Pine Nuts with McAvoy Layne: Stepping away from the temporal grid
Submitted by Jeff Munson on Sun, 01/09/2022 - 1:31pm
Time, to my mind, is merely music, if we can only hear it. It occurs to me that our lives are not played out over time, but are played out over melodies and harmonies that compose a swaying samba for instance, that might mature into a beautiful symphony.
A 32-year-old has been alive for just over one billion seconds, but more significantly, perhaps that 32-year-old has been waltzing through life in three quarter time, spreading joy at every turn.
When we first meet a person we should not be asking ourselves, “How old do you suppose they are?” We should be asking ourselves, “What sorts of songs do you suppose they might be singing?”
Most people have music in their eyes. One can be uplifted by a short steel-drum glance, just as one can feel pain from the solemn stare of a dirge. If you don’t see music in the person’s eyes you are meeting, excuse yourself to the loo, and keep on going.
The older we get the more music we hear in every little thing. Even rocks have a tune they will play if we give them time to warm up to the rare occasion of our listening. Birds have songs they get from trees, trees have songs they get from frogs, and frogs, well, frogs need to practice.
I have a pet blue jay, “Huckleberry,” who will only fly onto my rail for a Beer Nut when I whistle his favorite song, “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” That song, and that song only, assures Huck that I am to be trusted, and he pecks the rail with his baton of a beak upon hearing that tune. It is a wonder to behold on a daily basis, a wonder for which I am ever so grateful and amused. By the way, I do peel and wash the Beer Nuts before handing them over to Huckleberry.
He sings to get my attention too, and I would guess he might be singing what every jay in our neighborhood considers to be his favorite anthem, “Home Means Nevada.” Huckleberry lends to that song an endearing lamentation that would inspire a homeless person to give him a hand. It’s really something to hear.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, if we look for music in everything we see, we will find it, and that music will impart a more accurate measurement of our aliveness than any clock could ever chronicle.
I hope my last breath will rightly be dedicated to that song, “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” and too, I hope some good soul will step out onto the deck on the morrow, and whistle that same song to Huckleberry. It might take a couple of verses, but he will come around, bang his baton of a beak on the rail, and thank you in song for the kindness of a Beer Nut.
Let us take a step away from the temporal grid, and listen instead for the music. It’s everywhere, even in places where we least expect to find it. Then, we can commence conducting our symphonies.
Go here to listen to the audio version of this and other columns.
— For more than 30 years, in over 4,000 performances, columnist and Chautauquan McAvoy Layne has been dedicated to preserving the wit and wisdom of “The Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope,” Mark Twain. As Layne puts it: “It’s like being a Monday through Friday preacher, whose sermon, though not reverently pious, is fervently American."
