LVJ

You were always in the right place at the right time when I needed you to be there, in the rain or shine. And I don;'t believe I ever heard a word of complaint. Sometimes there was not a word at all. You were always there to give me the direction true. Now it's time I must be there for you.

In a world where there is danger and uncertainty, you were there to give me comfort and security. You were like the sun upon which could be counted to rise. Like the rain you gave what made me grow. And though now things seem confusing, I can't make you see. I'll be here 'cause you were there for me.

©2010 Raymond M. Jozwiak
(Thanks Mom. I Love You.)



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You Couldn't Play The Music. . .

. . . so you made up your own. . .

That's what the father of another accordion student said to me at the conclusion of accordion practice on the night I chose as my solo, a song that I made up. . . I mean. . . an original composition. In fact, it was my very first original composition, to the best of my knowledge.

The piece was entitled THE NEW YORK STRANGERS. It was essentially, half blues and half folk song. Literally. It was not verse- chorus-verse-chorus, or verse-chorus-bridge-verse-chorus. It was first-part-second-part (repeat). It had lyrics. Very simple lyrics which I, unfortunately (and embarrassingly) do remember so will not repeat here. It was inspired by. . . nothing in particular but the need to write an original composition. Well, isn't that ENOUGH?

And the comment from the other student's parent seems quite ruthless in print. It was, in fact, delivered quite humorously (and kiddingly) by a man who had quite a fine sense of humor with no offense intended and none, indeed, taken.

In retrospect, quite possibly (make that DEFINITELY) the best part of the entire experience, and the finest nuance of the memory, is the look of pride on my very own father's face as I received congratulations from several listeners that evening.


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The Poet Said. . .

. . . 'trailing clouds of glory we come. . . '

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

from:
Ode
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
by William Wordsworth.


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Heard somebody say. . .

. . . they overheard you just the other day; a simple word about the way we get along. If only I were sure of the semantics. Having doubts 'cause I'm one hopeless romantic. Could it be you're slipping away from me? What will I do if what I'm thinking is true? And you want to be really free of me? I won't last very long very far from your heart. And this third-hand intelligence might be the way that it starts.

Heard somebody say they thought they saw you just the other day. You were not alone they said he didn't look like me. Thinking to myself, "must be mistaken." Try not to believe but still badly shaken. Why would you deceive me in things you do. So many years! Sharing our laughter and tears. . . lasted very long. Maybe I was wrong not to ask you why you feel we've drifted apart and this third-hand intelligence might be the way that it starts.

Are my sources reliable? Wait and see. Wait and see. Is my psyche too pliable? It could be. It could be. . .

If somebody said, "the sky was falling, soon we'll all be dead, have to quit our stalling, try to be prepared," would you believe it's true or would you question all the things you do and change your direction from spinning round when it hits the ground? That's just not true. Any believers are few. When you've seen it all it could never fall any more than I think you could tear us apart. And this third-hand intelligence might be the way that it starts.


Hear THIRD-HAND INTELLIGENCE
©1997 Raymond M. Jozwiak


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The Roar of the Greaspaint. . .

. . . the smell of the crowd.

Yeah, that taste of public attention, appreciation, the thrill, the communication, the connection between performer and audience cannot be underestimated. It's not ego. It is a need. Like a drug. The accordion band practice refined my experience and perception of the performer/audience relationship.

And after several years of accordion band practice sessions, which were really low-calibre concerts, I'm not quite sure what inspired or motivated me since nothing clear remains in my memory of the motivation, I wrote my first original composition.



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You Haven't Lived. . .

. . . until you've heard forty seven accordionists playing HALLELUJA I'M A BUM on a cold, Monday evening in November. Kinda warms the cockles of your heart.

Well, we used to have 'band practice', not as in a conventional 'band' of various compatible instruments rehearsing together for a performance, but a 'band' meaning a group, and 'practice' meaning just that. And many of us most certainly needed practice. Theoretically, the concept had musical merit. Playing with other music students promoted an understanding of time, tempo and dynamics, following a 'conductor' (of sorts) and taught cooperation, support, sympathy, harmony, rhythm and accompaniment.

The configuration was four rows of metal, folding chairs of about 8 - 10 facing the conductor (an accordion teacher, most often Mr. Edward (Taylor) Krawcyk) whose back was to a row of assorted couches and chairs where the parents of the students sat to 'enjoy' the music of their progeny. The protocol had the 'new' or less senior (accordionwise) students in the first row, with students 'promoted' to the following rows as they progressed in skill, or sometimes when they merely 'hung in there' for a period, with or without really improving technically at all.

And the coup de gras for seriously dedicated students of the squeezebox, during each band practice, was the opportunity to perform a solo. Only two rows of students were allowed to perform a 'solo' each week, simply because of the one-hour time limit of the weekly gathering. The first two rows would offer solos one week, with only the 3rd and 4th rows the following week. And Oh Boy, did I look forward to my time to 'shine' with a solo every other week. And this performance opportunity was not taken lightly, by myself at least, and much time and toil was taken in the selection, preparation and eventual performance of my bi-monthly accordion solo.


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Meteors. . .

. . . that come once a year, quite a show of fireworks when you're there to see them. Shooting stars fantastically glow. All too soon, no one can say where they are or gone to. Back on earth, we average reside. Most of us will never know such adoration. So I go my ordinary way, do my job and feed my kids in this world and wonder. Dust and gas, that's what they're made of. Dust and gas, that's what they're made of. Dust and gas, that's what they're made of. Why all the fascination?

Fabulous, they'll take your breath away. They will dazzle with their style and their savoire faire. Improvise, they make their own rules. All the cattle follow close behind from the pasture. Dust and gas, that's what they're made of. Dust and gas, that's what they're made of. Dust and gas, that's what they're made of. Why all the fascination?

Why couldn't I be one among these many millions? Why can't someone see my astrological worth? What causes the sea of heavenly bodies to glow like they do; show off so brightly for me and you? Sooner or later they burn themselves out but oh, so beautifully. Beautifully.

Meteors have nothing to fear. From their distant firmament, they shine for the masses. Safe above, removed from earthly life, from uncertainty that lines the cloth of our mortal existence. Dust and gas, that's what they're made of. Dust and gas, that's what they're made of. Dust and gas, that's what they're made of. Why all the fascination?


© 2008 Raymond M. Jozwiak



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