I'm very tired of people thinking that I am stupid. I get that you can't understand my words, but that does not mean that I am wrong. You could at least try to listen before dismissing me and assuming that I don't understand the simplest of instructions. I am not stupid, you are stupid. 

I'm also very tired of people looking at me as if I were a child. Or a dog. Or some other unintelligent being that doesn't know you're full of shit.  I can see, and hear, and understand. I am an adult. Maybe you are not.

Saxophone

I've gotten rid of a lot of stuff over the past few years: bike, basketball, hockey skates, stick, and gear, skis, boots, and poles, and countless other things. One item I still have is my saxophone. 

I was thinking: what was I best at? If I went by other people's accolades, playing my alto sax would be high on the list.

It's also very high on the list of things I was most enthusiastic about. For a time. In the 7th, 8th, and 9th grade I couldn't get enough.

I spent the entirety of the 6th grade and perhaps half of 7th grade playing the clarinet. The school wouldn't allow 6th graders to play the alto sax. Actually one kid did play the alto sax in 6th grade. I won't name names but I imagine his parents threw enough of a hissy fit that someone caved. He practiced with all of the clarinets in the cafeteria where we lined up single file in chairs in front of the stage. There must've been at least 30 eleven-year-olds making mostly horrible noises. There's no knowing how many wanted to play the saxophone, but by the time I was a senior in high school and perhaps earlier, that horde of clarinetists had dwindled to two lonely girls. And me on sax. Three total. And not that they were lonely, I just liked the juxtaposition of "lonely" with "horde".

I didn't start out on the clarinet with plans to switch to the alto sax. In the 5th grade, when the music teacher played the sounds of a bunch of instruments for us, I liked the clarinet. That cassette, or whatever it was, didn't include any saxophone sounds. Those thoroughly coordinated sneaky bastards.

I remember when I first got my sax, midway through the 7th grade. It was a rental from that place in Bethel, Ellis Music. But you knew that. I remember opening the case in my basement (where I practiced) and just staring. I was mesmerized. By the shiny new object. I was 12.

I'm not sure why I decided to pick up the alto sax, but a few things are for certain: it's louder, it's cooler, and in most respects it's easier. A clarinet is made to be played at a low volume in a small room. The alto sax, though not as beefy as it's cousins the tenor and the baritone, is almost unbearable in a small room. 

In the 7th grade, louder is better. I didn't want subtlety, I wanted to stand out.

Just a quick aside, the reason I think the saxophone is easier than the clarinet is mostly because a sax has keys that you push down while a clarinet has holes that have to be covered with the requisite fingers. If one of the holes isn't covered properly, a clarinet produces nothing but squeaks and squonks. Squonks are the lower octave.

Because it was so loud, I always practiced my sax in the basement or garage. I spent my first days making up little riffs for hours in the basement. I still remember, and can do the fingerings for one particularly righteous riff I taught myself before I even knew what the notes were.

Playing in the traditional band always felt anonymous. The music didn't excite me (for the most part) and it always felt so serious. There was no room for personality. No one was pumped to see the high school band play. This was the opposite of what I think most people consider art. Not to say that there wasn't a great deal of skill involved, but tracing the Mona Lisa would also take skill.

I think I wanted to be me. When, in the 6th grade I started going to jazz band after school, (with my clarinet) I found the fun in playing music. 

The first songs we learned were "Now's the Time" (Charlie Parker) and "Mr. P.C." (John Coltrane). There were no arrangements; all of us played in unison besides the rhythm section (piano, drums, bass if we had any, guitar if we had any). It couldn't have sounded any good, but that didn't matter.

I carried my sax (and clarinet before that) to and from school every day. I practiced every day. I didn't need to be told to; that was one part of my homework that I wanted to do. In high school we had practice sheets (for band, not jazz band) that had to be signed by a parent, attesting that a kid practiced for 30 minutes each night. We had one-on-ones with the teacher (again, in band) where she would ask us what and/or how we practiced. I told her that a lot of times I just played. Whatever came to mind. And she was mostly okay with that. She knew I had very little interest in band and the alto sax's role in an orchestral band is nearly nonexistent. 

We would have "small combo" jazz performances at student art nights and (for some reason) in the middle school lobby. I have, or had, some old Polaroids of us in the art room: a couple trumpeters with mid-90s bowl cuts, a trombone or two, and two or three saxes. Not pictured: a drum kit, piano, and maybe more. I don't have the pictures in front of me, but the bowl cuts I’m sure of.

Our concerts were always in the evening, and the jazz band always performed last. (Do you think that was because jazz was lowest on the totem pole, or because had we performed first, the rest of the night would've been too much of a let down? Very likely it was both.) I was always so excited after shows that I would talk non-stop to (more like at) my mom and often my mémère for as long as they could tolerate it, at the school, the entire ride home, and at home. I don't know how I got any sleep afterwards.

We played the jazz fest every year: on weekday afternoons at various outdoor stages on Church Street, and at least one year at Contois in city hall. I have a recording from one of those street shows; my mémère brought her handheld cassette recorder. That was in 8th grade. We played James Brown's I Got You (I Feel Good) and I ripped off an incredible (I'm not a braggart, I've listened to it many times, it was damn good) solo. 

We played in the state jazz band competition every year: in middle school at Memorial, and in high school at the Flynn. Those were always a lot of fun. We would spend most of the day (a school day!) at the Flynn. There was just so much glorious down time. We hung out in the dressing rooms, got sandwiches at KKD, and sat and listened to a new school every half hour. Each band played three songs, and while there were always a few repeats, and some groups were better than others, we all got to spend the day watching a lot of talented musicians who masqueraded as high school students.

I don't remember every song we played. There were some old standards, (think Duke Ellington, or big band) some of those Latin jazz songs that were always a blast to play and whose names I've entirely forgotten, and some crowd pleasing funk like What is Hip? and Pick up the Pieces. Yes, those are links. Enjoy.

I even had the chance to play, along with seven of my classmates (five of us freshmen), on a couple of songs behind Trey Anastasio and his band. I believe we were introduced (by Trey) as the South Burlington High School All-Stars. The show was a benefit for C.O.T.S. at the Flynn, on a Monday night I believe. We were (I think I can speak for everyone in this regard) all so nervous knowing Trey would introduce each of us for a solo, we spent a lot of time pacing around the dressing rooms trying to at least form an idea of what to play.  We were on stage for maybe ten minutes and watched the rest of the set from backstage. Trey brought out Mike, Page, and Jon (of Phish) for an encore of Further On Up the Road and Voodoo Child. And of course Dave Grippo (our band leader) ripped two incredible solos on his alto. 

It was a great experience for all of us. I came away with a photo of the horn section on stage, a double CD of the second set, and a signed back-stage pass.

I got so many accolades after jazz band performances, (from parents but also from fellow middle/high school Kids, imagine that?!) that it's incredible that a bell didn't go off as in "I like this, I should take this more seriously." But I never did. It was a lot of fun and that's all I wanted at the time. I never considered it more than that. As with most things in my life, I never looked ahead. Am I going to do this in college? Do I want to do this for the rest of my life? I never gave it any thought. Eventually, like a lot of things, it became less fun.

I shouldn't say that it became less fun, because I think it was always fun, but in time I became less obsessed and more distracted. It was easy to spend a half hour, an hour, or even two hours tearing the roof of our garage (so to speak) when I was 12, 13 years old, but as I got older, other things started to creep in: after-school sports, part-time jobs, cars, girls, friends, even homework. 

I played in a band in college (shoutout to the F2 superfans) with some friends and rediscovered the fun in playing music. I got my hands on a tenor (thanks Kev) and realized how much better (and easier) it fit in with a guitar and bass. You know those typical portrayals of a teenage garage band where there always seems to be a fight for control? That wasn't us. We really had a blast hanging out in the basement. I do wish I had spent some time with a bari (that's the one Lisa Simpson plays), at least in part because I would love to be the little guy with the giant saxophone. 

It would've been so great if only all of us had more time for it. But we were in college, working part time jobs, living in tiny spaces, without the time or the collective obsession that I had many years before. I don't remember our last time playing together; things petered out at some point.

So there in the basement my saxophone sits, unplayed for almost ten years. Thanks for the memories, old friend.

Do you ever have dreams that give you hope? Or dreams that make you anxious? Are they rooted in reality? Or completely off the wall?

In my dreams, I may see people I haven't spoken to in years, I occasionally even see my brother although I think I know, in the dream, that he is dead. It always seems as if I am normal and healthy, but I always know that I am not. I rarely awake disappointed because although I may mistake a dream for reality, it's never the reality that I want. 

I saw an old friend in a grocery store maybe six years ago. She looked at me kindly and said "How're you doing?" I responded "Still vertical" with a sheepish grin.

Not anymore.

I've been meaning to write about this for a long time: The idea that every day is worse than the day before. With time, my ideas of health and normalcy have changed. In 2011-12, I thought my health had gone to shit, and compared to previous years, it had. But when I look back, I got by okay. 

Most of the time people didn't even know that anything was wrong. And that was my priority, hiding and protecting myself. Instead of letting everyone know and accepting whatever the response would be. 

I've always been good at protecting any of my vulnerabilities, putting up a giant fence and pretending I'm bulletproof. I have a distinct memory of a girl in middle school telling me, "You're so conceited." I certainly acted conceited, but that was only an attempt to protect myself. From all of the shit I had taken growing up as the youngest kid in the neighborhood, and the smallest kid on the bus. 

I was one of those "Is everything okay?" "Yes" before you could even finish the question. I've never been any good at giving or receiving compliments. I've never been good at telling people how I feel. I've often struggled with even knowing how I feel without having to first figure out how the world feels. Even as I knew it wasn't important, I still needed that validation. I needed to know what others thought before I could be confident in what I thought. 

I of course wish that I had the easy confidence that I portrayed, in myself and my decisions. I wish I could've been proactive rather than reactive.

I feel like I'm always going to be remembering yesterday, wishing I had done more. One day I will look back on today with the same feelings. But it's just so difficult to appreciate what you have when you already feel that you have so little. 

"Money isn't real, George. It doesn't matter. It only seems like it does." That's from Ray Liotta's character in Blow.  I always liked that line, but now I see it from a different angle. I have a really hard time caring about anything other than my own health. There is a reason why for centuries the promise of improved health has been used to pilfer money from the masses. The UVM Alumni House, (the Edward Wells house, formerly Delta Psi) was built in 1892 thanks in part to the success of Paine's Celery Compound, a patent medicine of 22% alcohol and a hint of cocaine. A bit off topic I know, but I had to get that in there.

I would gladly spend any amount of money if it would improve my health. If I were told that I would be in debt for all of my life, would always struggle with money, and that I would work for all of my life trying to repay my debts, I would take it. I wouldn't have to think about it. 

Money doesn't solve every problem. I understand that everyone needs money for the most basic of needs, but sometimes I have difficulty seeing the value in it.

Often when I sit for an extended period of time, one (I don't necessarily think that it's always the same one) of the vertebrae near the bottom of my spine comes out. When I stand it can feel like my hip is coming off. Put another way, when I lift my foot off the ground my leg gives a sense of dangling there. I have to (multiple times per day) arch my back and push my hips forward to (sometimes smoothly, often not), pop it back into place.

I went to a wedding this past weekend. I don't hate weddings as much as you might think. I'm not sitting there seething with jealously the entire time. But I certainly don't enjoy them the way that I would like to. The best part for me is to see old friends; the people I would almost never see otherwise. Sometimes I get emotional when they ask how I'm doing. I stare deeply at them and my eyes well up. I shrug my shoulders and respond with a underwhelming "Okay".

I went to the wedding in my wheelchair; the one that folds up and weighs next to nothing. I can't really move it on my own, except using my feet. I'm not like one of those people with buff arms self-sufficiently wheeling around. I got out of the car, sat in my chair, was pushed to the wedding site, had a jacket put on me because it was miserably cold and windy, and sat there until the ceremony was over. I could continue but you get it.

The reception was the same; plop me down at a table and people come to see me. With most of them it's the same, they ask me questions and I don't have any answers. And they can't hear me over the talking and music anyway. I'd like for people to just come up and tell me what they're up to. It'd be a lot easier that way. 

It's very easy to get stuck in a one-way conversation that is going nowhere. One where I look and act completely uninterested while the other person struggles to hear anything I've said, and with any luck gives up and leaves me alone.

I still feel everyone's eyeballs when I'm in the chair. Some people definitely give me special attention. I might actually enjoy it if I could express myself better, but I am not suave, I cannot schmooze, I can't even embarrass myself with a story that starts with "Funny story" and ends in silence. 

So I observe. I watch and I listen and occasionally, if only for a few moments, I am hugely entertained. By somebody's outrageous dancing, an obvious moment of drunkenness, or by watching the stern, "I will not be having any fun at this wedding" guy standing alone in the corner and wondering whether his wife will successfully drag him on to the dance floor. She did. And good for her. Do you have to be so serious all the time? Can you let your guard down for a little while? It's a wedding not a middle school dance. What are you afraid of?

People come by and sit. Some of them feed me gossip; some feel an obligation to keep me company.

My friends have all gotten married, had children, bought houses. People see them differently than they used to, when they were just broke kids living in shitty apartments. I don't. I see the same people I've always known. I'll have to ask them if they feel they've changed. Do you think you've changed?

There was a story in Seven Days last week, another story about airport noise, that caught my eye. Normally I would say that I have heard more than enough on the topic, but the picture drew me in. It's a plane on the runway with a fenced backyard in the foreground, shot through the windows of a back porch. Having seen the airport from just about every angle, I wondered "Hmm, where is that?"

It's one of the few remaining homes on the street, the Garvey's house at 44 Dumont Ave. 

In 1986 my parents bought 57 Dumont Ave from Mr. Garvey, one and the same, who had recently retired and planned to move down the street to take care of his aging mother. He had raised five boys in that (3 bedroom, 1 bath) house. That was 1986. 

Mr. Garvey spent decades (I don’t actually know if he was the original owner) at 57 Dumont and an ongoing 33 years at 44 Dumont. When I was growing up, the Garvey's were a quiet, retired couple who took frequent walks by our house. I delivered The Other Paper to their house (via the mail slot in the garage door) for years. We kids used to walk beside their wooden fence, between their house and the once-yellow triplex next door, to get to the end of Airport Drive that is now a hodge-podge of parking lots. We used to hang out by the airport fence, doing nothing in particular. 

I look at Google maps to refresh my memory. When I was growing up, an aerial view of the neighborhood would’ve shown a lot more houses and a much smaller airport devoid of a parking garage. The more recent rounds of demolition have been more rapid, but houses started disappearing early in my lifetime if not before. Both sides of every street, including Airport Drive, were once lined with houses. The Garvey's have been there through all of it. I guess it's not that unusual; I guess I'm fascinated that anyone still lives there at all.

I get it, I've been to other airports; none of them are surrounded by houses. It was loud living there. The windows rattled, you couldn't hear the TV or engage in conversation. Often we had to take a pause as four or so F-16s took off. I'm not so much wistful over the loss of my house or the neighborhood, but I do feel something strange if I drive through. In my mind the place doesn’t exist anymore. It's not the buildings or the lawns; it's the times I miss.