I’ve been in Australia for a little over a week and I must say I find it amazing. I spent some time detailing my first days. I awoke early in the am to type the words into my pc, only to lose my thoughts to an incoherent mind fumbling to recover from jet lag. I forgot to save the words before powering down. Note to self number one, no writing with bad jet lag.

Now relieved of that twanging sensation which is  not unlike a hammered tuning fork, I can think clearly free from the ill effects that such a long damn trip collects. Long being 24 hours traveling and sitting in small seats bolted into big airports with famous names.

The flight was interminably long. With a stop in Chicago and then one in LA, both beautiful cities, I was beat before the journey started. There were delays leaving Atlanta, roughly two hours.  Luckily the Chicago flight was only delayed by three hours so I only had an hour wait upon my arrival in the windy city. LA was another hour delay. It wouldn’t have been as bad if there were enough time to actually grab a deep dish pizza in Chicago or a Tommy’s tamale in LA. But, nope, tha wasn’t happening.

By the time the 16 hour flight from LA to Sydney was underway, I’d already spent 8 hours sitting or flying. Caught between something that vaguely resembled sleep and a knawing ache  running down the back of my spine and seeping just underneath my knee caps, it was less then comfortable. It was just uncomfortable enough for me to think about it, but not that uncomfortable that I actually got up and walked around the plane.

As is the recurring theme in my adult life, there were very few African-Americans on board. Walking around seemed to me an invitation for scrutiny from foreign eyes with alien ideas about just what my story was. Was I a ball player, singer or jumping bail to evade the long arm of the law? Funny thing is, I to had foreign eyes spying two other brothas on the plane. They travelled together and dressed in Lycra/nylon sweats and basketball shoes, their height seduced me into a stereo type: what team did they play for? Seeing them did comfort me though. It gave me the illusion I wouldn’t be alone when I landed in Sydney. There were now at least two other brothas in the country.

Not that I didn’t mind some eyes on me. Truth be told, I felt I was looking moderately fly in my newly acquired brown vest, smartly contrasting light beige ribbed shirt, and sufficiently dress-casual jeans. To top the entire ensemble off, there were a pair of brownish yellow pull on soft soled dress shoes adorning my feet. I thought I looked better then I had in years. At the end of the day in the consideration to walk or sit, sitting won out. I still got stares and unfortunately, it wasn’t because of my funky fresh gear.

The flight was scheduled for 16 hours, in the end, we did it in 15. Yea for great piloting. When I dragged my fresh dressed tired butt into Sydney, the weather was great and the scenery tropical. My eyes darted to and fro to greedily suck up any details they could discern. The palm trees waved in the wind and the overcast day promised a warm but gentle experience as I hoped in the waiting car and we drove the 45 minutes to my new home in Mona Vale, New South Wales.

How many MJ crosswalks can you count?

Along the way, I took in the sights and sounds that were Sydney. I saw cars that were familiar, but many more there weren’t. The first thing I was immediately struck by was what I perceived to be an unhealthy veneration and worship of Michael Jackson at every other street corner. In my American mindset, I saw signs at each crosswalk that hearkened me to the days of Thriller and I anxiously awaited street dancers to jump in the middle of the street popping locking and throwing down a bogaloo for good measure.

Turns out it was just a cross walk sign. There would be plenty more aha moments ahead for me if I could just survive the ride home. Again, my American mindset knew that in Australia the driving rules held that  “the left side is the best side and the right side is suicide.”  Despite the rules and conventions, the brain has certain elements of life that have become instinctual. Mindless violations of those instincts, without fail – for safety reasons- trigger alarms that widens eyes, tightens grips and causes a certain shallow breathing.

With every turn that we made, I couldn’t help but pause mid sentence, prepared to holler, “get on the right side!” Things have progressed though. Now not only can I sit while watching others drive Engilsh, but I can drive English and even navigate the unique round-a-bouts that seemingly hang out at the end of every street scattered across the greater Sydney area.

Update 6-27-2009:

Alas, my previous post on musical influences was incomplete. How could I forget “The King of Pop?”

The death of Michael Jackson sparked our collective minds to individual reflection.  It’s quite possible the passing of any musician or artist engenders this appeal, but his musical acceptance was freakishly universal. Consequently his songs, and his memory have the ability to connect a large groups of people.

In particular, the Thriller era claimed me as a zealot. Yes, yes I possessed a glove and coupled it with a mean moonwalk. Embarrassed may be part of my current emotion, but nostalgia is also woven into the fabric of this memory.

As the musical tributes over the airwaves continue,  each song visits me like an old friends carrying pictures and telling stories, all the while joyful or sad in their reminiscing. And with that, the unremembered names of friends relegated to forgotten scribbles on dusty yearbook pages suddenly burst into vivid recollection. Running a built in sound track to boot.

So, the Thriller album punctuated the soundtrack of my high school years. For me the grinding thump of  Beat It takes me back to dancing in the break room or peeking into the garage on Grove Street. The gentle sounds of Human Nature eased my morning runs through the winding hills of Villa Park, CA and helped me get through another load of laundry in our awfully bright laundry room.

The passing of  a musical giants brings to mind the scattered pieces of our lives. It’s crazy how someone who has no idea who you are can share with you such personal highs and lows.  I believe God’s creative love lives in these moments.  Musical artists are blessed in that they can  silently speak to a place in your heart next to thoughts and dreams shared only by you, the Creator and a special song.

RIP Michael Jackson – Thanks for the memories and God’s grace upon your soul.

Original Post Feb 23, 2009

Just read a friends post about a recent Journey concert she attended and it made me think of the special place that music holds in our hearts. Though I was never a huge Journey fan, I can remember watching the Faithfully video on tv during the MTV era. Years later I realized that my deep love and affinity for my family is why I loved the song and video. This realization highlighted for me how our music can call to the darkest corners of our heart and speak to the highest timbres of our souls. My life has been filled with music.

Hotter Than July

Music, though varied, is so universal. We find our identity in the artists that we love. Some of us love the rhythms, others yearn for the melody. Yet again, some folks clamor for words and lyrics flowing in syncopated rhythm, propelling us forward in our travels.

I’ve been in love with music since our first dance when I was a boy. I was laying down in the backseat of my mom’s black VW Bug, staring up into the bright Virginia sky. The tree lined Blue Ridge mountains reassuringly looked down on me as I unwittingly ventured into a new world. The year must have been about 1976 and from the speakers, Stevie kept asking, “Isn”t She Lovely” following it up with the refrain, “made by love.” And my mind went. I remember feeling so happy and I deduced the beautiful sound I was experiencing had something to do with the sun shining so bright. I didn’t realize that music was seducing me and my childhood sweetheart was here, for life.