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