Beloved Stranger

MAKE WAY FOR THE HANDICAPPED

2012-01-31T11:34:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I received an email from a guy I don't know, the subject line said Make Way For The Handicapped, which happens to be a song from my album, Beloved Stranger (Populuxe Records 2008). The email said this:

Wow! I was trying to find MWFTH on youtube by my former band, the Mumbletypegs, when I came across your video. FYI, I'm not seeking money. I'm just very happy to hear someone covering one of our songs, and a person of your stature, no less. Its like the time a kid from Poland got our album. -Rush Riddle

...I was surprised and flummoxed. What did this mean? So I googled the band and found this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWUeFvM31M0

Wow!... I wrote back to the guy that emailed me:

Hi Rush, Wow cool to get your email. And found your version on YouTube. Are you the guy singing the song? There's a real story to this tune and if you are him you know the tale. Let me know if you're the elusive Max, or if you know, how I can be in touch with him..

all the best, cindy lee berryhill

* * *

Sometimes a story winds throughout your life that is so compelling, it keeps retelling itself, making installments over the long-haul, embroiling you in it's wild weave in the most inexplicable ways. Sometimes it's a story about good stuff, sometimes it's a series of bad events, usually it's a combination of both. This story in addition to being those things is, peculiar.

In the early 1980s I was living just off of Hollywood Blvd. with a couple I'd met in the Music Exchange Newspaper classifieds, when I was hunting for band members. I wanted to start a rock band and call it The Stoopids and play at the clubs around LA.

They, Jane and John, had just arrived from Chicago and had a dingy studio apartment, with a lot of cockroaches and a tiny bathroom. John the 23 year old guitarist and I hit it off musically and we decided to join forces, I wrote the songs, sang and played rhythm and he was great at coming up with classic George Harrison-like rock riffs. His girlfriend was a 45 year old greying hippy, that always wore the same bedraggled bag-dress, but she was really nice, supportive of John and thought I was really talented. So she became our "manager".

Before I moved in with them I was staying in a room in a mini mansion in Bel Aire (the really ritzy part of Beverly Hills), exactly next door to the Beverly Hillbillies mansion. The owner was a wealthy, divorced, financier that had lots of photos of himself and Hugh Hefner. This guy would bring a new bunny-type-girl home every weekend. "Cindy this is Bambii, Bambii this is Cindy". I made this guys orange juice every week day and cleaned his bedroom in exchange for staying at this place (which was a downstairs servants-like quarters). I never slept with him nor spoke more than two sentences to him. It was usually just "Cindy this is Cookie, Cookie this is Cindy"or, "Thanks for the orange juice".

This whole set up would have been a real laugh at the time, but I was depressive from living off of cheap, bad-food, like donuts, Arby's roast beef sandwiches and milk shakes...I think that list pretty much informed my entire diet. A doctor said to me at the time, "are you trying to look malnourished?" and I said "yeh, I'm in a punk rock band and you have to look pretty messed up". I was 19, what did I know.

I got sick of living in the anonymous, luxurious sex-hermitage, servant girl quarters and moved across town, in with Jane and John. Camping out on the floor behind their fold out couch/bed. It was messed up but pretty great, getting 3 square meals a day from Jane. I paid her 20 dollars each week for food, money I made working as a shoe shine girl in Neiman Marcus in Beverly Hills. Among others, I shined Jack Lemons shoes, Herb Alperts and Leroy Neiman's, a sports illustrator who made lots of drawings of me shining shoes

John, the guitar player, and I figured out a few songs and then started looking for band members. The first bass player of the Stoopids was Glen, he lived with his navy physicist dad in a house in El Segundo and we'd practice in their garage. Glen was gay and we got along great, he really had a knack for audacity and music and his dad thought I was a genius for some reason.

Then one day our manager Jane got a call from Glen's navy-issue-glasses-wearing-physicist dad, Glen had thrown his bass against the wall and he wouldn't be playing with the Stoopids anymore. He'd had a psychotic break and we had to look for a new bass player.

Almost ten years later Glen called me and explained what really happened. He said he'd been a woman trapped in a mans body and finally got the go ahead to surgically change his sex from male to female. He was super nice as a woman, though quite large. He said I hope you don't mind but I took your name Cynthia as my middle name. It was an honor. I wrote a tribute song for her many years later called Diane, and it's on my album Straight Outta Marysville.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDakhkeGme0

So, Stoopids guitarist John, and I went back to looking for a bassist. We found a guy living in the San Fernando valley, with his mom as I recall, who called himself Max W. Max was an extremely talented songwriter. He had an incredible knack for saying inane things that sounded masterful and brilliant. He had one tune that went "I got a neutral shade army jacket on I got a spray can and crumbling wall to lean on". He told me it was inspired by the closing of LA's great and early punk rock venue The Masque.

Max scared me, so I thought he must be a real punk. He'd say things to get a reaction out of me like: I was at a party last night and they were passing around a jar of human brains and drinking water out of it. He would tell me I'd better toughen up if I wanted to be a real punk. And I did.

One time Max and I crashed a punk party. I nervously stayed in the main room but Max careened around the whole place acting like a real fuck up. After a few minutes he ran back over to me with a hand over his eye, saying ..We got to get out of here, I just got punched in the eye by John Doe from X. I thought it was great. We split with him kicking over trash cans on the way out.

One day Max brought in a new song, Make Way For The Handicapped and I loved it. It was everything I liked about the Ramones and even with a little bit of Talking Heads Psycho Killer mixed in. He made me a cassette tape of himself singing his songs over a plodding bass, I'd listen to that cassette over and over laughing my head off and marveling at his musical wit.

One day after practice I drove him to his moms house and we had a talk out front in my car, a 1976 Maverick Grabber. Max confessed he had a crush on me and wanted to be a boyfriend/girlfriend thing. I talked to him a long time explaining how I wanted to be platonic friends and band mates and he seemed to handle it well.

A few days later the Stoopids had a band practice and Max W showed up kinda drunk and with a guy friend. It was a horrible night, we realized Max was too messed up to play bass and took a break.

Then Max needed to talk some more about the girlfriend idea and I told him I thought we'd straightened that out. He was upset and ran off to the bathroom, when he came out he joined John and Jane and drummer Terry Cloth and I at the kitchen table. Acting nonchalant he put his arm under his chin and asked about the next practice date, with blood running down his arm. He'd cut his wrist.

* * *

Do you ever get that feeling like you've messed up someones life. If they hadn't met you maybe they would have faired better. It's a child like concept. Sometimes this feeling happens when something bad happens to a family member or a friend when you're a kid, you're the survivor and you're left wondering if you had something to do with their bad luck.

My mom died when I was eight. It wasn't anyones fault. She had a rare form of cancer, they operated and she didn't wake up. I don't remember feeling like it was my fault. As a kid I actually didn't even know what happened to her, she just left the house one day, (a bad day where I'd been pestering her and grandma had to yell at me to leave her alone) and never came back. No one said why, just that she had died.

Kids can get these weird, wrong ideas that if they'd just been a little better behaved they may have changed the winds of fate. Those feelings can carry on into adulthood too. When my husband Paul had a brain injury in 1995, because of riding a bike recklessly down a killer hill with no helmet, I felt somehow that it'd been my fault. If he hadn't moved to Encinitas to be with me and had stayed in Glen Ellen with his old friends and family this would never have happened.

You see how it works. You know it's not right thinking. But it's what happens when you try to make sense of a senseless happening. Somehow, you feel like if you'd been more in control of the situation, you could have prevented it from happening. The ultimate pretend game of control and it's a losing proposition.

* * *

Seeing that blood dripping down Max W's arm made me feel faint, I called manager Jane into the kitchen. She told me to calm down. She'd seen this sort of thing before, when she was a girlfriend and groupie to the 1960s UK band Sad Cafe (she talked about them endlessly). She explained there wasn't enough blood to make it a real suicide.

No one said anything about it to Max. He put his arm back in his sleeve and said he'd see everyone at the next rehearsal then he took off with his friend. A few days later we'd heard that he got into a car accident on purpose on Freeway 101 with himself and his friend getting concussions. And he broke his arm so he couldn't play bass.

I couldn't hack it anymore. I quit and split LA, moving back to the little town of Ramona and in with my parents. I'd left my guitar at Jane and John's place and when I called and asked them about it a month later they said the Jamaican pot dealer down the hall had taken it, then his place got busted and the cops tore the guitar apart. Probably Jane and John took the guitar to a pawn broker.

Everybody limped away from that fucking band. It took years to get myself out of that black hole. A messed up time I never have to go back to. But I made peace with it long ago and have written about it many times. Here are some of the songs: Jane and John, Diane (Straight Outta Marysville). The Heat, Whatever Works (Who's Gonna Save The World).

And of course Make Way For The Handicapped which is me re figuring, trying to remember Max W's song and since I couldn't, I rewrote it. (In fact, he has co-songwriting credit on the cd sleeve and copyright). Now after all these years, and thanks to Rush's recent email, I can listen to Max's version and the sound of his voice and bass brings the past flooding back.

Rush Riddle who's film Averageman, is coming out this year, sent me an answer to my query about Max saying:

No, I'm not Max, but he was in our band! He split for up-north ages ago and last I talked to him...said he was getting a sex change!, and was now Maxie.

High Jump

2012-01-21T17:21:00.000-08:00

http://music.yahoo.com/cindy-lee-berryhill/videos/view/high-jump--2139363;_ylt=AtP6BZLqoJ9Gf57yRylXSXzHxCUv

The single from my 1996 album, Straight Outta Marysville. The video is a throw back to the look of the early 80s, with that sort of MTV-party look, or the Marx Bros. famous State room scene. The song came out at a time when Liz Phair, Alanis Morrisette and Courtney Love were yellin' stuff into the studio mic. I dug some of those sounds but it didn't inform whatever I was up to, which I'm not sure just what it was-I was up to from the looks of this vid...

You'll see my partner, Paul Williams acting like the mean, bowl-cut-hair P.E. coach with the clip board, my long time friend and poet Lois Navrkahl is the big lady with the loud clothes at the end and singer-songwriter Joy Eden Harrison is the evening gown diva. The film maker is actually the 'little girl' that gets her stuffed animal out of her locker.

As for the song, it's me grousing about all kinds of people. The first verse is actually about being the first girl on the Vista High School boys track team, most of the upper grade guys were very critical of me being on the team and would play tricks on me, push me down or would ignore me altogether. Most of the guys in tenth grade like me, were pretty supportive and friendly. The worse experience was being pitted against a guy at a meet who jumped about as well as I did, his team mates were really giving him hell for jumping "like a girl". I got so psyched out about him getting harrassed that I couldn't jump worth a crap, and he won.

The second verse was about a small business employer I worked for, a little recording studio. The owner would come in about once a week sit at the big desk and make drawings of himself with very large noses. I wrote the song Damn I Wish I Was A Man when I worked there.

The third verse is me going off about a long ago boyfriend in New York. Heaven help the guy that dates a singer songwriter...

Straight Outta Marysville, is back in print in a digital-only format, at all the usual places.

(the photo credit on the album cover goes to my dad, he used a Brownie camera and took this photo of me age 5 or 6, just outside of Delano, CA on our way to the Sierra Nevada's)

Booking Shows 2012

2012-01-17T13:47:00.000-08:00

We have started booking shows for this year. If you are interested in a date either at a club or a living room concert you can contact us at:

bookingcindyleeberryill@yahoo.com

Right now we are setting up dates for the 2nd and 3rd weeks of April for the U.S. west coast.

And early June for the east coast.

Gravity Falls

2012-01-04T22:11:00.000-08:00

Thank You For A Wonderful Year

2011-12-29T13:25:00.000-08:00

Happy 2012 to everybody from us' to you's....And thank you to everyone that supported Paul's care in whatever way you could this year, it's much appreciated. And yes, I still do wanna sell Paul's Dylan collection, just got to get it all in boxes so please keep in touch about that if you're interested in buying his various books, tapes of shows and the like.

I also want to thank everyone that helped me get back out on the road again this year, that's what takes care of my soul and keeps me writing which in turn keeps me happy and thus, I'm much nicer to Alexander when he tells me he has extra homework he'd forgotten about.

Thanks especially to Jerry Lima who put some of the shows together on the east coast, and who couldn't be scared away even after I made faces at him, sent him unfinished/scrappy demo's and warned him I was part alien.

And thank you to those dear friends that let us musicians (Renata Bratt, Randy Hoffman and Paula Luber) invade their homes...Matt and Rachel in Brooklyn, David and Kathrine in DC and David and Elizabeth in Manhattan, Alan and Amyjo in CT, and Paula in Newton MA, oh yeah Amy in Hoboken......

And a very special thanks to Chuck and Susan Hahm and their kids, who watched Alexander while I went off on those little road trips....you guys are amazing friends.

I look forward to 2012 and more new music and more home invasions.....

Nasa's new dust cloud, the Wreath Nebulae, a stellar nursery where baby stars are being born...Happy Holidays to you

2011-12-24T21:05:00.000-08:00

A Trip to the Philosophical Santa

2011-12-19T12:52:00.001-08:00

Alexander and I, Renata and Guthry Hahm visited Santa today and he gave us all a talking to, saying "the best things are free, like visiting the library or spending time with a family member." He told Renata to not get into Guthry's toys and he told Guthry to not get mad at his sister if she does get into his toys.

Then Santa pointed to Guthry's head and said "this is what's important, all that knowledge you get from studying at school, doing your homework and going to the library, and they can't take that away from you."

With all this free advice I wanted to ask him a few philosophical conundrums myself, like: "How did the 1% get there and how can I do it too?" or, "Was the God Particle made by God?" or "how do you find the one "blinking bulb" on the tree so your lights won't blink?"

Thank you to the Hahm family for taking Alexander on camping trips with them this year and making it possible for me to do a little bit of touring with my band mates.

I Wonder Why

2011-12-17T22:55:00.000-08:00

Donna Grace and CLB 1993 Tecate Mexico, photo by Paul

Another song from Club Passim's in Cambridge. Bob Colby recording us this past summer...

This is a song that's stayed near and dear to me all these many years later, from the Garage Orchestra time period. I wrote it in Paul and Donna's van, about a week after I met 'em. They were in a restaurant eating burritos with Paul's Japanese agent, Mr Asanto and I was out in the van convening with some blue jays about this melody...You really can't go wrong with a pretty song about loss...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=GXl0RVfjRUA&feature=endscreen

Journal Entry: September 1992

2011-11-29T20:19:00.000-08:00

These are writings from my 1992 journal, five months after meeting Paul, and while writing the songs that became Garage Orchestra

Am I in love?

I'm afraid to admit I may be.

And he is so often on my mind.

Got a letter from him today, I like that.

hmm, wish he were here.

then again, when he is, there's little time

for music work. So much of our attention

being devoted to one another.

He is adorable, lovable, high strung,

a lot of nervous energy.

Mind on high speed. He self consciously

speaks in slower meter, keeping his voice low

and tries to make it pleasant. Which can come off,

well....self conscious. Then other times it sounds a little higher

and a little quicker and more nervous and sorta kid-like (almost) and it's

less controlled.

I like it better less controlled.

Sometimes, a controlled voice sounds a bit like a new age author reading

chapters from a positive thinking book at a meditation/prosperity consciousness raising seminar.

I don't trust those types.

A lot of white people try too hard.

(Ocean Beach, CA 1992)

Ushers Into The Theater Of Life

2011-11-27T10:12:00.001-08:00

Sebastian Green, CLB, Renata Bratt at NVA Theater, Carlsbad CA

(think we were singing a Carter Family tune here, "You're Gonna Be Sorry")

There are a lot of great things about being a guitar instructor. One of them is getting to work with young students that are just finding out who they are as human beings and some of them find out how much they love music, and some discover they have a gift for it. As a teacher, I think, we are just usher's into the theater of life, showing young souls their seat and then the rest is up to them.

Here's a really nice article on one of my guitar students, a 14 year old that's quite the natural on all things musical, but particularly bluegrass guitar. It's been fun and an honor working with Sebastian...

http://www.nctimes.com/news/local/columnists/inperson/in-person-teen-guitarist-already-has-a-bright-career-in/article_53dea65f-575e-50d6-bd3d-66ead9b0691c.html

photo credit: Peter Meade

Straight Outta Marysville

2011-11-15T20:18:00.000-08:00

This is me and Paul 2 1/2 months after his bicycle accident/brain injury (April 15, 1995)...at the American Bookseller Assoc. convention. The doctors and nurses and therapists who were working with Paul had asked him not to go the the convention, it was in Chicago, they wanted more time for his brain to heal. But there was no talking him out of it so I went along and made sure he stayed safe.

You're wondering what I mean by 'safe'? It was just a month earlier he had come home from the hospital and on that day he went raging, out of the apartment and down the street because his mother had told him the chicken wasn't finished cooking yet. One minute he seemed perfectly normal, the next he was yelling at me he wanted a divorce...fine, except we weren't married. Or, he was waking up early in the morning, getting out of bed and peeing in a cardboard box in his office. Or, he was crying profusely over a passage in the children's film, James and the Giant Peach. It was a challenging adventure to be sure.

Before his accident happened I was just beginning to write songs for the follow up album to Garage Orchestra. I'd only had a few songs written so far...Talking With A Mineral, Diane of the Moon, I'm a Tumbleweed. Me and the core members of the Garage Orchestra: Randy Hoffman, Renata Bratt and Chris Davies, we're just beginning to workshop some of the tunes. But mostly we'd been touring throughout 1994 and 95 for the Garage Orchestra album.

We'd done a bunch of shows with the Smithereens, one of the shows had a new band opening before us, Weezer. The guys in Weezer were super cool and we all hung out behind the theater together after the show, discussing how much we liked each others music. We'd gone out as a 3 piece, me on guitar, Chris on bass and Randy playing timpani/vibraphone/percussion...

Anyways, when April 15, 1995 happened....I was in a bit of a funk. So many friends and fans were so enthusiastic about Garage Orchestra (released 4/94) and I'd gotten some great reviews, but nothing was moving my life closer to easy. It was tax day. I was driving home from a rehearsal with Randy and Chris and had a feeling of being hungry, and I thought to myself I'm not gonna stop to eat because I want to grab something with Paul, so I waited and I hightailed it home. I came in the apartment and no one was home, so I fell down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Next minute our neighbor was banging on the door and shouting for me to follow her...the accident had happened a block from our place, on a big hill going down to the beach on 3rd street. But I've written of this before...

Long story short: Once Paul was out of the hospital, out of inpatient rehab, out of outpatient rehab ...our lives were supposed to be normal again. Wrong. Bringing your loved one home after a brain injury is kinda like bringing a feral animal home, one that loves you, but is none the less, feral.

That first month he was home I wrote the song Unknown Master Painter. I must admit, I had the overwhelming feeling that I wanted to get in the car and drive it as far east as I could go. I wanted to escape, at the same time I knew I wouldn't. A few family members, Paul's family, were calling and inviting me to leave him. One said, "You're too young to have to live a life like this. You should leave now and let yourself have a life. He may never be the same again"

I didn't listen. In fact, I didn't understand what she was talking about at all. How does one leave someone that they love? Especially in their darkest hour. Plus, I was still too in love with Paul. You see we'd only just moved in together the year before. It was still in the intoxicating phase. But now, maybe with a big shot of Haldol mixed in. And then, there was that ever-present desire one has to want to fix it and make it all better, however impossible and delirious that fixing may be.

It was hard. My musicians were supportive and understanding and we fit in rehearsals when we could. The accident certainly set us back and I was left without any feeling of where the creative process was going, and then quite suddenly the cellist Renata had to move away to the east coast. So it became an issue of timing.

Somewhere in there I had a conversation with Paul about what the album should be and he brought up the idea of a Fire Sale, that is getting rid of all the songs I'd had in my arsenal, and hadn't released. And so that became the spirit of the album.

We recorded it in the fall of 1995, about 6 months after Paul's accident. Thinking back I don't know how I pulled it off at that time. It seems astounding now, considering what I was going through with Paul's recovery. And his insistence in getting back, quickly into his regular life pace. So we went to Europe so he could do a lecture tour, and he took a job as a music editor of a HiFi magazine, and I made an album and I watched over Paul's progress and his care.

This is the fire that brought forth Straight Outta Marysville. And it is back in print now, as of today in a digital only format..at iTunes and the like. I heard some of it today for the first time in over 12 years and it is an odd album, full of peculiar characters and plenty of youthful anxiety and some beautiful if minimalist orchestrations...Lenny Kaye once said to me that recordings are photographs, Marysville is then a photo album of my 1995 with a few amazing musical friends.

When she left Picasso,

2011-11-09T20:13:00.000-08:00

the days were still warm, all the world was young

it was summer

or what was left of it.

When she left Picasso

there was nothing to be done to make the going easy

she was met at the end of the lane

by a man with a lamp

who showed her the way out

and which road to go

away from Picasso.

When she left Picasso

she couldn't eat or sleep

there was too little time

there was too far to go

and the future a steep/grade up/into the unknown.

When she left Picasso

it was a summer night

with the windows of the town fully open with light

and the terrible red eye of Antares staring down

from the bright net of stars called Scorpio.

and, what was there to be done with

the things he'd given her

the stories, the visions,

the children of nuclear fission

it was a hell of a way to go...

...when she left Picasso,

he wondered why

wanted to know the ways a bird can fly

so many had flown too close to the sun

but she has left me while our love was still young

and that rattled the soul of old Picasso.

When she left Picasso

the waves smashed on the shore

in the south of France

the rip tide was great

and pulled at full force

full of yearning for Picasso.

When she left,

and they kissed their last kiss

white hot as the first

he slammed his fist on the desk

spilling the green tea,

'women don't leave a man like me,

don't you know who I am, I'm Picasso'.

When she left Picasso

god he was mad

all the colors drained out of the room

and left were the etchings of structures of things

like bones and stones and tombs,

and the sucking black hole

at the end of the o, in Picasso.

When she left Picasso

she wasn't afraid

she had the right of the spheres on her side,

and the winds blew behind her and tousled her hair

and the gods in her did confide,

'we'd hoped you'd stay for a while,

but if you must then go,

you've earned your wings

with this Picasso'.

When she left

started her car

set the GPS for somewhere,

all the way down that long-haul road

were scattered bones of those that had gone before

lovers friends and foe of Picasso.

When she left Picasso

the Santa Anas were blowing

from California to Barcelona

the tin roofs of bordellos were coming down,

a chime from a church bell

the doppler'd harmonica

the sound of his voice,

his voice that echoed through her lost mining towns,

on the winds of desire that blew through the portals

of the P and O, of Picasso.

When she left Picasso

goodbye was still a hello

a fond waiting 'til next text or talk on the phone

every door left open

and buttons undone

like a nuclear wasteland

with all things in place

but the humans were totally gone.

Like this she said yes, to life and to love

and sent a wish out into the unknown

a kiss to all things

both fierce and beautiful

like this, she said no, to Picasso.

the sweetest thing is....

2011-11-06T00:55:00.000-07:00

the heart goes on loving...

the sad thing is the heart goes on loving...

the exasperating thing is....

the beautiful thing is the heart goes on loving and the sun shining.

the ridiculous thing is the heart goes on loving and the sun and stars turn round in the sky, over and over again.

the encouraging thing is the heart, goes on,.... loving even while sub-atomic particles move on, changing partners, making whole new babies and snowflakes.

the dumbest-stupidest most wonderful thing is the heart... goes on loving despite the weather here and what you've had for dinner.

the trickiest part is the heart.

Somebody's Angel

2011-10-24T03:41:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid there was a popular song that told of a soldier who'd come back from war paralyzed and in the lyrics he was imploring his wife Ruby, to not take her love to town. She was apparently a floozy, I sorted out later, 'cuz what kind of wife would doll her self up and go into town nights. I'm not sayin' it's one of the best songs ever written, I can't be objective enough for that, but I can tell you it effected me enough as a little kid that the lyrics would go through my mind time and again. Other songs along the same lines, that stuck with me were Skip A Rope (Henson Cargill) and Jackson (We got married in a fever hotter than a pepper sprout, we been talkin' 'bout Jackson ever since the fire ran out..)...these songs were all trying to tell me something about what the future held for us little kids...like some mysterious cryptic Cuneiform, that would let on just what it was to be an adult.

Somewhere along the way I realized that the Ruby in the Kenny Rogers song represented some kind of bad person, a woman that didn't take care of loved ones. I was a teenager in rural Ramona when Kenny Rogers came to play a concert in a remote part of our back-country. There were probably about a hundred of us teens and young adults on a lawn while he played through his hits. I don't remember much except that everyone sang along with the part of the song that went...."oh Ru-u-by,Don't Take Your Love to Town".

As a spouse to a man who had a serious brain injury which later turned into early onset of dementia....I've come to see Ruby in a new light. Within the lyrics you see that she's at home with him by day, and by night she goes out...but doesn't she deserve a life beyond being a care-giver? Maybe she goes to bingo at the church, maybe she meets a girlfriend for tea, or maybe she has a clandestine affair with a man, or maybe she's dancing with the lipstick lesbians at a dive-bar. Ruby deserves to discover who she is despite the fact that her husband can no longer do the things a husband can do.

I met a young woman a year ago, she had just lost her husband to the war inAfghanistan, she'd come to me for guitar lessons. She was pushing herself to do things she hadn't done before, to find ways to move on, discover who she was now....It's very hard work, this moving on business. But it's the business of life. Loving.

Jonathan Lethem and Paul Williams

2011-10-18T23:08:00.001-07:00

This past weekend we had a visit from Paul's longtime friend, novelist Jonathan Lethem (Motherless Brooklyn, The Fortress of Solitude etc...). Jonathan shared some stories with Paul, reminding him how they'd met at a science fiction writers convention in Berkeley in the 1980s... and how Paul had been wearing a Meat Puppets tee-shirt at the time. In fact, that same tee-shirt is still in a drawer here at our place, I never had the heart to throw it out. I always loved that he had a Meat Puppets shirt....and what a great underground band.

One of the charms of Paul and his wonderful brain, when it was working properly, was how open minded he was to music that was out of his realm of experience. For a guy that was so much a part of the 1960s he was not the least bit stuck there.

I was talking to someone recently about Paul as a music listener and recollected how Paul, when he was writing the One Hundred Best Singles of Rock and Roll-in the early 90s, wouldn't write off a single, (some suggested to him by friends with fannish fervor), until he'd listened to it nearly 100 times. He used to say, "you have to learn the language of the artist".

Paul introduced me to Jonathan in 1993, he was working at a book store on Telegraph, just before his first novel was released, Gun With Occasional Music. Jonathan let us stay at his place in Berkeley for the night and headed out of town, good thing, I was sick as a dog....high fever the whole bit, but I was wildly in love and Paul had a grand time combing through Jonathan's robust CD and record collection, playing stuff like Grant Lee Buffalo and Pavement for me while I broke the fever.

(photo by me at Paul's nursing home here in Encinitas,.... I might add our son Alexander-who just turned 10 this week,- was frolicking with Jonathan and Amy's boys Everett and Desmond while the boring adults conversed)

She Enjoys Her High Life

2011-10-10T20:09:00.000-07:00

photo credit: Peter Meade

Randy Hoffman, CLB, Renata Bratt @NVA Theater 10/8/11

Thank you Brendan Coakley for writing and reminding me of this passage from Paul Williams book Das Energi. These particular words really speak to me right now as we approach a full moon in Aries.

"She enjoys her high life; does not enjoy anxiety. So she stops hesitating and does what she has to do.

She does not live in a state of bliss, though perhaps she feels herself moving toward one...

or toward...something, she doesn't know what it is but it is the way she has to go, the journey toward it is the only life she enjoys.

It is hard, it is exciting, it is satisfying, lonely, joyous, frustrating, puzzling, enlightening, real; it is her life, that's all.

She accepts it. Sooner or later a person begins to notice that everything that happens to her is perfect...." Das Energi, 1973

(Paul wrote Das Energi at age 22 while living on a commune off of Vancouver Island)

And now, after her triumphant return from the old coast.....

2011-09-27T21:20:00.000-07:00

She returns...
I'm playing my first show in San Diego in over a year, on Oct. 8th...at a lovely little theater in Carlsbad CA.

There will be a few laughs, a coupla tall tales, at least one sob story, a likely visitation from an intriguing extraterrestrial...and some brand new songs

New Village Arts Theater

Saturday Oct 8th

$20

with Renata Bratt on cello

and Randy Hoffman on glockenspiel

and percussion....

plus a few special guests

http://www.newvillagearts.org/

box office: 760 433 3245

*reserved seating*

comic courtesy of the late great William Rotsler

and inked at CorFlu 1996

Attention Bob Dylan Fans...

2011-09-25T20:38:00.001-07:00

I will be selling Pauls collection of Dylan reference material to the highest bidder....the collection includes biographies, reference books, box-loads of cassettes and cd's that are bootlegged recordings of many shows, a few tour posters or tickets. Mostly stuff Paul used as reference material for his 3 book series Bob Dylan: Performance Artist.

The recordings were made by fans over the years and sent to Paul for the purpose of research/not for commercial use. They probably go back well into the 1970s ....(though I admit there are many boxes in storage I haven't investigated)

Ya'll come and get em'. Were cleanin' house around here.

.....contact me at cindyleeberryhill@yahoo.com

September 2001: The Month Before The Baby Arrived

2011-09-11T20:08:00.000-07:00

(Mom, Clb, Paul, Anne Berryhill, the cake I couldn't eat, Sept 18th 2001, Alexander's baby shower)

In early September of 2001 I was very pregnant. I had moved back in with Paul (we'd split up 1999-2000, then re-engaged our marriage but had continued living apart, he here in Encinitas and me in West Los Angeles)and I had quit my girl-friday job at Lookout Management/Vapor Records.

I decided I was simply too pregnant to be.. say, picking up and delivering shoes to Lookout client Neil Young or fetching David Crosby from the airport or fielding calls from any number of living legends. So I said my goodbye's and loaded the Corolla station-wagon and moved back down to San Diego County.

As normal, 2001 was a hot September and I spent a lot of time walking and hanging out at our local beach, Moonlight. The city had recently retrieved a bunch of sand from some other locale, and it had dumped and spread the new dirty looking brown stuff all over the popular beach. Most locals weren't very happy with it. Along with the new sand came a bunch of sting rays and so everyone was having to shuffle step through the waves.

I wasn't swimming. It was a red tide that fall, where the waves look dirt brown by day and at night glow with the bioluminescence of millions of phytoplankton, algae. Lovely and compelling by night. But too toxic for a pregnant lady to swim in. Paul and I took many walks down to our beach that month.

I had to walk actually, doctors orders. But I was pretty ambitious about it, marching up and down the steep stairs on the beach bluff called Stone Steps (120 stairs in all). A recent medical test made my obstetrician think I might have gestational diabetes. The fear was I would have too large of a baby. In fact, Grandma Berryhill had two sons that were over 13 pounds, she definitely had gestational diabetes. I was a border line case.

At any rate, I had to cut all the sweets out of my diet, eat one piece of bread a day, stick with the fruits veggies and meat diet and then prick my finger and test my blood sugar three times a day. So if I walked after I ate, you see, it would bring my blood sugar down and I would fare well on the tests. So I did a lot of walking.

Paul and I lived in the same apartment building I live in now with our 9 year old son and the neighbors loved the idea of a child on the way. Checking in often on how the pregnancy was progressing and helping us get the landlord to give us new paint and carpet.

The apartment was clean and ready for a kid. But I didn't have the proper baby-care tools. So my girlfriend Patricia Michal's held a baby shower for us, on the weekend of September 8th or 9th. Lots of friends showed up, mostly friends without kids I might note, and Paul and I came home with a car load of stuff, the usual stuff, and I piled it all in the living room, ready to process another day. Also, I knew in a week my family, the Berryhill cousins, were gonna have their own shower for us at their place in Laguna, so I'd wait and see what we had after that.

Paul had been seeing a therapist since our separation, and now with a baby coming he was inspired to work on unfinished business with his kids from his first marriage, their mother being, Sachiko. He invited both sons, now adults, to visit us one at a time and participate in a series of therapy sessions with him, a place where they could lay out some of their truths and feelings about having Paul Williams as a father.

It was a good thing for Paul. He'd always had trouble controlling his anger, (the brain injury didn't help), and he was doing a lot of good work on finding ways to handle his feelings and look at who he'd been to others in his life, how he'd effected the ones he loved. It was a promising time.

We were involved in a Buddhist study group at that time. We'd both been studying the Buddha's philosophies via a Vietnamese monk named Thich Naht Hahn (who'd been nominated for a Nobel Peace prize by Martin Luther King) . Nhat Hahn had a monastery in east county we'd visit sometimes and the monks would visit our San Diego study group. After a night of reading and discussion the head monk came and sat with me and Paul and talked to us about the importance of bringing mindful peace to the home we'd be bringing the baby into. He was a pretty amazing person, with both a child like quality and a heavy intelligence vibe at once. I felt a strong connection with this monk, sadly he passed away, from diabetes, the same day our son was born. I always felt they'd passed one another with purpose, through the ether's, on their ways from heaven to earth.

This was our life in the month before our son, Alexander was born.

One morning Paul woke me up a little early, he was a bit rattled. His second wife Donna Grace called to tell us that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center towers in New York. Apparently she didn't know too much about it because Paul didn't have anything more to tell me about it and I pictured it in my minds eye as a private plane. And there was no TV to tune into, I haven't had a TV in my house since, 1991, actually the last broadcasting TV I had was when I lived in New York City.

That morning I had an appointment with my doctors office. Because my obstetrician was so concerned about me having gestational diabetes they were putting me through a series of "stress tests" which boiled down to strapping on a belt contraption and blasting the fetus with some crazy loud blips and seeing if it moved around(no wonder my son is sound sensitive now)...

On my way to the doctor, a half hours drive, I listened to the LA news station I usually tuned into, 1070AM...and was shocked to hear that it had been a commercial passenger plane that had hit the tower. By the time I got into the doctors office they had the TV's on and going full blast. I was in line, checking in when the second plane hit the other tower. The room had a mutual gasp and we all knew it was a planned thing. It was awful seeing all that go down, and I'm just sitting there waiting to be called in and then I'm supposed to take a stress test?

I listened to the rest of the events unfold on the car radio on my way home and I made a decision. I was pretty upset, who wasn't. I decided to not take in the news for the rest of the month. No hunting for pictures on the computer, no tv at friends homes..only enough radio to know whether the cataclysm's were coming west. I didn't want Alexander's last few weeks in the womb to be filled with stress hormones. I still think I made the right decision.

It's ten years later. All the pictures I didn't see, the famous photos I missed I'm allowing myself to see now. And Alexander went with friends to a 911 memorial in San Diego today. On the way home he asked his friends mother, " Who flew the planes into the buildings" She said, " The people that planned the attacks" He said, "You mean they planned it and did it knowing they too would die?" "Yep, she said, noticing how incredulous he was looking." Alexander: "But how could someone plan their own death?" ...

Alexander was born October 16, 2001, six pounds seven ounces, and despite the doctors fear of a large rotund baby brought on by gestational diabetes, I had one of the slimmer babies born that day.

WILD PONIES AND PLAYING CARDS

2011-09-06T20:25:00.001-07:00

Sorting through multiple decks of playing cards on Paul's bed. Now he has a full deck.

Lately It's been hard to collect my thoughts and put them into a reasonable form. They've been running like wild ponies to the four directions. But I will make an attempt to type a few words today...

I've thought a lot about Paul lately, and the kind of life he lives at the nursing home. The bad food for one. I try to bring him a bagel and lox once a week.

He isn't fairing so well these days. I got a call from his doctor on Sunday (that's right Sunday...) and he wanted to talk to me about Paul's deteriorating mental health. He recommended anti-depressants (who wouldn't be unhappy living in a sterile Medi-caid run nursing home..?) I explained to his doc that we'd been through 5 or 6 different antidepressants several years ago and they all only managed to make him sleep more (up to 15 hours a day) and then get crazy when he tried to cut back (like when he bit his 2 year old son's arm). The doc agreed that might not be the way to go.

He suggested a visit to a psychiatrist. But you actually need to be able to converse, even minimally, with a psychiatrist in order for him to see what your needs are and then administer medicine based on what you've revealed about yourself. Paul rarely talks anymore. He'll answers a few questions in one word answers. The doctor pretty much agreed.

And then Paul's doctor told me, short of the antidepressants or psychiatrist, Paul could use more family visits. "Can some other family or friends come visit him more often". I told him it was all pretty much me, with the exception of an occasional visit from a family member that lives far away. He'd had a few regular visitors over the past 2 years but Paul didn't want to get out of bed for them.

That's when I realized that Paul's well being was based on whether I was visiting him (and his 9 year old son Alexander). He might live or die (you see he's not wanting to get out of bed anymore) based on whether this person, ie me, is able to see him more often.

So it poses the question...does one life go on hold for another?

In the past two years, since my husband was entered into a skilled nursing facility, I've slowly come out of a time I can call, care-givers burnout. When Paul lived at home, our son and I couldn't venture out, it had become too hard to take Paul anywhere. I payed for a sitter to stay with Paul while I was at work or went out to a movie. It was a very expensive time and we lived on a short leash.

Since then I've discovered I love to run. I run about 3 miles 4 or 5 times a week. It's a blast! I can go on short trips to other cities to visit friends or play some shows now. I can take our son to the movies or do something wild and go star gazing with an astronomy club. I can join up with a running club and meet new friends. It's like becoming a young adult again for the first time, where you don't have to ask your parents and borrow their car. Alexander and I can do stuff.

So I might have sounded like a right ol' asshole to Paul's doctor but I told him, "What I'm doing is the best I can do, visiting him once or twice a week. And it all falls on me, so this is what it looks like. It's just a sad situation. But let's make the best of it. "

And anyways, I won't go back to that place of living half a life. And i definitely don't believe Paul would want me to. Paul was always on the side of living wasn't he....

Let the wild ponies run free.

Two Songs From Club Passim

2011-08-29T21:20:00.001-07:00

Our pal Bob Colby, from the colliding worlds of science fiction and rock and roll, recorded some of our show at Passim's in Cambridge, MA last month and he's just put it up on Youtube.........here's a link...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJ78fFtqPZA

These are two of my new songs: Thanks Again and The Adventurist with my pal Renata Bratt on cello and Paula Luber on glockenspiel.

The show was the first in a series we did on the east coast, driving around in a Ford Impala (I didn't know they still made the Impala), during the great heat wave of July 2011. After Boston we hit the DC area, Philly (108 F) then NYC (105) , playing double bills with our pals from SF, Blame Sally. Except for Rob, it was an all woman show, which was great 'cuz we could get dressed back stage w/out a worry.

As is often the case, I forgot to bring CDs to sell, but that was okay because we were playing songs from Garage Orchestra which is out of print and then about 6 of the new songs which are yet to be in print. So somehow it all evened out. (Plus, I kept forgetting to pick up my end of night cash but the Sally girls had me covered me on that...'what you're supposed to make money? I thought I was on a vacation in Tahiti')...

Paul and the Boys

2011-08-21T23:17:00.000-07:00

Paul playing Scrabble with his son Alexander and his grandson Kent, young Seth is directly behind Paul

Paul's oldest son Kenta, who has been visiting this week with his family says this: "Alexander, Kent and I played Scrabble with my dad on Friday. We only made it through 2 rounds (due to the boys' impatience) but my dad did come up with reasonable words (anti and glue) and added up all his points."

Some More of Paul Williams and his son

2011-08-10T15:50:00.000-07:00

Alexander and his dad, Paul Williams at home playing catch...we sometimes do this at Paul's nursing home here in Encinitas, where he's resided since June of 09. He doesn't seem to know he doesn't live with us anymore, which is a sort of blessing, as he has no distress about his situation

Paul gets interested in something written on the ball, like the manufacturer's info, this is the extent of his reading nowadays.

Alexander and His Dad Playing Ball

2011-08-04T21:00:00.000-07:00

You can get a little sense of how Paul is doing from these little vid's...he's at his strongest and happiest here...alas, most of the time, these days, he sleeps his time away...

What is so interesting here is that Paul can barely walk down the hall without teetering over, in fact some friends that visit him regularly suggested he use a wheel chair now...but here is throwing a ball around with good coordination...it says a lot about what part of the brain is being used for certain functions.

I've Always Loved A Mystery

2011-08-01T22:02:00.000-07:00

...no reason that should stop now

American Cinematography

2011-07-13T21:48:00.000-07:00

Here's a song I wrote this week....

Shows on the East Coast Starting 7/19...

2011-07-11T13:39:00.000-07:00

I'll be playing a few shows out on the east coast next week....here are the dates:

Starting next Tuesday 7/19 Passim's in Cambridge, MA,

7/20 Jammin' Java in Vienna VA,

7/21 World Cafe in Philly,

7/22 Canal Room NYC...

Here's a little bit of me in New York last month...this was our sound check er, first song... (thanks again to Lach and Steve Varaja for saving the day and jumping on the sound board with spontaneous enthusiasm...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0AyGGW40qI

OBSERVER: LOOKS IN THE BOX

2011-06-26T21:46:00.000-07:00

This photo was taken in 2002 for an LA Weekly cover story on Paul Williams and fellow iconic rock journalist, Richard Meltzer (who wrote for CRAWDADDY! Magazine in the late 60s).

Half the story revolved around Meltzer's writing and the other half of the story was the writer's take on Paul's philosophy of music writing....that of being a subjective listener. Which is something like this: a music fan which reports the news from his/her own planet of experience, way of moving sound through density of flesh, and then the thoughts that emerge about those sounds, having hurdled down halls/neurotransmitter highways....

I love this idea of Paul's. But, of course, it's not only Paul's idea for the claiming. Paul's old friend Philip K Dick asked the question 'what is real?' in many different ways in his books.

Schrodinger's Cat, brings a similar question in the language of Quantum Physics. "Theorists who accept the pure version of Quantum Mechanics say that the cat exists in some indeterminate state (ie, alone in a box), neither dead nor alive, until an observer looks in the box to see how things are getting on. Nothing is real, unless it is observed." (John Gribbin, In Search of Schrodinger's Cat)

If it's all subjective, then It comes down to the question: what is real? Paul's take was sort of a... 'who cares, if i like it, it defines me in some way .'

Williams James said, "Religion, therefore, as I now ask you arbitrarily to take it, shall mean for us the feelings, acts, and experiences of individual men in their solitude, so far as they apprehend themselves to stand in relation to whatever they may consider the divine."

In the course of Paul's conversation with Alec Hanley Bemis, the LA Weekly writer noted: "Williams likens his approach to music to Henry David Thoreau's 19th-century nature writings or The Varieties of Religious Experience, William James' 1902 take on faith. "My concept was never to rate music in some kind of critical context," Paul explains as we walk along the beach. "Instead, I ask: Why is this so powerful? In what ways is it affecting us? What is the experience?" "

"There is a very famous old line: I don't know anything about art, but I know what I like," he adds. "The greatness of art ultimately has to do with subjectivity. Anything else is, to a large extent, an illusion that there are right answers to the question. Traditionally that's the French Academy approach to literature, the high school approach to literature. The correct answer is: 'Victor Hugo is the greatest French writer, because that is what the academy has agreed.'"

Paul said: "To really care about the quality and originality of many aspects of your life in this way is human nature," Williams tells me in parting. "Sometimes this is a very attractive and ennobling part of human nature. You're saying, 'This is who I am.'"

* * *

And on that note I must sign off with some sad news: CRAWDADDY! The Magazine of Rock is once again being pulled out of circulation. As some of you may know, CRAWDADDY! was bought by the owner of Wolfgang's Vault about 5 years ago. His intention was to start the iconic rock magazine back up as an online only zine only. It lived in this manner at crawdaddy.com for almost 3 years, with an ambitious and talented staff that understood Paul's vision of rock writing. Now it will be folded into Paste Magazine, which is a new acquisition of the Wolfgang's Vault owner, and taken off line (except for some archived bits).

CRAWDADDY has seen its share of comings and goings, endings and beginnings. I send out my condolences to you editors and writers that have worked so diligently at CRAWDADDY these past few years. Thanks for the good work and keeping Paul's vision relevant. I know he has appreciated it....

CLB: New York's Examiner.com

2011-06-22T18:18:00.000-07:00

"Cindy Lee Berryhill's triumphant return to New York"

http://www.examiner.com/local-music-in-new-york/cindy-lee-berryhill-s-triumphant-return-to-new-york

Thank you Jim Bessman (and New York)....

BACK TO THE BIG RED BALL

2011-06-19T16:33:00.001-07:00

Fathers Day at the nursing home with Alexander and Paul and a big red ball....we picked up a card for Paul on Sunday and I saw a bin full of these balls and threw it on the cashiers belt. Alexander asked what it was for and I said "I think daddy will like this, remember how he used to love tossing the ball around last year, let's try it again." Every time we've bought one of this balloon-like balls they pop within a day or two, but what the hell, it's Dad's Day..and so I bought it.

We spent an hour just outside of Paul's room, outside the sliding glass door tossing this thing around. It's been ages since I've seen Paul act so lively, and smile so much. It was a hit. So I put his name on it in black marker and left it in his room in a corner, hoping he'll occasionally get a bounce or two out of it.

Paul was pretty tired after our little game of catch, he didn't even want to go out for coffee with us afterwards. So off we went, leaving him in his room, ( just behind him in the photo above), with enough daylight left to catch an eyeful of glamorous blue glitter from the Pacific Ocean on our ride home.

Alexander: portrait of the young writer

2011-05-20T23:34:00.000-07:00

Here's a bit of Alexander's current fiction writing. I think you'll find it interesting in that it's about a relationship with a dad and a nine year old boy. A pretty antagonistic relationship in fact. And one that revolves around the dad not allowing any music in the house, especially rock. Ha. What's so fascinating, as most of you know, is that Alexander's real dad not only loved rock and roll, he was so crazy about it he started the first US rock magazine, Crawdaddy!, when he was 17 years old.

At any rate it's fascinating, and entertaining seeing what comes out of that young, nine year old, Alexander mind. Last year he wrote a very impressive science fiction short story from the perspective of a man-hero. With this story I can see he is now moving rapidly toward the "tween" years. Embodying his youth, a place where parents, even made up ones, become antagonistic. (photo: ABW asking questions of a Lego panel at Comicon 2010)

Chapter 1…..by Alexander Berryhill-Williams

“Will you stop all that noise up there?”

Hi, I’m Jack Barry. I am 9 years old. I like to play the drums. That’s what I am doing right now. And it is 8:30am.

“Sorry Dad,” I yell downstairs.

You see, my dad is not a big fan of rock. He never goes to rock concerts. He even put a filter on my computer so I can’t watch rock videos. Luckily, I know how to undo it. But I can’t watch them when dad’s around.

“I wish it was already 10:00,” I murmur to myself. Ten o’clock AM is when my dad goes to work. Then mom watches me.

I go down stairs. Dad is having his morning coffee and is reading the paper. The music section is in the trash. I take it out.

“Oh no,” says dad, his coffee cup empty. “Not on my watch.”

I put it back and head for the cupboard. Darn. We’re out of cereal. I make myself some oatmeal. My dad goes upstairs to get ready for work. By the time he’s done it is 9AM, T-minus 1 hour to dad leaving. I go upstairs and use the computer for half an hour. Thirty minutes countdown.

I decide to go outside. I run around the yard a couple of times and then check the time. About 9:45. I go in the kitchen. No Dad. I take the music section out of the trash.

“Did I not say no?”says Dad, entering the room. “I think I said no.”

“Sorry.” I say.

“Well, I’m off to work. See you tonight. And don’t even think of reading that. Clear?”

I nod. As soon as he is out the door, I rush upstairs. I get out my legos and start building.

It is now 12:00. I just finished the foot pedal. I go downstairs to eat a PBJ for lunch. I then go back upstairs to practice drums. I practice “The Final Countdown”, “No”, and “Dynamite”. Then I watch a movie. After that I read a bit of City of Ember. Now I am outside practicing basketball. I hear a knock on the door. Dad’s home!

Birthday Greetings For Paul

2011-05-19T21:53:00.000-07:00

Today is Paul Williams (aka Crawdaddy, or daddy of Craw?) birthday and he received a flood of happy greetings via my Facebook account. I read them to him at noon today over his favorite lunch, a chili relleno burrito from Juanita's taco stand. Paul teared up and dabbed his nose a number of times while listening, a few of the comments even brought him some laughs .... Below I share with you a few of those messages from an illustrious array of fans and friends...

Joshua Nye Paul, several years ago you did me the courtesy of meeting w/me to discuss your recollections of hearing the acetates for "Smile". I so greatly appreciate having the opportunity to listen. Thank you, and happy birthday.

M.J. Stevens Yeah, we are still out here reading your stuff, Paul. Thanks, and Happy Birthday.

Scott Kempner

Happy Birthday Paul - I discovered Crawdaddy in the summer of 67, with Issue 9. It changed my life - for the better, & set me on the path of being a lifelong musician. I came to befriend R. Meltzer, who is the Godfather of my band, The Dictators (Pearlman was our manager), & it began my lifelong passion for smart, impassioned rock criticism. I treasure all those early issues, which i still own, & are never more than an arm's length away. They're still in perfect shape. They still hold their magic. I grew up in the world of rock criticsim, with Lester, Greil was my father in law for five years, Landau, et al. I have a band called The Del-Lords, make solo albums, & work with the great Dion DiMucci. I am not sure how much of this blessed life would have happened without you. Thanx for everything. And, i do mean everything.

Todd Everett Happy birthday to one of the pioneers, from one of his many acolytes. If we were in the same room, I'd shake your hand.

Arn McConnell Happy birthday to a writer who was influencing me long before I even knew who he was!

Cynthia Lawless happiest 63rd birthday to one of the greatest hits of the 20th century! congrats, Paul!

Mick Gray Happy Birthday to one of THE GREAT ROCK N ROLL WRITERS!!! I wish you a very special day. Paul!

Dave Weil Thank you for the days, Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me. I'm thinking of the days, I won't forget a single day, believe me.

Thankfully, we don't need to sing the second verse because you're still here shining the light!

Rock Critics Anything for the man that made trips to Target worthwhile growing up (straight to the mag rack). Have a very Happy Birthday, Paul!

Peter Stampfel happy birthday, and thank you massively for glorious shitloads!

David Beckham Happy Birthday Paul, Thank you for offering us all Das Energi. I have made it a gift for so many. Also thank you for "Only Apparently Real" and keeping PKD alive for us.

Steven Ben-Off Abrams Happy birthday, Paul! I picked up "Das Energi" as a teenager in the late 70s, really dug it & then was pleasantly surprised when I caught up with your later work & found it to be just as exciting and worthwhile. Thanks for being a good influence on me!

Jocelyn Ertel Das Energi, one of the key books of my life. Happy Birthday Paul!

Rainer Vesely Happy birthday from Austria, Paul!

Michael Rapp happy birthday from your friends at Swarthmore College

Steve Stiles A very happy birthday to you, ol' pal. And merry unbirthdays later.

Gary Heffern birthday greetings from finland paul!

Art Linton Happy Birthday, Paul! You touched my life in a profound way with your writings, especially Das Energi. Eternal thanks to you! Happy birthday! Many happy returns of the day to you! Cheers and all best wishes! Peace and grace.

Gary Schulstad Happy Birthday Paul, Thanks for your friendship; for all the connections you provided between inspiring people, for the direction you gave to hear music in new ways, for deepening my appreciation of life using truths you discovered, and for opening my eyes to numerous and different adventures to experience.

Bob Colby An extremely happy birthday to you, and thanks for all that your writing has done for me and all of us!

Charles R. Cross happy b day paul... your smile and that of your family, can be seen and felt all the way up here in Seattle.

Roy F. Good Happy Birthday! You are the common thread through many people I've met and memories I have...happiness and peace down the road...

Keith Shiraki Happy Birthday Paul, Thank you for sharing your passion for the music that moves you with us. You are blessed with a beautiful and loving wife and son. I treasure the conversations we have shared. Your words continue to inspire past, present and future readers. Peace.

Dan Chusid Happy Birthday Paul! I still have my early Crawdaddys and will never let them go.

David G. Hartwell Happy birthday, Paul. I am going to visit in the fall. Seems like a long time since we last caught up.

Karl Fitzke Paul, Happy Birthday from upstate NY. I treasure the time my family and I got to spend with you and your family when we lived in San Diego. I also love your very personal style of writing which we still get to enjoy despite being so far away. Rock on, brother. You are the gold standard. -Karl

Bart Mann Happy birthday Paul. Thank you for an inspirational career. Oh and thank you for believing in and supporting Phillip K Dick.

Robert Collyer I was a big Crawdaddy fan..mother jones..all that stuff. Paul ! Thanks for making my bleek life in the foggy potato fields of the early 70's in Germany a somewhat joyful one !!!

Debra Ruzinsky Paul, you have touched our lives deeply! We love you and wish we were there to tell you in person. Happy Birthday from Deb,McNevin, and Nathan.

Matthew Wilson Happy birthday to a man whose writing has expanded my mind and spirit!

Letter From A Friend Who's Father Has Had A Stroke...

2011-05-10T22:44:00.000-07:00

Dear Cindy Lee,

If I remember correctly, Paul was prescribed anti-depressants when he was irritable and quick-tempered. That was the first I'd heard about anti-depressants being used to calm someone, but it makes sense.

I ask because my dad has been pretty short-tempered with my mom since coming home from the hospital. I know many people are depressed after a stroke and are prescribed anti-depressants, so I think he should be on them, too, and I hope I'm remembering correctly that they may improve his temper.

That's what I wanted to ask about. Can anti-depressants also calm someones temper? I think he should be on them, but I thought I'd ask about your experience with them.

How goes your efforts to get a life again? After you played the song "The Heavy" for me, I went to your blog site and heard it again. That's a good version, but you have to hear what it sounds like played over the phone some day.

-Gary

Hi Gary,

This is what I think:

When Paul was in the early stages of recovery from his brain injury (yeah, a stoke is a brain injury), even the first year, he would fly off the handle with anything and anybody. The brain becomes overwhelmed and hasn't gotten the new neurotransmitter routes in place yet and has to work harder, so the individual becomes irritable and irrational, overwhelmed. Your dad should be getting some out-patient rehab, they can talk to you about all this stuff.

There is a brain injury chart called the Rancho Los Amigos Chart which explains what you might expect of your dad, in the coming months...things to look for. You cant expect him to be rational, his brain isnt functioning properly. I had a caregiver at home some of the time, during these first few months, after bringing Paul home from the hospital...

http://www.braininjury.com/recovery.html

They likely, won't prescribe your dad antidepressants until he lands in a recovery zone in a year or so...until then they will consider him still in recovery and thus moving through the various stages mentioned in the Los Amigos Chart...

That's my take on it alll....sorry you're going through all this..its tough stuff. And my two bits is that your mother should not be taking care of him any more...just my opinion. It was hard enough for me and I was many many years younger than her...clb

Cindy Lee,

Thanks so much for the information. It's all helpful. My mom does have help at home, so she's not just taking care of him herself. I also should say he's mostly been positive and cooperative, but sometimes he gets frustrated and depressed, and that's when he loses his temper.

And sure, you can use our conversation about my dad in your blog and even use my name.

glw

Magnificent Other

2011-05-03T18:41:00.000-07:00

About six months ago, I wrote about being in the studio, mixing and putting vocals on tracks I'd originally recorded back in 1999 and 2000 (and previously unreleased),...this is one of the songs. The story on this and the other seven songs goes back to a blog entry I posted in August 2010...I was listening to the songs today, driving by the ocean, on my way home from work and thought I'd let you in on some of the sounds that will be released sometime later this year...

This tune, Magnificent Other (1999), features vocals by me, Lindsey Troy and Anna Troy, with Randy Hoffman (vibraphone), Renata Bratt (cello), Roger Manning (keyboards), Chris Davies (lead guitar), Stew (rhythm guitar), Stephen Hodges (drums), Justin Meldal Johnson (bass), Mike Harris (recording engineer), Lee Ray (mixing engineer), CLB (the final word)

Some Paul Williams Books Seeking A Home

2011-05-02T21:23:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I received a letter from a friend of Paul's writings, Julian Dean (he last year threw a big PK Dick fest in Colorado), who is looking for a home for some of his books. I told him I'd post his correspondence on my site here in the hopes that one of you would write to him and let him send you the following books....

Hello,

I am reducing my personal cargo, which translates into having just taken 100 books to the library. I have a box of Paul’s books. Among them is the big old 1972 hardbound, Time Between, and an assortment of Apple Bay and the others from that era, some Dylan books, an upside down bound Int’l Bill of Human Rights, and so on and so forth.

I have been wanting to find an appreciative home for them rather than let them mold in my garage. I live in a cottage with minimal book shelves, and am looking for a cheaper and quieter place to move to. So I am needing to lighten my load.

Would you like me to ship the box to you? I would love it if you would have any use for the treasures.

Thanks SO MUCH for your blog. I love reading it.

Julian Dean

juliandean@me.com

Medi-Cal

2011-04-23T19:05:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is Easter. It's been a challenging month. But it's almost over. Today I got the papers together, requested by MediCal, to prove that Paul should stay eligible for their program, so they'll continue to pay for his nursing home care.

They did this last year too, ha, right after they approved him. So it looks like once a year, right around tax time, I'll have to pull out the bank statements, my work-pay stubs,.....the title on the car, stuff like that to prove we don't have a bunch of money squirreled away.

They give you about a week and a half to pull it together and send it in to 'em. It's sort of like an unspoken threat. If you don't do it right, and on time, you get dumped and have to start all over again. I understand, the state is trying to find ways to save money, cut the budget...So that's why I'm doing this paper sifting now. I'll feel a lot better about chocolate Easter bunnies knowing I got my papers all lined up today.

The Heavy

2011-04-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

I know I've been slacking with keeping things up and moving on my beloved blog....but, for heavens sake, I've been busy writing songs. So I thought I'd let you in on one of my new ones, something I wrote 2 days ago in fact, and since I've been at home this weekend nursing a sore throat, I thought I'd learn how to use iMovie as well (please forgive the indulgences)...

The song is called The Heavy and there are times we all have to play the role. I've done it at my husbands nursing home enough times now that they are afraid to tell me that the hearing aids have gone missing again. I've come to like the nurses there quite a lot, they do the work that most of us would run away from, and they do it day after day. I don't know how they have the stamina, honestly. I find it difficult to go in and take Paul out once a week. The smells, the hungry looks from the tenants. I can honestly say, it hasn't gotten easier.

* * *

We normally take Paul out for a few hours. Today we drove into downtown Encinitas, two blocks from the beach, very near our apartment, it has the feel of old surf country Southern California, like I remember Newport and Laguna Beach having as a little kid.

Paul and Alexander were up for a frozen yogurt and as we drove through the green light, next to the popular dessert place, a bicyclist ran through his red light and was hit by a young motorist. Right before our very eyes. He rolled over the hood and windshield and fell on his side. The motorist, who looked no more than 19 got out to see the bicyclist hopping up and brushing off his limbs. He was okay.

This was just a block away from the Big Hill where Paul had his initial brain injury, on a bicycle, in 1995 (April 15th). It was all a big memory cluster for me. But Paul didn't even notice the bicyclist and i took a breath, we parked and had a treat.

The memory of that day still lives on in me, not in Paul. He's done with it, as he is done with many of his memories. Fortunately he still remembers me and Alexander, and if he doesn't, then he does a remarkable job of enjoying the company of strangers. And that is good enough for me.

Traumatic Brain Injury And The Bank Book

2011-02-21T21:33:00.000-08:00

As tax time approaches I am reminded of tax times past. And budget making. In conversation recently with a good friend I mentioned how nice it is to be in a place where I don't owe anything. Not that I don't have bills, like: rent, food, child care, phone, etc...but we don't have credit card debt or mortgage debt. A few years ago, when everyone I knew was buying a house or trading up...I felt kinda like a loser, ya know renting. (I read an article though around that time that asked the question: Where do you want to put your money, a house or travel? Personally, I'd rather travel, I know Paul felt the same way.)

At any rate, it wasn't easy to be debt free, we had to make some decisions some while back. When I met Paul in 1992 he was very keen on the idea of keeping out of debt and had some very low numbers on his credit card. At that point I'd never even had a credit card. In 1994 we began living together here in Encinitas, I got my first credit card and was able to rent a car to go on tour and play gigs, it was great. I learned from Paul that I needed to pay off the amount on the card as soon as possible. That was all good.

In 1995 Paul's traumatic brain injury (for new comers/bike accident, no helmet) happened and he was in the hospital for a month and then outpatient rehab for another. I was so involved in the caregiving that I barely kept up on the bills. That had been the thing that Paul did. He was Mr. Responsible-Guy. When I got around to paying bills I noticed there wasn't much to pay on his credit cards which was great. After a few months Paul was "better" and back to taking care of our bills.

Now jump to 2002, Paul and I had a one year old baby, and Paul tells me President Bush and crew will be doing away with the kind of bankruptcy that allows individuals to escape from extreme credit card debt, and he thinks we should file.

I had about eight thousand dollars accumulated on my card, all from urgent medical type stuff, but Paul had a debt of over fifty thousand dollars! I was stunned and agreed to go through with the bankruptcy. After the bankruptcy took hold and we were released of our debt load my credit card company called me, the guy on the phone said to me "you paid your bills up until the bankruptcy and it was only $100. a month, you had great credit, why did you do it?" I told him my husband had fifty thousand on his cards and had a brain injury." He was sympathetic and agreed he'd have done the same thing.

Here's the puzzle: After the brain injury why did I think Paul could still handle the bills, and could pay for most everything, like he had before? Clearly, the fifty thousand dollars had accumulated over the years since 1995.

Years later a good friend and I poured over Paul's past bills and paper work, strewn around his office in a crazy godforsaken manner, we found signs of his growing dementia and perhaps even signs that he hadn't "recovered" from the initial brain injury as well as we'd imagined. Paul had been using his credit card to pay for some of our most basic expenses, sometimes rent, often groceries...the kind of stuff you never want to use credit for, and the stuff he would have never bought on credit in his pre-brain injury mode.

I thank Paul now, for pushing us, convincing me, that it was imperative to file bankruptcy. In a way, it was the old Mr. Responsible-Paul showing himself again for a brief and final interlude. I see it as Paul, on some level knowing he was falling apart, falling into dementia, knowing he wasn't coming back and setting things straight for the future, for me and our young son Alexander.

Whether credit card bankruptcy should exist (it doesn't now)...I don't know. I do know I'm thankful that my family was given a chance to get out of a terrible debt, that I wouldn't be able to handle on my own today, that was caused by the confusion and denial surrounding traumatic brain injury.

Paul Williams, Philip K Dick and the Buddha

2011-01-19T21:04:00.000-08:00

A few months ago I made the dreaded trek to our storage space, in fact it was prompted by a visit from Paul's dear friend Laura, she very kindly offering to help me pilfer through some of the many files of letters Paul kept. Letters and papers related to her father, visionary science fiction writer and literary hero

Philip K Dick. A good number of films have been based on either writings of Phil's or inspired by his writings (Total Recall, Blade Runner, Minority Report etc). As many of you know Paul was a friend of Phil's and after Phil's death in 1982 the family made Paul the literary executor of the estate.

There, at storage space 44, amongst the boxes of papers, cassette tapes of multitudinous Bob Dylan shows, varieties of used books, and Paul's own books, I found a virgin box of his books called Only Apparently Real, which is a charming little book about his friend ship with Philip K Dick and conversations with Phil including the 1975 Rolling Stone profile piece.

I have a lovely relationship with this book. It's very dear to me. It was one of the first of Paul's books that I read after meeting him in 1992. Recently I've ventured to rereading it, loving again, the first paragraph in the introduction....

"To give a sense of who Philip K. Dick was or is, I must bring him into the present, or, if you prefer, bring you into his presence. Often what we feel when we are struck by a person's writing or music or art is the presence of that personality; Picasso is a good example. Some personalities dominate us completely by charming us constantly. This can be a problem in life or politics, but in the creative arts it is most desirable. Consider Mozart or Shakespeare. And such is the nature of charm that we often fail to notice that we have fallen under a spell. "

* * *

In the stories of the Buddha there is often a reference to a friend of his, the venerable Ananda who accompanied the Buddha, it seems, most every where. Ananda appears to be one of those guys that has the genius capacity to remember everything spoken. And indeed that was his job with the Buddha, he remembered what was said at a speaking engagement and relayed it back to the community of monks. An especially formidable talent in a time where few could read or write.

This Ananda character has always fascinated me. Someone who had that kind of memory, remembering whole speech's or conversations. It's an unusual genius. Something that seems to be in savant realm. As a teenager I had a friend who had an older 30 year old brother they used say he was mentally retarded, Rocky, he could remember every line from a TV show he'd seen, or who said what in an Abbot and Costello film. He was a savant and a sweet heart.

Paul had this kind of memory. He really had an immense ability to retain facts. You can see this, to some extent, in the conversations transcribed in Only Apparently Real. Often Philip K Dick defers to Paul on information about Phil's own life, dates and times. Paul becomes a sort of Ananda to Phil's Buddha.

* * *

In 1999 Paul decided to memorize The Diamond Sutra from the Buddha's teachings. He was proud of the fact that he could take a walk on the beach each evening and recite it to himself. It was impressive but I wondered what it was for. He didn't talk much about what the words meant actually.

Paul and I were separated most of that year, shortly after we got back together Paul went on retreat at our local Buddhist monastary, Deer Park, which is a community started by Thich Nhat Hahn (who mostly lives in France) and his monks and nuns. Thay (Nhat Hahn) was over seeing this retreat and invited the community to go on a silent mindful, slow walk up the nearby mountain one afternoon. Near the top the group sat or stood in silence looking out over the California chapparal. Then Thay invited the members of the group to speak if they so wished. Paul spoke up quickly, according to him and a friend that was present, and began to reel off, in its entirety, the relatively long (maybe 20-30 minutes) Diamond Sutra.

What did Thich Nhat Hahn do, I wondered. Did he keep his cool? Evidently, though several community members tried to get Paul's attention and get him to stop, Thay did not. In fact he asked Paul to continue allowing him a chance to play out his Ananda abilities. I'm told Thich Nhat Hahn sat back and enjoyed the view and the words.

PHOTO/ UPDATE

2011-01-09T19:46:00.000-08:00

On our way to pick up Paul in the rental car we've had for 3 weeks. I'm gonna have to buy a car this week. Oh boy (sigh).
Alexander and I brought Paul home from the nursing home. He gets about 2 showers a week there. That is he sits on a plastic stool and water sprays on him and he soaps up a bit, brrrr. So I set him up with a bubble bath here at the apartment. He was so thrilled he fell asleep within five minutes. (from a spouse's perspective: I rarely see Paul unclothed anymore, it was weird in a way, seeing Paul asleep, naked in the bath, and thinking...if it weren't for his dementia he could be laying there bathing, like he did 9 years ago, he doesn't look that different. Sad, someone so healthy physically and the mind just not. He'll probably live to be 100 like his grandfather )
After his shower we sat at the computer and took some family photos. I let Paul push the button to capture a moment or two of his choice.
The family that mugs together stays together, eh?

* * *

Update: post car accident.

Our car was officially declared totaled last week. Now they'll be sending around some kind of check for me to go out and buy a new car. It turns out the guy that caused the crash is in dispute as to whether he actually has insurance or not. Apparently he hasn't paid his bills. At any rate, he was driving a rental car and I'm told the rental company will then have to pony up for the bill.

As some of you friends know, I've been coping with alot of lingering head and neck pain post accident. The hardest part for me is not being able to get my constitutional exercise which is normally running 1-3 miles about 5 times a week. It sucks. And then the second hardest thing is being at work, teaching some really cool kids that are excited about playing guitar riffs, and having to keep on the thermal shoulder wraps and doing the advil. I'm hoping to pick up some vicodin at the doc's this week. At least a glass of wine helps in the evenings.

I'm able to do about half as much stuff as normal, kinda pacing myself. Alexander is doing much better. He has some neck and head pain when he's working for an hour or more on Lego's but otherwise he says he feels pretty good. We've both been going to a chiropractor. I've also been talking with a local attorney that was recommended by a good friend.

Readers of the Future

2010-12-28T23:38:00.000-08:00

Here's a song I wrote last night, inspired by something Paul told me many years ago (ed.-someone chastised me a few months ago for not saying who Paul is, if you need to know look at my little description of this page over on the far right)

Paul's books were on a series of small publishing houses. When I met him he was writing a book called Rock and Roll: the One Hundred Best Singles and he didn't actually have a publisher for it. Apparently he'd had one in England but somehow that had fallen through about half way through the writing of the book.

At any rate, I asked Paul if the lack of a current publisher or the prospects of being on a small one had an effect on his writing or finishing of the book. Not at all he said. His answer was honest and deliberate, something he'd worked out and set to work in his brain, and was able access in the face of any doubt. He said he could "feeeel the future readers" as he wrote the words. As though they were reading them as he was writing them. And that was the thing that spurred him on.

In fact, the stunning thing about the way Paul worked was he had little interest in where the book might end up, that was something he'd work out once the writing was done. And then when it was done, he'd be on to some new writing and let go of the economic hopes or failings of the last one. All that mind-kipple never seemed to impede his progress.

The painting of Paul is by Drew Snyder.

Car Accident Reflections

2010-12-19T13:14:00.000-08:00

Night before last Alexander and I were in a car wreck. We're okay, sore, no broken bones, recovering, still have our wits.

* * *

Many years ago, back in 1990, I had a yogi friend named Tom. He'd been to India to study with some heavy spiritual types including one of Richard Alpert's gurus, Neem Karoli Baba. Tom was a disciple of sorts of Hanuman and sometimes lived at the Hanuman Temple in Taos. He was a free spirit, a twin to my own Gemini wiles and one of those kinds of friends you have for a brief but important passage of your life.

Tom was helping me pack my belongings into the back of my newly bought yet thoroughly battered 1970 VW bus. At some point during the packing I hit my head on the roof, not hard but enough to stop me in my tracks. And I started crying. One of those moments Tom called an Aha. It was a marker for an important time of change in my life, and he knew it. I was moving from New York City back to San Diego and I'd made a six month stop over in Taos New Mexico. Sort of a clearing of the energies, a place to hang my hat and have a few adventures and decide where I was going next in life.

Tom sent me off with a picture of his guru and stuck a little stamp sized sticker of the Indian trickster god Hanuman on my dash board. I didn't think much of it...until 2 weeks later I'm in San Diego, staying with friends and my VW bus starts honking at 3 o'clock in the morning. You see, one of the oddities about this old bus I'd bought from a Taosino was that it would randomly start honking it's horn when you'd start the car, not every time, but maybe every 3rd time you'd crank the motor.

I ran outside to see two scruffy guys in my bus, which was still full of almost all of my stuff, frantically trying to get it into gear, while the horn is honking away like crazy. I yelled at them "get out of my car", but they pulled away from the curb and slowly got the bus to move on down the street turning a corner and then out of site.

Days later the police found the bus, I went to the tow yard to see if there was anything I could salvage. Nothing. Not even a tire. Just a hulk, a shell. Not even a scrap of my belongings were left in the car. Well, the only thing left behind by the car thieves was the small stamp sized picture of Hanuman. It had been ripped off of the dash board and the mischievous monkey smile was glaring at me face up on the floor of the car.

I didn't even have a belt for my pants. Alot of my stuff was gone. Strangely, what was at first a very bad thing, having nothing, made room and time for a new life for me. Out of this came my Garage Orchestra album and a whole new way of approaching music. And then meeting Paul, who was, as he attested at the time, the embodiment of The Fool.

* * *

And now, for the first time in many years, I have no car. Our car is in a tow yard, very likely totally unfixable. I can rent and find a way to buy one again. But it's that bump on the head time again, figuratively ( fortunately I didn't hit my head in Friday's car accident).

It's the time in between fixed points.

* * *

As for our car accident, Alexander and I were traveling home from his piano lesson and my giving a guitar class. We were heading south on old Coast Hwy 101. It was drizzling and dark. I was going my customary 30-35 miles per hour, cuz it's a bit of speed trap right in there. On my left are multi million dollar homes on my right a guard rail and about 10 feet of bluff dropping 50 feet down to the ocean.

Suddenly a black sports car, out of seemingly nowhere, backs over the double yellow line into oncoming traffic, which is me. He was backing up fast and there was nowhere for me to go except for head on. Brake for 2 seconds and brace for impact.

I don't know what happened for a few seconds, I had my eyes closed during impact, but when I opened them we were moving forward again toward the guard rail and the ocean bluff. I pressed as hard as I could on the brakes and we finally came to a stop. My son Alexander, who's nine, said he couldn't breath but then he started crying and I knew he was breathing. I grabbed my cell phone and ran to the back to be with him, trying to remember how to dial 911.

A lady came over and said she was a doctor and lived across the street she looked at Alexander and stayed with him while I looked out for the ambulance. When finally it came my legs went weak, I didn't have to be the strong- hold it together force now. The paramedics took over eventually determining we were okay, but transporting us by ambulance anyways to get x-rays and evaluations...

And thank you to Susan and nine year old Guthry Hahm for being with us at the hospital, calming our nerves, bringing us back to ourselves. And thank you to all of you that have left us heart felt comments on FB and by email.

I Should Be Doing Something Instead I'm Doing This

2010-12-05T16:18:00.000-08:00

While some say they are afraid to look on the Infinite

the great big story we play out,

Some of us here have found a home

and the infinite is our window out.

* * *

in a trip to the Sierra Nevada's

at a very young age

my mother drove us east of Delano

and I became a little girl lost in the snow...

wandering away from mommy

lured by damned curiosity

and down a snowy hill

and past an old wood house

past a road

'til new snow began to fall

and down some more

and she knew she was alone.

she knew this for the first time:

she must awaken, become more.

and her own engines began to fire

her mind sputtered, sparked, started

then hummed

and she was afraid

She was in a place She'd never been before:

it was silent as snow

it was LOUD, with many voices

it was strangely familiar.

It was home.

and she turned around

retracing her steps

finding her mommy standing with nervous park rangers

her mommy, so long ago,

her mommy, who seemed like a stranger.

first secret. welcome home.

(Dec.5,2010)

Meeting Paul, Part 2

2010-12-01T19:46:00.000-08:00

Paul and I rendezvoused at Canters Deli on Fairfax, it was the day after we first met, at the Dylan Pantages show of 1992, it was about noon. We shared a pastrami on rye and some pickles. He brought along the manuscript to a book he was working on, The One Hundred Best Singles of Rock and Roll.

It wasn't finished, but he'd already written about three quarters of it. He showed me the table of contents and had me pick out a song on the list and then proceeded to read it aloud, over sandwiches. I'd chosen the chapter on the Beach Boy's Don't Worry Baby/I Get Around, it's still one of my favorite pieces of writing by Paul. (Sadly I don't have a copy of the book around the house, or I'd quote a passage.)

Paul was really easy to talk with. He didn't have an attitude about his past and it was fun asking him about the cool stuff he'd done. We finished our lunch, paid the bill, gave a bum a pickle on our way out and then proceeded to drive through LA to Santa Monica in my 1971 VW bus. I'd just made the trek up that way a few weeks earlier with my friend Mark Fried (formerly of BMI Music). We'd driven all the way up to Malibu in my bus and visited Papa John Phillips at his place. Now Paul and I were driving up that direction and talking about the process of music making and it's spiritual ramifications, talking the whole way.

I played him a song I'd just recorded, (something that's never been released called Cindy's New York) with some of my first experiments in self production. Paul really dug it and said he could feel the Brian Wilson type producer in me arising. I was amazed he could see where I was trying to go. All this was, of course a year and a half before I recorded my first self produced album, Garage Orchestra. He shared with me a concept he had about Brian as a "primitive" that is an artist formally untrained- that feels the music, hears it in his head and then has the ability to translate it via other musicians.

That idea still fascinates me, what exactly makes one a primitive? At any rate later in the year, as Paul saw me write and process the music that was to be Garage Orchestra, he used that phrase often to explain my own way of interpreting the music running around in my head. I don't think the head of Warner Brothers, where Paul introduced me and my music to the great Lenny Waronker, understood that phrase any better than me.

We drove back to Canter's and I dropped Paul at his car, then drove the 2 hours home to San Diego. On a cloud,.... (of exhaust from my 1971 muffler).

There are times when you meet someone where you feel the future and the past in the present moment. It's where our linear idea of time breaks down, doesn't make sense. It's important to recognize these moments.

For Paul Williams

2010-11-26T00:45:00.000-08:00

I dreamt you were accepted by an exceptional elder care facility.

And I was glad to get you out of the place where they know your name (Mr. Paul) but not who you are and don't have time to know anyways.

And they lose your glasses. Again today.

We moved you to the new place which was just down the street and found your bed which was an upper berth. The patients slept in layers, of which you were near the top.

They knew your name and the same lady nurse waited on you. Bathed you carefully and clothed you in warm clean clothes. They put your name on a cloth tag and sewed it into the fabric of every garment. Carefully and with precision.

I love you. But I don't know if you know what that means anymore. And anyways, I'm not there to tell you that everyday. I know you smile when I smile.

I don't know how we could afford this new facility, it must have been we won the lottery. Or a scholarship for artists that did great work in their lifetime. The MacArthur Grant for severely ill genius's.

I was happy to have you in a home, with a garden, that was as caring and skilled with their clients as you were with your work, your writing, your books: the hours spent listening to a single piece of music so you could learn it's language, it's secrets which you could so effortlessly convey to us readers. And we would think, you knew something that we'd been thinking all along, and 'how does he know that?' 'How does he know my language?' And through this, you sacrificed your hearing for us. So that we might come to understand, that we are a community of thought/of feeling within this beloved piece of music.

When I left you there, standing in the hallway, a nurse by your side. I saw you'd become a child. Only 3 feet tall. Helpless, innocent. Someone I felt torn, heartbroken to leave for the night. But I knew, behind it all, you were in good hands, better than my own.

Gods.

First Kiss and Stupid Ruminations

2010-11-18T19:00:00.000-08:00

Here's one of those things one doesn't want to talk about when you're married to a guy with deteriorating health, in this case dementia (might be different if your spouse still has his wits about him and you could share in the weird health issues). What does one do for companionship?

My girlfriend went through a divorce recently, things ended amicably enough, and I've been watching her experiences like a hawk. First she got right online and signed up for a number of those Internet dating interfaces, like Match.com or Plentyofish. She'd come over and use my computer and I'd get to watch how she sorted through the guys. I think this sort of "dating" might work for someone that's very visually inclined. I don't know, and I guess I really don't get it. But watching her adventures (and misadventures) has been a great amusement to me.

For one thing, she's decided at this age, (that is, past the desire to engage ones diminishing biological clock) that there are a lot of "Santa Claus'" out there. Okay, maybe I'm being a f*ing jerk, but what is it with some of the guys after the age of 50? Maybe too much beer or pasta...but then the beard comes out and the handle bar mustache and the Harley and the ripped tee shirt and the big ol' arms with prison tat's, (okay, maybe that's just my hometown)..... Some of the guys list old rock icons as the music of choice. So these guys won't have heard of Sonic Youth or Beck ("yeah, Jeff Beck!), or Elliot Smith or Kings of Leon or most anything past 1976.

It's tough. My husband Paul, is 62 years old and has early onset of dementia due to a brain injury (he'd actually recovered from back in 95) he lives at a nursing home now and he looks pretty good compared to some of the guys the website suggests for her. Then there's the problem with the 'content' or text on the profiles with misuses of words like there, they're and their (spell check? and you can tell when its a typo). Or, where I live, by the beach, many of the guys are hoping for a retirement in Tahiti in a few years.

Paul and I used to talk about the concept of retirement. Artists don't retire. Why would we want to stop doing something we love to do?

Whatever. Okay, I admit it. I am being a f--ing jerk.

And I'm not the greatest catch myself.

I'm worn out from years of caring for someone. I've still got Paul to care for in some small ways, and for, I'm sure, a long time to come. I'm lousy with a need to have some enjoyment, fun even, just as a distraction from the immensity of sad from the past 7 years. It's not like one sits around feeling sorry for oneself. I think it doesn't work that way once you're past the shock of it all. It's just the constant juggling of making daily things work right and putting up with the little indignities. Who will trims his finger nails? Who is in charge of making sure the nursing home finds his belts, so his pants won't fall down? Talking to the nursing home barber about not cutting his hair into a freaking crew cut, again.

I'm certainly no great shakes. As a musician I make a essentially what would be called a poverty level wage and I have a 9 year old to raise (a lovely one to be sure). On that note I just got a call today from Section 8 housing, which helps poor folk get into affordable housing. I'd signed up for it about 5 years ago, when things were so terrible with Paul living at home, and I guess my number has come up. The catch is though, you have to live in a place with others that are on Section 8 housing and that is probably not a block and a half from the beach like where I live now (and have lived for the past 16 years). Decisions. It could save me money, probably $400 a month, which could pay for 2/3rds of my health insurance, but I'd have to live in a place not nearly as nice as what we have now.

So there you have it.... I'm a loser, living amongst losers looking for losers. Aint it grand?

But no complaints. I had my first kiss in way too many years, and life is indeed, very grand.

Three Photos

2010-10-24T22:06:00.000-07:00

Paul and Alexander Williams, Oct. 24,2010. This was the first of the three photos. I showed Paul the book I picked up a few weeks ago near Harvard: Patti Smith's Just Kids, and I'd bookmarked the page where she mentions her admiration for Paul and Crawdaddy magazine. He was very interested to read what she said and continued reading a few pages after. He rarely reads nowadays so it was nice to see him enjoying a book.

Paul often has one eye shut. The doc's never did figure out just why that is, speculating that it is a tic, like the bending over he does every minute or so. I asked Paul to open both eyes for this photo and you can see how hard it is for him to do. He really concentrated to make himself do it. I think whatever is going wrong in his brain is affecting his eyesight. Clearly you can see in this photo, he has a sort of 'wandering eye' gaze now. Something he never demonstrated until the last few years.

This one was the best of the three

photos Alexander and Paul look at ease with one another and Paul is relieved that he can close his right eye again. Alexander has a very minimal relationship with his dad, even before Paul was moved into the nursing home, but he does like seeing his dad smile. And Alexander consistently makes Paul smile.

If you believe in me

2010-10-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

I’ll perform miracles, lewd acts of nature,

ripple the waters

and make the Earth wind round in smooth rhyme.

If you believe in me,

I’ll buy you a sandwich

unveil my face, untie the lace

and reveal the secret word

that admits you to the party.

If you believe in me,

I’ll wear your crown,

I won’t let you down,

you’ll get your money’s worth,

unless you expect nonsense and phony penance, for instance.

If you believe in me

I’ll invite you to the water, salty to the tongue

it’s warm and I’ve been waiting.

If you believe in me,

What’s so weird about that?

So what if they can’t see

we are blind most of us, mainly

but sometimes, plainly

there is a crack in the floor of heaven.

If you believe in me

I’ll turn back time

make it speed ahead

or suspend its existence altogether.

If you believe in me

I’ll reinvent the wheel

make you cry where you never feel

make all things new under the sun

then I’ll wash away your tears.

If you believe in me

I’ll call off the revolution

close the mines

settle all bets

bury the hatchet

take off the black dress

and make a pilgrimage to your holy lands.

If you believe in me

I'll part the red sea

the 2^nd sun will come out

the naked moon will rise over the stones as predicted

and the villagers will reveal themselves.

How do I know this?

When I used to know bandits, bullet dreamers, idle threats...

How can I be sure?

Because your face made me see it.

Because you saw before they could,

and past the daytime,

shine a billion stars.

(clb 10/22/10)

Mindful blogging

2010-10-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

Breathing in I type some words. Breathing out I pause for a thought.

This weekend our son Alexander, turned nine years old. It was a drizzly dark end to the week but we found some light of our own making. Saturday night Alexander and I went to Lego Land for an October/Halloween Fest and costume contest. This year Alexander has become an astronaut. He decided they were very cool after watching Apollo 13 a few months ago.

This afternoon we had some family members over for cake and ice cream. I picked up Paul at the nursing home. My sister Tami took a 3 hour bus ride up from San Diego (only 30 minutes by car). And my mom drove the one and a half hours from Lake Elsinore. It was a very nice visit and Alexander came out ahead with some 25 dollars to add to his piggy bank and some nifty new books.

Paul was ready and clean when I picked him up at the home. He'd been bathed and shaved and had clean clothes on with his hearing aids in his ears. When I asked him if he said he wanted to come over he said, yes. But instead of sitting up or standing he handed me a weak hand expecting me to pull him off the bed.

I'm worried about how weak he is getting. And I wonder if he is 'giving up' to some extent. In his moments of lucidity he must wonder what is going on with himself. And does he have that kind of self awareness anymore? Recently he walks even slower and sometimes it seems like his legs are almost giving out. I asked him to pick up the pace this afternoon and that seemed to work for about five minutes, we were able to get out the front door , about 5 paces from the car and he made a bee-line for a bench and plopped down. I read in a pamphlet a few years ago that dementia can have a big effect on a persons ability to control their own body. They fall apart physically over time. And I think that is what's happening here.

Last weekend I brought Paul home for a little family time with me and Alexander and as we were leaving, getting ready to go back to his nursing home, he said to me "Me go bathroom" and I realized that his ability to access words has taken a real hit. He rarely says a whole sentence anymore. Almost never offering a comment or a thought, but still tries to answer questions, often thoughtfully.

Breathing in I am sitting on the bed. Breathing out I am aware of my fingertips touching the keyboard letters.

This past Wednesday I took him out for a mexican food lunch and asked him some Crawdaddy! history questions, like:

Why didn't you look for a big investor when the magazine had such a buzz and exponentially gaining readership? Why didn't you find someone that could front you a chunk of money so you could pay your employees and writers a good wage? He said, " Because you lose your freedom". He said it simply and clearly and with little forethought. I mentioned that Jann Wenner, creator of Rolling Stone, had done just that, he found a big investor in his girlfriend/wife's family and he could pay his writers more.....Paul smiled, didn't say a word. I mentioned that it was ironic that Jann married a woman with money and then turned out to be a closet gay guy that had been hiding his sexual preference even from his wife. Paul said "He knew what he wanted".

Still, some gems of wisdom from the great man. I take them where I can and they over ride the sad state of his deteriorating physical condition and loss of communication skills.

I do miss him. There's no question. A great deal.

But life must go on, right? If I were living in a god-forsaken land like Afghanistan or Iraq and saw wars ravages on my friends/loved ones daily, I would learn quickly to accept what is, life as it is. Not life as I want it to be, but what is in front of me. Some suffering, some joy.

And remember the pleasure of breathing.

Paul Williams Bio-pic Part 3

2010-10-09T00:38:00.000-07:00

Because it has been so long since the first two Bio-Pic entries were posted (back in February and March 2010), I've added them to this entry...the additional segments come in at Crawdaddy Issue Five....(ed- and have you seen the film The Social Network-Zuckerberg's story reminds me of the young Paul Williams. Would you agree?)

1. Parents meet and fall in love at Los Alamos both employed by the Manhattan Project under Oppenheimer. Robert Williams a young physicist, is invited to come watch the detonation of the worlds first atomic bomb. Women are not allowed near the test site but Paul’s mother Janet and a girlfriend sneak away and drive down to White Sands where they watch the exposion, from a safe distance, hidden behind boulders.

2. Paul was brought up in Cambridge but lived a short year of his childhood in Princeton where his dad taught Physics….at age five Paul was left to “babysit” his 2 younger brothers and decided to walk them several streets from home to a library. His youngest brother changed his mind midway while crossing a busy intersection and refused to budge. A friend of the family happened by and scooped up and saved the 3 young children. Janet, Pauls mother said “Paul was so mature at that age, he seemed fully capable of caring for his brothers”.

3. Paul teaches himself to read at age three while looking at old 78 RPM records. His father said he was tired of reading the names to him and Paul taught himself the names. By age 4, it is said, Paul would read the New York Times while being driven to nursery school.

4. Paul, age 5, writes a note to his mother one day “ Dear Mom, I have gone to Clinton’s house, but don’t be surprised if I’m home, because Clinton may not be home”. She sends it to the New Yorker where he has his first piece of writing published in the Talk of the Town column under the title “Logician”.

5. According to family legend, by third grade it is discovered that Paul has an exceptional mind and is given an IQ test, the score is 180. His parents move him to a private grammar school in Cambridge. He has trouble fitting in at school no matter where he goes and once admitted that kids called him “spaz” because his hand would fly up for every question.

6. In sixth grade Paul starts a newspaper, The Sunlight Herald.

7. At 15 he attends his first Science Fiction convention, soon after he starts a Science Fiction Fanzine called “Within”.

8. Age 16, Paul graduates from Browne and Nichols and decides to go to Swarthmore College. According to his mother he’d been offered a full scholarship from Stanford, where his father and grandfather had both received degrees, but Paul turned it down… “I didn’t want to be lured into the whole bay area music scene, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my school work.”

9. Paul becomes a DJ for the Swarthmore radio station. Paul has an argument, a disagreement in philosophy class with his professor, the man gets so riled up he threatens to kick Paul out of the class. Then Paul begins his first issue of CRAWDADDY Magazine from his dorm, two fellow college students contribute to the first issue. The name CRAWDADDY! came from Paul’s admiration of the UK music club where the Rolling Stones got their start.

10. After the first mimeographed copy of CRAWDADDY! is printed, Paul gives away as many copies as he can by hand, he receives a phone call at his dorm from Paul Simon who thanks him for his wonderful writing on the single “Homeward Bound” and praises him for writing intelligently about rock and roll.

11. One day while walking into his dorm a student yells out “Hey Williams! You got a phone call from Bob Dylan”. Dylan had read the latest issue of CRAWDADDY! and liking it invited Paul to come and hang out back stage at a show on the Blonde on Blonde tour. He also offers Paul an interview.

12. While attending Swarthmore Paul heard that his friend Richard Farina had died (Paul met him at a club in Philly where he was gigging and asked Richard for permission to reprint some of his writing in CRAWDADDY!, they hit it off) … there was to be a funeral for him in Carmel, CA. Hoping to catch a free ride on a cargo plane Paul is stopped in the airport and confronted by a Philadelphia police officer who calls him a hippy. A few hours later Paul is in jail and the next day in court for assaulting a cop. Paul told me the whole thing got thrown out when they realized that as he said “my glasses assaulted the cops fist.”

13. Unable to concentrate on his school work at Swarthmore…he moves back in with his mother in Belmont, MA where he starts his fourth issue of CRAWDADDY!, issue five would include writings by Jon Laundau a clerk at the local record store, Briggs And Briggs. Landau becomes someone that Paul would consult on music and current record releases. At some point Paul’s grandfather decides CRAWDADDY! is a good investment and pumps a little money into the paper, encouraging his grandson to start a business like he had, he’d manufactured a device called “the sniffer” which sniffed out gas leaks.

14. Issue number 4 had Bob Dylan on the cover with a now widely reprinted article called “Understanding Dylan”. Paul ambitiously takes handfuls of copies of CRAWDADDY! to sell at the 1966 Newport Folk Festival where Jack Holzman of Electra Records bought a complete set. Electra was to begin advertising in CRAWDADDY! with the next issue. There is a well known picture of Howlin’ Wolf performing at the festival that year the photo includes a clear image of Paul behind him. He is also seen in the film “Festival” dancing with a young black woman during the great Wolf’s set.

15. Paul sez “Jon Landau, certainly one of the best and most influential critics of the rock era, debuted as a rock writer in the fifth issue of CRAWDADDY!, September 1966. Paul now back in Boston was going to Club 47 (now called Paseem’s) three nights a week and hunting down rock and roll shows where ever he could the rest of the week. Flipping for bands like The Animals’ two hour show at Rindge Tech, The Rolling Stones at Boston Garden and Lynn Football Stadium, The Beatles at Suffolk Down “plainly audible, beautiful to look at, and confirmation that we—and I—existed as a special body of people who understood the power and the glory of rock ‘n’ roll.” Peter Guralnick author of the two-volume biography of Elvis Presley, Last Train To Memphis and Careless Love began writing for Crawdaddy after Paul asked him to help him interview Howlin’ Wolf.

16. Between the fifth and sixth issues Paul took a 2,200 mile “mostly business trip”, hitchhiking from Boston to New York, Cleveland to Chicago, and Wisconsin and back. In Chicago on a blues fan’s pilgrimage Paul stopped at Chess Records’ recording studios, which resulted in a full page ad in CRAWDADDY! and an assignment to write the liner notes for new albums (each called More Real Folk Blues) for artists like Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, and Sonny Boy Williamson.

17. The Sixth Issue of CRAWDADDY! was published Oct 20, 1966 (the first issue of Rolling Stone debuted November 1967), in a print run of 2,800 copies, up from 1,500 copies of the previous issue. Paul writes, “….sales of the fifth issue had been good enough to attract the interest of a local magazine distributor who ordered 2,000 copies of the sixth issue. Tim Jurgens, a young subscriber from San Francisco moved to Boston to help out as an editorial assistant. Paul wrote, “ I don’t think I could have made it through the next few months of the magazine’s progress and rapid growth without Tim Jurgen’s friendship and hard-working support”.

18. In mid November CRAWDADDY! moved to New York City. Paul writes in The Crawdaddy Book (Hal Leonard), “The new office was a big second-floor room overlooking Greenwich Village (I used to spend a lot of time sitting on the ledge of a large open window with headphones on, watching the endless parade of people walking across Sixth Avenue and Third Street)." The room had previously been a guitar shop called Fretted Instruments, and the walls “were pleasantly lined with natural-looking pine planks installed by the former tenant”. “All of us (additional staff persons came along soon) did much of our work on a huge table in the center of the office. There was a small back room with no windows (halfway up the stairs from the street) where Tim Jurgens (the assistant editor, also from Boston) and I slept,” Paul writes in the Crawdaddy Book. An article was written in the Village Voice of CRAWDADDY’s arrival, it was just the beginning of a lot of press attention.

19. Ralph Gleason from the San Francisco Chronicle wrote on January 1967, “The most interesting publication in the U.S. covering the rock scene is a magazine called Crawdaddy….it is devoted with religious fervor to the rock scene.”

20. The seventh issue of CRAWDADDY! came off the press the first week of December ’66. There weren’t many ads yet but there was a new look. The typeface inside had changed, Paul was now leasing an IBM “Executive” typewriter, the resulting page looking more like other magazines of that era, “Instead of looking like a letter from a friend typed on an ordinary typewriter”, writes Paul.

The seventh issue is notable in hindsight for its opening sentences raving about the Doors (“the best new band I’ve seen this year...”)—the first mention of the Doors in a national publication. Paul had been given an acetate of the Door’s forthcoming album after he watched them make a promo film at the Elecktra office for their first single, Break On Through to the Other Side”. Paul had befriended their producer Paul Rothchild, at a Loving Spoonful show back in Cambridge at Club 47.

The list of writers that wrote for CRAWDADDY! expanded. Paul said, “Crawdaddy! didn’t have any money to pay its writers, so writers wrote for us mostly as a way of communicating their enthusiasm for, the music they loved”. Sandy Pearlman and Richard Meltzer both came from Stony Brook, Long Island, Peter Guralnick and Jon Landau from Boston, David Hartwell was a childhood friend from the world of science fiction, an illustrious list of writers, rock producer/managers and editors that would all make their mark in the world of popular culture.

In the Crawdaddy Book, Paul writes:

“Before we finished putting the next issue together, I made my first ever visit to California (thanks to a mid-sixties phenomenon called Youth Fare, which provided half-price airfare to those under twenty six). In LA I met the Buffalo Springfield and saw them do a great show at the Whiskey A Go-Go, and I spent a few days with Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys and attended a recording session for the never-finished SMiLe album. In San Francisco I was very impressed by Big Brother and the Holding Company at the Arc in Sausalito, and Moby Grape at the Avalon Ballroom, and Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead New Year’s Eve at the Fillmore. It was a good time to be a young music lover.”

In December Paul spent several days as a guest at Brian Wilson’s home in the Hollywood Hills. It was during the wildly creative Smile era and Paul stayed in Brian’s tent, which was in a sand box in his living room, next to the piano. The first time Paul smoked pot was with Brian in this oriental style tent. Brian played Paul the early acetates of Heroes and Villains and some of the other SMILE songs, which were never officially released. One day Paul spent time with Brian and the Beach Boys at the studio and remembered singing odd sounds and noises on one track (probably “Barnyard”-ed). And Paul was witness to this moment: “I was visiting a Beach Boys recording session in Dec. 1966 when Carl Wilson walked in with a record he’d just bought, something he’d fallen in love with during the group’s recent trip to England (Gimme Some Lovin’ by the Spencer Davis Group). He put it on a turntable eager to hear it--stopped after a minute and tried again--then grabbed the record and broke it over his knee in fury. He’d just discovered that the American record company had remixed the song in an attempt to make it more appealing to the U.S. market.”

No One On The Other End Of The Line

2010-09-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

I'm on tour this week. A little two week tour that adds up to a big deal for me. This being my first time back on the road, playing music shows, since 1998. And I had to write something tonight. It's been a lovely time being back on the east coast playing music, but something struck me tonight and I need to talk it through.

I'm sad. Amidst all the shared laughs with friends, and hearing Stan Ridgway's hilarious running commentaries (we played three shows with him), feeling appreciated for my music making, and sharing stories with my traveling cohorts, (Renata Bratt who is playing cello and Paula Luber who is playing glockenspiel)....I feel torn.

Tonight I played a show at a lovely old friend, the Tin Angel, a room in the historic district of Philadelphia. When I walked in I remembered the last time I'd been here. Must have been 1996. I did a show with Ben Vaughn and I remember talking to him in the back room. My husband Paul, who was merely a boyfriend then, was with me. Ben was so happy to meet Paul. It could have been, possibly 1996.

During the show tonight the memory came flooding back. Paul went out on the road with me here in the states twice. He was not always easy to travel with, as several friends will attest to, but we could have some fun times. Some of those nice times have occurred to me several times on this trip. I'm retracing old steps.

These places I'm visiting now were places I ventured to with Paul beside me or at least a phone call away. It's tough going back to those places and not checking back in with that loved one about how it's changed or how it looks now. There's no one on the other end of the line.

At the Tin Angel tonight I played several songs from the Garage Orchestra album, the album I was promoting in the mid nineties with Paul by my side. I suppose the more I do this sort of thing, get out and play these old familiar rooms and discover newer ones, the sooner I will discover my new feelings for this new life.

It's all very topsy turvy at the moment. This is my way of crying...... I feel much better now.

It's like I'm sloughing off the old me and it's still a tender place, still painful at times. But there's no turning back. Time marches on.

(photo courtesy of Ed McKeon)

Not Entirely Blameless

2010-08-20T22:12:00.000-07:00

Not that I'm entirely blameless...

I met Paul in 1992. I had moved back to southern California, having lived in New York City off and on for about three years. I'd made an album in mid town Manhattan, accidentally marched with Al Sharpton, ridden horses in Prospect park, been telephoned by the FBI for questioning about a sublet I'd rented from a man who was associated with the IRA, and broken up with a long time boyfriend. I was ready to be back home.

I was pretty depressed though. I dated a few guys but nothing seemed to pique my interest. The only thing interesting in my life seemed to be happening in my dreams: like meeting and getting production lessons from Brian Wilson, a song given to me by John Lennon while we sat on a curb and he played guitar and banged the strings gently with a pencil, a convoluted storyline about a guy named Gary with the dream ending on a theatre marque stating The Leading Leg of Gary Handeman...

My imagination was alive and well but my love life was asleep. Then a surfer guy asked me out to a Bob Dylan show. It was at the Pantages Theater in Los Angeles. I feel bad in retrospect, he was a really great guy, a founder of Surfrider Foundation, and he deserved a more respectful date than what I was. We found our seats, he sat down and I excused myself, dashing out to the lobby to look for music friends.

Every now and then I'd check in on my friend with our seats but most of the time I was out in the lobby. I ran into a bunch of people I knew. Andy Paley was there, I'd just met him a few months earlier and hung out at his place talking about Brian Wilson. Andy had made albums with his brother in the mid 70s and somehow had become a Brian Wilson best friend in the late 80s. He had great stories. Wes was there, as in John Wesley Harding. I'd met him in London a few years before. Some other folks....don't remember who else.

At any rate, Andy introduced me to Paul Williams at the Pantages. It was a funny thing. I'd just read Dominc Priorie's book Look Listen Vibrate Smile, which was a compilation of writings (mostly from old newpapers and rock magazines) about Brian Wilson's legendary Smile album, and had just finished the interview (which had originally appeared in Crawdaddy) between David Anderle and Paul about Brian's work.

It was such a delight to meet him. I said, "Wow, I was just reading some of your stuff." He thought I'd read Das Energi, which has always been one of his most popular books. I said, no, it was the Anderle interview. I had a million questions to ask. We stepped away from the group and I got to ask a few. Then Dylan started and we all scattered to the wings.

I found my date and my seat but I could hardly think straight. I'd just met the guy that hung out with Brian Wilson in the 60s, during the making of SMiLe! He'd even made sounds on the sessions with others, like animal noises and stuff. And he'd stayed over night at Brian's in the tent that was in the sand box in the house next to Brian's piano. The first time he smoked pot was with Brian in that tent while listening to the acetate's of the SMiLe sessions. Dang.

And he didn't look old enough to have done all that cool old stuff. I can't say that I was attracted in that sexual or romantic way to Paul at that point. I was just attracted. Like that feeling you get when you meet someone and a surge of energy happens, undelineated, not yet appointed to any particular emotion. I don't think it even occurred to me, the idea of him being physically attractive or if he was sexy or anything like that. It was none of that. It was just a great big feeling that needed to be acted upon.

And so I asked him if he would kindly meet me at Canter's Deli on Fairfax the next day so I could ask him a million questions about Brian Wilson and his own ideas about what brought about an artists great work. I knew there was something I needed to learn.

....more to come...

Remember Tomorrow

2010-08-13T18:02:00.000-07:00

It's a weird story. Eleven years ago I was given ten thousand dollars from Warner Brothers to make a demo of four songs. Nice. I'd approached them with a prospect. I had befriended two young girls in San Diego, Lindsay and Anna Troy they were 12 and 15 and asked them if they'd be interested in singing some of my songs on an album. Then I taught them the songs and alot of harmonies and put together a band.

My old pal Chris Davies (Garage Orchestra, Penetrator's) and I work-shopped some ideas for tracks at his place. For one song we built a track on a cassette tape consisting of a cha cha beat from an old Casio keyboard then put some staccato organ chords on it and a messed up sounding guitar...we bounced one track over to another cassette player again and again which increased the "distress" aspect of the sound. I was sure to record the "tracks", that is hold the cassette player, far away from the speakers so you could "hear the air" between the speaker and the player. I swear I could hear Phil Spector's famous "recorded air" in the final tape.

That is the track the rest of the band would have to play along with in the studio.

Somehow I was able to coerce some amazing players to join me in the studio. This is where having some money from a record label helped tremendously. (Look no one got rich. Then again no one ever does in the music business except for the insanely lucky and a few flashy pimps).

Justin Meldal-Johnsen (Beck, NIN,imarobot) on bass, Roger Manning (Jelly Fish, Beck) plays the keyboards, Randy Hoffman (Gar.Orch/Harry Partch) on vibraphone/timpani/woodblocks, Stephen Hodges (Tom Waits, T Bone Burnett) on drums, Chris Davies lead guitar, Stew (Passing Strange, Negro Problem) on rhythm guitar and Henry Diltz taking photos and playing a bit of banjo and clarinet.

This session was recorded in June of 1999, one day for eight hours and the music tracks were done. A week later me and Lindsey and Anna sang the vocal parts. With the sisters singing the leads on the songs.

Everything looked rosy. Paul thought it was some of my best work yet. I took the demos to our guy at Warner Bros. he listened and said "I think we need to make the rest of the album now. And Cindy Lee, you need to make your next album here too."

My plan to take over the music-world, was all falling perfectly into place. Then, quite suddenly, all fucking hell broke loose...

My husband Paul, announced that he was about to embark on an affair with a woman he'd met at a science fiction convention. But he hadn't checked in with her on that just yet. It was a speculative idea. He said he thought it shouldn't effect us too much as he'd just fly out to see her three or four times a year, in Miami.

It was preposterous, it was insane and it was the same week that my point person, the Vice President of A+R at Warner Brothers, was abruptly fired after 15 years with the company. Then on the hell heels of this news, his boss, our new WB point person, was fired. But not until Paul poured water over his head during our meditation group lunch and ran screaming out of the room.

I wasn't going along with his affair plan the way he'd thought I would. He was shocked I wasn't okay with the 3 to 4 times a year plan. I told Paul he could go to Miami as much as wanted to, and explore endless possibilities with the librarian, because I wouldn't be in the picture anymore and then I moved out.

And so the four tracks were put on a shelf and the young girls grew up to be fine young women with lives and careers of their own. I went back in the studio a year later and recorded 3 songs with a string session, I was living up in LA and seeing a guy with photos on his wall he'd bought from a gallery, they were all black and white shots of dead and gunned up mobsters. ( "If you don't like these you're not gonna like my idea of a picnic in a Manson Cave.") He was a writer, one day we had a skirmish and he said to me: "You should treat me better, I'm a living legend you know".

I got a call from the living legend I was still married to, we shared a laugh, he told me he was seeing a therapist and could he visit me. Things just sorta went that direction from there on out. The evil days had passed and the heavenly spheres were back in alignment again.

A few months ago I heard those WB tracks for the first time in eleven years and I noticed that the hurt was all gone. The floods had passed and the droughts and what was left was the music. I had the opportunity to immerse myself in it's world again this week, (singing, adding Renata Bratt's cello and melodica).

It's a beautiful place, being in the midst of all that sweetness and intensity, a love affair in the form of sound.

Midnight Hour

2010-08-07T00:47:00.000-07:00

Why am I up at this ungodly hour, listening to rock and roll and chewing gum? Because it's the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end. Something lovely must come to an end so that something lovely can start up.

I can't say what indeed has ended just now, though I could say it is any number of things. But I feel it in my bones. Feeeel it. And it comes in as a soundtrack, a film. Have you seen Pirate Radio?

When I was 16 a girlfriend of mine, very much like many of my girlfriends, who was very kind and sweet and very good took me to her big big church in the city where we teens were hussled into pledging our life to the Lord and then corralled into a basement room and asked to give up everything that was near and dear to us, that being rock and roll records.

It was my fault maybe, I'd asked the question. Do we have to give up everything? Even things that we love like our record collection? And the hip shirted man in his 30s said "yes, can you give your whole record collection today to serve God?".

I dug God. Certainly on my terms. He was alive there in the stars everynight right? Made me feel good, made me feel alright. Why was God separate from rock and roll. I didn't get it. Wasn't God everything good? God works in mysterious ways...

I needed a healing to be sure. But God healed me through rock and roll and I know I'm not alone. It still happens everyday all over the world.

* * *

And so thank you my teachers especially you Paul...xxoo g'nite sweetheart g'nite

One More Photo

2010-07-28T23:34:00.001-07:00

This was how Paul looked when his old friend Trina came into his room and surprised him with a hug and a hello. Paul was just thrilled to see her. He remembers his old dear friends very well and even chimed in on some of the stories she told. Seeing his loved ones really makes a difference to him. I wish we lived in a place where a lot more friends could more easily drop in. Like in the Bay Area. Paul's brain injury happened only a year after he moved down here to San Diego, to be with me, and that injury made it that much harder for him to get out and meet new friends.

Comicon 2010, And A Special Guest

2010-07-27T22:46:00.001-07:00

Paul's dear friend Trina Robbins came to visit this week, she was in town for Comicon and Alexander and I got lucky and scored 2 extra passes!

Alexander really liked Comicon, especially getting to meet his Lego Hero Factory hero.
Here he is on Tatooine with a few old friends and a bag of Lego swag.

Paul and his girlfriend from the 1960s reunite for an afternoon in Encinitas. Trina Robbins is a writer of books and comics for over 30 years. She and Paul met on a flight from LA to Boston in 1967 (he was reading a Vonnegut book and then scooted over in next to her) and dated for a while. Some of their adventures included hanging out in Laurel Canyon with Van Dyke Parks. Trina is the "wampum bead" wearing Lady of The Canyon in Joni Mitchell's song. Paul has always spoken very fondly of Trina.
Underground Comic artist Mary Fleener, CLB, and Trina Robbins, I suppose we're all "tearaways" in our own right. I was just picking Trina up at the Encinitas train station when serendipity struck and we ran into Mary....
CLB, Paul Williams, and Trina Robbins at Paul's nursing home Saturday 7/24/10. We had a lovely time with Trina over cinnamon rolls and coffee at the Panakin. Thanks for visiting Trina!

New Glasses

2010-06-27T22:36:00.000-07:00

Paul Williams in his new glasses, 6/27/10.

Alexander and I picked Paul up from Aviara and brought him home for a few hours today. He played solitaire for a while which seemed to amount to placing the cards in their suits. I changed the batteries in his hearing aids and used nail polish to write his initials on both hearing aids and his new glasses.

I'm concerned about his physical health. He's become considerably weaker and his balance isn't good. He teetered and swayed nearly falling several times before we reached the door to the apartment. I said to him, "If you walk a bit faster it'll easier to keep your balance". But he doesn't seem capable of walking at a normal speed these days.

This week I have it on my list to call his doctor and see if I can get him to prescribe Paul some physical therapy, which will amount to an order to the nursing home staff to walk him around the nursing home once or twice a day and maybe get him on the stationary bike.

Patients that are in the nursing home via Medi Care (usually staying no longer than 2 months) and are rehabilitating, have a room with a therapist putting them through some physical paces. Paul, like many long term patients without "long term health insurance", is there via Medi Cal (or Medicaid).

Medicaid's Skilled Nursing Facilities are what you can expect if you outlive your spouse and your relatives can no longer take care of you. It makes one think twice about those long term health insurance policies. They cover the cost of being in a privately run nursing home. Believe me the difference in the care, from what I've seen, is staggering. One home near us has ponies in the back yard for petting. A lovely walking garden. A pool. Daily exercise classes. The same staff members see you daily and know your particulars. Dogs are in rooms and hallways for petting. Meals for family members are complimentary and pretty good. And they make sure you and your clothes are clean. And this was a place specifically for dementia care.

At any rate, I asked Paul if he'd be up for the physical therapy and he said he thought it would be a good thing for him.

Flowers For Algernon

2010-06-25T22:32:00.000-07:00

Paul's new glasses came in today. I'll take a picture this weekend and put it up. I was too tired and hungry after work to go over to the nursing home and put them on him, plus I'm going to need to put his name or his initials on the arms so they lose any potential "resale" value.

Do you ever wonder why it is that some aspect of your life turned out to be like a significant book you read as an adolescent? That would be Flowers For Algernon (Daniel Keyes) in my case.

In short, the story is told from the perspective of a man who had been born mentally disabled and undergoes an experimental surgery which increases his intelligence. Through his journal entries you follow along with his increased abilities and eventually his slow deterioration back into his disability.

When I was in the eighth grade we had to read the short story, it was in our text book and I was stunned that something so good could be in a school book. (Apparently it won the Hugo Award for best science fiction story in 1960) I bought the full length novel and dove in. Originally published in 1966 it became a joint Nebula Award winner for best novel. But I wouldn't have known or cared about that stuff then.

It was the 70s and I had arrived at the age where the first child of the family adventures out on their own into new and unknown radio territories. I must admit, though I loved music, I was very naive and unhip about what was going on in the world of pop. But I found a new station with the whirl of a dial that I dug deeply, and it became the soundtrack to Flowers For Algernon.

Here's a list of some of the songs I fell in love with: Eighteen With A Bullet, Me and Mrs. Jones, Using Me ('til You Use Me Up), Ben (especially poignant since it was about a rat and Algernon was a mouse), Shaft, What's Goin' On, Backstabbers....

The other station I listened to occasionally and when I wasn't reading the book had a few good songs but some dumb ones too. I liked The Needle And The Damage Done even though it was a scary song about drugs and I hated a song about a guy named Guitarzan. There was also a lady that sang about how terrible it was going to be to turn 17 (Janis Ian), dang it was depressing.

So I stuck to my new found radio station. I didn't realize at the time that it was for young black urbanites. For me these new songs were the sound track to this grand novel I'd discovered.

The parallel: When Paul had his bike accident way back in 1995 I was with him through all of the various forms of rehab. Even then I thought occasionally of the book parallel. Paul's doctors said his recovery from such a devastating brain injury was miraculous.

I watched Paul go from his early days in rehab, answering simple questions about the date and the president to his later rehab days having intellectual conversations with the cognitive therapist, her saying to me "There's no reason for him to be here".

Then in the past 6 years the slow, unstoppable descent into dementia. Flowers For Algernon the book had been my white mouse, doing a dry run before the real thing.

I don't see it all as a complete loss. We had eight years together after his injury where he lived a normal life as a writer, lover and father. Or as a simple tragedy. Even the character Charly knew he had done something very important for humanity, even in his final days of blissful naivete.

Paul enjoys looking at his books now and sometimes reads passages from them. Last year I asked him if he missed writing, he gave it careful thought and answered flatly, "no". And I could see he was alright with that.

He wrote more than 30 books. His words and perspective live on through them.

When I Learn To Drink My Coffee Black.

2010-06-21T22:28:00.000-07:00

A neighbor of ours, Brian, takes Paul out for coffee and a cookie once a week. They almost always go to a little cafe and sit outside watching children play by the fountain. They read from a book, sometimes one of Paul's, or sit quietly watching the hour pass.

Brian told me how he offered Paul more coffee last week and Paul said to him, "yes! this is for the memory". Some things are beginning to make me think that Paul is aware enough to know he has a problem, which surprises me because he has no distress about his situation. Not upset about the nursing home he lives in, (Paul: "What's this place called" me: "Aviara Health Care Center" Paul: "Oh, okay."), not asking to come home, not wondering about his health or his mind.

Back in 2001, a month or two after our son Alexander was born Paul had the last of his bad "anxiety attacks". Several had happened in the few years before, most of them occurring during the year we lived apart, and that sent him into therapy, which then made it possible for us to reunite.

That night in 2001 Paul was out of bed at 2am wandering around the apartment, finally ending up in a fetal position on the living room floor. I woke easily, as we mothers do when we have nursing infants, and talked to Paul. He said he thought he was losing his mind. I assured him it was an anxiety attack and he could take some Xanax if he needed it. I think he eventually took a bath which calmed him down enough to go back to sleep. (The one time I did psilocybin it was with Paul and Donna in 1992, he felt terribly anxious and took a bath, she and I sat on the twin beds and laughed like crazy at our situation, it was all very funny you see)

Since the brain injury in 1995 Paul had his on days and off, but for the most part he was able to go about doing all things he done before: write books, give lectures, gripe about my terrible checkbook keeping, drive (though not very well), go for long walks and so forth. On his off days he would say his head felt "fuzzy" and tried using caffeine to get some clarity. I thought of the fuzzy days as a left over from the brain injury, but now I think it was possibly the early days of the dementia.

But what do I have to complain about? Back in 1995 the accident could have ended it all right there, and as my doc friend Karl once said "he had a near vegetable experience". But he didn't we had eight good years together after the brain injury and before the dementia came in. I'll take my blessings where I can get 'em.

(the title of this piece is borrowed from a song by anti folk hero, Lach)