I built something.

Years ago, while in the midst of my first read-through of A Song of Ice and Fire, I decided I was going to build a castle out of wood and stone. That plan remains intact, but I’ve started with smaller projects so that I can figure out how to become, with some iota of proficiency, a stone-mason.

Stop laughing.

For those who don’t actually know me, allow me to tell you that a stone-mason I am certainly not. Nor am I a handyman. The crowning pinnacle of my handiwork expertise is perhaps successfully installing a ceiling fan several months ago without experiencing any electrical shock; it even functioned on the first flip of the switch. A proud moment it was, indeed, when my ceiling fan burst to life and swirled cool air around the room for the first time. When I go into a hardware store, I would be hard-pressed to recognize most tools and describe their functionality.

When I was a little boy, probably eight or nine, my parents bought me a drill. In an unauthorized experiment, I destroyed several planks of fence around the backyard. That was the end of my powertool era as a young man.

As the weather has warmed after a particularly brutal winter in Vermont, I have finally decided to start working on building stuff with stones. I was recently at a book store with my roommate and in my hand was a book about stone-masonry projects. I told her I was going to build stuff with stones, and she laughed, as was entirely expected. My first project would be to build a stone walkway from the entrance of the garden to the driveway. Based on what I gleaned from the book, I needed big, flat stones. This idea was simple enough that I felt confident undertaking the challenge. I did not need any extra tools, except for a trowel, perhaps, to make things a bit easier. Essentially, I would dig a big hole, and play Tetris with several dozen rocks for a few hours. From this, a stone pathway would be born. And, so long as no one uprooted the stones for some reason or another, the pathway would remain for many years.

I wasn’t going to buy rocks either, because that’s just silly. So we planned a hike up Putney Mountain where I would bring along my rucksack and fill it with rocks. Big, flat rocks. Simple enough.

And so the next morning we went to Putney Mountain where we trod upon the paths and I stopped every couple of yards to put some rocks in my bag. The bag became inordinately heavy after about 1/4th of a mile, and we had about a 1.5 mile hike. It’s a short distance, but it felt like an eternity with a bag full of rocks smashing against my kidneys. I expected this prior to my rock collecting expedition and, remembering my goal, trod on through the buzzing clouds of mosquitoes and gnats while wearing my “It’s time to get austere!” face.

We went back to Brattleboro after the trek, and I figured now would be a good time to buy a trowel. A trowel would be cheap, and could help out quite a bit with laying down the stones. I put my bag of stones in the garage, and walked to the hardware store in Brattleboro to purchase a trowel.

I entered the hardware store and immediately found a trowel on a shelf. It was ten dollars.

The following is a list of thoughts which passed through my head as I spent an inappropriate amount of time staring at this simple tool, deciding whether or not I needed it:

“That’s basically just a metal triangle with a handle…”

“Do I really need a trowel right now? Am I quite that committed yet?”

“Purist stone masons don’t use many tools. Maybe I’ll be a purist.”

“What’s wrong with using my hands? I’ll just use my hands and get dirty. That’ll be cool.”

“Why is it called a trowel?”

I left the hardware store empty handed.

I walked across the street to a fine bookstore called Mystery on Main Street. I’ll spare you the details, but I spent thirty dollars on books without hesitation. I walked back home wondering if doing handiwork is something I’m really capable of, or if I should just accept that reading books through my thick bifocals is what I’m meant to do.

I arrived back home and decided to dive straight into the work. I lifted up about two inches of dirt in a rectangular area. I realized I had nowhere near enough rocks to make a real footpath that would extend from the garden to the driveway. Instead, I would create a rectangle of rocks and dirt that would be about one foot long and two feet wide at the picket-fenced entrance to the building’s garden. It would be a start. I had a beer, played some RL Burnside, and started laying rocks down while occasionally skittering away like a maniacal fairy from my meager work site when hornets buzzed by my face.

After finishing my work, I stood triumphantly and said to myself, “My name is Ozymandias, King of kings…” However, before finishing the aphorism from a poem recently made popular by the Breaking Bad series, I reminded myself that pride was not what Shelley had in mind when writing this little piece. My meager stone pathway would be eventually lost to the sands of time, just like the “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone … in the desert.” Nonetheless, I was still pretty proud of my work, even if it was just a start, and even if a dead British poet felt like reminding me that nothing is eternal.

If you haven’t already, I would recommend reading this work  by Percy Bysshe Shelley; it’s a short sonnet.

I finished my beer, reveled in the sturdiness of the beginnings of a stone-footpath, and went inside to begin reading the books I had recently purchased.

I also thought to myself, “I’m going to need a shitload more stone to finish this footpath.”

Mystery Band.

I recently sought a way to expand my musical/social horizons in the humdrum town of Brattleboro. I spoke with a townie friend of mine and she recommended I try the Mystery Band event that has been annually held in town, hosted by some artistic hippy collaborative known as The Future. I asked her to describe the event and what it would entail, though I already had a basic idea after nervously considering participating in such a thing.

She informed me that I would provide the host of the event my name and contact info, and this info is put into a figurative hat. The info is randomly assorted and then picked out of the hat; I get matched with three other people who are also participating. We have two months to collaborate and then put on a show in which we play several songs in front of what sounds like a pretty large audience.

So, townie friend, you’re saying that I get to meet up with three random strangers, try to figure out how to incorporate an accordion or violin into a group consisting of probably three guitars, and then induce massive amounts of stage fright upon myself? This sounds like a wonderful time!

I signed up, sent an email to the host of the event, and he matched me up with three other dudes. We exchanged some emails before our first practice, and I was almost right: two guys play guitar, and the third plays the keyboard. I would soon come to find out that the third guy doesn’t actually “play the keyboard,” but more on that later.

We exchanged several emails and decided that practice would be held at 5:30pm.

I have a propensity to think of safety and security before participating in any peculiar situations (thanks, job!).  And I determined that it would be best to invite the strangers to my own house, where I am familiar with where I keep the firearms (thanks, Sun Tzu!). My place has plenty of space in which to practice, which was also another important factor.

I spent a while considering whether or not I should tell these people that I’m a cop, and I decided against it. Their reactions would be entertaining, and I like entertainment as much as the next red blooded ‘Merican.

Anyways. The first car pulled into my driveway at around 5:40pm on the first practice day. The driver saw the cop car, and slowly backed away. I figured that would happen. A subtle wave of relief washed over me and I realized I may not have to do the Mystery Band thing. I can say I at least made the effort to go out and meet other musicians, but it just didn’t work out. Hurray, back to my peaceful solitude.

But alas, the car returned 15 minutes later and stopped in the driveway. Surely, the driver, whom I later learned was Jon, had gone somewhere and confirmed via GPS or some sort of mapping that the driveway which he previously visited was certainly the house in which he would practice. Yes, Jon, that was the house, there’s also a cop car in the driveway. Face your fears, hippy!

Face his fears he did, but not without stuttering and tripping over himself as he walked toward the front door.

He entered the house and avoided eye contact at all costs, and wouldn’t really talk. Can’t say I entirely blame the poor bastard. He had a nice guitar in one hand, and a shitty Carhart jacket over his back. Due to the fact that I am a purveyor of all things awkward, I’ve learned how to diffuse the situations; a skill which comes handy at work.

This was definitely one of those awkward situations. A guy I met from the internet showed up at my house with the intent of forming a band with a cop, and two other mystery people. Holy fuck, this is weird, and the other guys need to get here. Jon is about to shit his pants, and I’m running out of lines to avoid awkward silence.

A loud banging came on the door, just in time. I opened the door and encountered a mad scientist.  This fellow had a collection of oscillators and synthesizers and looping devices tucked under both arms, along with a guitar. He seemed completely unfazed by the cop car, which was nice, though he later said he was quite nervous.

The third guy, the keyboard wanker, did not show up because of a *cough* family emergency.

We played disorganized and chaotic music for an hour and parted ways, it wasn’t too bad after the initial mountain of awkwardness. We had another practice scheduled and the keyboard guy showed up this time, several days later.

This keyboard of his isn’t used as a piano. Instead, he uses the different sound effects to make my living room seem like a studio for the Nickelodeon of 10 years ago. It got to a point where Jon, the quietest of the group, said, “Just…please, no more of the clown noises or race car sounds.”

Good job, Jon. Use that voice.

This Mystery Band thing is quite alright, for now. We’ll see how it progresses, and I’ll update on the Mystery Band experience after the performance.

We still don’t have a name…. or any real songs put together, but hey, fuck it.