My hands trailed across the table like a pale fog looking for steadier ground. My palms were cramped, my feet were needled hooves prickling in pain and my chest creaked like an oak barrel. In a groggy haze my fingers fumbled for my glass and my body shook. The intoxication robbed me of a propped stance, and the pulsing pain in my hip scratched like a chalk board but I get up. I had to see here. It was her.
I hunched over in my cherry oak stool, like a child peering through a church railing of people I spied on her longing to be caught, longing to be rescued. There she was standing at the end of line holding a single beer in the air. Like a torch in the air her eyes lit up like the yellow orange flood lights of a ship and in the storm of people she was uttering something. She was peering straight at me, saying something. Her mouth moved like a colored pencil, only squiggles of sound entered my eyes as my ears fought to learn this new language. “What?” I screamed. “I… I can’t hear you”.
She lifted her chin higher and spoke again. And with the temperance of a papal sermon her whisper was cryptic, resounding with authority and parted the ocean. People began to clap. They began to scream and chant. My name, she was saying my name. My name became a drum beat and her voice was a sheering cymbal, crashing after each beat. The crowds feet made bellows of sound like waves swelling upon the hull of the empty vessel of my body. Their blended caws carried like the dismal echoes of a siren. I screamed louder and louder, “I can’t hear you…” but she still couldn’t hear me. The louder I screamed the more my body hurled in pain. No one could hear me. I screamed and screamed, and each time I scream blood pored from my arms. I collapsed on my stool to see a scarlet trail leading away from my cup to my arms. The railings lined back into place. All I could see were her eyes. I sat there as we inspected each other across the tide of bodies, waiting. I sat there waiting, waiting for my blood to run out.
I awoke before the light ever left her eyes. There I was in my hospital bed with a needle entering my arm. There was a dim yellow haze in my eyes. Momoke, the Mongolian nurse stood above me “Brady… Brady… Good morning Brady.” I looked up to find her with a small flash light in one hand and in the other she pumped blood out of me into a black bag. She was wearing scrubs with anchors sewn into the sleeves. Her eyes were filled with water.
"Is it raining outside?"
She sniffled, and snorted. She always thought I was making jokes. She pulled with the needle from my arm and a puddle of blood filled it’s crease. “Yes, yes it is you silly boy.”
"Why do you ask?", she stuttered, "Just a nice drizzle though, it’s been going all night. Must have helped you sleep." She wrapped my arm in a large orange bandage like tourniquet. I could see belly, my gowned was open. There were burn marks, red scrapes and welts from all the shots "micro-surgical" procedures.
"There we go." She smiled, then cupped her mouth. "Opps… let me get that off your pillow." She leaned over and picked up several chunks of my hair off my pillow. "Not as much as yesterday" She smiled again. I grabbed my gowned and cover my belly. "I only save it for you dear."
"Of course you do silly boy. That’s why you’re my favorite."
"I didn’t want to wake you but there is someone here to see you and I thought I’d go ahead and give you your medication. I’ll turn on the light so you they can see you."
"Please… leave the light off."
"Of course. I’ll send her in."
Momoke left the room and closed the door behind her. There I was, alone looking through the plastic dividers on the window. The rain gently kissing the glass, allowing the smallest refractions of light to enter. My room was covered with cards, pictures and stuffed animals. My people, I thought.
The rain then stopped kissing my window and started knocking. The door opened and an orange light poured in from the hallway,
And on and on it goes, this repeating viper. Curiously my mind hasn’t dried up
yet from repetition, just a methodical regurgitation and inhalation of recycled
thoughts. My months have been lined up like pews. Doctor visits have become
confessions and the voices in my head get louder after each “hail marry”. Like
an empty cathedral my positivity gets lost within the arches and stained glass
walls. Sometimes an echoed thought will come back in a different octave. When I
fail to recognize that it’s my own projection, I laugh at its awareness’s of my
current state. It will make me chuckle and I’ll hear my self say, “Haven’t
heard that laugh in a while.”
It seems as though each injection, whether self induced or
nuzzled in by the beaks of motherly nurses, has more than just life altering
chemicals. They all burn but the skin only feels a fragment of what the rest of
my “body” feels. Every single injection of this liquid cure burns like
gunpowder. My veins might as well be dry grass as I feel the fire crawl under
my skin and peel my insides like burnt bark.
On days when I sit in the treatment room’s chairs I’m struck
with a reflective silence. I play a quiet game.
“You’ve been sick for years,
you found out last year, oh and you over there... well it looks like you don’t
give a shit anymore”. I’m quiet while I watch “my peers”; separated by decades,
receive the same type of treatment. I wonder, are they jealous? I make up
conversations in my head.
“You’re so lucky. “ They’d say, “You’re so young. Here we
are, wrinkled and gray while you ink your skin, playing for big gain and new
dreams.”
Sympathetically I’d reply, “But aren’t we equal, we both
dream of flying. “ And perhaps they’d call my dreams a niche in this mortality
market, or maybe they think the same thing as I do: I didn’t know what it was
like to dream till I lost sleep over... my mortality.
My safe place, whether you believe me or not, is on my
bathroom toilet. No, nothing crass; it’s just me sitting down on the toilet
lid. I’ll prop adjacent window open allowing the breeze to swirl within my
pearl cream-white tomb, light a candle and stare out my window. Sometimes when
I have it too I’ll smoke a little pot. Takes the edge off my nausea, chemical
fatigue, self deprecating thoughts and I found out that I smile a bit more as
well. Can you blame me? I can sit there for what feels like hours because I
can’t hear anything else going on in the house. It’s hard to not be alone. I’m
a magnet. One half will follow a friend to space and the other feels the need
to repulse to a distance where they can never touch me. Even on that toilet I
can’t decide if I like people or not. Sometimes, if I have my record player on,
I feel like I separated my self from a cool party. “Oh hey, they’re playing
Built To Spill... those must be some rad people. I wonder if they have any Otis
Redding records” It helps me feel normal again, that sort of music snobbery
that I used to use to separate my self from freshmen girls.But my safe place is not always my safe
place. On days where I have to inject my self I find my self-staring into the
reflection pool of my bathroom mirror.
My mental check list becomes a military battery. Or if it's not a bundling of rations, it's as if I am stuck in the film Trainspotting, just waiting to freak out. Luckily, none of my medication has any sort of hallucinogenic properties, so my concept of reality is still stable. Either way, my mind is racing every time.
Rubbing alcohol, check.
Cotton ball, check.
Cap off the needle, check.
Love-handles clean, check.
Okay, go.
I lock eyes with this dude looking straight back at me. He
looks scruffy and uncomfortable. He holds the needle in his side like a pen,
but his sides... His poor sides, they look bitten by a farm of red ants. And
then I feel it burn and burn some more. The needle withdraws from his belly like
a wasp and a droplet of blood wells up like a teardrop. Oddly and recently he’s
smiling back at me. He whispers, “I’ll be home for Christmas”.
Over the past six months friends, family and strangers have
blessed me. I have been experiencing Christmas since July. Its moments like
that I wonder if I can ever effectively communicate my thankfulness. It reminds
me of the speech from “The Great Dictator”, and how befuddled Charlie Chaplin’s
character was. But at the end he was able to express one of the greatest gifts
that God has given us, the ability to create happiness.
“In the 17th Chapter of St Luke it is written: “the Kingdom of God is
within man” - not one man nor a group of men, but in all men! In you! You, the
people have the power - the power to create machines. The power to create
happiness! You, the people, have the power to make this life free and
beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure...”
In October I thought I’d be in Nashville for the holidays. I
was originally going to be crammed into another hospital while every one I knew
would be back home. But that has all changed when I had the blood clots at the
beginning of November. Perhaps it was a miracle in disguise because I got to
have Thanksgiving with my family. Now I’m home for Christmas. This month is
important for me. On Christmas day I’ll be celebrating life. Back in July the
doctor told me that I’d have six to nine months to live if I didn’t receive
treatment. Well here I am in December
looking forward to not only 2014, but also 2015 through 20...70 something.
I hope that everyone has a blessed Christmas. May the light
of our Lord shine down upon you no matter who you are, for if you have given me
joy then you have brought joy to the Lord as well.
Also here's the full speech below with awesome music by The Album Leaf.
Five songs that have gotten me through a tough time (2013).
1. Pirate Blues // As Cities Burn
“Before you, your mom and your dad
Used to smoke in the Texas sun
They were young once too…”
Life has a reciprocal nature. We've heard phrases like: “Do unto others as you would have done to you”, “what goes around comes around” and “He’ll get what's coming…”. This song beautifully captures the lead singers foresight of the circular track of life. For me this year has been much like this song. It’s caused me to look back on not only my life, but the lives before me and the lives that will follow in my footsteps. I even have my "future" cryogenically frozen. It was in this perspective that I’ve found myself doubting how life will turn out. Like the deep beat of this song, my heart pounds and my thoughts race, but I've found peace. This peace has no defining features besides that it is not of my own. Who really knows what shall happen to them by the end of the night? But because time has a mind of it’s own maybe that enough reason for me not to fret.
“Oh, I wanna find out I'm wrong
And every road leads us home…”
2. Dirty Paws // Monsters of Men
Finding out you’re not alone is a bizarre experience. When this song first “clicked” for me this year I was in a friends car. We were cruising on the interstate like two single dudes do. It was nighttime. Our lectures were procured from our interactions with the alien species called "woman" and where we felt like we should be. We let the smoke collect and the conversation smolder as his iPod blared catchy tunes. Once Dirty Paws by Monsters of Men came on we fell silent. The driver did some air-drumming while I sat still feeling my way through the piece of music. The story of the song isn't mind blowing, for if you've ever listened to Murder By Death you know how stories are meant to be sung, but it was gorgeous. There’s something about the chorus gang vocals though. It feels victorious, it feels comforting, inviting and most of all as if you belong. When I found out I wasn't alone through the fight that I am currently experiencing, it felt just like this sounds.
3. Car // Built To Spill
“I need a car, you need a guide, who needs a map?
If I don't die or worse, I'm gonna need a nap
At best I'll be asleep when you get back…”
I’ve always been a huge Built To Spill fan, but like great movies or books some albums don’t really sink in until later. I’ve always loved this song, but it’s now been a song of comfort because I feel like it understands me. If you ask my friends or even ex-girlfriends (I'd prefer you not too), you’ll find out that I often have “itchy feet”. I have a hard time staying in one place for too long, which has both rewarded and punished me. This year I’ve felt the “itchy feet” syndrome more than ever. I’ve looked into moving across country, across the sea and also just down the road a few blocks. After the diagnosis I became stuck mentally, emotionally, and literally. I couldn't drive and had to use a walker or cane to get around. Once my pelvis healed and the doctors said it was okay for me to drive I wasted no time and gingerly put the pedal to the metal. The first song I listened to was Car. I sang along with the windows down and felt movement. Whenever I’ve need movement I play this song.
4. Memories From The End Pt. 1 // Right Away, Great Captain.
“...but i
i want it all
oh i want it all
and i won't stop if i fall
cause i want it all…”
“You’re being so positive Brady!”
I've heard that a lot.
I've faked that complement a lot as well.
Some days you can barely see it on my sleeve and others I’m lying right through my teeth. I’m surprised that it hasn't bitten but only a few people. On my hardest day I try and focus on what keeps me going, what makes me happy and that I'm still here. I’m still here, my friends are still here, so why should my positivism go anywhere? Well somedays I wander off, down a dark and vacuous alleyway. It is in those dark corners where I find the foundation of my strength, hope. When death lingers not only your doorstep but also has hitched a ride instead of your body, perspectives seem to change. I remember when I was in the hospital for the first time and my sister Kelly came to visit me. She walked into the halogen lit room, stood three feet from the doorway and began to cry. When I looked upon her face I felt a hot fury well up inside of me. She was in pain, perhaps a far greater one than me and I knew that I had to smile and tell her that I loved her. Ever since then I’ve made it my goal to show those who love me that I am strong and that my strength will not fade. On those days of complete sadness I remind myself that I’ve made it this far, I have a beautiful future and I won’t stop until I fall.
5. Jesus // Page France
“...And Jesus will dance while we drink his wine
With soldiers and thieves and a sword in his side
And we will be joy and we will be right…”
At the end of the day I am just a boy. Out of the billions of people in this world I am surrounded by a few, but those few remind me daily that we are created in Gods image. It is those few people that show me that God has a face like our and cares about the one boy who suffers through the hardest time of his life. Jesus by Page France is my song when I need to be uplifted. It’s the song that I need to be reminded that God loves those who are stuck in the dirt. I believe that one day I will be in heaven. I hope it’s not anytime soon, but if it is I know that I will be drinking from the Lords cup and it will be so delicious. I’ll be so intoxicated in heaven that I will sing a song for Jesus, he’ll dance, clap his hands and stomp his feet.
Honorable Mentions:
1. I'll Talk To You Tomorrow // Calibretto 13 2. Dog Days Are Over // Folerence + The Machine 3. Harrison Ford // Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin 4. Scenic World // Beirut 5. Fade Into You // Mazzy Star
My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed. That is the truth, but it is also not because I don't want to work, I do. I was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma at the end of July 2013, and now I'm fighting the good fight. I am currently going through chemo treatments. From the advisement and orders of my doctor, I am not supposed to be working. Currently I am in the waiting process to receive social security, but that is taking it's time. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). I'm not going to lie to you, some the donation money will go towards gasoline, or perhaps even a cup of coffee. Anything you give is awesome. Feel free to shoot me an email too if you'd like. I can also make you a gnarly playlist.
Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest.
- Brady
Updates come as updates go. As far as this update I can’t tell yet if it will be short and sweet or long and compelling. Perhaps we’ll both find what we’re searching for at the end as my fingers figure it out. While I write this, not but five minutes ago, I had just finished my self injection for the night. 80 milligrams of drug that thins blood and leaves tanned bruises on my love handles. The embarrassment of the injection is far greater than the sting of the needle. You may wonder, “But Brady, why are you embarrassed?”. Perhaps the embarrassment comes from old photographs or seeing old friends. A time before blood clots, radiation treatments, blood work and hushed waiting rooms. I remember a time when I used to party all night. I’d stay up to greet the sun with a wicked grin and an embossed stench of male camaraderie. I’d toast to youth or hug my bed like a teddy bear. But now my feet swell, my joints ache, my stomach is bruised from chemicals and if I really stop to think my face burns. It doesn't burn like it used to though. Instead of becoming ill tempered over silly girls leaving goodbye notes, an over-drafted bank account that cancelled 75 cent taco night or a prose fight with a close friend, it burns because I miss how tragically wonderful those moments were.
On November the 2nd I came home from northern California in an odd misery that I've never felt before. A pain in my chest knitted my lungs closed with needles. It spread from my lungs to my joints as if someone had ripped thousands of industrial stickers off my bones. That night I looked in the mirror and asked God for one night of rest. He granted me just that. I slept for about five hours. When I woke the pain returned and in a greater magnitude. I stumbled into the bathroom, closed my eyes and began to heave and spit. As I opened my eyes I saw blood on the toilet seat and bobbing in the water in minefield of mucus. My parents had just come home so I walked down stairs, and confessed that I wasn't feeling well. Ever feel guilty for being sick? Well I do and I have hard time shaking that attitude. I told my parents that I honestly thought about driving my self to the hospital the prior night because I didn't want to be burden. But I have to let people take care of me... one of the hardest lessons I'm learning. Moments later we called my doctor.
“Describe to me what’s going on Mr. Effler?” he said with a bald tongue. I explained to him what I had just experienced. With each detail he’d clear his throat and make a noise to let me know he was nodding his head. “Sounds to me like you have blood clots in your lungs, but I’m not certain… Can you get to an Emergency Room right now?”
“Um… yeah.”
“Okay, well go to the Emergency Room right now.”
“Yes sir.”
I spent six days at Memorial Hospital. Every day I had to ring the bell for the nurse to take me to the bathroom. I couldn't even shower without help. Every day I received injections to keep my pain level from a “seven or eight out of ten” to a “two or three out of ten”. Every night I slept in a fox hole. And every few hours my eyes opened with my chest rattling. Blurred by tears my hand would grip the call button. They’d always come. The nurses, they’d always come... eventually. On the third night it really sunk in that four hours of sleep was a major victory. After multiple tests it was confirmed, two major blood clots had traveled from my legs to my lungs. Each day I got better, stronger and was able to breath easier. But like all rehabilitation, I started crawling and now today I can stand on my own once again.
After I was released from Memorial I isolated myself to my room and made good friends with the wall. To those of you that tried to connect with me, I’m sorry about the the lack of communication but it wasn't personal. I just needed time. I don’t know if this or was my darkest moment, but I’m having a hard time finding the light switch every once in a while. Not only do I have multiple tumors from a rare cancer but now I’m at risk consistently for blood clots. These blood clots just teased me though. “We’re so glad they stopped at your lungs Mr. Effler… For if they found their way to your heart…” Doctors find ways of turning good news into moments of me counting my lucky stripes. If it is luck, I hope it doesn't run out anytime soon.
Today is a new day and tomorrow will happen no matter what, and I want all of tomorrow. I’m starting chemotherapy again. Four more cycles of blood, shots and pills. The doctors want my body, or more so my lungs, to be healed before the stem cell therapy. So for valentines day I might have a cute date with transplanted cells in Nashville. I’m not facing it alone, and honestly sometimes I need to be reminded of that. Sometimes I need someone else to find that light switch for me. And sometimes I need someone to sit with me in the dark. I have love for all of you that have supported me thus far. I may not seem like the most thankful turd at times, but I really am. I’m not gracious when it comes to receiving gifts or acts of kindness but none of it goes unnoticed. So thank you, all of you. So, updates come as updates go. Turns out it was longer than I expected or even intended to be, but I can’t help it. But, one day I shall toast to the rising sun again. With a wicked grin and glazed eyes I’ll pour a two drinks. One for me and one for the Myeloma. I’ll finish mine but the cancer, well… it won’t be around to drink its portion.
#5. Somewhere Over The Rainbow // Israel Kamakawiwo'ole (Judy Garland)
When it came to The
Wizard of Oz I usually had two different discussions, the first of the conversations (being from the older generations perspective) would be about how magical Judy Garland was, what a tragic story and how it should have ended better for her. The second conversation was (my sad generation) "Hey man! did you see that video clip online of the
midget hanging himself in the woods!?". (ok bad start... *beeeeeeep* start over). But thank the Lord for Israel Kamakawiwo'ole for giving us conversation number 3. Man,
what a voice on this guy. Upon my first listen, I had was astonished by the softness of this mans voice. It was like i was being swaddled in washcloths made of bacon in the middle of a Hawaiian hot spring. Yes, yes I did feel that, then I saw a picture of him and it made complete sense why I sensed bacon, but then I became less of an ass and realized how beautiful this cover is. There is something captivating about this song that I can't
quite put my finger on. Israel delivers this sweet song to your ears, as
if its the last song you hear at a funeral or the first song at a
wedding. What ever it is, its great for mix cds, compilations and just a
fine sunday morning with orange juice and toast.
#4. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun // Greg Laswell (Cindi Lauper)
Discovering new character/personality traits about people you've known for a long time can both be an amazing and/or horrifying discovery. For instance, I was at a house party some odd years ago. The yard was filled with friends and strangers, new and old, close and distant, it was the perfect cabbage patch of personalities, but at this party was a really close friend of mine, and she beyond intoxicated. Kate rushed up to me like a little girl, spilling her beverage like rose pedals down an isle and greeted me with her gaped tooth smile, "Eyy! Brady-dude, I need you...". As soon as she said I need you, her face swelled like a balloon and she dropped her equally colored cup full of beer on the side walk and hugged me. To make a long story short, that night she wanted to leave because the boy who had sexually abused her back in High School was there, she had never told me in the several years that I've known her. Kate collapsed in my car as I buckled her in, brushed her hair out her mouth, turned on some Otis Redding and I drove her home probably when I shouldn't have (sorry Mom&Dad). Greg Laswell's cover of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun is like this story for me. It's a classic that has been completely redone and I can never listen to it again the same. The lyrics cut deeper and something dark and honest reflects out of the tune.
#3. Bitches Ain't Shit // Ben Folds (Dr. Dre)
If you've never listened to Dr. Dre before and you aren't a fan of "language" then you might want to scroll on down to #2. Just some friendly information.
When it comes to "old school" rap my two favorite albums are: Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) by The Wu-Tang Clan and The Chronic by Dr. Dre. "Bitches Ain't Shit" is the last track on the Dre's magnum opus and has been covered many, many times. But in 2005 Ben Folds released his cover of this priceless gem and it went to #71 on the billboard charts. Needless to say, it blew up and he was started to be commonly refereed to as "the bitch guy" because audiences loved his entirely different take on "g-funk, west-coast rap, gangsta-rap, etc...". When I first heard this I was so excited because I knew this would be the "sleeper-cell" on any mix CD I made for people. But then after it got way over popularized, I stopped using it. Sad day. BUT! Bitches Ain't Shit is my #3 because it's probably one of the most creatively original covers I have ever heard. I hope you think so too.
#2. Wonderwall // Ryan Adams (Oasis)
There are many reasons to love this song, First, in my personal opinion I'm just gonna come out and say it, the cover is better than the original by Oasis. I know that I may have just upset many people by saying that but hear me out. Much like the Greg Laswell cover, the song feels completely different after hearing Ryan Adams croon. The lyrics of the song contrast the rock vibe that Oasis "chugga chugga'd" out. I do understand that they have been an influential band of the 90's but still, a recovering alcoholic, nine years later just changed the ENTIRE feeling of that song. The second reason why I love this cover, which might completely invalidate everything I just said, is The OC. Again, many people might have just deleted me from their history, but you can't tell me that The OC did not have some awesome music on that show. (you can watch a clip from The OC Here) This song is featured on his album Love & Hate and it fits in so perfectly. I could write an entire paper on this song, but i'll just let the song speak for its self.
#1 Hurt // Johnny Cash (Nine Inch Nails)
I saved the best for last, my hero, Johnny Cash. I will always respect the Man in Black, and for many reasons too, but one of them being is that he never stopped writing and preforming. And his music was personal to his life and friends and family. He didn't become a washed up country artist hoping to make the pop charts. When Johnny Cash covered Hurt I was blown away for two reasons. The first being that Trent Reznor wrote the song. I had never been a huge Nine Inch Nails fan, but this song made me fan of his writing. Secondly, the music video just kills me. It has to be one of the most beautifully sad music videos I have ever seen. Almost brings me to tears every time. Johnny Cash will always be around and as it should it be, and this song should prove to those who never got him that it is possible to have all the fame and fortune and still be empty.
The music video was nominated for an MTV music video award but lost to Justin Timberlakes "Cry Me A River" video. Probably the day I stopped putting the "M" in front of MTV, its now "Bravo #2" to me.
So there it is!
My top 10 cover songs that should be in your music library.
Hope you enjoyed it.
Don't forget to e-mail me your favorites questions and or comments to: bradyeffler@gmail.com.
My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed. That is the truth, but it is also not because I don't want to work, I do. I was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma at the end of July 2013, and now I'm fighting the good fight. I am currently going through chemo treatments. From the advisement and orders of my doctor, I am not supposed to be working. Currently I am in the waiting process to receive social security, but that is taking it's time. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). I'm not going to lie to you, some the donation money will go towards gasoline, or perhaps even a cup of coffee. Anything you give is awesome. Feel free to shoot me an email too if you'd like. I can also make you a gnarly playlist.
Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest.
- Brady
And I will take you and leave you alone
Watching spirals of white softly flow
Over your eyelids and all you did
Will wait until the point when you let go
Circling All Around The Sun.
Back in March I was asked by my good friend Dave to write a piece on how I found/discovered/first heard of Neutral Milk Hotel for a blog he was starting up. Dave asked me though to tell me the story of when Jeff Mangum, the lead
singer/lyricist first "spoke to me". This may sound like a supremely
gross hipster thing to say, because it is, but I got excited because I
had the story! Obviously I didn't dare hesitate and began to write as soon as we parted ways in the coffee shop, literally, I sat down 15 feet away from him and began to type. If you aren't familiar with the band, they started out around
1989 and broke up after 1999. I'd risk sounding like a retarded
audiophile if I tried to describe how they sounded or even tried to explain their lyrics. But they are magical.
"And one day we will die
And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea
But for now we are young
Let us lay in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see ..."
As the months have pasted I have become keenly aware of what has been important to my history. I've exhumed, from both paper and digital earth, journals and diary's from high school, Tumblr blogs from sophomore year of college, photos, letters and even the dreaded Myspace notes. These literary quarry's have inspired and become series such as the Keeping Track of History, You Already Know How I Feel: 5 Songs We Use Not To Talk. But tonight something incredibly important is happening, I am going to see Neutral Milk Hotel, live with my older sister and I can already feel the tears welling up in me.
So pretty, so pretty, so pretty, so pretty
Please, please don't leave me here
Since the diagnosis, it's been hard for me to mentally maintain my natural relationships. I often feel like a touchable leper, or an exhausted tree house that the kids used to rough house in. Why? I can't explain it, but when you get cancer you might be able to relate. I love my family with my whole heart, and they know that but it's also been hard with them as well, but the one person that I have missed the most during this process as been my older sister Emily. Without Emily, none of my musical life would have happened. And I'm more thankful now for her husband because his love for music is toxic. So what you'll find below is some music by Neutral Milk Hotel and the story how Jeff first spoke to me.
So with out further hesitation here is my Jeff Mangum story.
I have no fairy tale or a series of isotopic events that
magically linked me to Jeff. Nor was there a chemical fire or an act of
truancy, evading some mystical life lesson, Jeff simply just happened.
You could have said that years back, because of sibling love and
relation, I met Jeff at a party with my older sister.
Emily was my beacon of insight, the poster of
nonconformity, she was the prima donna during the most important years
of my life, the years when one actually begins to think about what is
being poured into his soul via rhythm and tone. But what did I listen
to?
Tragedy.
Pure, unadulterated tragedy. I had recently purchased Britney
Spears second studio album, Oops!... I Did It Again and also in my collection, sitting upon my
night stand like a turd left by an oversized rodent, was Creed’s “Human
Clay” on tape. Granted I did have some Metallica albums and also Live's Throwing Copper, but quiet simply, I was tunneling my way pucca shell necklaces and dock shoes. As a great teacher told me once, “What ever is worth
doing is worth doing… poorly” and inspiration certainly did start out
poorly.
It was a breezy Tennessee night and two California kids
where locked inside their parents keep. Emily was in her overly sized
bedroom, painting on her largest wall, meticulously completing her mural
one oddity at a time. If the Berlin Wall was a symbol of art and
freedom, it would have looked like Emily’s wall. It was littered with
quotes, ranging from Green Day to Lisa Lobe. There were large portraits of the Cookie Monster
and Big Bird from Sesame Street followed by elegant drawings of peacocks and traced hands. Emily was the artist and the move from California to Tennessee had been the hardest for her, so my parents aloud her to express that, I was to much of a little turd at the time to have any sort of "artistic medium".
I was in my 4x4 cellar complete with an overly sized TV and
the latest video game system. My walls were bland, maybe a Star Wars poster that could have come from a cereal box and models up on dusty shelves. There was sticky shit on the tape
player and collared shirts scattered the floor like a river flowing from
the closet. The collared shirts... signs of a dress coded school.
That school was hell on earth.
But that's besides the point.
It was past ten at night, the quiet hour were the wardens
slept soundly but gingerly. Then I heard it, footsteps from downstairs slowly and delicately climbing the stairwell, then I saw the shadow past by
underneath my door heading for my sisters room. I had deduced that from the sounds of the worn squishy converse and that who else would be going to Emily's room that night, it was John-Michael, the
boyfriend was here.
If my parents had been right angles, JM was certainly the
bevel. His contoured mental state came at a wide birth, where as my
parents… an acute opening. There was never a dull moment when he was
here, so I quickly followed. As I opened the door I could tell that
Emily was mildly discomforted that I had appeared. She didn’t want
father to know he was here and I was a liability.
Emily beckoned me to leave at once but in my younger years was I was very firm, I would not leave or else I would tell daddy.
I was a little shit.
JM eventually told her that it was ok for me to be here,
but I could still see Emily’s discomfort, like a cat her hair was still
raised. JM, hoping to diffuse the situation pulled out a cd from one of Emily’s large jewel case stacks, placed the disc into the boom-box and clicked the play button. It was her
favorite cd, but I had never heard her say that before. How had I not
known what her favorite was? I was agitated… I was supposed to know.
The speakers popped, cracked, came to life and then it happened; strummed fuzz, organic hums and a manilla nasal voice crooned.
What was this shit?
Emily and JM just began to talk, talk over the music and talk
over my face exploding from the inside out. I had once thought that
every song was about sex. “Danger Zone” by Kenny Logins is about fornication, right?!
“Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac is completely about sad coitus, duh. The Mortal Kombat theme song
is about nerdy relations, I mean come on?! Every Beetles song is about the birds and bees just like every rap and/or
pop and song in a Memorex commercial was about copulation. It was all about SEX!… But for the first time, my roasting puberty and 14 year old
intellect couldn’t imagine a girl naked.
My sister was telling JM some story where she was at a
party with Davy Havok (the lead singer of AFI) and how he made out with
her friend. (I still don't know if that's true to this day...but) I couldn’t follow a thing they were saying. For the first time in my life
I felt like a fraud. I didn’t know anything about music. And that’s
where I met Jeff.
My heart was floating in glass.
He lingered in my mind from that day on, slowly becoming a
parable of youth. Like the song “Two-Headed Boy” I felt as if Jeff was
listening to where I was. As if to touch a moment of present purity and
offer solitude. A patience to a confused youth, a yielding and cuddling
truth, whispering that all-time is truly a moment to be free. Temperance
for tranquility, something much deeper than any intimacy I had
experienced. When ever the trumpets sing, like that hollow breeze, I am
transported back to a time where I knew nothing… and what a comforting
feeling that still is.
The End.
My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed. That is the truth, but it is also not because I don't want to work, I do. I was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma at the end of July 2013, and now I'm fighting the good fight. I am currently going through chemo treatments. From the advisement and orders of my doctor, I am not supposed to be working. Currently I am in the waiting process to receive social security, but that is taking it's time. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). I'm not going to lie to you, some the donation money will go towards gasoline, or perhaps even a cup of coffee. Anything you give is awesome. Feel free to shoot me an email too if you'd like. I can also make you a gnarly playlist. Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest. - Brady
(The 1st half of Keep Track of History: The Legend of the Iron Curtain.)_
I had been preparing for this all
week. I had been a grunt in the pop-punk trenches, suffering the sweet
symphonies ofFallout BoyandHellogoodbye.I constructed foxholes out of
teenage angst and quotes on hot topic shirts; it's hard to find a hater of
gooey pop magic in a foxhole (well, actually not really...). Back at the
barracks I had begun to elegantly dishevel my hair like a good garage band
king, brushed my teeth at least three times a day -- with whitener and Jack
Daniels. I made sure that I had even washed my favoriteBon
Ivert-shirt in that good
smelling detergent. After the washing I would rub some dusty man musk on it,
a.k.a. loading to the seams with Burberry Cologne. Why was I doing this, for a
hot Russian girl of course?
Gitte Kendel was going to be at
least, based upon her lean, five inches away from me for the next
who-ever-knows-how-long, or maybe only one and a half inches if I take that
left turn extra sharp. Did I pay attention in physic, yes I did. Gitte was one
of the most attractive visual pieces of art that God had made in my lifetime
and by god, this diva (meaning MUh!) was going to make a run for it. She had
tickets to a concert and I was the headliner.
I
was practicing an adsorbent amount of self-tidiness but I was also working on
that vocal-reflect-pop voice, it was my dream to start a pop group called,
"Real Foxes". Some days I toyed with the idea of calling "Real
Fauxs". My car had been the karaoke booth for months and every stoplight
got a show until I choked and changed the tunes back to eitherOtis ReddingorBane. Realistically all I wanted to do was dance around with a
corded microphone while doing torso twerks and make sassy hand motions. If
this doesn't send up any red flags, then I'll fill in the blanks. I have had a
rough time relationally in Cambridge and by the time I had gotten back, I had
replaced loneliness with a flaming hot ego.
When you leave the country for a
while, your mind goes a little hey-wire and my dream was to be famously sexy. I
wanted groupies that just cried out in blood lust after my single sparkly
glove; I would toss this glove after every show, or perhaps tear my shirt just
so they could get a glimpse of these rockin pecks. I really only had written
one song, it was about a dream I had with a hot nurse who enjoyed sunbathing
and Campbell's soup. Needless to say the only line I had penned so far was
"Hellllloooo Nurse!" followed by a minor chord; chicks love minor
chords. Original, I know. I had been listening to Bastille,
a band from the UK for the past two weeks and felt like that was the direction
I wanted to go in. Imagine if Instagram filters had the audio quality of
sprinkles and sexy bass licks, that was Bastille but with a British
touch. I could not hamper my excitement.
Gitte said yes to a lunch date and it was time for me to make my pop debut. The
location of the concert was my trash littered, white and ugly, softball dented,
Toyota Solar that I'm pretty sure was manufactured for retired, single soccer
moms. Enter the Karaoke! The Karaoke is a delicate art.
Not only are you using someone else's poetry to convey how you are feeling, but
you are becoming that artist and that song. It is the very less creepy and
graphic version of Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Instead of
swinging a chainsaw around, embodying the personality of the person’s face you
are currently wearing, you are sonically absorbing and simultaneously
discharging that very same power through your vocal chords; hopefully slaying
the crowd with your hot torso twerks and corded microphone tricks.
Earlier that day, during Spanish
class I had asked Gitte if she had wanted to grab lunch at the local this
pastry place. After the words as escaped my lips like a virgins first words,
she smiled, nodded and with one sultry accent said, "Why, yes."
YAHTZEE! After class we walked back to my
car, the white lightning stead was parked a good distance away, so it gave me
plenty of time to focus on three things:How much I had to pee because I was so
nervous, her obsidian hair reflecting it the summer breeze and hopefully this
leads to a couple beers. By the time I got done sweating out the 1st and
3rd item on my mind I had popped the door open for her and walked around to my
side of the car. I had listened thatAtarissong,Your
Boyfriend Sucks* a lot as a kid, and she didn't open my door... should
have been a red flag. Oh well.
We pulled out into the summer wind;
I readied my iPod like a gun and tighten my vocal chords like a helmet.
And as the Joker said, "Heeeeere ... we ... Go!".
"Here's a song I want you to listen to, I think you'll really like the band. They are Bastille", I said.
And with a smile she replied, "Oh I love new music! Play it!"
"I hope you're ready for some pop-punk gooey goodness!", I mashed the play button and the Karaoke had begun.
The trickle of the keys and the
fuzz of the mono bass crept their was through my speakers like friends in the
doorway caught in mid laugh, I was ready. I started to belt the song as the
chorus perfumed out of my stereo speakers, and it was magical. "You have always worn your
flaws upon your sleeve”
Gitte was beaming. She placed her
hands over her mouth to hide the dimples of her smile and snickered. Whenever
we made eye contact it was like the super laser on the Deathstar striking
Alderaan, but instead of a thousand voices crying out in pain, it was just my
voice booming and crooning. I don't know how I didn't wreck my car because I
worse than a drunk driver. I was either looking at the ceiling trying to hit
the high notes, steering wheel drumming or focused like a puma on her sunlit
smile. By the third chorus she had begun to sing along, it was like two distant
star-ships docking after a long flight; two anointing airlocks saying welcome
home, be at peace.
Gitte and I played that song over, and over again. We sang to each
other for what seemed like hours. It felt safe, it felt right and most of all
it bonded us together much better than a beer and cold hook up. The Karaoke is
powerful song because it brings us out of our box and transports us into a
reality that is not ours, but it still tends to the needs of the present
reality around us. The Karaoke is much like cosplaying, or trick-or-treating.
It gives us that much needed excuse to be someone else, but yet find it
completely excusable to act on our hearts deepest desires. At that time, my
desire was to be with her, thus there I was doing the Karaoke.
Even after that famous car ride we listened to that song whenever we were
together. For the time that we spent together it became our song and its a
fantastic one to have. The song has a beautiful message to it, stating that we
are all human, we all have done wrong, but it out those flaws we would not be
as beautiful as we are today. Do I ever regret having that Karaoke moment with
Gitte? No, not ever. But I now know how power and intense it is to "not
speak to someone that way."
Do you have a Karaoke Story? If so email me at Bradyeffler@gmail.com But there is more to this story. Gitte is the Legend of the Iron Curtain and last chapter of Keeping Track of History. So to get ready for the the next piece here is a song that will lead you in the right "emotive" direction of what is about to happen. Wolves // Phosphorescent.
My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed. That is the truth, but it is also not because I don't want to work, I do. I was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma at the end of July 2013, and now I'm fighting the good fight. I am currently going through chemo treatments. From the advisement and orders of my doctor, I am not supposed to be working. Currently I am in the waiting process to receive social security, but that is taking it's time. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). I'm not going to lie to you, some the donation money will go towards gasoline, or perhaps even a cup of coffee. Anything you give is awesome. Feel free to shoot me an email too if you'd like. I can also make you a gnarly playlist. Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest. - Brady
*The quote from the Ataris song, Your Boyfriend Sucks
"Alright, listen to me. You pull up right where she is, right. You go get out of the car and you lock both doors. You walk over to her, bring her over to the car, take out the keys, put it in the lock, open the door for her, and you let her get in and you close the door. And you walk around to the back of the car and you look through the rear window. If she doesn't reach over and lift up that button so you can get in, dump her!" "Just like that!?" "Listen to me Jim(?). If she doesn't reach over and lift up that button so you can get in, that means she's a selfish board and only seeing is the tip of the iceberg. You dump her and you dump her fast!"
