Michael's Chronicles: Recovery Part 2

My brother Michael has been dominating this page lately, mostly because he's the only one doing the writing these days, and considering that he also works full time in his wood shop and drives all over the continental US selling drums and musical furniture, not to mention doing all the driving on the two-week crazy road-trips we take together, I can definitely understand why you would think he's Superman, made of steel, the Energizer Bunny, unstoppable.

Turns out he's not so unstoppable. He had a full work-up from a doctor, and it turns out he needed open-heart surgery. The surgery went well, and being Michael, he is recovering in his own (kind of peculiar) way. This is what he's got to say about it.

Recovery Part 2

Nothing tastes right. I like peaches. I don’t like asparagus. Got it? So why should my peaches taste like asparagus? They shouldn’t, right? But, since The Surgery, I assure you they do. And there are innumerable other examples. I thought to myself, “Gee, I’m just going to look this up,” and I did. I, as they say, Googled it.

Turns out this side effect is common. Real common. No one claims to know if the queering of taste is a by-product of the open heart surgery or the medications associated with recovery but the problem is said to be widespread. Not in my view a ringing endorsement for the heart bypass thing.

One would think that smell, a companion to taste, would be equally affected but I see no evidence of that. Bad deal. Here’s why. When a food item smells familiar (as in how it has always smelled) one is encouraged to go ahead and eat it. But when its taste doesn’t match the smell the brain can’t handle it. I’m not sure what the banana thing tastes like any more but it ain’t monkey food.

Back to smell. On yesterday’s walk I was near a park. A big dog had just laid down a huge steaming pile of shit, the effervescence of which was the same old rank I have grown to know and hate. I didn’t taste it - never have - so I had nothing to compare it to. This is a good thing. If it tasted like blueberries or marshmallows I might have acquired a taste for something I’d have been challenged to defend to friends and family. God is good. He protecteth my judgement.

In the end I’m hoping this all changes for the better. I actually like food and am told that eating is related to staying alive. Wonder what I have to eat to simulate the taste of strawberries. Sauerkraut? Hope not.

Later

Michael's Chronicle: Recovery

My brother Michael has been dominating this page lately, mostly because he's the only one doing the writing these days, and considering that he also works full time in his wood shop and drives all over the continental US selling drums and musical furniture, not to mention doing all the driving on the two-week crazy road-trips we take together, I can definitely understand why you would think he's Superman, made of steel, the Energizer Bunny, unstoppable.

Turns out he's not so unstoppable. He had a full work-up from a doctor, and it turns out he needed open-heart surgery. The surgery went well, and being Michael, he is recovering in his own (kind of peculiar) way. This is what he's got to say about it.

Recovery

I fell asleep with my glasses on last night. Don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve heard of night vision, but sleep vision? I don’t think so. They may have messed with my dream which included a guy in an ice cream bar outfit (the stamp on his single stick leg said Good Humor, though he did not look tasty to me), a dog with just two legs ( one front and one back) who didn’t even limp and an apple wearing tennis shoes and constantly running off so it couldn’t be eaten.

The dream seemed pretty normal to me since I’ve had much stranger ones but perhaps I just needed some entertainment. I’m recovering from open heart surgery though not on drugs known to have weird dreams as side effects. Perhaps I should be happy to be dreaming at all since this sort of surgery is, if nothing else, somewhat invasive. Perhaps they inadvertently left a gag toy in an artery leading to my brain. 

On the other hand, if the operation is in any way related to that dream sign me up again. I can’t stop laughing.

Michael's Chronicles: Rittenhouse Square

I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman.

Friday, October 11
Philadelphia
Rittenhouse Square

“I’m not homeless. I’m just not living anywhere in particular.” The words stuck to my ribs more than the oatmeal I had just eaten. The man who spoke them was speaking to no one in particular. May, for all I know, have been schizophrenic. 

Another big city. Another park bench dweller. I wondered……where will he be living when the inevitable snow arrives? It won’t be long. Winter’s bite is only a nibble at the moment. But in this part of the country, she has teeth. She is indifferent to human needs. Not cruel. Just indifferent. I started to move on.

“Dilettantes.” 

I stopped. What strange force had sucked this word into this street guy’s vocabulary?

French for dallier or tinkerer. Who the hell was he talking about? 

“It’s not their fault if they have money. Not their fault. Not issued to everyone. Just some of them. Some of them.” I followed his eyes across the park to the PARC at 18th and Locust where, coincidentally, I had just eaten breakfast. Twenty seven dollars (tip included) worth of oatmeal and bacon. Hadn’t even eaten all of it. I don’t eat until I am sated - only until I’m satisfied.

I never eat breakfast. Well, pretty much never. This morning was an exception. I was downtown early in order to take advantage of a break in the all day parking fee if one arrives prior to 7 a.m. the “Early Bird” deal. Some deal. $45. It meant I had un-needed 
time to burn. Burned it at PARC.

He babbled a bit more and I almost moved on when I noticed a red rose on the end of the bench where he’d spent the night. Had to ask.

“What’s with the rose.” The answer nailed me.

“Aw, some homeless bitch dropped it off. Not my type.” Sound familiar? 

I learned something this morning. Misogyny is not just a class thing (can you say Trump?) it’s a guy thing. Oh, and another thing. Parking and breakfast on this square are expensive, dilettante or not.

Later……

Michael's Chronicles: The Early Days

The following is a reconnection about recollections, in this case the earliest ones. I have my own early memory of my mother and my sister gazing down at me in my crib. They really seemed to like me. My brother Michael remembers something more active.

Michael:
The Early Days

I was born broke and wet. I don’t remember it, of course, but I can put two and two together. The broke park I can’t say I minded. After all, I had sponsors from the get-go. Patrons, you might say. I was given free milk and not required to sit on any toilet seat. Thankfully. At that size I no doubt would have fallen in and drowned. My story would have been decidedly shorter.

The wet part? Now that’s another matter. I didn’t swim around in an air tight chamber for eight or nine months in the spirit of voluntarism. A couple of lovers who I later came to refer to as mom and dad put me in that predicament. I kicked around quite a bit in those months in protest - at least according to my mom. Those weren’t her exact words, of course, but what did she expect? Confinement will do that to a person. One ends up running (or in this case, swimming) in place. I don’t remember any of it. I was too busy plotting my escape.

One of my sons, Joah to be precise, swears that he remembers his birth. Frankly, so do I and so does his mom who struggled with the labor thing for hours and hours. I was there as an observer and an advisor. We had taken those Lamaze classes. My job was, roughly speaking, to remind her to relax and all that. I did my job. To no avail. Joah was possessed with the notion of fighting his way out and was taking his own sweet time doing so. Ultimately the delivery doctor grabbed his head with those stainless steel crab claws they call forceps and tugged him into the real world. That’s the part Joah says he remembers. I’ll have to take his word for it. I never had my head pinched that way so I guess there wasn’t much for me to remember.

When it comes to early memories I guess mine kick in at the crawling stage. On Sundays much of the family had a habit of gathering at the home of my grandmother Thiele’s younger brother Carl and his wife Regina’s home in West Los Angeles. The grandparents were there along with me, my brother and sister and Carl and Regina’s two kids. I was the youngest. My grandmother Theresa and Regina seemed to spend all afternoon in the kitchen cooking up that day’s big meal with my mom lending what I later learned to be a minimal hand. That Margaret wasn’t skilled at the traditional homemaking skills apparently was quite a sore point with Theresa, who I take it was less than thrilled when introduced by my dad as the woman he intended to marry. Theresa was old school European. Nuts and bolts.

Regina stored all her canned goods - things like soup and Pet Milk and such - in the lower kitchen cabinets next to the sink. Why, I don’t know. I prowled her linoleum kitchen floor on all fours up to no good. I distinctly remember the white wooden cabinet doors with their stainless steel and Bakelite handles which I didn’t need to reach to pry them open. The hinges were not spring loaded so I could simply grab them at the bottom edge and wedge them free. Once open, the cans were at my disposal. I enjoyed scooping them out, knocking them on their sides and rolling them about the kitchen floor. I was busted again and again for my efforts, picked up and carried back into the living room. I suspect the other kids were told to keep an eye on me but probably had little interest. That I was a serial offender was likely their neglectful fault.

 

 

Michael's Chronicles: Let Your Fears Move On

Here's some good advice from someone who's been on the road for over 50 years. If you drive that far in an old van, you're going to encounter problem after problem, and you're going to get to be really good at fixing what's wrong. 

Let Your Fears Move On

Let your fears move on
To lite in some other place
You won’t need them
To get through the day

Draw your strength 
From a deeper place
Where fear has no purchase
Find your center and trust it

For in the end 
There is no unknown
But merely, quite simply
The not yet known

Walk your path upright
With jutting chin
Spit in the wind
Downwind

Know you are walking
On shared ground
Present past and future
Be a thoughtful visitor

Leave good things
When you go
Leave strength but not fear
Others will need it

 

 

Michael's Chronicles: Cat

This is another roadtrip-inspired mental wandering from my brother Michael, written just before we left or composed in a hotel room -- possibly in Kingman? or maybe not, but somewhere around there. I tend to zonk out on road-trips and sleep pretty well, except for occasional dreams about having to be back at work (sigh). Michael tends to think about stuff and then write it down.

Cat

Got your ass kicked out of the room. Again
I don’t feel sorry for you, always dickin around
You know what she’s like - the one that feeds you
But you do it anyway, don’t you?

Why can’t you be like a spider?
Sit around and wait
Wait till stuff comes to you. Patient.
Bugs have legs, you know, and they’re dumb

You must be dumb too
High GQ (Gullability Quotient)
Bugs are your daddy
You always take the bait

Do you ever eat anything?
Or just bat ‘em around
Till they drop dead
Then what, dimwit? No more toy

I like to watch you
Doing those pointless things
You’re a teacher - a guru
Now I know what not to do

Road Trip 2024: Settled

We've been doing these road trips with my brother Michael for four years now, long enough to become pros at it. We're comfortable enough with each other to share hotel rooms. We're also cheap, but hey, it lets us spend more time on the road. 

Some routines have been established. For example, I like to turn the TV in the room to what Michael calls "The Murder Channel," looking for shows like Forensic Files or one of the many incarnations of Law and Order. Ernie likes to surf social media on his phone, and Michael prowls news sites on his iPad. Since his iPad is right there under his fingertips, he also does some writing. A few days into our roadtrip, he came up with this:

Settled

Settled, like sand
Fluid, like water
I know my spirit’s yearnings
I cannot account for others

I watch the sunset
I listen to the trees in the wind
They speak a language for which
There are no known words

Let no one tell me
My purpose here on earth
Let them speak for themselves
If it matters so much

I prefer to watch
And absorb
And wonder
So let me be slow with answers

My time here is limited
So let me be blessed 
With the gift of reflection
And throw in some kindness

If I should see good in myself
Spare me the self-righteousness
Give me the simple ability

To see it in others 

Em, Ernie, and Michael: Road Trip 2024

We're on our yearly road trip again, but I have yet to write about the last one we did. As usual, Michael is way ahead of me on this, so I'm going to let him start off  the vacation chronicles (generous-if-lazy creature that I am). So let's kick off the vacation report from Michael's POV:

Monday a.m.
September 16
Arroyo Grande

We’re at it again. Emily, Ernie and me. It’s day two of the annual trek, a gift trip whose existence must be attributed largely to Covid 19 (albeit the 2020 version) and our late mom, Margaret. Who would have expected them to pair up in such a positive and enduring manner? As she might have quipped, “Who’d a thunk it?”

It’s easy to describe the elderly folk in their final years as “declining” if one adopts a comparative view of life’s continuum. After all, many things simply don’t function as they used to - notably, the mind. Bodies wear down too. Mom was no exception in the fall of that year. I came to view her as a person who was winding down and balancing her biographic accounts in the months leading to her departure. Did she have odd visions of matters not discernibly connected to reality? Of course. Did we any less enjoy talking to or spending time with her? Not at all. Neither in the spirit of pity nor strictly as a matter of compassion. For even in that twilight time of her life she was giving us things no one else had to offer - a deepening view of ourselves from a family perspective - an appreciation.

On the Northwest trip in the fall of that year, during the time of the election I spoke with her quite often - usually in the evening - about our collective journey, hers and mine. I was careful not to offer condescending thanks for all the good things she had done for me. That would have put her off and I knew it. Rather, I mostly asked her to fill in gaps in the family history to which I was not privy, particularly involving her father who had been so important in my life after my own father died when I was quite young. I learned much from our chats. She was capable of remaining mentally crisp for about an hour on those occasions, which fact alone seemed to mean a great deal to her. This I know. They were some of the best moments I ever shared with her.

So here we are in Arroyo Grande. We traveled to Santa Barbara from Arizona yesterday and had lunch with sister Carol, then on to here for the night. We’re headed to the Pinnacles National Park, northeast of Soledad, California. Emily, a serious and trained geology enthusiast, will explain in some detail to me just what I am looking at and I will lose track of this information somewhere along the line. Now if we were talking about wood…………Tonight we’ll stay in Monterey and continue north tomorrow.

So, back to mom and Covid. During the summer of 2020, Em and Ern were preparing to take mom on their annual trip into New Mexico. Art shows, where I exhibit my work, were all closed due to Covid restrictions, and I was known to be available to travel with them. I did. We were sitting in our room at the Thunderbird Motel in Taos one morning when I asked Em and Ern, who had just entered, if they had ever traveled to the Pacific Northwest. Before they could even answer mom blurted out, “When are we going?” None of them had. Off we went in late October and the rest is history. The trips with mom and the presence of Covid had brought us together. The annual trip is now a tradition we cannot miss.

The travel plan is never much more than a sketch, subject to diversions and distractions but always pregnant with experience. We’ll see how this one evolves. We do have a list. We’ll try to do it justice.

Michael's Chronicles: Thursday, Aug 22

I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman. 

Thursday Aug 22
Monterey

I drove here for this particular morning. I needed the fix: the marine layer. To those who live here it is a ho-hum thing. Familiarity I suppose……but for me, whose exposure is at best occasional, it is anything but passe’ - old hat. I am smitten. Unapologetic.

By mid-day the sun will insinuate itself onto the scene and warmth will displace this morning coolness. Photogenesis will be further served. Ho-hum, huh? Not being a beach-goer or a sun bather, I’m not holding my breath for the change. Don’t get me wrong………I’m good with sunshine. My “weather tent” is large. Lightning is beautiful in my book. Just not now and not in this place.

People around here are walking appreciative dogs, at least two of whom (small ones, of course) have taken time out of their busy day to yap out a warning bark at me. A woman is trimming rose bushes as she chatters at them, lovingly, as if words would ameliorate her snipping intrusion. A light breeze, too minimal to rustle leaves, has endorsed the beautiful morning coolness adding an inaudible decaf to the moment.

The morning will fade away as it always does. Time is indifferent to our love of the moment. The grace and beauty in memory is in having been there, in that moment.

Writing about it feels thin. Artifact at best. Think I’ll just shut up, close my eyes and breathe. It is why I came here.

Later 

Golden, Colorado

I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman. 

Sunday, Aug 11
Golden, Colorado

I woke up this morning wondering what goes well with coffee since I am not a breakfast person. I decided on popcorn. But before I defend that one let me first editorialize on coffee. As a material, this stuff is best described as consisting of black water, an oil slick and bubbles. Exotic names are often assigned to the beverage as though it were like dog breeds or exotic plants.

A fishing buddy of mine, Charlie, bastardized his morning brew with copious quantities of creamer and sugar (not sweetener) before he added the core substance for flavoring. I castigated him mercilessly over this on the way out to the river. May as well have been talking to an anvil. Don’t get me started on the “decaf” thing. Can you wrap your brain around alcohol free gasoline? Enough about coffee………

Back to popcorn for breakfast. Not the kind, by the way, with caramel or chili sauce or whatever. Unexpurgated. That’s what I love and respect. Lightly salted. Butter OK. Why cook an egg when you can reach in a bag? So, popcorn was handy this morning and non-distractive to boot as I drove in to the Golden Art Festival. Took it with me to the booth to enjoy with my Mexican coke. Bubbles and pops.

I ran the idea by some dogs at the show. The response was uniformly positive. In fact, they all offered to participate in a taste test. Their owners were less enthusiastic for a variety of reasons, but a dog endorsement surely is to be respected.

Enough deep thoughts for the moment. Later… 

Michael's Chronicles: Fast Eddie

I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman. 

Summer, 1970
Fast Eddie

I’ve lived my life largely with cats. I’m not bad at identifying dogs. Put one next to a known object - say, a chrome toaster - and I’ll identify the dog thing right away. I’ve owned a lot of toasters. Don’t get me wrong…..I’ve got nothing against dogs. I just can’t figure them out. It’s mostly the drama queen and strange proclivities thing. The only units I can compare them to are cats - the only items I know well.

A couple of examples come to mind. I can’t think of the last time I saw a cat walk by a dog box, look in and proclaim, “Wow! Tootsie Rolls!” then proceed to eat one, lick his chops and say, “Are there any more?” I’ve seen dogs consume the dumpings of numerous different animals such as cats, cattle, sheep, rabbits and others. I’m no nutritionist, but……….. Not to judge diets, but I’ve noticed cats to be a bit more selective.

Let’s discuss independence for a moment. If you tell your dog you have to go away for a couple of hours it fucks his mind up pretty bad. Drama Queen sets in. You are grilled: “Who’s gonna feed me? Who’s gonna walk me? Who’s gonna pet me?” Stuff like that, know what I mean? I regard these questions as indicators of H.M.S. (High Maintenance Syndrome).

On the other hand, if you tell your cat you’re going away for, say, two weeks he may lean up on one elbow from his prone position and say, “Dude…..you might want to leave plenty of food and water (or maybe leave the toilet lid open). If you don’t take care of business, when you get back you may find dead rats or birds, lizards or insects on the floor - shit like that. Your choice, man. I don’t really care. Have yourself a good time.”

Yeah, I know the cat will piss on the sofa. But then the dog will come along and tear off the cover trying to get to the smelly stuffing. This is, in the end, why both animals exist. Human patience needs testing.


So it’s the summer of 1970. I and my wife of six months are living in northwest Phoenix. 2218 W. Morton Street to be precise. We’re both students commuting across the valley daily to Arizona State. It’s the first house we’ve rented. Troy and Sue Turner own the place. Nice folks those two. Live and let live types. The rent is $185 a month. I am a graduate teaching assistant in the Sociology program whose contract spans only nine months (the two semesters) so I must find summer work to pay the bills during the break.

A friend of my wife has given her some sort of rat-ass little terrier - the wire haired pointy nose type who spends most of his waking hours standing his ground with bared teeth. He’s selectively yap-adelic. Parks himself on my side of the bed at night so that when I hop in after late night studies he growls and pretends to be defending my young wife’s virtue or something of the sort. I routinely launch him off the bed and curse at him.

I mentioned summer employment. At this time, I have taken a job selling Rainbow Vacuum Cleaners. Yeah that’s right. Dirt suckers. Much of my time is spent at the warehouse down on McDowell Road and about 7th Street listening to pep talks and sales tips from some guy who’s done it for a while, runs the warehouse and passes out leads. I know early on I’m not going to last long as a salesman. I manage to sell one to my mother in law and another to a large lady with her left breast in a sling from having had some recent operation. I knew this to be true because when I was in the middle of my sales pitch she had blurted out, “You ever see a titty in a sling?” This is not fiction. The conversation invades my memory from time to time at random moments. I would prefer it didn’t. They were the only two units I ever sold.

The warehouse wasn’t large and was filled with lots of boxes containing these water filter based vacuums. During the pep talks we often saw a small butterscotch flavored cat with a ringed tail darting around between the boxes. A head here, a tail there…..he never sat where we could see him, nor did he walk. He only ran. The sales manager hated him and sometimes chased him while trying to whack him with a broom. We, the sales force of four, nicknamed the cat “Fast Eddie.” The fact that we liked the cat enough to name him actually pissed off our boss. None of us was a particularly good salesman, which didn’t help matters.

One morning the manager told us he was going to trap the cat and kill it. Being a cat guy this obviously did not sit well with me. I took it up with him. I tried the old “live and let live” argument out on him but that only seemed to stoke his murderous resolve. To make matters worse one of the other guys started referring to him as “The Great White Hunter.” Bad idea. Worse than bad. I made one last plea, telling him that I would catch the cat and take him home. He gave me until the end of the day.

The first time the rat terrier met Fast Eddie it didn’t go well for him. His initial attempt at intimidation - the old charge and growl technique - got him a clawed nose and an irreparably damaged ego. A new sheriff had arrived unannounced and sent a message: “You suck, rodent. Maybe you should hide.” He rather quickly located a place where even his shadow could not find him. Walter Mitty would have been proud.

The rooms at 2218 were small and the central hallway narrow. I, who have a truly un-noteworthy wing span, could actually touch both walls with my arms raised and my elbows outstretched. Troy had built the place with his own hands. I never could bring myself to ask him about the hallway thing. Maybe in some past life I was a laundry chute inspector. Maybe not. That hall turned out to be Eddie’s racetrack. Sitting in the little living room one would hear a familiar sound and then look up to spot the last of his tail disappearing in one or the other direction past the opening into the hallway at one end of the living room. He simply ran everywhere. Perhaps he reckoned the Devil was after him. I never queried him about his religious views. How does one talk to a passing car?

My morning routine was to head down the hall to the little kitchen at the far (does that adjective actually apply here?) end of the hall for who knows what reason. I am not a breakfast eater. Never have been. It was the one instance when Fast Eddie would slow down. He didn’t eat on the run. He would, however, dash by me from wherever he had been hanging out and pace rapidly around the kitchen Jonesing to be fed. It was about the only time he was vocal. He let one know in no uncertain terms why one was in the room.

The one time I varied from my morning routine and detoured along the way he actually returned from the kitchen, agitated, and literally clamped onto the back of my right calf. His training technique was effective. We never needed to have that conversation again. I’m a quick study as they say.

An indoor/outdoor cat, he must have been a good hunter if only because of his speed although he never brought any of his trophies into the house. Good strategy. A human female lived there. Those items are well known to be intolerant of such behaviors. Best not to cross them.

We had Fast Eddie for only a few months before the bad news struck. He was often waiting on the porch when I returned from school each day. On the day of his demise, he was not there. A neighbor who I recognized but had never met crossed the street and approached me. He asked, “Did you have a little yellow cat living with you?” The past tense in the question was both ominous and unwelcome. I answered simply, “Yes.”

“Well, I’m afraid he was run over by the garbage truck today. Saw it with my own eyes. He’s up on that lawn over there. I pulled him off the street. I’m afraid he’s pretty flat. Those trucks are heavy.” 

I digested his words. Comical, in a way, but hurtful. Fast Eddie was now Flat Eddie. The little friend who you barely caught a glimpse of running around the house wasn’t quick enough to outrun a garbage truck. Ironic.

I’ve never buried a pet. Not my thing. Gone is gone. Memories are good enough for me. I put his little ruined body in a plastic bag, pulled the draw strings tight and tossed him in - well - a big trash can. Seemed only fitting. It’s been over a half century since that fateful day. I didn’t need a gravesite. His squirrelly little memory lives on. Fast Eddie wasn’t so fast after all.

 

Michael's Chronicles: The Cliffs

I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman. 

July 16
The Cliffs

I was out north of Marble Canyon today driving along the Vermillion Cliffs on my way toward Jacob Lake and beyond. The crosswind was blowing like hell. Let me address that one. I don’t know, factually, if Hell blows at all. I must admit I’m not even sold on the very concept of Hell and none of the assessments I’ve heard of from fire and brimstone enthusiasts have mentioned weather. Perhaps I haven’t been the best listener in those times at which the onset of that narrative has caused me to roll my eyes. But the words add flesh and inflection to the story, so I’ll let them stand. 

There were large rolling boxes with names like “Pathfinder,” “Wilderness” and “Forest River” going by in the opposite direction and visibly rocking and swaying to and fro in the wind. I’m grateful that I was not the driver of any of them and equally grateful that none of them lost it, came into my lane and altered the trajectory of my day or perhaps redefined my destiny. I can just see my gravestone: “Here lies Michael. Flattened by a rolling box. He was a nice guy” But alas, none of those RV things hit me so here I am, writing about what could have been but fortunately (in my view) was not.

I have more important memories of those red cliffs, which is why I chose that route to begin with. And no, I wasn’t even supposed to be here. Just returned from a two week show tour to Colorado to find out that I needed to head up to Salt Lake City- same day - to examine and perhaps purchase tone wood for our instruments. Three hour turn around. Decided to drive along the Cliffs.

During the early 1970’s I had learned an important lesson about the nature of silence: absolute silence, particularly that which occurs in natural environments can be deafening. Loud. I also find it quite grounding and for me, the experience can be emotional. I first heard it at Scarface, a rocky foothill area to the east of Mesa, Arizona. A friend with whom I was working, Chris, had taken me up there in his jeep.

We’d sit on the front edge of the escarpment, legs dangling over, blowing a doobie and looking out over the vast Valley of the Sun all the way to the White Tanks. We’d listen to the quiet. It’s one of the few times in my life when I sat next to someone else for extended periods of time during which no one said a word. There is a rush to that kind of silence and the only way to experience it is to sit still and wait for it to come calling. 

For sure, being stoned was an enabler but nothing more. I haven’t smoked the Yerba Buena for some fifty years, now, but the beauty and poignance of dead quiet has remained a friend. I experienced it on a different occasion years later when I broke down along 89A in the Vermillion Cliffs area. I hiked back aways into a little slot canyon away from the highway to cool off in the shade and stumbled into one of those dead pockets. Probably stayed there for a half hour, ingesting it all.

Such places seem to be few and far between. Maybe that’s as it should be. Then it was quiet. Today it was wind and dust. It’s a big tent, this earth thing. Glad I have ears. Glad I learned to listen.

Later

 

  

Michael Levy: The Lyre of Hermes

I've spent a lot of time lately posting the musings of my brother, Michael Thiele, I've neglected the doings of Michael Levy, promoter of ancient music and virtuoso of the ancient lyre. Here is a recent announcement from Michael Levy:

New album out:

https://open.spotify.com/album/75Cg2jZCI0iCM7AseeHx1B?si=r3ujnd4bSr2K36HA7sHKxA

Originally released as a short EP length album in 2015, in August 2023, I decided to re-record in higher quality, extended length arrangements of all of the original tracks & 4 new additional tracks for this full LP album length re-release. 

 

As well as Spotify, the album can also be streamed on Apple Music, iTunes, Amazon & a host of other major digital music platforms. 

Studio quality audio, complete with a PDF booklet of the detailed album notes is available from Bandcamp:

https://michaellevy.bandcamp.com/album/the-lyre-of-hermes

  

Michael Levy: Amen Dunes

I've spent a lot of time lately posting the musings of my brother, Michael Thiele, I've neglected the doings of Michael Levy, promoter of ancient music and virtuoso of the ancient lyre. Here is a recent announcement from Michael Levy:

I am really excited to announce that Damon McMahon of Amen Dunes, is featuring my lyre music in his new album! 

Amen Dunes is the musical project formed by American singer-songwriter and musician Damon McMahon in 2006. 

A new recording of my original viral YouTube arrangement for solo lyre of the Bronze Age Hurrian Hymn Text H6 (circa 1,400 BCE - the oldest notated melody in history!) will feature in a track in the new album "Death Jokes" by Amen Dunes - out on 10th May!! 

I was contacted by Damon McMahon's record company back in 2022 - who requested a bespoke re-recording, as near as possible to the audio from my original, 'live from my spare room' (10,000,000 plus views!) version of my 2008 YouTube arrangement of the 3,400 year old Hurrian Hymn.

The dreamy mood Damon McMahon manages to conjure with his music serendipitously matches my own solo lyre recording projects - never having even heard of Amen Dunes here in the UK, I have since fallen in love with the wonderfully experimental, fuzzy textures he uses as a the background layers to his songs, many of which all feature beautifully elegant melodic lines & many of which are also modal in character.

As far I so far know, the clip of my lyre music will come at the tail end or last song of this album of original songs by Damon McMahon, who releases contemporary music under Amen Dunes. No matter how brief the loop of my lyre music in whatever specific track it eventually features on Damon's new album, this amazing cross-over of musical genres the first real small step I have come in attaining my dream, of making the lyre 'mainstream'!

Michael Levy: Musica Lyra

I've spent a lot of time lately posting the musings of my brother, Michael Thiele, I've neglected the doings of Michael Levy, promoter of ancient music and virtuoso of the ancient lyre. Here is a recent announcement from Michael Levy:

Now available from all major digital music platforms, I am delighted to announce the release on all the usual digital music platforms today of my antidote to the chaos of the modern world. “Música Lyra" - an ancient Roman-themed album inspired by themes from stoic philosophy. Here is Spotify album link:

https://spotify.link/djKwY2RXTBb

The album explores through music, the turbulent emotions of unresolved desires, grief, regrets, longings & sorrows which can cloud the positivity of life, which though endurance of the human spirit & the focus of stoic meditation, can be overcome, until the ultimate stoic ideal of “Amor Fati” - developing a love of fate, no matter what obstacles we may encounter during the brief enigma of our conscious experience of life.

As I have no record company, I literally solely rely on the support of my much valued listeners in order to ‘get my music out there’ to new sets of potentially receptive  ears - if any of you are able to kindly share news of the album's release across social media & include tracks in new Spotify playlists & post album reviews on platforms such as iTunes or Amazon, this would be greatly appreciated.

As a taster of the album, please find attached track 2, ‘Pluviam Frigus (Cold Rain)' - enjoy!

 

Michael's Chronicles: Silverthorne

I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman. 

Sunday, July 14
Silverthorne

This morning I sauntered into a bagel shop with onyx counters. Onyx! I wondered what the bagel was going to set me back. I looked at the counter, glasslike and hard. Two centimeters (3/4” or so), not three - not the thick stuff. I rapped my knuckle on it to see if it rang. It did. Something in me flipped. I was holding my ceramic coffee cup from the Museum of the American Arts And Crafts Movement, which I visited this winter in St Petersburg, Florida. Don’t ask why but I suddenly wondered if I could set the cup on this counter so gently that it would make no audible sound. I tried.

My first and second and third attempts failed in different degrees. I stood back and thought about it. Seemed like I needed to make perfect slow motion contact to pull it off. I had already established two rules: No part of my hand could come into contact with the counter first, thus deadening the sound. Also, I couldn’t touch just the edge of the cup first and then lay the rest of it down. Same deal - deadens the sound. Some random lady was walking in the door in that moment. She apparently spotted me, now stooping down to see the contact points at eye level.

None of this was any of her business, of course, but she walked over and engaged.

“What are you doing.” Her words actually stunned my private moment. I hesitated, rising from my task.

“Who wants to know?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. She laughed.

“It’s just that that’s such a strange thing to see.” 

“Are you here for a bagel?” Thought I could change the focus.

“I am. Just tell me what you’re up to.” I told her. She gave me the strangest look apparently trying to put some version of two and two together then shook her head slightly, side to side, and walked off. Not another word. No, “thanks for the heads up.” Thankfully.

Are no moments private anymore?


Later…..

 

 

Michael's Chronicles: Grand junction, Just Now

I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman.

July 10 
Grand Junction
Just now……..

She has an anteater’s snout. I haven’t spotted her tongue. Don’t want to. I am behind her at the gas pumps at Sam’s Club. Waiting. And, obviously, watching. How could I not, I ask. That nose may be blocking something I need to see. I’ll never know. It is not one fashioned by Geppetto and she is no marionette. Seems to be singing to herself. Must, I think, be nice. The nose is much more Cyrrano-esque, from the original drawing, but sans the bump and downturn mid-schnozz. 

I’m not making fun of this lady, trust me. I’ve just never seen a nose like that on a human. Seen some odd ones for sure. I used to bowl with a guy who had cauliflower nose - lumpy as hell and red and large. Fit his head well. Large and blocky itself and topped off with marine-cut red hair. I have no idea if he’s still among the living. He was a serious drinker. Not beer. Hard stuff. 

Another friend, an Italian named Sal, was cultivating a rainforest of boar bristle in his nostrils and was having to constantly clip it. Rubbed it frequently for some reason. Super nice guy. Maybe the thing just tickled or itched all the time. Didn’t feel bad for him, though. He was far more the ladies’ man than I. Maybe he was snorting lines of freeze dried Rogaine. Whatever………

So this lady in front of me at the pumps………..nice lips but I can’t see how one would go about kissing them without suffering an eye bruise. Perpendicular, I guess, but that just seems weird. See how this is affecting me? Why the hell do I care about these things? There are eight islands at this station. Eight. The odds that I’d even be having this conversation with myself are only 12 1/2 percent. Think I’ll just pretend I was in a different line.

Later

Michael's Chronicles: Grand Junction Food Poisoning

I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman.

July 9
Grand Junction
Food Poisoning

I am perplexed
Who got to my chicken
And made it suck?
Who got to my belly
And turned it to funk?

Minding my own business
Like I always do
Taking a little break between shows
Shining up my sneakers
For the upcoming event

The chicken salad looked good
Just sitting there and calling my name
“Psst,” it said. Hey you……
Come over here and bite me”
Shoulda known better
Who talks like that?

Puke sucks
Especially on a Monday
Most other days too
And why do they call it “The Runs.”
We all know what it is

So I’m looking for the witch doctor
The guy with the voodoo pins
Who stuck em in my salad doll
And turned my evening all fowl
He better watch out

I’m not vindictive
I don’t get mad and I don’t get even
But true as hell
Like an oil soaked two by four
Guaranteed not to bend, crack
Peel, splinter or warp
I will balance this, trust me
Someone will pay

Better today……