Kristina Stykos: Blog

It was one a.m. and admittedly, we were drinking.

“You know you’re old enough to be my mother,” he said, and I smiled, nodding, unable to disagree.

“Can I ask you a question,” he continued,” and you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to. I don’t exactly know how to say this but … how has making music changed for you now that you’re past fifty, in comparison to, say, when you were my age?”

Roody sighed, adjusting slightly in his dog bed, and without opening his eyes, stretched his legs showing off his handsome sled dog apparatus. The small ranch house living room seemed filled with contentment including the quiet vibration of Cindy asleep in the back bedroom.

The question was an interesting one, the kind of philosophical big-picture question that I would normally jump all over but an off the cuff answer seemed to evade me. I looked at the floor sheepishly and in the face of this 28 year old’s eager anticipation of a nugget of wisdom from his future felt somehow unable to play the part and act my age. Why was I in this senior position and why wasn’t I young anymore? This was the underlying reality flooding me with confusion at the moment, impeding a quick response.

Always the gentleman and employing his good sense of timing, he rose from his chair and went to the kitchen to fetch the wine bottle, returning to top off my glass in the flat, yard sale lamp light.

“I really don’t know,” I said finally, with an air not of finality. I had to do better than this. How often did people ask me real existential questions? It was a huge opportunity to go on about something potentially meaningful.

“ I think I just try to be honest, whatever that looks like. Maybe I care less about the “music industry” and my place in it as I get older and that is somewhat of a relief. But basically, the process of songwriting has stayed the same”.

Earlier that evening, Patrick had driven twenty miles to get the key to the front door of the theater. Locked out of the building with an hour to kill, the rest of us stood idly on the empty street while it drizzled: Bow walking slow circles with a fussy baby on his hip; Steve, called in last minute to run sound, detailing the rock and roll exploits of his younger years. Our performance that night in the old town hall in Lancaster NH was intense and fluid and dramatic. Patrick’s connection to the area was palpable and people came out of the woodwork to see him who hadn’t seen him since he was a boy playing fiddle contests in the northeast kingdom of Vermont. We were now a part of that rich fabric, joining him in the telling of stories, both musical and deep-rooted in our actual lives.

“Maybe as I get older I’m less sure of what I have to say, or it’s less obvious – as in the saying: ‘the more you know, the less you know’. It’s not all about the kinds of passions that run the heart in youth; it’s about something more subtle because you’ve already tried all the obvious pathways and, in my case, come up short. Until I start writing I don’t know what’s working on me because it stays well hidden. But if I settle into the process, and it’s usually with my guitar, a few choice chords can create an opening and then something starts to happen. I can begin to have a conversation with those elusive, trout-like feelings that populate the depths of soul.”

My soliloquy was sounding pretty good, but I could feel Patrick’s focused curiosity like a laser moving ahead of me at lightening speed.

“For me,” he said, “ I see one moment in my past from which everything else has evolved. One event that struck me with such stunning clarity and emotional truth that my being has ever since been an expression of it and driven by its powerful impact. There will never be enough time in the day to serve such as a deserving master.”

His eyes shone strong and steady with the quiet courage and honest vulnerability of someone marked early by adversity but not defeated. Here was his life, the most current layer of an ancient road as simple and exposed as a high mountain goat path, which he chose to walk as a farm hand and fiddler. No wonder at two a.m. when he led me to a pile of inflatable camping and foam mattresses with instructions to block the door with the laundry hamper to keep Roody out, I lay down on my pallet inspired - grateful for my life in a way I hadn’t been for a long while.

It was back to business as usual: Cousin Steve was back in Boston playing all the cool clubs and I was in Vermont playing renewable energy festivals, barbeques and sports bars with punching bags.

“Listen to this,” I said, turning up the CD player in my car so the guys could hear what was coming up on the disk. “Tell me what you think about the bridge section when they go into a jazz thing.” Patrick looked attentive from underneath the guitar rack that was covering his mid-section up to his chin in the tightly packed car. “Okay here it’s coming … here!” I let the music blare for a few phrases and then cranked it back down. “That is so cheesy, right?”

“No, that’s great, it totally works,” said Patrick. The car bounced through a pothole as we entered Pittsfield and slowed to village speed, passing The Clear on the left, a reputed hangout for bikers and roofers, and an old gas station sporting the sign “Yoga and Pilates” on the right . Our discussion continued.

“Yeah, it’s cool” Bow agreed. “Did you teach this Bruce Hornsby dude to drink too? “

A mythology had developed – as a teenager I‘d led a naïve, young banjo player down the path to alcohol consumption but it was only because of his subsequent rise to fame and my corresponding descent into obscurity that the story was of any interest. We passed a row of stiff colonial style houses along the town common that looked frozen in time and devoid of inhabitants but glowing in the slanted rays of a late afternoon sun.

“You know, I’m pissed at him and you’re bringing up a sore subject”, I said, looking straight ahead at the road twisting slowly upwards toward the distant ski area. “You were still in diapers at the time. It’s all hearsay”.

“ She took him to hear Pat Metheny in a bar in Central Square and got him snookered!” Bow continued, vaguely addressing Patrick, laughing a belly laugh that was almost too big for the car.

I pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor as our car chugged along out of the river valley, emerging into a confluence of traffic lanes, condos and convenience stores. “Listen, let’s work on our set list while we still have a minute; I think we should cut one of the murder ballads and maybe put your new one – that sensitive love song – up at the top of the set ” I said emphasizing the word sensitive. “And could you please not plug in today? I want to be able to hear myself if that’s okay with you”. I glanced over at Bow who still had a massive smirk on his face, hoping to distract him by insulting him.

“ That is one beautiful mountain.” Patrick’s voice rose gently from the back seat and into the air like a feather, stopping our chatter. Directly ahead of us a massive expanse of emerald green seemed to rise out of nowhere, its trails and lifts disappearing into a thick mist about halfway up. I could feel the snap of free ions raising the hair on my arms and at the back of my neck. We were in the presence of something magnificent, something inspiring, on our way to a sports bar.

“Is this it? “ I said, squinting towards a non-descript box of a building that appeared to be our destination. We pulled into an oval of blacktop and parked in the only space, next to the dumpster. The first thing we needed to do was prop open the back door to keep from getting locked out as we loaded in, that much I remembered from last time.

The back of the joint was a pit of darkness; thick curtains drawn across windows made a womb-like atmosphere from which I could just barely make out a few customers at the bar, motionless under a fleet of busy televisions. The bartender eventually noticed us and nodded us in without moving her hands from the tap and beer glass she was filling, her flashing smile, tattooed arms and stiffly sprayed hair a welcome oasis. We continued ant-like, lugging gear and instruments onto the carpeted riser, our bodies stepping in and out of the flickering images of “The Fishing Channel” being projected onstage. I was relieved when Patrick put his chair next to the soundboard, which meant I wouldn’t have to run it. After a quick sound check, we made our way to the bar.

“Maureen, do you have sliders tonight? ” Bow said, referring to hamburgers famous for their bite-size proportions. Gesturing my way, he continued. “She can’t eat any because she’s a veg-e-tar-i-an.”

“If I get hungry I can always graze” I said, dipping my hand into a bowl of Chex mix, “ I saw a little patch of lawn out front”.

Maureen sized us up for a moment with the kind but frazzled smile of a mother then shaking her head, took our orders to the kitchen. We stood not far from a wall of flickering arcade games, waiting for our drinks. Seemingly divided along gender lines, the guys gazed upwards at celebrity jocks cavorting with girls in swim suits while I looked for anything not a television, my eyes finally resting on a coin operated punching bag. This proved unrewarding as it was not especially pleasant to imagine the balls descending from above to be assaulted by drunken patrons. I would have to dig deeper to find a focus for my attention. I decided to go to the bathroom and check my hair.

Things got much easier once we started to play – with a small group of fans emerging from the murky depths to request songs and join us on the deck for a smoke. Well past midnight, we were once again in the car, driving slowly back home along the mountain river, with an eye out for moose crossing the road. Patrick was somehow still awake enough to reopen the discussion of potential band names. His current favorite was : “Town-wide Tool Shed”, with the runner up: “Massive Barrel”. I leaned with the car around a graceful bend of empty highway, as his words floated by like a flock of birds and the shimmering moon lit waters became my running lights - the night, my glider.

“How about “The Uncalled For”?” said Bow.

Of course I couldn’t fall asleep as designated driver. But what I did allow was for my spirit to rise on the pre-dawn mist, listening to my two good friends color the world with their ideas and dreams. I kept my hands on the wheel and let my heart dance, pick its way along the smooth stones, clear water running deep like a song I had never not sung.

In the dark sky house curled towards the crow’s nest window I’m not asleep. It’s past mid-night and the room is thick with sweat, illuminated frames of cloud flash, thunder ambling off the wide valley into the bed like confused oxen. It’s an easy conversation for power to have with something littler. My husband has just gone off to his own dreaming. I lie alone.

These solitary summer days punctuated by one off social swirls of music or visiting - they drift, fall back towards long hot days leaning into gardens. In Vermont one never forgets the season is short. Almost oppressive by mid-summer all shades of green begin to merge and the distinctions between plants so pleasing in spring are gone. Sightings of Dionysus walk among us, begin to fatigue us, make us long for cool water.

I’m in the Ford truck driving with my mother, having steadied her up into the cab earlier with promises of a typical landscaper’s adventure. We’re idling in a construction zone miles from town to the point of turning off the engine. It’s a slim road aiming south just past Ward’s Garage and I’m glad to see he still waves to me even as he’s made enemies in town. As near as five years ago I would’ve been eager to share some of those rural politics with my mom, seeing as there’s little else to do sitting here stopped in our tracks. But today I’m silent and uninterested in my own stories, equally uncertain that my words would have any entertainment value, much less staying power.

“You don’t have to get out when we get there, if you don’t want to” I say. “After he loads the mulch, I just have to grab nine daylilies and a Japanese willow. But it is a fun place to look around if you’re up for it”.

“That’s fine, whatever you want to do is fine”, she says.

“I played music over there once,” I say, pointing vaguely towards the hills. “A trail-ride. It was fun. ” I don’t mention to my mother about the brain tumor our fiddler Tom developed after that gig or about the cider makers up the road whose son tattooed her own grandson’s arm with the symbol of Ceres, goddess of the harvest - using a ballpoint pen.

Finally the three cars that have been backed up behind the flagman for twenty minutes are allowed to move past and we continue south along the river, another twenty minutes to the nursery. I roll down the window as we turn up the steep drive because Chris is right there holding a clipboard and has spotted me; he’s wearing his signature lederhosen which is somehow so reassuring.

“Hey buddy, I got something for you.” I say, picking up the CDs, held with a rubber band and with the post-it note “CHRIS” on them, from off the bench seat of the Ford, where between me and my mother it seems like there’s a mile of empty space. “You got mulch today?”

He looks down at the package and he’s smiling to see a picture of me with a guitar - he had no idea. Somehow now I’m a little different from what I was last time I shopped for mulch. “What do I owe you for these? I can write you a check right away – I’ll meet you up there with the tractor in a minute”. He’s almost skipping up the drive towards the outbuilding that doubles as his office. I’m not sure if my mother is impressed.

But she’s definitely impressed as his tractor bucket hovers over the back of the truck she’s sitting in. The mulch is positively steaming, makes a mighty “whumph” as it hits the bed and jolts the suspension against the steady emergency brake. My hands are elbow deep in the hot material as I spread it to the sides and I can see her hands still gripping the door panel. It's her first time.

Later we carry plants to the truck, my four to her two, making several trips and throwing them in the back. I pay Chris and he pays me and she’s getting ready to tackle the climb in again but she’s got it pretty well figured out now so before long we’re easing the Ford down the nursery driveway nice and slow - she asks me what was the joke – she heard Chris laughing, saying something to me about his ex-wife.

“It’s her birthday. And it’s also Flag Day. We were just wondering what the appropriate flag might be”.

“Oh”, she says. “He’s a nice fellow - I hope the ride home will be a little faster”.

The startling sight of snow covering red maple buds, daffodils and freshly cut earth today pulls spring’s lift downward and inward again. I pace the dusty wood floors in boots, restless, almost unable to bear the burden my life has become. Bedraggled strands of hair hang in my face, a symbol of my anger and struggle to be seen and hidden. In such a frame of mind, there are no gigs, there is no money, no one likes me and I can’t strike a chord worth playing. This would be a second adolescence twisted almost tighter than the first because I should know better.

But the days roll on, they always do. Armed with an instrument, I’m jumping out of my skin into the car for a drive down the muddy road towards musical communion. I’ll have to drive at least an hour to find a musician or a good cup of coffee but soon enough I’m on the country highway hypnotized by a verdant world of hills and sparkling snowmelt rivers, a sight that cuts to the quick of my malaise with it’s soothing balm. A conspiracy of turkeys appears from nowhere and walks in front of my car as I slam on the brakes, catching sight of their brown plumage in full display, thanking my reflexes. Their skillful jumping over the ditch, under sagging barbed wire and onto a hillside pasture reminds me to stay in my body. I resume my course more slowly past quiet old valley farms while spring rages towards the surface of the land through every pore. I feel the presence of the elderly people in these houses breathing slowly ready to leave but savoring this one last extravagant spring. Navigating the moody first branch of the mighty White River, my life seems part quicksilver, part ancient oak tree rooted for eternity. This inherent contradiction, that of existence, never leaves me but occasionally I leave it through journeys of the heart and the realm of music. There lie the dreaming, the vision, the expression and the peaceful village of compassionate souls living as one. There lies rest for the weary, the removal of despair.

My wandering mind is colored with images from a week in the life of myself: The small block of kindling wood with a message written on it in pencil: “Kristina, the floor looks great!” set on end so I would see it coming in the front door. The full moon framed in the bedroom window being erased by moving clouds and the gaze of my distracted lover. The half-eaten chocolate bar accidentally abandoned in the dark of night in the back of my car, left there by the father of my youngest child. The unexpectedly terse email saying “ …never again …” followed by a silence. The blue jeans knees soaked by the wet earth under the apple tree so I can get a better look at blooms of ruffled bloodroot. The almost physical words: “Why don’t you start carrying your own weight” that strike my stomach and cause me to consider putting an end to my creative endeavors once and for all. The smiles: one from a man walking down the road as I drive to the post office and the other from a bartender serving coffee to me in the pink light and noise of a rock show. And of course the beatific vision of the lithe photographer sent to us on assignment, hoisting herself onto the workbench to shoot the guys in the shop who pretend to work. Finally at nightfall the calloused fingertips I love to rub and push together, remembering fondly my guitars.

The Venetian mask maker draws his brush slowly and intently across the face of Pulcinella and then with similar economy of movement lifts his eyes and looks at me over his glasses. Perhaps he’s curious to divine my origins but with equal likelihood I am an unwanted intrusion. Seated on a high stool behind the front counter he continues to paint, his eyes glancing up now and then as I move through the shop in silence. The huge noses of il Medico della Peste hang limply from rafters, pointed downwards towards my head. Here in Venice a sense of hidden deity is pulsating - from the massive weathered wood and iron clad doors of locked palazzos that stand sentry-like over damp, cobbled streets; from the hurried, sharp footsteps that echo and fade, detached from any person. The dusty windows just beyond a neat row of smiling Gianduias suggest indirect sunlight – sunset must be just now caressing the dying city's perimeter. I’ve come a long way across an ocean to unwittingly stumble over [...]