"It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live." Marcus Aurelius
"The quality, not the longevity, of one's life is what is important." Martin Luther King
On a bright Saturday morning, inconspicuous as any other, we laid our brother to rest. After the final words, prayers and fistfuls of earth, my brother Alex asked everyone to give him a round of applause. Never has a round of applause been so well-deserved.
Dave was not a man--he was a movement. His time on earth was gut-wrenchingly brief, but in its impact on us and everyone he came in contact with it was as vast as the cosmos. Even now I feel his spirit, quietly wafting behind me and up and down the walls of my room. He is with us always, not just as a holographic memory, but as a vibrant, breathing entity.
His death is now only an after-thought, his life is the entire world. His departing lessons were many. His experiences, full with all their tragedies, battles and breakthroughs, are now the stuff of legend.
Generations to come will scrutinize and dissect him like a laboratory frog, picking him apart layer after layer to uncover the good and the grotesque--in short, to uncover his essence. Dave himself was a dissector of humanity; he wouldn’t mind. And besides, his true essence will forever elude us. It left with his last, brutally slow breath. All that’s left for us is guesswork.
But this much is true: he touched, indeed moved, our lives in the profoundest way possible. As a family, he brought us closer. He didn’t make us perfect, but he did force us to face our separation and indifference, however uncomfortable or embarrassing it was. He awakened us from our zombie sleep, rudely splashing water in our faces and demanding us to face one another. He is telling us still, from the grave, Get closer.
His dying example illuminates our paths, shedding light on all the points of caution we encounter. His living example points towards the simple things of life: happiness and family. After that, nothing else matters.
His life, vast as it was, is now only a tiny fragment in the long history of time. His death is a hiccup in eternity. His spirit, however, is a haiku that encompasses all of life, the cosmos, and even God.
If you ask me, I’ll tell you once again: Never has a round of applause been so well-deserved.
I love you, Dave.
I have nothing else to say. My hands will do all the talking.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Where's Dave?
I don’t know, but I sure do wonder about it a lot. It’s no secret to anyone who’s read this blog that I’ve tried to intellectualize and rationalize Dave’s death, but here, alas, I can only speculate. I’ve never died or talked to the dead. I cannot know for sure where the dead go. I can’t possibly even know if they all go to the same place.
People of faith speak of the after-life as if they know it all too well. But faith, by definition, suggests that there’s a certain level of uncertainty. If there wasn’t any uncertainty, it wouldn’t be called faith, it’d be called certainty and religion itself would be rendered obsolete.
I’m not religious, I’m only spiritual. I imagine that when we die, our souls (and yes, I do believe in souls) are recycled back into the universe. The only issue that I debate with myself is whether or not we continue on as intelligent life or merely pure energy fields. I know that physically we’re nothing more than galaxies of atoms, of which themselves are nothing more than galaxies of particles which disassemble and erode when we die. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But to think that we simply cease to exist when we die is cruel and inconvenient, and I can’t bring myself to believe it. The march of history has been long, however, and if we die and continue to exist after death, then one might argue that animals continue to live after death, as well. And this can be hard to swallow.
Maybe where we go depends on what we believe. Maybe there is a heaven and hell. I’ve always been more comfortable believing that there’s a God, or Source, and a heaven, but no devil or hell. Above all, I probably don’t believe in the devil because I deem God as simply being the universe--and in my view, the universe is both intelligent and, more importantly, compassionate. It knows and it feels. Ironically, it is deterministic but interferes with the workings of its creation (essentially, itself) when summoned. There is no place, therefore, that God is not. If the devil existed, he would have to be another universe altogether--an anti-universe.
If this all sounds like jabberwocky, it is because it probably is. However, I’ve come to these conclusions after carefully thinking them through; by having late-night conversations with myself and brooding during the quiet, soundless hours of the night. It’s my unique worldview, and it’s only shreds compared to what you might find in the texts of a philosopher. And my worldview is not in any way detached from the spirit of Dave. In fact it is, more than anything, a search for the spirit of Dave.
In life, I always thought Dave looked like a bug. I affectionately had him (and still have him) as “Bugman” in my phone. Maybe he’s a reincarnated bug right now, even though thinking of him as a bug bothers me. It’s much more comfortable to imagine him reincarnated as himself, perfectly preserved and conducting heaven’s symphonies. In one of his last correspondences (which I've shared in "For the Love of Music"), he invites his friend to listen to a song by Nina Simone in which she asks herself whether or not, and how, she will be reincarnated. The song is profound, and I only learned to appreciate it when listening to it completely alone. I believe that Dave believed he would be reincarnated, otherwise that song wouldn’t have made such a deep impression on him. If it is so that where we go depends on what we believe, then there’s little doubt in my mind that he is reincarnated right now, though in what form I can only speculate.
This much I know for sure: Dave was an organ donor, and today he continues to breathe life inside the bodies of people who, thanks to him, have been given a second opportunity at life. In a strange but miraculous way, he is still physically here.
I talked on the phone with our oldest brother Alex today. He shared with me his belief that Dave currently still lives: in our hearts. He told me that memories of him are fine and dandy, but the true essence of him can only be felt within our hearts. Everything else is an illusion. I was dazzled by this new way of looking at his spirit, and haven’t gotten the opportunity to fully absorb it yet. It may take several years before I do.
I don’t know where Dave is. Dave himself probably doesn’t know where he is. I only sigh and think of that line made so famous by a little-known group named The Beatles: “There will be an answer. Let it be. Let it be.”
The Nina Simone song can be found here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INLBcBGwr0g
People of faith speak of the after-life as if they know it all too well. But faith, by definition, suggests that there’s a certain level of uncertainty. If there wasn’t any uncertainty, it wouldn’t be called faith, it’d be called certainty and religion itself would be rendered obsolete.
I’m not religious, I’m only spiritual. I imagine that when we die, our souls (and yes, I do believe in souls) are recycled back into the universe. The only issue that I debate with myself is whether or not we continue on as intelligent life or merely pure energy fields. I know that physically we’re nothing more than galaxies of atoms, of which themselves are nothing more than galaxies of particles which disassemble and erode when we die. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But to think that we simply cease to exist when we die is cruel and inconvenient, and I can’t bring myself to believe it. The march of history has been long, however, and if we die and continue to exist after death, then one might argue that animals continue to live after death, as well. And this can be hard to swallow.
Maybe where we go depends on what we believe. Maybe there is a heaven and hell. I’ve always been more comfortable believing that there’s a God, or Source, and a heaven, but no devil or hell. Above all, I probably don’t believe in the devil because I deem God as simply being the universe--and in my view, the universe is both intelligent and, more importantly, compassionate. It knows and it feels. Ironically, it is deterministic but interferes with the workings of its creation (essentially, itself) when summoned. There is no place, therefore, that God is not. If the devil existed, he would have to be another universe altogether--an anti-universe.
If this all sounds like jabberwocky, it is because it probably is. However, I’ve come to these conclusions after carefully thinking them through; by having late-night conversations with myself and brooding during the quiet, soundless hours of the night. It’s my unique worldview, and it’s only shreds compared to what you might find in the texts of a philosopher. And my worldview is not in any way detached from the spirit of Dave. In fact it is, more than anything, a search for the spirit of Dave.
In life, I always thought Dave looked like a bug. I affectionately had him (and still have him) as “Bugman” in my phone. Maybe he’s a reincarnated bug right now, even though thinking of him as a bug bothers me. It’s much more comfortable to imagine him reincarnated as himself, perfectly preserved and conducting heaven’s symphonies. In one of his last correspondences (which I've shared in "For the Love of Music"), he invites his friend to listen to a song by Nina Simone in which she asks herself whether or not, and how, she will be reincarnated. The song is profound, and I only learned to appreciate it when listening to it completely alone. I believe that Dave believed he would be reincarnated, otherwise that song wouldn’t have made such a deep impression on him. If it is so that where we go depends on what we believe, then there’s little doubt in my mind that he is reincarnated right now, though in what form I can only speculate.
This much I know for sure: Dave was an organ donor, and today he continues to breathe life inside the bodies of people who, thanks to him, have been given a second opportunity at life. In a strange but miraculous way, he is still physically here.
I talked on the phone with our oldest brother Alex today. He shared with me his belief that Dave currently still lives: in our hearts. He told me that memories of him are fine and dandy, but the true essence of him can only be felt within our hearts. Everything else is an illusion. I was dazzled by this new way of looking at his spirit, and haven’t gotten the opportunity to fully absorb it yet. It may take several years before I do.
I don’t know where Dave is. Dave himself probably doesn’t know where he is. I only sigh and think of that line made so famous by a little-known group named The Beatles: “There will be an answer. Let it be. Let it be.”
The Nina Simone song can be found here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INLBcBGwr0g
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Dave the Opinionated
If history bestows a heroic surname on Dave, such as it did to Alexander (the Great), I think The Opinionated fits him quite well: Dave the Opinionated. Apparently, he was a very outspoken man. Most people would tell you that he was quiet and introverted, but those who truly knew him—-me and my mom, Alex, his friend Ramon and girlfriend Gina, Joandy and the rest of his Miami family-—knew that he was the first one to speak out and up. And I genuinely loved this about my brother, that he wasn’t afraid to say what was on his mind, no matter how controversial—-and this is what made our conversations great. Even though his opinionated nature isn’t a physical attribute, I realize now that it belongs with the other four essential Daveisms.
I mentioned the word controversial because Dave’s opinions were often subversive and completely detached from the status quo. He probably viewed Thomas Jefferson not as a Founding Father but a slave tapper, Facebook as a glorious waste of tweens’ time (in spite of the fact that he himself had one), and organized religion as widescale fraud.
Sometimes his opinions stung, such as his negative critique of my ex-girlfriend. His words, swift as a snake, caught me unawares and shocked me. However, when a close friend of mine also told me the same thing, I realized that Dave’s opinion indeed had much validity to it—-and in my eyes he was absolved.
Other times his opinions were downright wrong. Alex can attest to this. Dave, for example, believed that watching (not playing) sports is a waste of grown men’s time. But no, no, NO! Sports have been around since the beginning of civilization and form the cornerstones of most societies. Humans have an essential, almost physiological, need for pastimes, and sports fulfill this need. Besides, sports just make people feel good.
Dave was a master of words. He formulated his opinions in ways that will make you giggle for a moment, and then think. The following is blasphemy, but it’s my best recollection of his opinion on liberal arts degrees (in an effort to sway me away from majoring in communications): “Bro, I’m earning $25 an hour for practically sitting on my ass watching DVD’s. On top of that, I get paid extra for working overnight. Now granted, there are times where from one moment to the next it suddenly becomes busy as hell, and I do do heavy lifting [of patients] from time to time, but 80% of my shift is me doing absolutely nothing. Now that’s a job! And I only had to study two years for it, which cost me about $800, whereas liberal arts majors go to school for four years, study their asses off, rack up $60,000 in student debt, can’t find a job for shit when they graduate, and end up working at Subway for four years before they land a job in their “field” that pays $12 an hour. That’s harsh, but in this economy, it’s true.” And indeed it is, though his speech failed to change my mind. What it did do, however, was not make me giggle and then think, but instead shiver like all hell.
But Dave knew exactly when to withhold his opinion. When Barack Obama was sworn in as President, I texted him CHANGE HAS COME TO AMERICA. He didn’t respond.
Sometimes I picture myself having an imaginary conversation with Dave. In the conversation, we are discussing his death. He is sad, remorseful, angry at himself, but very opinionated. I can hear him: “It was just plain stupid,” he tells me. “It’s like your whole life condensed and terminated by one stupid mistake. Damn.” He goes on to quote artists and philosophers, he makes analogies, and even jokes from time to time, his classic smirk flashing back like a rainbow. Even though there’s self-pity in his speech, there’s still a life-goes-on-attitude-—life after death, that is.
"And with strange eons even death may die."
H.P. Lovecraft
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Prose Poem
A poem should not mean
But be.
Archibald MacLeish, "Ars Poetica"
I've thought about writing a poem about Dave, but I've asked myself this: If I do write this poem, where do I begin? Dave's story has no point of origin; even his birth seems as random as his death, and he likely got younger the older he got. Death for him was simply a return to the pre-birth state of pure energy that seemingly spontaneously yet purposefully became life. There is nowhere to begin, let's not even talk of the ending.
And how would I write it? How must it feel? It can be sober, grave as gray, but this isn't the spirit of Dave. The spirit is vibrant, life-affirming. But it can't be all praise and good times; there must be some dark moments there, some "ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas" if I'm to report the complete and utter truth. Or must it spring of its own nature and use me as a vessel of its revelation? If so, I haven't gotten the call.
Does it have to be personal, or are the themes universally appreciated? I can make it personal but that might be too painful; I can make it a case study but that might be too convenient. The approach, then, has to be strikingly unique and maintain throughout. It must endure, not only throughout but through time. It's not about making a contribution, poetry has had more than its share of those. It's about leaving something meaningful for my niece and my grand-children.
Does it report or ask? Certainly, every fact will be followed by a question, and every question by empty silence. This fact alone should render questions null, but they won't go away--they're much too sticky for that. After so long, the questions will become the margins.
Does it meander or get to the heart of the matter? The fun in leaving riddles, puzzles and enigmas might be too tempting to resist, but this is pure vanity and ego--and remote from the spirit of Dave. Truth is simple and doesn't require too many, or flashy, words. So I may have no other choice but to leave the epic saga for another, more frivolous lifetime, and focus this one on a beautiful haiku.
Does it speak or does it listen? How can a poem listen? A poem listens if you listen. If it speaks, there is the fear that it will never stop speaking, that it will be an endless manuscript. Can I risk that? Can I even say that much?
Dave's poem begins and ends nowhere and everywhere. This poem is a river that comes full-circle. This river is Tennyson's brook:
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
And, like a river, it is the vein of the world, nourishing its darlings with water--an ever-renewing source of life. Dave's poem must be exactly all of this, and nothing less.
But be.
Archibald MacLeish, "Ars Poetica"
I've thought about writing a poem about Dave, but I've asked myself this: If I do write this poem, where do I begin? Dave's story has no point of origin; even his birth seems as random as his death, and he likely got younger the older he got. Death for him was simply a return to the pre-birth state of pure energy that seemingly spontaneously yet purposefully became life. There is nowhere to begin, let's not even talk of the ending.
And how would I write it? How must it feel? It can be sober, grave as gray, but this isn't the spirit of Dave. The spirit is vibrant, life-affirming. But it can't be all praise and good times; there must be some dark moments there, some "ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas" if I'm to report the complete and utter truth. Or must it spring of its own nature and use me as a vessel of its revelation? If so, I haven't gotten the call.
Does it have to be personal, or are the themes universally appreciated? I can make it personal but that might be too painful; I can make it a case study but that might be too convenient. The approach, then, has to be strikingly unique and maintain throughout. It must endure, not only throughout but through time. It's not about making a contribution, poetry has had more than its share of those. It's about leaving something meaningful for my niece and my grand-children.
Does it report or ask? Certainly, every fact will be followed by a question, and every question by empty silence. This fact alone should render questions null, but they won't go away--they're much too sticky for that. After so long, the questions will become the margins.
Does it meander or get to the heart of the matter? The fun in leaving riddles, puzzles and enigmas might be too tempting to resist, but this is pure vanity and ego--and remote from the spirit of Dave. Truth is simple and doesn't require too many, or flashy, words. So I may have no other choice but to leave the epic saga for another, more frivolous lifetime, and focus this one on a beautiful haiku.
Does it speak or does it listen? How can a poem listen? A poem listens if you listen. If it speaks, there is the fear that it will never stop speaking, that it will be an endless manuscript. Can I risk that? Can I even say that much?
Dave's poem begins and ends nowhere and everywhere. This poem is a river that comes full-circle. This river is Tennyson's brook:
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
And, like a river, it is the vein of the world, nourishing its darlings with water--an ever-renewing source of life. Dave's poem must be exactly all of this, and nothing less.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wayne Dyer
Dave did something before he died that touched--and moved--me. When I think back to the most enduring and memorable moments of our lives together, I can't figure out which tops the list. I think that this is because none of them tops the list. All of them stand together in equal significance. But this moment was especially beautiful because it highlighted how similar and kindred our spirits are. And because it caught me completely off guard.
For several days, I had been listening to Wayne Dyer's "The Power of Intention." I would regularly listen to it after I came home from school and before I went to sleep (during the afternoon). Dave came by one day to give something to our mom. When he came, I was in a half-asleep, half-awake state, so I could vaguely make out his deep voice amid the clamor of my dreams. His visit that day was unremarkable except for the fact that when I woke up and stepped out of my room, I found a CD copy marked "Wayne Dyer Inspiration." I knew right away that this could only be the work of Dave.
This moved me so profoundly that I was at a loss for words when describing this to my then girlfriend. I even made a note of it on my diary-planner. And, to my delight, the CD was filled with all-new (to me) Wayne Dyer material. This is significant because I thought that I was already familiar with all of his material. I listened to all of it the very same day!
The following is the quote that forms the theme of the Wayne Dyer PBS special, and which hung on Dave's wall when he died:
“When you are inspired by some great purpose, some extraordinary project, all your thoughts break their bonds: Your mind transcends limitations, your consciousness expands in every direction, and you find yourself in a new, great, and wonderful world. Dormant forces, faculties and talents become alive, and you discover yourself to be a greater person by far than you ever dreamed yourself to be.” Patanjali
I later discovered that Dave had also sent his father and family from Florida a copy of this CD, as well as many of his friends and colleagues--and he had several more in his possession when he died. I was still surprised that he even listened to and followed Wayne Dyer. It was so incredibly cool!
After Dave's passing, his hospital of employment held three separate memorials for him. We attended the main one, and I spoke a few words to the audience of his co-workers. I finished by saying that he had now returned to Source. I'm sure few to nobody understood this reference, but it was to the PBS special, and all that mattered to me was that his spirit understood it. Wayne Dyer repeatedly uses the word Source to describe God.
Dyer symbolized Dave's spiritual metamorphosis and maturation. It signaled to the fact that he was tired of petty preachers and motivational speakers, and sought some higher meaning in his existence. I believe that, at least in some ways, this spiritual maturation prepared him for his death.
For several days, I had been listening to Wayne Dyer's "The Power of Intention." I would regularly listen to it after I came home from school and before I went to sleep (during the afternoon). Dave came by one day to give something to our mom. When he came, I was in a half-asleep, half-awake state, so I could vaguely make out his deep voice amid the clamor of my dreams. His visit that day was unremarkable except for the fact that when I woke up and stepped out of my room, I found a CD copy marked "Wayne Dyer Inspiration." I knew right away that this could only be the work of Dave.
This moved me so profoundly that I was at a loss for words when describing this to my then girlfriend. I even made a note of it on my diary-planner. And, to my delight, the CD was filled with all-new (to me) Wayne Dyer material. This is significant because I thought that I was already familiar with all of his material. I listened to all of it the very same day!
The following is the quote that forms the theme of the Wayne Dyer PBS special, and which hung on Dave's wall when he died:
“When you are inspired by some great purpose, some extraordinary project, all your thoughts break their bonds: Your mind transcends limitations, your consciousness expands in every direction, and you find yourself in a new, great, and wonderful world. Dormant forces, faculties and talents become alive, and you discover yourself to be a greater person by far than you ever dreamed yourself to be.” Patanjali
I later discovered that Dave had also sent his father and family from Florida a copy of this CD, as well as many of his friends and colleagues--and he had several more in his possession when he died. I was still surprised that he even listened to and followed Wayne Dyer. It was so incredibly cool!
After Dave's passing, his hospital of employment held three separate memorials for him. We attended the main one, and I spoke a few words to the audience of his co-workers. I finished by saying that he had now returned to Source. I'm sure few to nobody understood this reference, but it was to the PBS special, and all that mattered to me was that his spirit understood it. Wayne Dyer repeatedly uses the word Source to describe God.
Dyer symbolized Dave's spiritual metamorphosis and maturation. It signaled to the fact that he was tired of petty preachers and motivational speakers, and sought some higher meaning in his existence. I believe that, at least in some ways, this spiritual maturation prepared him for his death.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
For the Love of Music
Dave’s love for music is unparalleled to most other loves he ever had. It wasn’t playing and creating music, but also listening to it that formed his passion. From age seventeen onward, he spent a significant part of every day listening to music. Before continuing with my ode for his musical passion, let me let Dave himself discuss his tastes:
“And like I said, hip hop is only one of my loves. Although I've been playing the guitar and dreaming of being a "rock star" since I was 14, I actually hated hip hop until I was about 17, lol. I'm now 26. I thought it was just stupid that they spoke their words instead of singing them. It just seemed very unskilled and talentless (I now realize that it takes a lot of talent to be a great mc). One day my best friend forced me to listen to it and after a few songs, I just "got it". However I love the blues, jazz, MoTown style soul music from the 60's-early 80's. Some of my favorites from the genre's listed are Marvin Gaye, Louis Armstrong, Bill Withers (Lean on Me), Al Green, and Nina Simone (listen to this specific song of hers and you'll understand a lot about the kind of person I am http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INLBcBGwr0g ). I also love Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison (their solo work, not too much of the Beatles), Bob Marley, Paul Simon, Johnny Cash, Bruce Springsteen, Randy Newman, and too many more to name- I'm an old soul. I also love Hindu instrumental music, Asian, Arabic and Indian acappella songs of worship, African children choir "chanting" type music, classical music, and old sad Russian music, lol. Even though I can't understand any of the just listed, it moves my soul and gives me goose bumps.”
That is quite a wide spectrum, which is why I’d rather quote Dave than try to paraphrase him. I think it’s simple enough to say he loved music. Except that I want to add that I introduced him to Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, and Bruce Springsteen. At one point, he and I bought harmonicas because we were supposedly going to learn together, and possibly create a band in which he was the guitarist and I the harmonicaist.
I imagine that if the need for Dave was elsewhere any more imperative, it was in heaven due to his musical prowess. Heaven needs his musical expertise more than we here on earth do. This, if true, makes his death a little more bearable.
Dave, as I've said elsewhere in this blog, could play a mean guitar. You could sometimes feel his soul reverberating through a playing of "Stairway to Heaven" or "Creep." The goosebumps would run up my arms and back, and I'd say to myself, Man, my brother can play! He eventually entered the John Lennon Songwriting Contest because he was that good, but nothing ever came of it. I think that part of the reason he decided not to pursue music full-time early on is that he didn't think that he was that good. But inside him flowed deep reservoirs of genius!
His equipment were the toys of a music virtuoso. Everything from pianos to keyboards to microphones, he needed and had it all. He didn't actually have a music studio in his apartment but he often said he did, so when he died I was surprised to discover that he indeed had the equipment for more or less a full-faceted studio but the items were scattered about. This is merely a peak at the side of him that loved to embellish things.
However, with all the music programs installed on his laptop, there is no doubt that Dave had a full-blown, state-of-the-art studio. How many hundreds of years would it have taken him to even scratch the surface of this colossal library?
I often try to find a theme in the songs that most resonated with Dave. There doesn't seem to be one. Most of these songs are simply what he described as anthems. Though he never gave a clear definition of what an anthem meant to him, I take it that he meant what it means to everyone: a song of praise or devotion. A song of success. Since this is all he aimed at, this is all that captivated his attention.
I was regularly bombarded by Dave's anthems when he still lived here. Given that his room was next to mine, they would blast through the wall and often awake me like a glass of cold water. It was 6:55am and all of a sudden, from seemingly nowhere, "Mo' Money, Mo' Problems" would roar into my ears. It was almost like being electrocuted.
I can imagine him now in heaven, leading the choir. He's a celestial Beethoven whose job is to make heaven's music shine.
“And like I said, hip hop is only one of my loves. Although I've been playing the guitar and dreaming of being a "rock star" since I was 14, I actually hated hip hop until I was about 17, lol. I'm now 26. I thought it was just stupid that they spoke their words instead of singing them. It just seemed very unskilled and talentless (I now realize that it takes a lot of talent to be a great mc). One day my best friend forced me to listen to it and after a few songs, I just "got it". However I love the blues, jazz, MoTown style soul music from the 60's-early 80's. Some of my favorites from the genre's listed are Marvin Gaye, Louis Armstrong, Bill Withers (Lean on Me), Al Green, and Nina Simone (listen to this specific song of hers and you'll understand a lot about the kind of person I am http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INLBcBGwr0g ). I also love Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison (their solo work, not too much of the Beatles), Bob Marley, Paul Simon, Johnny Cash, Bruce Springsteen, Randy Newman, and too many more to name- I'm an old soul. I also love Hindu instrumental music, Asian, Arabic and Indian acappella songs of worship, African children choir "chanting" type music, classical music, and old sad Russian music, lol. Even though I can't understand any of the just listed, it moves my soul and gives me goose bumps.”
That is quite a wide spectrum, which is why I’d rather quote Dave than try to paraphrase him. I think it’s simple enough to say he loved music. Except that I want to add that I introduced him to Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, and Bruce Springsteen. At one point, he and I bought harmonicas because we were supposedly going to learn together, and possibly create a band in which he was the guitarist and I the harmonicaist.
I imagine that if the need for Dave was elsewhere any more imperative, it was in heaven due to his musical prowess. Heaven needs his musical expertise more than we here on earth do. This, if true, makes his death a little more bearable.
Dave, as I've said elsewhere in this blog, could play a mean guitar. You could sometimes feel his soul reverberating through a playing of "Stairway to Heaven" or "Creep." The goosebumps would run up my arms and back, and I'd say to myself, Man, my brother can play! He eventually entered the John Lennon Songwriting Contest because he was that good, but nothing ever came of it. I think that part of the reason he decided not to pursue music full-time early on is that he didn't think that he was that good. But inside him flowed deep reservoirs of genius!
His equipment were the toys of a music virtuoso. Everything from pianos to keyboards to microphones, he needed and had it all. He didn't actually have a music studio in his apartment but he often said he did, so when he died I was surprised to discover that he indeed had the equipment for more or less a full-faceted studio but the items were scattered about. This is merely a peak at the side of him that loved to embellish things.
However, with all the music programs installed on his laptop, there is no doubt that Dave had a full-blown, state-of-the-art studio. How many hundreds of years would it have taken him to even scratch the surface of this colossal library?
I often try to find a theme in the songs that most resonated with Dave. There doesn't seem to be one. Most of these songs are simply what he described as anthems. Though he never gave a clear definition of what an anthem meant to him, I take it that he meant what it means to everyone: a song of praise or devotion. A song of success. Since this is all he aimed at, this is all that captivated his attention.
I was regularly bombarded by Dave's anthems when he still lived here. Given that his room was next to mine, they would blast through the wall and often awake me like a glass of cold water. It was 6:55am and all of a sudden, from seemingly nowhere, "Mo' Money, Mo' Problems" would roar into my ears. It was almost like being electrocuted.
I can imagine him now in heaven, leading the choir. He's a celestial Beethoven whose job is to make heaven's music shine.
Song written and performed by Dave, "I Wish I Could See You Tonight"
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Four Essential Daveisms
Four things characterized Dave's physical persona: his voice, smirk, walk and glasses. These were his personal signatures. Wherever he went, he was immediately recognized by these, for lack of a worse term, Daveisms. He could whisper in a cave and the deepness of his voice would reverberate outside; he could suddenly warm your heart with his smirk; his shuffling gait could make you smile with fondness; his glasses--. I don't know what to say about his glasses except that they weren't the most attractive pair.
His voice wasn't always deep. In fact, it used to be squeaky when he was little. However, little by lot, it turned into a smooth and elegant baritone that would make Barry White red with envy. Smooth talking the ladies, therefore, was never a hardship for Dave. However, this same voice made him the butt of endless jokes and impersonations from high school onward. He never minded these; in fact, he seemed to take an indulgent pleasure from them. He knew his voice was a gift, and for this reason and others, he genuinely loved to hear himself talk. This is perhaps the reason why he loved ball-hogging conversations.
His smirk lit you up like a lantern. Dave could say just about any horrible thing, and then almost at once make you forget it with his little smirk. All it was was a wrinkling of the side of his lip, but it could move mountains. Even now, I get ticklish inside as I see his smirk in my mind's eye. This and his voice are the two things I remember most vividly about him. Every thought that I have of him finishes with glimpses of these two things: a thunderous voice, followed by a soft, friendly smirk.
I've spoken about his walk before. Dave shuffled his way through life. His walk consisted of a side-to-side waddle that was punctuated by a constant raising of his pants. Maybe his baggy jeans were what caused his shuffling gait. He very rarely speedwalked because I think that comfort was primary for him when walking, and, sloppily put, his baggy pants didn't mix well with speedwalking. Besides, I think he deemed his walk regal and grandiose, and any alteration of it was essentially a compromise of pride he didn't want to make.
His glasses were too big for him! But maybe I am picky about this because I am by nature uninviting of lens that are bigger than my eyes. For me to put on glasses (which I have to every day), they have to be small. I'm talking Clark Kent small. I think that he probably fell in love with his glasses either because he wasn't particularly picky about glasses or some inexplicable love for them befell him. Be it what it may, he wore them just about 24/7--for one exception! He never wore them out on dates. This is why I suspect that he knew deep inside that they weren't likeable, at least to the majority of people. He might've loved them, but he was nevertheless self-conscious of them.
Dave is a mosaic made up of those four distinct physical qualities. You have to step back to take in the whole. It's a beautiful, beautiful sight. This is the essential Dave, regal and grandiose, simple yet profound. A true work of art.
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” John Keats
This self-taken photo of Dave highlights two of his essential Daveisms: his smirk and his glasses
His voice wasn't always deep. In fact, it used to be squeaky when he was little. However, little by lot, it turned into a smooth and elegant baritone that would make Barry White red with envy. Smooth talking the ladies, therefore, was never a hardship for Dave. However, this same voice made him the butt of endless jokes and impersonations from high school onward. He never minded these; in fact, he seemed to take an indulgent pleasure from them. He knew his voice was a gift, and for this reason and others, he genuinely loved to hear himself talk. This is perhaps the reason why he loved ball-hogging conversations.
His smirk lit you up like a lantern. Dave could say just about any horrible thing, and then almost at once make you forget it with his little smirk. All it was was a wrinkling of the side of his lip, but it could move mountains. Even now, I get ticklish inside as I see his smirk in my mind's eye. This and his voice are the two things I remember most vividly about him. Every thought that I have of him finishes with glimpses of these two things: a thunderous voice, followed by a soft, friendly smirk.
I've spoken about his walk before. Dave shuffled his way through life. His walk consisted of a side-to-side waddle that was punctuated by a constant raising of his pants. Maybe his baggy jeans were what caused his shuffling gait. He very rarely speedwalked because I think that comfort was primary for him when walking, and, sloppily put, his baggy pants didn't mix well with speedwalking. Besides, I think he deemed his walk regal and grandiose, and any alteration of it was essentially a compromise of pride he didn't want to make.
His glasses were too big for him! But maybe I am picky about this because I am by nature uninviting of lens that are bigger than my eyes. For me to put on glasses (which I have to every day), they have to be small. I'm talking Clark Kent small. I think that he probably fell in love with his glasses either because he wasn't particularly picky about glasses or some inexplicable love for them befell him. Be it what it may, he wore them just about 24/7--for one exception! He never wore them out on dates. This is why I suspect that he knew deep inside that they weren't likeable, at least to the majority of people. He might've loved them, but he was nevertheless self-conscious of them.
Dave is a mosaic made up of those four distinct physical qualities. You have to step back to take in the whole. It's a beautiful, beautiful sight. This is the essential Dave, regal and grandiose, simple yet profound. A true work of art.
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” John Keats
This self-taken photo of Dave highlights two of his essential Daveisms: his smirk and his glasses
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