Finding music in my life

Today’s post is in participation with Women On Writing’s mass-blogging event, Everybody is Talking About Finding the Music in Life. We are celebrating the release of Sonia’s Song by Sonia Korn-Grimani. To read Sonia’s post and follow our symphony of participating bloggers visit The Muffin. Share your comments on any participating blog for a chance to win a copy of Sonia’s Song!

One reader will also win! I will send in the name of one commenting visitor to be entered into the WOW drawing for a copy of Sonia’s Song in either print or ebook (winner’s choice), and from those entries one winner will be chosen at random.

(The contest is open until 11:59 pm Thursday, October 18^th—I will send in my randomly chosen reader’s entry by noontime Friday, October 19^th (Mountain Time)

My jazzman. That he was.

I couldn’t do this topic justice without writing about my son Paul and his music. We lost him to suicide in 1999 as a result of his bipolar disorder.

Very early, from the time he could sit up on his own, I’d perch him up on the piano bench and he’d tinkle on the keyboard. He loved it, he listened, he sang along. He knew the words; he could pick out the tunes. He was a natural. Nothing was too hard, nothing out of reach. All he needed was the piano—and wow, could he play. 

Paul started piano lessons at age ten and made such great progress in his first year of lessons he blew his little-old-lady piano teacher away. He and I both decided to learn how to play “Chariots of Fire,” and by the time of his first recital after just one year of lessons, Paul was able to play it by heart without a hitch. He also got into Bach, the Beatles, and started to become interested in jazz. He joined his high school jazz ensemble and later got a MA degree in jazz music at the New School in New York City.

Unfortunately his music career stalled and then halted during his seven-year struggle with bipolar disorder. He went on and off his medications because he felt he couldn’t be creative if he took them regularly. After he died we found a small suitcase full of his recorded music – many his own compositions.

One of his friends transferred the cassette tapes to CDs, and I now have all his music in my iTunes. Now my goal is to get a professional CD made of a selection of his original compositions and sell them to the public with proceeds going to nonprofits that help erase the stigma of mental illness and prevent suicide.

My Jazzman

My jazzman

beat it out

on the mighty eighty-eights

played those riffs

tapped his feet

bent his head

down to the keys

felt those sounds

on his fingertips.

Yeah, he was a hot man

on those eighty-eights.

But, all too soon

his bag grew dark.

He went down

deep down.

My jazzman

played the blues

lost that spark

closed the lid.

And, yeah, you got it right,

quit the scene.

laid himself down

in that bone yard

for the big sleep.

Please go the In Memory of Paul Sharples page on this blog and click Play to listen to Paul’s music.

Sonia’s Song is the story of one girl, who rises from war's ashes to sing the songs of hope and love world-wide. A heart-wrenching and poignant memoir, by internationally renowned singer Sonia Korn-Grimani. Learn more about Sonia at http://claygrouse.com/sonias_song/.

Writing down the memories

It was almost an obsession of mine to get my Paul memories written down. I even wrote poems and journal entries about how I went about it. And fortunately I did write them down because a lot of that material ended up in my memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On.

Memory List

I’m making a memory list.

I don’t want to forget my son Paul,

So I’m writing down all the things

I can think of that were unique to him.

I keep grabbing, scratching

my bony claws at the surface of my brain

to remember, to rediscover, to reconnect with

how he looked, what he said,

what he did, how he did it.

I am continually searching for

little mannerisms that were so Paul.

I keep adding to it

I keep going back to it

I keep rereading it

I keep editing it,

so I don’t duplicate what’s already on it.

But, hey, I know a little list

of things he did or said

isn’t going to bring him back to me.

That’s the truth.

You should have seen him.

He walked so fast

like the rest of the New Yorkers.

I had to run to keep up with him.

My dad was like that too.

My dad was so in love with Paul.

I can still see them.

Paul perched on my dad’s lap

gazing into each others eyes

with proud grandpa and grandson

grins on their faces.

Maybe they are up there in heaven

taking long fast walks together.

Probably not, but

I'd like to believe that anyway.

Dad with Paul, 1973 

“I want to watch a record,” he would say

as he lay down on the tattered red and black couch

for his afternoon nap,

then much too young to differentiate

between watching and listening.

He was mesmerized by music even then,

calling out from his car seat,

“More Cat Stevens, Mommy,”

and singing “Oh, Baby, Baby, it’s a wild world”

along with the tape.

He sat in that car seat, sucking his fingers

when he wasn’t singing

and holding on to his stuffed green turtle

he loved so hard

we bought a six pack of them

so we could, in good conscience,

throw the old worn ones away.

 Paul and the turtle, at about one year

It came as no surprise he became a musician.

He started out with a sax, then piano,

then an electronic keyboard.

He taught himself how to play the guitar.

He could play almost any tune by ear

and never had my problem memorizing a piece.

By the end of his first year of piano lessons

he played “Chariots of Fire” in a recital.

His music brought him to New York

to study jazz at The New School.

He loved New York: the cold weather, 
the fast pace, the dives, the Indian food,

the subways, the walkups, the late nights,

and the freedom to come and go anytime,

anywhere he pleased.

He was a loner and he fit right in

with the other talented loners there.

That is until he got sick.

Then he became afraid of New York.

He hated the sirens, he feared

people were poisoning his cigarettes and drinks,

he thought the Mafia was out

to hurt his girlfriend,

He saw hit men lurking in doorways

and he began running away.

One year he went back and forth

between New York and Los Angeles four times.

One time he walked from the lower East side

across the George Washington bridge

into New Jersey – just

to get out of the city.

Another time he took a bus

from Los Angeles to Ensenada

and spent the night in a Denny’s

because he didn’t have enough money

to get a room.

But he couldn’t escape.

No matter how many pairs

of brown Doc Martin shoes

he wore out,

he couldn’t walk away from

what was going on in his head.

The music he heard as a little boy

became his demon.

The familiar strains of Cat Stevens

and his beloved John Lennon

became the menacing voices

that told him to kill himself.

So, now I’m making a list of memories.

It keeps growing larger and larger

as one memory begets another

and another

and another.

2001

New York City Memories with Paul

Paul, June 1992, New York City

In June 1992 I went to New York City to visit Paul. We shopped for a bookcase for his new studio apartment that he kept immaculate, we had dinner at a favorite Indian restaurant, and we went to the theater. One day it was so hot that I took a shower at his place before we went to dinner and my first meeting with his new girlfriend. This was the young woman who was his love for the rest of his life.

He was very caring of me during this visit. He stayed with me at the Union Station until it was time for me to board the train for Washington DC where I would also visit my brother and his family. Paul worried about me being in the station alone.

I am so glad we had such a special time together, and that he gave me the opportunity to take his picture. That visit took place nine months before his first manic episode.  After that there were no more opportunities.

Paul’s New York

New York City

Union Square, the lower East side

Paul’s country.

He blossomed there,

he became a musician there

while he learned about the real world

of cold fourth floor walkups,

dealers hustling on street corners

late night gigs, playing for tips in smoky bars

fast walking just to keep warm

and a first grownup love affair

with a girl named, Janet.

I went back there last month.

No, he wasn’t there.

He’s been dead

and gone almost two years now.

The reminders were everywhere.

The square where he first lived as

a freshman at the New School

in the tall skinny brick building.

66 Park Avenue where the Jazz Department

held classes and had practice rooms,

jam sessions,

and young musicians

aspiring for fame.

It was on the marble steps of that building

where he first met Janet

with the long flowing auburn hair

and piercing blue eyes

The love of his life.

No, she was his life.

Beth Israel Hospital

just around the corner.

That’s where they took him

when he first went crazy,

almost ready to graduate

getting gig after gig,

staying up all night,

playing music, drinking Scotch whiskey

hardly eating,

smoking one cigarette after another.

Ah, it was the life

until his musician friend

Bill died of a heroine overdose

and things were never the same again,

Avenue A where he lived after graduation

and recovery from his first break

now teeming with young people

bar hopping

listening to music.

It’s a happening place

made famous by the musical “Rent.”

For me it was filled with old memories

of my boy, Paul

and where his dreams

would never come true.