R.S. Evangelista

I listen to Jonsi playing piano in the background. He’s there singing for anyone who is willing to listen.  I’m chatting with a friend like decent media abiding citizens. She’s there. I think about the folks I met half way around the whole this past summer; young, energetic, and Chinese and there.

In a world so easily attainable, we grasp for connectivity as if we never had it. Send one more text and you will feel better. Right? Email one more idea and put it on the calendar. Grab one more beer and you’ll be satisfied. I remember playing four-square in elementary school. Chalk on the sidewalk. Those were the days. Simple, goal-oriented interactions. Why don’t I Facebook all of the third-graders I shared recess with? Well, that’d ruin it.

It saddens my heart that when I’m in certain circles, people flinch when I say community. The phrase apparently has been overused and over-attempted. It’s like a misunderstood curse word. Yet under-done. They’re missing it. The lab partner, the co-worker, the sister-in-law. The cab driver, the pastor, the professor.

Jonsi’s never going to play music in my living room. He’s never going to cry on my shoulder in the rain. The boys and girls from third-grade are scattered about, filling jobs, to pay the bills, to repeat the renewed cycle yet again. Those men and women from back then don’t yearn to know who I am. They aren’t here to comprehend Community.

But you are.

I want us all here, wrapped up in a creative bubble that doesn’t burst until she’s ready. It’s a thousand kisses passed out to the masses and retreated back in. The reality is, we’re all in the same bubble. You are running off to save lives, to sink in the syringe. You are writing the songs, pouring the drinks, pulling the shots. You are in my living room sharing your stories.  We all want to listen.

My response to J.D. Salinger’s Death:

I was once asked by a sentimental friend what the perfect gift would be at the perfect birthday celebration. My response, after little deliberation: all of J.D. Salinger’s unpublished writings bundled up, neatly bound, just for me. It’s been many years since Salinger published any work, and as you probably know, he has been a recluse in Cornish, N.H. until he passed away four days ago.

The man hasn’t caused me any life altering impulses, nor do I feel compelled to assassinate anyone. I rarely even grasp confidently what the many themes and purposes of Salinger’s stories are. I can’t say Holden Caulfield helped me to fall in love with literature. So what is it about this writer? Why am I in love with his work?

I picked up The Catcher in the Rye when I was nineteen. I guess Christian high schools aren’t as inclined to promote literature where the protagonist’s favorite phrase is goddam. So it makes sense that I wasn’t introduced to the man. A couple of months later I found time to pick up Franny and Zooey. It was in a time of life where seasons began to shape reality. And The Glass family found me in Autumn, and that’s where I’ve stayed. From there I read the rest of his published work. Something in the normalcy of his stories causes me to think about time pulling all of life forward. When I read Salinger, I’m inspired, and it’s not just because he writes highly of Christ, but it’s entirely because he thinks so highly of him.

And not that I have the man figured out; I could be wrong. Was he full of ego or extremely humble? How would a hermit respond if journalists and fanatical folks constantly interrupted his solitude off in the mountains of Greece or Russia? He could be so selfish as to lock himself away, to “commit suicide”, at the overwhelming nature of reality; or he could be a saint. Salinger is an artist of details. The nuances of conversation help to create depth and personality. His diverse characters draw the reader into their lives, captured by an insight into young folks beyond most noteworthy writers. I feel as if I know the characters, and they exist. I hope to one day meet them.

For me, I will continue to read and reread Salinger’s stories. I will be inspired by his characters and their search for truth. I will live in this world and seek out authenticity, trying not to be a phony. I will pass on his stories to others and hope their effects are the same, that people will find a reason to read, a reason to live because of his creativity, that friends will receive him, journey with him, share him aloud in cars, on planes, in homes with their lovers and brothers and daughters.

J.D. Salinger is just like one of us. He struggled with purpose and reason. I mean, he tried to write for the Fat Lady, but rarely is that easy. He had to try to write for the Fat Lady, didn’t he? For wherever we are in life, whatever we do, whether we are tying shoes or singing songs, may we remember the Fat Lady and be. Just be.

I’m bombarding my eyes with words and images tonight. I can’t help but soak in some information on what’s just occurred in Haiti. I almost feel like my heart is slowing down, recognizing our mortal nature. These stories and photographs are making my soul churn. The country has collapsed. God have mercy on Haiti and her people.

I look back on my day, much like any. I drank coffee with friends, shared meals, wrote emails, etc. But I also had to call Gary our landlord’s handyman to come over. Apparently our water’s been mostly pooling under our house. We didn’t know. I just thought the pipes were still frozen. Gary stood still in our bathroom for a second when he first came over. Quietly. And then he just knew. He said, “What’s that sound?” I nodded with a lack of ideas. I was growing dumber every minute. “Sounds like running water,” he said. Sure enough, we walked outside and underneath our kitchen was water gushing into a puddle some two-inches deep. I could have prevented this, if we’d only consistently left our faucets running.

But does knowing tolls and numbers of Haitian deaths make any difference? prevent any of it? I rarely have been following the news, as if knowing makes anything change. I was worried about not showering for a couple of days. Earthquakes put things in perspective. Yet I don’t feel any better because my soaking up information isn’t helping the matter. Knowing about the devastation can’t take anything back, can’t fix anything, can’t save lives. According to The New York Times, Royal Caribbean Cruises still have scheduled ships to go to Haiti by Friday, and three more slated to stop next week. Tourism resumes as planned.

I hate it that tragedy brings me to write again. I hate it that Haitian deaths cause me to cry. I am cheap, and I have nothing to offer but my prayers. Please Christ, send your peace.

After some time off, I return in order to present to you the objective list for the Top 50 Albums of the Last Decade. Paste, Pitchfork and NPR were on to something, but have ultimately fallen short. Through a well thought out systematic approach, these five indicators of originality, diversity, sound, lyrics and finally heart, helped to mold this perfect representation of musical greatness. This music has carried me through high school, college, Bush and breakups. These are the albums I have come to love. Thoughts and opinions are welcome…

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.”

When you are fired, or even when you think you might lose your job, your mind runs rampant in all directions and begins to open ideas that have been packed deep within the corners and dusty attic of your brain. All of the desires you wished you could do with freedom of a new outlook suddenly come to the forefront of plausibilities. And sure, visions and dreams are difficult to attain, but losing a job can sometimes force you back to the ideals.

Recently I found myself in a weird, limbo stage of an experience. I was caught “in-flight” back to Atlanta from my weekend away in Maine. But before the flight, I received word that my boss was going to fire me upon my return, and he just hadn’t told me yet. It’s strange that everyone else seemed to know. It wasn’t exactly the emotions I wanted to hop on a plane with, but I flew anyways, standby Delta, scotch nearby and waiting potential reality. I wondered if turning back to Portland would be better. I doubt that was the answer, but it sure was tempting. And part of the unknown was that they hadn’t actually fired me yet, and didn’t have true grounds to do it. I covered my bases before I left. So my quandary was on whether to exhaust my mind on how to keep my job or on what the future could hold, what would be next.

Here I am in the next. I have a firm foundation, not so wrapped up in where I find my work. For my daily breath reminds me that it always works out. And maybe the reason I was supposed to go to New England was to get forced out of San Fran Coffee, because I might not have left otherwise. It’s time for something better. I returned encouraged and rejuvenated for whatever is ahead, and my mind is still opening dusty boxes of ideas, like being found in the attic. And every time I walk outside, away from myself and my stored up ideas, I’m reminded that I’m part of creation. It’s a good thing it’s Autumn.

I’ve a little more than an hour on the plane to express to you in words what seems inescapably difficult to grasp; why I went to Portland. Lately in my writing endeavors I feel more like the photographer attempting to freeze a moment that might capture more than a thousand words, yet you know that being there could’ve left you speechless like me. I would rather visit Antarctica than just see photos of it. I know it’s not the same. Is that why I just returned from Maine? There was something in early October that I had to experience that couldn’t be captured in any other art form except existence. If I show you some photos from my trip, you just wouldn’t get it. You’d wonder why I went.

I could write to you about the many pubs we sat in and the local beers Mike and I drank, some aged in oak-barrels, some spiced for seasonal greatness. Or I could tell you about the fine roasted coffee we sipped from Arabica, one of the dozen or so downtown, corner coffeehouses we passed. I could try to describe to you the changing of leaves we set our eyes upon from arrival to departure, rafting down Dead River category four rapids near Canada, or the yellow and red surrounding the city scene on every street turn, but sadly you weren’t with me experiencing Maine in transition.

I could try to describe to you Becky’s Diner on the main coastal strip where our waitress, Cameron chuckled as we admitted to being unfamiliar with haddock (quite delightful fish). There was also the hefty red-boiled lobster on the waterfront, and the tasty burger at the Great Lone Bear, a local joint in town. We met some folks and developed friendships, and of course amongst it all, watched and listened to Sufjan Stevens at the Port City Music Hall in a small crowd next to a couple of students from Gordon College. The whole getaway seemed right, as if our place was etched out for us there, and we rode in just in time to fill in the colors, the details.

And even though you weren’t there, I can tell you, things don’t just happen at random, but are intricately connected to something greater. I can be sure that I was supposed to be there. One thing I’ve been attempting to grasp lately is that it’s a healthy virtue to understand my place and be okay existing in it, to be happy and joyful where I am. And maybe that’s all I want to express. For the weekend, I was meant to be in Maine, and as I return, I know that I am supposed to be here, wherever and whatever here is. I’m all in. So if you’re still wondering why I left, I’m sorry. Maybe next time, I’ll leave you speechless.