hopelesshappiness.com

I can stop apologizing. I have been vindicated - validated even. Read the two paragraphs below from the book ‘This Is What It Sounds Like’ (page 104) written by neuroscientists Susan Rogers and Ogi Ogas:

“...the audio signals that impinge on our eardrums are routed to several parallel networks in our brain, each focused on a distinct quality of the soundwave, including its emotive tone. One of these networks processes the acoustic pattern of melody in the soundwave. Another network processes the acoustic pattern of words.

This accounts for the middle-aged suburban dad sitting at a traffic light while belting out with Aretha Franklin, ‘YOU. MAKE. ME. FEEL. LIKE. A. NAT-UR-AL WO-MAN!’ The odds are high that Dad isn't feeling the lyrics of female empowerment as much as he's feeling the confident melody. The simultaneous dual processing of melody and words allows Dad's mind to focus on either the intonation or the information, and it chose the intonation. (Our brain's automatic division of musical inputs lends credence to many melody lovers’ claim that they never listen to the words.)”

For my whole life I have felt it necessary to apologize when I butcher song lyrics. I feel like I should know that it is “Maybe I'm Amazed” not “Baby I'm Amazed” and I feel like I should hear the story that is being told in the lyrics and doggone it sometimes I do “FEEL. LIKE. A. NAT-UR-AL WO-MAN!” - its emotive tone anyway. So now I can stop apologizing.

As humans we have a tendency to judge others, especially those who are different. For example if one individual doesn't hear or understand song lyrics that mean so much to someone else, each may tend to judge the other for their mis-prioritization. I don't know if my preference to not really listen to the words places me in a minority of all music listeners or just those around me, but when I feel music and I'm comfortable enough with those around me, I am likely going to belt it out and I am likely going to butcher lyrics and I am likely going to be (good-naturedly) mocked.

I am most often listening to music when I am preparing and cooking food, and what better place to butcher lyrics than when I am grinding meat, or kneading dough, or smoking salmon, or stirring a pot. And like music, food evokes memories and feelings, from positive and negative emotions to nostalgia to comfort and security to bonds with family, friends, like-minded groups, and culture. Food and Music; for me they go together (in the words of Forrest Gump) “like peas and carrots.”

At another point in ‘This Is What It Sounds Like’ (page 138) the authors state, “Lyrics serve our social lives by stirring up our memories. …Many people enjoy reliving scenes from their past, and cite their desire for reminiscence as their main reason for listening to music.” I believe the second part of this statement can be true for those who prioritize lyrics and for those who prioritize melody but I believe the first part of this statement implies that those who prioritize lyrics are more likely to listen to music to reminisce, whereas those who prioritize melody are more likely to listen to music for the in-the-moment experience and maybe, perhaps, those who prioritize melody are more likely to try new things - seek new experiences. And if music is head, heart, and hips and lyrics are more head and heart and melody is more heart and hips, then perhaps regarding food those who are head and heart prefer the comfort and security of tried and true recipes passed down and remembered whereas those who are heart and hips are more likely to seek incremental improvement in those recipes handed down and more likely to be adventurous exploring new and different food genres. Just a thought. I suppose it is possible for one to be head and heart for one (food or music) and heart and hips for the other, but me - I am all in heart and hips for both; I want to feel music that makes me move and I want to dance with process, preparation, control, chaos, flavor, texture, aroma, and presentation that makes my food sing.

“How old was she?”

The question was asked in response to a story regarding customer behavior in a bank. If the listener instead had asked - “How black was she?” - we would have (and should have) been shocked and offended. How is it so different? Why is it still okay to have a general lack of respect for and a bias against senior citizens? It is not at all uncommon to hear the descriptor “old” when telling a story or relating an incident but I never feel it necessary to include skin color as an adjective. That said, I grew up in a time and place where identifying skin color was not only acceptable but for many in my white middle-class upbringing absolutely necessary; and now I am aging in a time and place where in the eyes of the world, with each passing moment I become less significant, less relevant, and feel more and more like a curio in a shadow box.

Or…

…are we all, no matter our time, place, age, or personal circumstance, merely exhibits to be looked upon with curiosity, (if looked upon at all), and it is my advancing age that is just now allowing me to grasp this actuality. Perhaps nothing has changed, perhaps it is that I am only just now beginning to untangle this misunderstanding. If this be the case, then instead of suffering recent, unwarranted abuse perhaps the abuse has just changed in degree or delivery making it more noticeable. Perhaps I have simply moved from one niche to another.

Regardless, the takeaway for me is to become more aware of and judicious in my use of “old” as an adjective. Though I would like to think I am not actively biased, upon reflection this is not entirely true and I am most definitely guilty of perpetuating the bias by consistently referring to myself as old. Regarding race, in my lifetime I believe as a society (from our blatant prejudice to our implicit bias) we have improved appreciably. Regarding age, I need to start with myself…

Maroon

0, 100, 100, 50

800000

• Classic Rock
• Singer-Songwriter
• Alternative Rock
• Rockabilly
• Folk Rock
• New Orleans
• New Age
• British Invasion
• Vocal Jazz
• Swing
• Alternative Country Rock
• Pop Rock
• New Age

One morning this week I went to the garage in search of a handful of food books I had stored away this past winter; amongst them “In Defense of Food” written by Michael Pollan in 2008. That afternoon (unrelated to my book search) I went to the bank to reset my debit card PIN that I had inexplicably forgotten more than a year ago. The next day I opened “In Defense of Food” to a page where I had inserted a piece of mail I was obviously using as a bookmark. The piece of mail was a ten-year-old notice from my bank providing me with my Personal Identification Number; the one I had forgotten. How? Why? Was the Universe talking to me? Laughing at me? Pelting me from afar with mocking, rotten omnipotence? Or was it truly just an amazing, magical coincidence? I suppose each individual is allowed their own interpretation for experiences such as this, but being the reasonable, spreadsheet sort of person I am, even though here in its immediate aftermath this has left me somewhat uncertain and flung-flustered, I am sure within a few days I will land on coincidence to explain this odd alignment of circumstance. A large part of the reason for this is if I chose a different interpretation, I might spend time and effort looking for unknowable, unfindable answers. Coincidence allows me to move on; to maintain productivity.

Random, lucky coincidence…

Random: there are far more variables in play than we are willing to acknowledge or consider, and chaos is the rule far more often than it is the exception.

Lucky: good or bad.

Coincidence: a layering of random luck.

I believe the reason this PIN number coincidence has me flung-flustered is because it is 100 percent random luck. As a human I like to believe that I have control; or if not me, some greater power. I am uncomfortable with anything I cannot grasp or explain. When relating this series of unlikely happenstance, I even had someone trying to give me credit for subconsciously remembering where that notification was and manifesting it by thinking about my PIN number outside the context of that bookmark. We tell ourselves and we like to believe that “because I did this, this happens.” The actual equation is. “because I did this and because this happened and because this happened and because this happened and because this happened and because this happened… (potentially ad infinitum), then this happened. It is easy for me to leave out all the “and because this happened” factors but it is difficult for me to leave out the “because I did this” factor…

…unless the “this that happens” is bad - then many (and perhaps most) of us jettison the “because I did this” factor and eagerly blame the “and because this happened…” factors.

But as a nation and as a culture, to explain the homeless or hungry or poor or any number of other unfortunate circumstances we revert back to the responsibility equation and tell those people “because you did THIS (fill in the blank), this happened.”

We tell ourselves and we like to believe…

In 1760 General Jeffrey Amherst, commander-in-chief of the British army declared, “Indians always do mischief.” (Blackhawk, page 149). This sentiment set a tone that has persisted now for 265 years of white American antipathy towards all other races and (later) ethnicities. Unlike the French before them, when the British won dominion over interior lands hypocrisy and duplicity became their standard for diplomacy, and though this worked for a bit, by 1763 Native Americans recognized their tactics for what they were. It was at this time (during Pontiac's War of 1763) that Amherst purportedly ordered the delivery of smallpox-infected blankets to Indian villages saying, “We must use every stratagem in our power to reduce them,” and ordering that all prisoners “be put to death, their expiration being the only security for our future safety.” (Blackhawk, page 159).

This mindset solidified even further as colonists in pursuit of land began rebelling against the (half-hearted) British policies of consensus, pacifism and tolerance. This uprising alongside the more-often cited taxation eventually led to revolution. In his book “The Rediscovery of America” Ned Blackhawk succinctly states: “Indian hating is an ideology that holds Native peoples are inferior to whites and therefore rightfully subject to indiscriminate violence.” (Blackhawk, page 164) — this All-American precept would evolve over time to apply to others as well. America, for 265 years, has consistently visited violence in some form - (physical injury, hatred, separation, isolation, servitude, confinement, fear, hunger, homelessness) - on the poor, the powerless, the downtrodden (often synonymous with non-white race and ethnicity) all in pursuit of property, wealth and power…

…which is and always has been the true American Dream.

From where I sit, for those in power with wealth and property, it appears their dream has been fulfilled, yet they continue to pursue more property, more wealth, more power. In pursuit of our American Dream, it is obvious that enough is never enough. And it is this greed and desire dating all the way back to George Washington and the British colonists that to this day defines us as a nation and as a culture.

As previously described, this year I was forced into retirement and forced to take a part time job. I got on as a bank teller and every day I work I see wealth and entitlement and I see poor people struggling to play by the rules; and there are a lot of rules. This week I saw a man (in the drive-thru) get angry over having to explain a technicality on a $300 check (less than 1/10th of 1 percent of his account balance) so he drove off, leaving the check and not caring about the fate of his $300. A few weeks ago I saw a man confused and near tears over multiple $35 non-sufficient funds fees from multiple ACH withdrawals (some automatic) totaling less than $100 - he received a check register and an academic lecture (from the branch manager) on how to balance his checkbook.

Do we have our priorities turned around?

A little bit?

Maybe?

Though he didn't appear to care, would Mr. Carte Blanche object if we took his $300 downtown to hand out to the homeless?

All this from “Indians always do mischief.”