its ability to provide a little shiver of frisson. Here’s the link: Spotify –

Try it and report back your feelings.

Here’s one description of frisson from poet Black Hamlet in allpoetry.com

Frisson
Skin of lower back will flex,
a shiver rising upward,
inward from the shoulders, neck,
extending to the forehead.

Piloerection follows,
hair aping face that’s flushèd;
waves pound the back like quick blows,
involuntary gasps, small deaths,

Breath ragged like a memory
informs the nature of the debt,
reminding you you have not seen
nor touched real friction, e’en though wet.

So set your clock to fate o’clock
and feel the frisson take its hold,
the only question, one of when,
not if, or could, I be so bold.

Frisson, Perhaps

It is said that music soothes the savage beast. I’m not sure where I qualify in the savage beast category, but I certainly am soothed by the music I enjoy. The first record I ever bought was probably when I was 5 or so. It was a little yellow golden record of Dinah Shore singing Buttons and Bows. And the next one was probably Doris Day singing How Much is That Doggy in the Window. As the years passed and the record industry became more sophisticated and technical, I moved on the 45 RPMs with the big hole in the middle that either needed a plastic adapter for, or a wide spindle. My Webcor HiFi record player in green and white was my prized possession in my bedroom. The first two 45’s I bought were Born too Late and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and the rock n roll years began. I learned to dance using my bedroom door as my partner and the doorknob as my partner’s hand. I learned to do the Lindy that way while watching American Bandstand. Nobody was in the house when I was doing that. I would play these songs over and over again to the anguish of my parents. Music was in my blood by then. I was drawn to it and listened to it all the time. It made me feel good, put me in a good mood and lifted my spirits.

Being a baby boomer myself, my parents always played Big Band music. I came to enjoy that music as well, along with the old time crooners. The lyrics and the music could make you feel sad, angry, happy just by the stories they told. My parents didn’t want any rock n’ roll music on the big stereo console in the living room. The only popular singer they had on an album was Connie Francis because she sang a few songs in Italian. My dad would sing along with her songs and somehow it was comforting on a hot afternoon listening to Connie and Dad sing a duet in Italian. It made me feel safe and secure. Music can do that to you. Like the music on Twilight Zone when some monster was about to appear and the music would get faster and higher pitched until at last the monster appeared. No doubt designed to make the goose bumps rise and create tension. I had never heard the term frisson until Wally exposed me to it. I always thought that my reaction to music was more a reaction brought on by association of the circumstances and the people sharing the experience with you. It never occurred to me that it could actually be a physiologic, biologic response to the actual sound of the music.

I remember as a young kid going to watch the Memorial Day and 4th of July parades in my neighborhood. Northern Blvd would be crowded with sightseers from the surrounding areas waiting for the parade to commence. My friends and I had our bikes all decorated with red, white, and blue streamers braided through the spokes of our bike wheels and usually a playing card clothes pinned to the axle of the bike so that as we rode the card would clack in and out of the spokes. As the parade approached, the drums could be heard and as it neared our viewing position all the men would remove their hats and hold them over their hearts as the American flag passed by, At that moment my arms would feel the sensation of pins and needles and invariably a tear or two would slide down my cheek. It wasn’t yet 10 years past World War II so patriotism was fresh on everybody’s minds. Frisson or situational association?

As a teen, Friday evening was airport night. We would jump into my friend’s Nitro and drive to Idlewild Airport (the name hadn’t been changed yet to JFK) to watch the planes landing and taking off with a lot of other kids. You could go right out on the observation deck and see the passengers sitting in their seats. While driving there on the Van Wyke Expressway we would listen to Cousin Brucie and invariably the Beatles’ song, If I fell, would be on and we would be singing at the top of our lungs along with the radio. Today whenever I hear that song it brings me right back to the expressway and the three of us singing at the tops of our voices. I get the chills thinking about the music, the company, and the setting. Again, frisson or association?

When I was travelling with my partner through Wales we would stop in small towns for the night. It seemed that every evening it was common practice for the churches to be open and for male choirs to sing. I believe they called it Even Song and we got to the point that we would look for signs of that wherever we stopped. The power of men’s voices singing in deep harmonies, in dark candlelit churches not only caused goose bumps but shivers down my spine as well. My question is the same, but not being a scientist or biologist or whoever studies such things, I may never know. I just know I will continue to feel the chills, and goose bumps, and hair standing up on my arms just the same. Frisson? Perhaps or maybe just memories surfacing up to skin level while the brain works overtime.

The Power and Potential of Frisson

Wal writes of the power of surprise and the physical and emotional effects we can feel from it, especially in music. It’s in the change that captures our attention and often stimulates an unconscious physical reaction.

When Wal asked if we had listened to any music that brought us the feeling of chills or shivers, “Chariots of Fire” came to mind. The movie and music came out in 1981 and overlapped my training for my first NYC Marathon in 1982. Not a runner by instinct, for me, it was a personal challenge to be met. Putting in the long hours of running to prepare my body for a single 26.2 mile race, I often struggled as much psychologically as I did physically. By that I mean, it was as much an effort to make the time, overcome obstructive weather, and resist the excuses posited by family and work, as it was to actually keep enough air in my lungs and strength in my legs to run for hours on end. Whether it was from a Walkman-type device borrowed from a friend or music played at local races I ran to build up my training miles, when I heard “Chariots of Fire” my entire body reacted. Yes, chills first, followed by a natural euphoria that enabled a feeling of increased energy, stamina, joy, and a psychological boost that seemingly reinforced my ability to overcome the effects of lactic acid build up in my muscles and to believe that I could run faster and longer than ever. This “frisson” like a powerful drug injected into my body, took effect immediately. Even though I no longer run (does a quick shuffle to the bathroom at 2:00 am count as running?), the remnants of that feeling still resonate when I hear that music.

As I read Wal’s post and thought about the components of frisson I was reminded of an experience from my past. Years ago, as I considered a career change, I sought advice from my former assistant superintendent for an interview for a principalship in another district. After a detailed, comprehensive, and helpful but rather predictable mock interview session with him, he leaned forward and said, above all, read the faces and body language of those around the table asking you questions. If you see them fading, loosing interest and sitting back in their chairs, do or say something to regain their attention! I don’t care if you have to drop your pants. Just make sure they are intrigued and will remember you. Although I told him, after the interview and with a straight face, that I had literally taken his advice, (I didn’t, of course) I did follow the notion that I needed to do something different to create a kind of surprise if you will. On two occasions during the interview, I intentionally increased the pace of my response and elevated the volume of my voice to accentuate something I was passionate about. I was hoping that this change during a rather routine and predictable process would illicit a reaction in the listeners that was to my advantage.

While technically not “frisson” this strategy of creating a sudden shift in sound that causes a reaction in the listeners was, for me, somewhat related. Now, if my actions would have given them shivers and chills, I might have made an even better case for the connection! But, alas, my success was limited to keeping them from falling asleep, so I’ll have to submit this line of reasoning as a feeble but sincere attempt. I really appreciate people like Wal, and Wal in particular, for bringing new words, and ideas, and meanings into my life. In this case, it inspired me to look at the past in new and augmented ways. It helps me consider and reconsider how to apply those refreshed perspectives to my present existence and, perhaps, better adapt to my remaining future.

“Music is what feelings sound like.” Author Unknown