by Neil Peart
It was obviously time for radical action, desperate measures, and I had one last refuge to explore — drumming. In the past, I had always found playing the drums perhaps the ultimate escape, an engrossing, inspiring trance-state that always made me forget everything else in the world, and I decided it was time to try that.
Not wanting to put any pressure on myself, or give any false hopes to my professional “associates,” I secretly booked a room at a studio nearby (where I had so often worked with Rush over the years, going back to 1979, my first introduction to the area that would be so important to my life), making the arrangements through Sheila at the office (who could always be trusted with a secret), and Nathalie, the studio manager, who listed me in her records as “The John Taylor Project.”
Keith was away visiting his family in Toronto, so my friend Trevor helped me transport my yellow Gretsch drums, which had been stacked in the furnace room beside the neglected little practice kit, over to the studio. I started going there every day for a couple of hours, just playing aimlessly through various patterns and seeing where they took me. I hadn’t played at all for almost exactly two years, since the last show of the Test For Echo tour, but after playing the instrument for more than 30 years, the physical technique came back readily.
What surprised me was what happened musically. I soon realized that out of the random patterns and tempos I was playing, a larger “theme” was appearing — I was “telling my story.” Not in musical or lyrical terms, but just thinking while I played a certain passage, “this is that part.”
I once defined the basic nature of art as “the telling of stories,” and never had I felt that to be more true. I played the anger, the frustration, the sorrow, and even the travelling parts of my story, the rhythms of the highway, the majesty of the scenery, the dynamic rising and falling of my moods, and the narrative suite that emerged was as cleansing and energizing as the sweat and exertion of telling it.
I also continued telling my story in the more usual, verbal form, in the inevitable letters to Brutus.
le corbeau dans la pluie
(or “Ravin’ in the Rain”)
July 6, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.
Hey Schmützfink!
A dark and gloomy morning today, with a couple of heavy showers. And wouldn’t you know it? That’s just how I feel — dark, and gloomy, and heavy.
So I’ll take it out on you! (What are pals for?)
There’s a gray fog sprawled across the lake, and a gray fog sprawled across my little baby soul. Today’s ritual wolf-howls spiral off in a descending lament. These are confusing times, oh my brother, and yea, my brain is sorely vexed. The Mysteries of Life, the Mysteries of Woman, and especially, the Mysteries of Grief. Lately I realize that I’m still far from over all that. Not that I should be, but sometimes I fool myself for awhile.
Back in England, when I was reading all those “grief books,” I found some of the information in them unacceptable and unbelievable at the time, because I wasn’t there yet. Then later I would go through that phase, and find that the cumulative human experience represented by these books was, not surprisingly, pretty true. One such unacceptable piece of information was the notion that “the second year is worse,” which, all through the first year, I couldn’t imagine could possibly be true. Now I’m beginning to get it.
It’s hard to describe, and maybe too early, for I’ve only started to think about that idea this week (as the second second-year begins, if you know what I mean), but it seems as though at this point the abject sorrow starts to modify into a less-dynamic, less emotional state, into a feeling of emptiness, a day-to-day malaise of directionless stasis. I’m finding this is somehow more difficult to face. Or to figure out what to do about.
It’s as difficult as ever to get motivated to do anything, to care about anything, to go on facing up to the everyday frustrations and worries — and it’s harder not to drink. Lately it’s almost a fight to hold out until cocktail time, and also to keep to the “basic dietary minimum” of a couple of whiskies and a glass of wine at dinner.
Because I’m not too fired-up about life right now, it seems like I’d sooner be numb. If I’m not into it, I want to get out of it.
And fair enough, for awhile, if it helps me get through a particularly difficult time, as it did in the early part of last year, and then stops. But I do not want to find myself degenerating into the so-called life of a pathetic and decaying boozer. Insofar as one can “choose” what kind of a life to have (and we don’t rate that element of “free will” too highly, do we?), there are certain futures I do not wish to contemplate. One of those is certainly the thought of being any version of an alcoholic. Especially, horror of horrors, a recovering one.
So I’m keeping a stern and watchful eye on the situation, and I really don’t think I’ll let it get out of hand. Still, I hate even having to worry about that, you know? (No, actually; you don’t! You wish you could worry about being a boozer!)
Anyway, let’s talk about the weather, shall we?
Night before last I was awakened at 2:00 a.m. by thunder, wind, and rain, and then stayed up to watch a most amazing electrical storm. The lightning flashes came so rapidly and constantly it lighted my way all around the house as I ran up and down stairs closing windows. Then I just lay on the bed and watched the show over the lake, a steady artillery barrage of retina-searing bolts and rapid, distant flashes and even small, spidery “bursts” in the sky, sometimes several exploding simultaneously — reminding me of looking down from the plane over Montreal last week and seeing the St. Jean-Baptiste Day fireworks above La Ronde.
Imagery-wise, I was thinking of World War One artillery, battles at sea, flashbulbs popping at a Beatles concert, fireworks, that sort of thing, but Nathalie at the studio nailed it best (insert French-Canadian accent), “It was like a . . . disco!”
According to last night’s CBC News, the storm caused a lot of wind and lightning damage in the area, and parts of the Laurentians are still without power, though mine only flickered a couple of times. I did see a lot of trees and branches down yesterday morning, as I rode the scenic route down to Laval and back.
In regard to other types of “weather,” I mentioned to you that things seemed kind of “cool” in San Francisco, and I came home a little . . . disappointed. Okay, a lot. I have still been calling her every few days, but I sense a certain restraint. You never know what’s up with wimmen, eh?
Also in the weather today, there are my concerns about future “security.” According to the cheques Sheila just sent me to sign, with a note saying, “I may need them now that you are a jet-setter,” I’m presently living at about six times my income. (Or Ellwood is, anyway, and I can’t control that guy!) It seems that dealing with all this bad luck and tragedy has not only been unpleasant but also expensive (after those long stays in London and Barbados, plus abandoning my investments to an increasingly “creative” broker), and the old “nest-egg” has taken a heavy beating in the past few years. Ach. I didn’t expect to have to worry about that yet. You understand, I’ve still got a few huitlacoches in my tank-bag, and there’s always the principal to spend (and the principle “to spend”). So as long as I don’t live too long, I should be okay . . .
Or — I go back to work. However, it’s clear to me this notion still scares my little baby soul witless. True, my drumming explorations over at Le Studio are going well, and have confirmed that not only am I still capable of playing technically, but that I can still communicate through the instrument.
This “narrative” approach has taken me some interesting places musically too, and just doing that everyday — having somewhere to go and something to do — has been good for me right now. An outing and a good sweat alone are “worth the trouble,” even if just for now, but I still don’t feel ready to dive into a big “project” with the other guys. I guess the difference is that I may be ready to play, but I’m not ready to work. So I’ll let it rest again for awhile.
I
had always thought that if any of my former enthusiasms were going to return, then prose-writing would naturally be the first — a solitary and peaceful activity that I could ease myself into gently. And I certainly have some stories to tell. However, I still feel very far away from having the strength and discipline for a big writing project, though at least I know I can play the drums if I want to. Or need to.
“To pick up a little gas money along the way,” to quote Ray. You’ll remember that he was talking about touring, but forget about that. I sure couldn’t conceive of thrusting myself into that circus right now. I wouldn’t have the strength or the tolerance. (Or the navigator.)
But, for now, I’m still working at the drum-thing in secrecy, unsure of what I really want to do with it. If anything. And if anything, when?
It’s another big consideration for me to contemplate making such a huge commitment of time right now — to agree to go somewhere and work all the way through this fall, or this winter, or next spring. What would the Ghost Rider say about that? Or John Ellwood?
Those two are already feeling a bit restless, and lobbying for a journey; reminding us only yesterday, as we rode the GS through the farming country outside Lachute, how nice it was to be riding, and how much nicer it would be if we were packed up and blasting the whole day through down the road to Havre St. Pierre, or Twin Falls, Idaho, or Moab, Utah. Those guys also assure the rest of us that travelling would be much better for our mental-state(s) right now, and help control the drinking and smoking too.
So what am I supposed to tell those guys? And you can imagine what Ellwood’s response would be to the idea of hiding away in some Toronto studio for four or five months. Not his style at all. And Gaia’s a 14-year-old girl — what’s she care?
So we’re in a quandary, a couple of conundrums, a few enigmas (with friends like you who needs enigmas?), an ambiguity, several dilemmas, and a very large confusion.
Ain’t life grand?
Not tonight, darling — I’ve got a heartache.
After the unbelievably accurate tarot reading I had in Venice Beach last May, I have learned to do simple readings for myself (through one of those “Idiot’s Guide” books). Last night I did a “three-card spread,” and laid out The Fool, the Six of Cups reversed, and the Nine of Wands reversed. Briefly, here is my interpretation of the first two cards:
“You are trying to set out on a new adventure, to explore new paths and commit yourself to the future in a brave and carefree manner, but you’re not ready. Your emotions are still caught up in the past, with feelings of nostalgia, and you have to cut yourself free of that before you can move on.”
And here’s the last card, right from the book:
The Nine of Wands reversed still has the desire to protect and be of help to others, but this man can barely take care of himself. Most of the time, the reversed Nine of Wands indicates the lack of stamina and physical strength to see things through. You’ve been beaten down either mentally or physically, and your health isn’t good enough to follow through on the difficult tasks ahead.
You need to rest and recuperate, rather than go out and fight the battles again. You’re not prepared, and need to check on things before you make your next move. You could be vulnerable, too weak to fight, or just plain exhausted. Sometimes this card comes up when you feel let down by others or are worried about something. The Nine of Wands reversed suggests it’s best to regroup and calm yourself before taking another step.
I’ll let that reading speak for itself, regarding not only my romantic misadventures, but also my experiments with drumming. Like, take it slo-o-o-o-ow, baby. Yeah, sure.
Anyway, that’s about enough out of my fingers for one day, and I do hope this hasn’t been too “dark” of a letter. Don’t you go worryin’ about me, now. I’ve got enough to do, what with worryin’ about you and worryin’ about me, and I don’t need to be worryin’ about you worryin’ about me too. Ya got that?
I hope so.
Better days ahead, right?
Right . . .
le petit nuage noir
July 22, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.
Hey Booger-Breath,
Trying a new approach here: sitting at the kitchen counter with my Powerbook on this perfect summer morning. I felt like “venting” at you a little bit, but this morning is too glorious a specimen to consider shutting myself away up in the office, so I thought I’d try this. A nicer scene. The hummingbirds make repeated visits to the window feeder, a few bright goldfinches flit around Chef Ellwood’s Birdbrain Café, the sprinklers are spitting, the insects buzzing, and the dishwasher churns quietly.
Like you, I’m sure, I’ve been up since 6:30. After squeezing the juice, I pulled open the garbage thingy under the counter and looked down into a pair of dark beady eyes: a lively, if rather bedraggled, little mouse. I couldn’t think what else to do with it, so I carried the bin outside and turned it on its side, and let the little bugger scamper away.
Checking the composter beside the garage, I was satisfied to see the raccoons hadn’t been able to get past the cinder block I’d put on top of it yesterday — after the pesky varmints had managed to shift the two big rocks we had there, each the size of a loaf of bread. I also noted with satisfaction that those masked bandits had once again been knocking away at Chef Ellwood’s Birdbrain Café, but without success. (They seem to be mad for sunflower seeds, and had easily overcome my previous squirrel-proof defences by climbing up and knocking against the sunflower-seed feeder until all the seeds spilled out, but I think we’ve beaten them now.)
Then I wandered down to the dock and went for a row, out across the still lake. On the shores of Sammy Cay, I finally managed to spot the loon’s nest which [neighbor] Charles had been telling me about the other night. He has been keeping an eye on the loons all summer, and he told me where to look for the nest with two eggs in it, but warned me not to go too near it if there were crows around, for I might scare the parent off the nest (they take turns) and give those nasty scavengers a chance to attack the eggs.
Probably true, and yesterday I rowed by to have a look, but stayed away when I saw a pair of crows lurking about up in the pines like Heckle and Jekyll. This morning I brought along my binoculars and drifted quietly along the shore of L’Île Selena, scanning across among the rocks and trees at the waterline of Sammy Cay. It took some looking, but finally I spotted the black-and-white checks of the nesting bird (they look so big out of the water), and then picked out its baleful red eye — so demonic and primeval looking.
After a fine breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast (with a new supply of partridgeberry and apple jam that Deb brought me from the Newf store in Brampton), I found myself at “loose ends” again (like, “okay — now what?”), and decided to try this new activity, letter-writing-in-a-different-scene. It makes a change, and maybe I’ll feel better. In L.A. speak, my recent mood might be expressed thus, “I’m so-o-o not happy.”
This week has been a little better than last week (considered in “degrees of misery”), but lately I’m finding that getting through the days in a halfway healthy fashion just takes so much fucking effort. Trying to pull myself together, I’ve been out rowing every day, and the past two days I’ve kicked my ass out the door for a mountain-bike ride around the loop of Lac St. Ellwood, which makes a good, hilly, 10K training ride — though training for what I don’t know. Maybe if I decide to take it further. (Or force myself to.)
It’s all about will, isn’t it?
This must be true for you as well, to some degree. You certainly couldn’t “weather” your present circumstances without a fairly constant exercise of the will to do so. And you know, it does become wearying.
But again, the “choices” are limited, so all we can do is try to get through the days and nights. Tiring myself out with some exercise like that during the day also seems to allow me to relax in the hammock and read for awhile in the afternoon, with a clear conscience and tired body, and even doze off — sometimes until
well after cocktail time. So I’m keeping things under control, anyway. But again, it just takes so much effort.
[Later]
It’s a spooky sort of night. The moon’s a little past half-full, standing high and bright among the passing clouds (that ever-popular “ghostly galleon” effect), while distant lightning flashes behind heavy clouds to the north and east.
July 23, ’99
Morning again. Hotter today, as I noticed when I rode the GS into St. Sauveur, then made a stop at Vaillancourt’s to fill the hard cases with oranges and coffee and bread. I wore my regular leathers, but could have used the Vansons; probably wear them on my trip to Toronto, as the forecast seems to be on the rise.
Talking to “that woman” last night I learned that she will be in Ontario for most of August, as she has the lead role in an indy film being shot there. Hopefully we’ll have an opportunity to get together then and . . . see how it goes. She seems to be up for it. As far as a mere man can tell, anyway.
Last week, I was writing to Dan Hudson [my artist friend, visited in Alberta early in the journey], who had recently split with his long-time partner, Laurie, and offered this observation: “‘Man Bewildered by Woman’ is hardly headline news.”
Otherwise, life around here is dull, and often rather annoying. I’m in a foul temper much of the time, sometimes hating the slow passage of time, and equally resenting the sense of life moving on without me — though of course there’s nothing I need more than for time to pass (you know about those things too, no?). But it’s the old cycle: when you’re down, other small nuisances just bring you lower. Seeing things around here that I could do, or should do, and not doing them, twitching around restlessly between forced “scheduled activities,” cursing and growling to myself a lot. Not much company for my guests either. They’ll understand, of course, and can entertain themselves, but I wish I could shake myself out of it. I’m tired of being so-o-o-o not happy.