This is my latest experiment: combining my stories and orphan musical works into something totally new and exciting to me. As far as the music goes, there are lots of pieces that I have created in the past and never had an outlet for. Sort of like sketches in a book. Some of them make great background and integrated soundtracks. As for the stories, well, stay tuned. They are gonna get wild...

lotsa love and hope you enjoy!

LIPBONE REDDING
NEW YORK CITY, December 10, 2008

Sometimes we all just get a little blown out. We lose sight of our truths and our goals. I wonder if the Pilgrims who came to the new world ever felt that way.
Karen, my right arm, without whom nothing in the world of LIPBONE gets done, kept reminding me in her special way that my laptop had, after two weeks, been fixed and it was time to send out a blog, preferably one for and about Thanksgiving.

Here's one for ya…
Q: Why did Pilgirms pants keep falling down?
A:  Because they wore their belts on their hats.  (Badump!)

So rather than commemorate the profound hardships of the Europeans coming to a new world and their less than ideal, dare I say atrocious arrangement with the Native Americans upon which this holiday is so one-sidedly founded, I thought I would turn it around. This year, the turkey has flown to Europe…

I arrived about 30 hours ago, and I found it hard, even with the jetlag and the disorientation, to stay in my hotel room. It's a nearly perfect room except for the weird pull-out style bed, which turned out to be quite comfortable.  There's a full modern kitchen and a view of Place de la Bastille, in commemoration of the old prison now marked by a gigantic obelisk.  When the French people stormed the walls of the prison, the French Revolution was official and is celebrated as Bastille Day on July 14th in the same spirit with which America celebrates July 4th. 

This is not the touristy part of Paris, but a more working class hood with lots of café's and nightlife for Parisians.  It is within walking distance of Notre Dame, Musée du Louvre and the Seine River.
The streets radiate outward from circles in Paris and somehow, seemingly miraculously, intersect to form a very large circle. With all the little side streets and side side streets and side side side streets, the mind feels free to wander, to even get lost.
I was chomping at the bit. I immediately got dressed and walked around my new digs. I found the local store where I bought French delicacies such as cheese and pâté, fruit, bread, juice and of course, wine. I am a lover of Bordeaux and they had my favorite 20 dollar bottle for a mere 5 Euros.  The pilgrim in me was so thankful. 

This morning I awoke before dawn and took the 20-minute metro ride to Monmartre, again thankful that Kristi, our tour manager had included several metro tickets in with our itineraries.  I wandered around the neighborhood at the bottom of the hill. The cabarets were closed up and only a few bars serving espresso were opened.

By 9AM I had had a double espresso and a fresh croissant so I climbed the hill, which is about a quarter mile of steps to Basilique Sacre-Coeur, the Church of the Sacred Heart. The site of the 19th-century basilica is traditionally associated with the beheading of the city's patron, Saint Denis, in the 3rd century. According to legend, after he was martyred, Bishop Denis picked up his severed head and carried it several miles to the north where the city of Saint Denis stands today.  (I wish someone would do that today.)

The Carousel at the bottom of Basilique Sacre-Coeur

The sight was awe inspiring and I had a feeling that I was beating the other pilgrims. I paid 5 euros and was able to climb 300 more stairs to the dome atop the church and I had the best view in all Paris. Though I felt like a hamster in a spiral habitrail, after ten minutes of climbing, daylight broke through a window and the stairs let me out on the roof of the church.  I was able to see the city in all of its grandeur in every direction including the Eiffel Tower.  At this moment, I became very thankful that I alone had such a wondrous view. 

I snapped lots of pictures, even though the double espresso started to work overtime and I found myself atop the church with an undeniable urge to locate a restroom. I finally ripped myself away from the skyline and made my way past the gargoyles and carved stone, back down the claustrophobic winding worn steps, to the crypt-room beneath the church itself. I "sortied" to the grounds. By this time the urge was an annoyance, but I luckily found a sign for "Les Toilettes," the famous French free public toilets.  You just walk in to a capsule that resembles a ladies shaving device, close the door, do your biz, push a button, open the door and when it closes again there is a great gushing sound as the whole room is flushed with water. I tell you, I have reached the promised land!

Once again, a wave of thanks swept over me, as I made final adjustments and made my way up and around the road behind Sacre-Coeur.

Here was the place the artists used to gather and make their own kind of revolution. Salvador Dali had his studio here along with many, many others.
Its been turned into a tourist trap now, with artistes trying to get you to have a portrait painted, but early in the morning, before the crowds arrive, I could see exactly why so many painters had called it home. The sunlight. The view.  Magnificent!
Its so warm and so perfect the way it glances off the low slung edges and tiled rooftops of the houses and shops.

I emerged from a patisserie where the woman had been putting out more of those freshly baked, still warm croissants. I could see that the tourists were starting to arrive.

Attack of the Killer Croissant!

 

At that moment I was thankful for the jetlag that made me get up at 5am. Otherwise I would have missed the true beauty of this place.
I made my way down the hill to the bus stop and took the above-ground trip to Trocadero and the Eiffel tower, a super touristy area riddled with hustlers, hawkers, beggars and thieves. I only stayed long enough to get some corny pictures of myself standing in front of the tower. 

View from atop Sacre-Coeur with the Eiffel Tower in the background.

The night before, I had made a playlist for walking about in Paris. Edith Piaf, Jaques Brel, and any jazz standard I had in my iPhone that contained the word Paris or was sung in French. So far, my favorite was Screamin' Jay Hawkin's version of "I Love Paris." When a hustler or hawker would approach and ask if I spoke English, I'd let out a line of nonsense words like Screamin' Jay. "Uh Mogie pow whop chin fee gow yum?!"  The magic bullet.

I walked along the Seine, detoured through the grounds of the Louvre, and had lunch on the steps of Notre Dame, before I made my way back to Bastille.

There is no explanation for the feeling I have in Paris. The streets are layered with art, blood, laughter, tears, music and an unfathomable history.  Its all I can do to sit here and write these meager thousand words. Not even a picture would do it justice. Maybe a poem will try:

In Paris the Voice is strong
You know the one
Which never ceases giving wisdom
It whispers from the cracks and cobblestones
The blackened and bleached arches
The warmly lit cafés
Heads have rolled in these streets
Lovers have given themselves to the infinite echo of the nightBecause of one idea uncorked over a bottle of grapes
The world has changed
I pass the night beneath a gas-lamp heater
And a table on the street
The pipe smoke of thoughtful conversation
And laughter
Wafting and mingling with the smell of coffee and
Some unknowable deliciousness baking in the oven
Just behind the storefront of present reality
The family laughs and jokes about the neighbor
But loves him all the same
In the early hours of morning
The Voice leaks into my bedroom
through the balcony and  open curtains
The sound of life
 "Bonjour!"
It's a good day indeed

I am thankful…I am full of thanks. For you who read this, for those who comprehend and those on the road to something beautiful, I thank you.

LIPBONE REDDING

PARIS, FRANCE

NOV. 26, 2008

 

I Love Paris!

I went to the new Bill Maher movie last night, "Religulous," which I recommend seeing. The format was cheap and by that I mean inexpensive. I laughed a lot, as did most everyone in the theater. I thought Bill was daring and firm in his own beliefs, his journalism was right on, and it was truly funny. The main thought I had when leaving the theater was, "Oh wow, Humans are pretty stupid aren't we? We are destined to kill each other." I had to chuckle. I kind of knew it already.

It reminded me of the time when I was eleven years old. I had a friend named Justin, who was in my class and lived close to my home. He was an excellent pianist for an eleven year old and I had some talent for singing, so we would open the piano bench after school, find a song, and he would play while I sang.

About halfway through the school year, Justin's parents transferred him to the Christian Academy. We remained friends and I would still meet him some days after school to play music.

One Sunday, Justin and his family invited me to sing in their church, which happened to be the Trinity Baptist Church, also home to the Christian Academy. There were lots of children there on Sundays but they were somehow different than the other kids I knew. They spoke in a code talk that I still have trouble with today and threw around words like blood, crucify, hell, end times, rapture, tribulation, and so on. According to the junior preacher there was a holy war going on and being on the front lines, they all seemed so pleased with themselves.

All this doom talk seemed a bit scary to me at the time, but Justin assured me that these were good folks and everyone in the room with me was on his or her way to heaven.

The other odd thing about this elite group of heaven bound children was, aside from the fact that they were all white, every single one of the males had the same haircut, a Ronald Reagan type of hair-do with lots of hairspray plastering it to one side in a perfect part, button down collar, khaki pants and loafers, without one single exception.
The young men were led by a junior preacher named Greg, who talked about everything, especially the glory of The Lord, in a creepy excited whisper.

I don't really remember what any of the girls looked like, because the senior preacher didn't believe in "mixed company." (That's what cowboys and pig farmers use to keep the herds from mingling and mating.)

I didn't let it bother me but I could tell that I was out of place, a shaggy haired funny kid from public school with divorced parents and questionable morals (I had been raised a Unitarian after all).

In the hallway outside the entrance to the main chapel, Justin and I prepared for our musical number. The junior preacher was helping us into our robes when the senior preacher, the original to which the other carbon copy males had been molded, poked his head through the alcove door. He gazed at the two of us and his eyes, alarmed with concern, settled on my curly headed, eleven year old, somewhat cherubic visage. Our eyes locked and he held my gaze for an uncomfortably long time, then he motioned for the junior preacher. The junior preacher trotted to his side, not a single hair bouncing out of place. They exchanged whispers and there was an erratic pointing of hands in my direction.

Apparently, there was a rule in the church that men's hair had to be cut above the ears and seeing how mine was near shoulder length, there was obviously a problem of biblical proportions. The mad scramble that ensued involved the consultation of some of the older ladies, a large amount of hairspray and the plastering of my hair behind my ears. When that proved unsatifactory, a large pair of scissors, as if by miracle, appeared in the hand of the junior preacher.

Greg had decided that since my unruly locks would not bend to the will of the Baptist church, then my tresses, like the great Sampson before me, must be shorn from my head.

As he approached me, scissors in hand, whispering a creepy prayer, I happened to glance at the picture just above the back entrance of the church.

There plain as day, was my answer to these mad freaks: a picture of Jesus himself, the American version, sporting blondish, shoulder-length hair and a beard with big blue eyes gazing down. It seemed Steven of Nazareth, who quite obviously was taking a break from the Grateful Dead tour had found time to pose for this portrait, his two fingers raised in a benediction, or was it a victory sign?

Greg was approaching with the scissors, "Now I want you to understand that this is because we have to look our best in the house of The Lord. He wants us all to be…"

I couldn't stand it, my hand shot out to stop the approaching fool. Like Moses descending the mountain with the stone tablets, I shouted "Well, Jesus didn't cut his hair for me, why should I cut my hair for him!"

Silence. All the little Ronald Reagans and Reaganettes turned at once toward me as the ripple of my sin was felt throughout the entire church.

I was quickly un-robed and escorted to the church office, leaving in my wake a stunned Justin and family. My mother, unsurprised as ever, was called to pick up her offending offspring…again. "What's he done this time?" I could hear the tinny voice through the receiver.

From that day forth, I was officially banned from the Trinity Baptist Church, "Never to sing again in the sight of the Lord," was how one of the bible toting ladies put it. Good riddance I say.

To this day, I still think Steven of Nazareth is giving me a sign: a peace sign.

Word.

LIPBONE REDDING – NYC, October 9, 2008

Its funny how the world of the past becomes blended with the present moment. I just spent a month in a cabin with no television and barely running water surrounded by pine trees and squirrels chasing each other madly over the thin tin roof, scrambling to prepare for the approaching winter. It made me long for those several years just after the unpleasantness of 9/11 when I fled city life and followed the summer, forgetting the changing seasons. November in Florida, December through February in South America, March through June in South Asia, and so on. I was really hoping for the beauty of summer in Eastern North Carolina to linger, but the day I arrived a hurricane struck. The rains came and I slept for four days and had vivid dreams, something that hasn't happened for quite a while.

This was the very cabin I had always fled to when the pressures of city living became too great. It was quiet and secluded, I had written songs there, wooed women, drank wine, and stitched together the confusing portions of my life. The idea was to camp out here for a month, relax and work on my book, the less distractions the better.
Up until the last week I was torn between getting "something done" and "doing nothing." During the days, I could hear the general rhythm of marina construction just around the river bend so I bought a new skateboard and surfed the empty hilly streets of my old hometown, which was about 45 minutes away. I read "The Thousand Nights and One Night" …again, and made Pad Thai more nights than I care to remember. I did manage to spend a few warm days at the empty beach, which by the way is fine with me, I didn't want a lot of crowds. I got tan, and then it faded. The rest of the time I pedaled around on an old British bicycle I had found about ten years ago, the tires worn and cracked but it still rode like a dream.

Early mornings I would work on writing stories that I had lived out, or imagined to have lived out in one part of the world or another and would stare silently out the back of the cabin at the once vacant land across the black backwater canal, the diminishing tree line, the encroaching middle class mansions with their docks and boatlifts frequented by men in golf carts.

Things are changing on the waterfront. The water comes all the way up to the cabin almost every day now at high tide and three feet of shoreline have eroded in the past fifteen years. I should have been alarmed, but I was simply not surprised. Global warming is so "last year." We've got new problems like no gas at the gas station because of another hurricane that struck over a thousand miles away, and an election where nobody is being honest about what is actually happening or where we are headed as a nation. Then again, maybe they are somehow related.

The open fields I knew as a child are now strip malls. The old woods I used to wander is now a Circuit City/Barnes and Noble/Food Lion. The small town traffic has become a gridlocked parking lot. Everything has changed in fifteen years.

I sat in the cabin for hours and thought about the present condition of things, not being able to write about it or talk about it. I didn't get cell phone reception anyway. So there was no one to talk to.

At a certain point the silence became too overwhelming and I rigged up an old car stereo in the cabin to play music from my iPhone. I must have listened to the entire playlist at least twice and pretty much had it on constant shuffle, but the two songs that came up more than any other, were "Tom Traubert's Blues" by Tom Waits, a masterpiece, and "Everything Must Change," the Nina Simone version, another masterpiece.

Sometimes I would turn to the local radio stations to try and catch a glimpse of the local mindset. With very few exceptions, every talk show and radio host was preaching his or her take on the upcoming election and it was decidedly pro-Republican. They were for the most part petty, vicious and merciless, speaking of the democratic rivals as if they were somehow not fit to be called human. Like two rival football teams, the insults fly back and forth and from a certain perspective, to those who don't follow sports, its simply sounds pointless and moronic. I am pretty certain that I live in a completely different world than most American talk show hosts. It's astounding.

I went to bed early and every morning at about 4:30 I awoke. I made coffee and sat down in front of my laptop. I decided to write everything in the past tense. It somehow seemed more appropriate. It felt like I was clearing things, making way for some unknown future.

At a certain point in my writing of bloated non-fiction, I crossed over to a kind of classic storytelling. Maybe it was "The Thousand Nights and One Night," but I was also reading a lot of pirate history not to mention thinking about all the possible Sci-Fi endings to this crazy election. Mostly, I think that at a certain point, my past had become such a part of me, that it was helping me to create the stories of the present moment, and the present moment was so demanding that it wouldn't let me live in the past. What I really wanted was a here and now that allows the imagination a license to roam freely between the worlds only to settle on the best possible outcome.

Time was not a blur. It ceased to exist.

Before I knew it, the vacation was over. I had no stories of wild romance or new jokes I had learned sipping a coconut around a beach fire. There were no tales of a paragliding near-death experience or a whale watching cruise gone wrong, no hike to the top of the Himalayas, or dinner on the floor of a hut with a family in bright bangles. All I had was now and the long train ride back to New York.

I arrived at Penn Station in flip-flops. My apartment was exactly as I had left it. Nobody on the block seemed to notice that I had been gone for a month. I am fine with that.

It's 11 am in the Bronx, the time of morning when the sun rises above the monolith apartment buildings. For a precious eighteen minutes the sun shines its direct light into my bedroom window, an experience, only a New Yorker can relate to. It's the moment when the future and past both seem bright and there is a pathway leading from here to wherever it is we need to get to. The wind is blowing the trees in the courtyard, I am inhaling deeply, I can still smell the grass we planted there in the Spring. I can hear the rumbling of the Subway train. I am warm, I am happy and I am intensely in the present. Yet Nina sings to me:

"everything must change
nothing remains the same
everyone must change
no one, nothing remains the same

the young become the old
and mysteries do unfold
for that's the way of time
nothing and no one remains the same

for there is so little in life you can be sure of
except rain comes from the clouds
sun light from the sky
hummingbirds do fly

The young become the old
and mysteries do unfold
for that's the way of time
nothing, no one remains unchanged

there are so few things in life you can be sure of
except rain comes from the clouds
sun light from the sky
hummingbirds do fly

remains a change
everything must change"




LIPBONE REDDING, October 2, 2008