R.S. Evangelista

Is it strange to think about having Christmas every year in the southern hemisphere? At first it doesn’t sound odd to live in Ecuador or Australia. I guess if one likes those sorts of places. But then really pondering the idea of Spring rubbing shoulders with Advent and putting out Santa Clause with his reindeer in the front lawn in summer is just strange. I just don’t think I would be comfortable with that kind of change.

A couple weeks ago I saw a Christmas tree already standing in the diner off Howell Mill. I noticed mostly because it wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet. But I’m bothered because somehow, every year, “the holidays” eclipse Autumn. Winter is never cut short by the ground hog, and Spring always releases into Summer, which the South truly hangs on to. Winter Solstice doesn’t even begin ’til December 21st, yet somehow Autumn ends in the heads and hearts of Westerners right after Turkey Day. Can’t Advent and Autumn exist together?

Recently in Atlanta, some of the underpasses had been cleared of homeless people and their few belongings. Then as I was driving with a friend of mine, he turned to me and said, “The bums are back,” to no dismay, and other conversation ensued. But my mind was elsewhere, stuck with the thought, and remembering last Christmas morning making egg and cheese sandwiches with a “sister” of mine for those poor, homeless folk before heading back to visit our families.

And that’s where I find myself this morning, the same Island, passing the same security guard, off the same Gray Fox Lane with the same drive way I’ve been going to and fro for over sixteen years now. And I think about John Krasinski (The Office) and his girlfriend in the film “Away We Go.” They’re in their mid-thirties hoping to find the right place to rest their heads, flying from city to city in search of the perfect home to settle down in. Whether in Arizona or Canada they leave each place longing for more. Their hearts search on. And they visit old friends and family members in hopes of some connection that will last. And in “Away We Go,” Alexi Murdoch plays in the background, singing their soundtrack as they face the troubles of this world; parents that don’t love their kids, losing loved-ones, leaving loved-ones, miscarriages and all the chaos of reality. They are homeless in a sense, and don’t find what they are looking for until the end of the film. One virtue they do cling to as they journey is unconditional love. It’s the syrup that holds all of life together, as their married friends from college describe to them at the diner in Toronto. You can have the pancake, and the house made of toothpicks and coasters, but without the syrup, it won’t stick. It’s the love, even in the worst of times.

I wonder what it would be like to watch a movie like that with a homeless man. I wonder if he would enjoy the ride and then tell me how lucky they are. I wonder if he would say he has syrup in his life. Because he knows that all of us are longing for place, just in different ways.

Or maybe it would be strange and awkward because he thinks I’m not grateful for my past and all the syrup that I have. Maybe it would be like that moment at a party, where you are facing the person in front of you, and while they’re talking to you, it dawns on you and you realize that you keep sipping from an empty mug, an empty glass. And you want out, at whatever cost, because you’re a phony. And you just don’t care about the person in front of you.

It’s as if I’m always caught off guard
And the creeping up isn’t so much as scare.
I haven’t seen a ghost
And I try to be alert,
Maybe more like getting a return call
When I’m taking a nap.
I clear my throat,
Try to pull it together in a good couple of seconds
Before I say hello.
They always know.

And the leaves are turning golden
While I’m getting out of bed.
But while leaves always turn,
They always fall before too long.
So should my impressioned face
Upon a pillow slow me down
Or stop me from catching the cool.

The cedar door is open
Pulling in the harvest.
And the musk pervades my sense of smell
Causing me to turn and do something
About the best few weeks of the year.
When the sky is ne’r more blue.

I don’t just let my hair grow long and twirl it
Yeah, it’s funny, but it’s truth.
God, I want to live
And move like the wind.
If I had the season in my hands,
I’d have to say good bye
For it’s too strong
Too persistently onward and uncontainable.

Please, Autumn, where is my humiliation?
Show me little.
That’s what I need.
That’s what we all need.
And maybe you could contain me,
Along with the fruit of the harvest,
You see worth to keep in my broken being.

I might find peace behind the old cedar doors
If you just hold on to me.
Would you just hold on to me?

Check out our Trailer for the Fallen Leaves Party

A friend of mine spent some time as a music critic in his earlier writing career. It’s tough, he says, when you have to think of people in that sort of light. For that I don’t want to be a music critic at this point. Instead, I’m just going to stick to writing about musicians I enjoy. A few months ago I tried to display in so many words how absolutely wonderful The Decemberists are, especially after seeing them perform at the Tabernacle. Maybe you remember that I mentioned Blind Pilot as their opening act, a pleasant appetizer at the time.

But Wednesday night was something else. They took center stage at the East Atlanta Restaurant and Lounge with a sold-out crowd. Since their bike tour around the country in 2007, they have added to their numbers and came out with a full-length album. “3 Rounds and a Sound” has been a substantial and consistent gem in my collection since January. To see them up close and personal is a different matter. They were absolutely phenomenal as soon as they stepped foot on stage. Their six piece ensemble with horns, glockenspiel, upright bass and banjo, among others created a sound similar to The Shins meets Iron and Wine. Led by singer, Israel, they were more than one could ask for. Inspiration grew inside me with each new melody, and their love of life and music only added to it.

For a single man in his mid-twenties and out of a job, it’s tough to be inspired lately. But Blind Pilot took hold of me and resonated with my soul. I had to keep back my cheesy smile and catch myself before anyone else began wondering what might be wrong with me. These folks from Portland understand a bit about life and our need to own up to its realities. From “The Bitter End” to “We Are The Tide” you grasp a sense of unity in their voices, like we’re all in this together…”We’re standing in the streets, staring at the blood red moon, we are the tide, we are the tide.” Their songs are mini-anthems of hope, reminding the listeners to hang on together.

It’s odd sometimes how affected we can be by music and the changing of seasons. As you may have gathered, I’ve been soaking up Fall and spreading her for anyone to grab a hold of. She has a special sound, unique and different to any other time of year. I’ll have you know, Blind Pilot is an Autumn band through and through. Maybe you think I’m crazy, but they have sucked in this season with all their being. And they’re pouring it out in every strum, pushing it out with all their lungs to get you to understand. For they see life as it is, a healthy recognition of time in transition, with the weight of the world upon them. And Blind Pilot’s not afraid to hang on for the ride…  “I had the itch to fly and I flew, now at best we would make our dreams with something used.”

See, Autumn is about truth, about slowing down enough to grasp beauty. It’s about admitting where we’re at and sticking to it; changing when we need to change, moving when we need to move, heading towards a place called home, where one day we’ll be. And Blind Pilot knows that, sees that, plays and sings that.

What a better chorus to end on then…”The only line that is true is the line your from.”