“When we’re young we set our hearts upon some beautiful idea. Maybe something from a holy book or French Philosophia.” ~Guggenheim Grotto (“Philosophia”)

“One day you will look back and you’ll see where you were held now by this love. …Follow this feeling…” ~ (“Mysterious Ways”)

Mysterious Ways (This Must Be the Place Pt. II)

In a guest star appearance on The Simpsons in the mid 90s, Johnny Cash voices a mystical spirit-coyote to give Homer some insightful and amusing guidance. A day or so later, Homer recalls the memory of his experience, then further presses his mystical friend for more advice. With the echoing sound of sage wisdom, the ethereal voice of Johnny Cash says: “This is just your memory. I can’t give you any new information.” This quintessential bit of Simpsons humor is always good for a chuckle. Although, it makes me wonder if it’s true that we can’t get new information from an old memory. If we can’t, what good is there in reflecting on them? Along with an exploration of this question, I’d like to touch upon a significant moment in a person’s life where an imprint much deeper than memory is made. This span of time, which usually occurs around the age of fourteen, sets a person on their pathway towards personally- selected influences and passions. I often find myself drawn into a reverie of memories from my mostly-anxious and highly emotional teenage years. In some cases, with a genuine fugue of focus, I am able to generate an immersive memory palace, replete with the sights, sounds and smells—but most importantly, the feelings—of my much-younger self. As I do, I remain cognizant that memories are subjective and tend to reflect our current selves more than our past selves. Also: they are surprisingly malleable, and we run the risk of changing them every time they are accessed. The simplest example of this is the way we assume, for the sake of continuity, the central figure in the memory (us as we were then) is the same person who remembers (us as we are now). My family’s three-year-old cat, Everett, will often play this out as he tries and fails to duplicate his proudest moment as a kitten. About once a week, he jumps up on a shelf in the basement in order to slip through a kitten-sized gap between a wall and the ceiling. He then stands by the gap and meows, not able to comprehend why he can’t fit in. This happens because, once as a 4-month- old, he got up on that shelf and slipped through the gap; he then went exploring where no cat has gone before. As we all stood there, staring at the hole, worried he might not come back safely, he did. At once, his small kitten-face appeared, covered in dust and cobwebs, so he could meow at us and turn away to continue his journey. What I need to remind myself is this: while Everett remembers the event and likely knows his way around in the dark caverns of his imagination (and our basement ceiling), he has no sense of the fact that he used to be small. If you put on INXS’ Welcome To Wherever You Are when I’m in the room, I will be instantly transported back to 8th grade. The lead song, “Questions,” has a very unique and particular muted trumpet riff which is meant to invoke the spirit of the Egyptian Sphinx; and to my mind, this attempt succeeds every time. 8th grade for me lands between Fall of ’94 and Spring of ’95. Although our home in Dayton was much the same as it was when we’d moved in three years earlier, this is a span of time with no horizons of us moving in nor moving out.1 The unheimlich redolence of Eau-du-Chad in my bedroom had slowly faded, to be replaced at once by the overbearing and everlasting linger of wood stain on a new dresser in my room which belonged to me but was never mine. On the radio was KDWB, playing Prince’s Cream,2 along with smash hits like Counting Crows “Mr. Jones,” Tag Team’s “Whoomp! There It Is!” and US3’s “Cantaloop” (of which, the end-of-song trumpet solo was an endless inspiration, since I played trumpet in band). In the afternoons, back from school, my ritual included a daily dip into a perpetually replenished bag of “atomic sour” gumballs. These were made by a local confectioner (with a sparse “boutique” label on the bag) and were, as far as I knew, only found at the F&F gas station up on 13 and Highway 101. I first tried one in 5th grade in the back of the school bus and I still chewed one per day three years later.3 There is one other nearly-ubiquitous recollection which comes barreling towards me whenever I think back to the mid 90s, and it’s the thrill of technology, availability and endless entertainment which came from having both the internet and satellite TV for the first time. We lived so far from civilization in Dayton that cable wasn’t an option, but we soon got DirecTV, with its fancy controllers and channels into the 500s. And as AOL subscribers with a 56k modem, I have a strong and almost cliché association to the famous jingle which signified a successful connection: “Welcome! You’ve got mail!” With all of our technological dreams becoming a reality, it seemed as though the future was now. The Fall of ’94 was also a significant moment for me in terms of artistic influence, especially music, as my mom had inducted herself into an album-owning club where she could select and receive, by mail, one new compact disc each month (for only one penny). I forget the name of this popular club/scam which ran from the early to mid 90s, but check the footnotes in case I remember.4 At this time, she loaded up on a spree of new albums, creating a moment of flourishing on our home stereo system. I got my sensibilities for great music from her, I believe, and it was her audio cassette of Graceland which introduced me to Paul Simon; leading eventually to The Beatles, Led Zeppelin and the range of benefits which come with truly great music. Regarding the CD club, highlights from this cache of new albums included: INXS’ Welcome to Wherever You Are, U2’s Achtung Baby, Live’s Throwing Copper, En Vogue’s Funky Divas and the R.E.M. masterwork, Out of Time. It was a glorious haul.

1 This sense of a repeating moment which includes no awareness of its beginning nor end is defined in great detail in my essay “Spots of Time” in set four. 2 2 or 3 years after its release. Prince is a bit overplayed in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area. 3 Blue and red were the most sour. There’s no way candy could be that sour without involving unsafe chemicals… 4 Columbia House. The catch was: after the first year, CDs were priced at $18-$20. Members had the option to unenroll at any time (otherwise it would have been illegal). Any age is a good age to discover a new influence or develop a new interest. For some reason, though, those interests and influences which find us between the ages of 13 and 15 are extra strong—as though they occupy their own top tier. Not only in terms of how we remember them, but in how they change our trajectory into our futures.5 These influences might be certain friends, certain classes in school, particular TV shows or musical acts which happened to be popular at the time; but to a 14-year-old mind in this particular state, there is something more substantial, more true, more emotionally evocative about these golden experiences than the silver and bronze which will eventually follow later in life.6 It is as though we suddenly find ourselves, in a fledgling state, physically and intellectually mature enough to begin to explore. With this sense of flourishing, we will want to let an impression take hold: one which indicates a polestar of who we are and what we are capable of doing with our lives. Like the chick who follows the mother hen, we follow the lead of whomever we admire—assuming somehow that their way of being will also be our way. Some events and influences from these times are only background, of course. This sort of thing, like an episode of Blossom, can be recalled with nearly-nostalgic joy. Even those clearly dubious artifacts, like M.C. Hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This” (or even “Soft and Wet”), are somehow palatable—even if only momentarily. To visit actual places again, in person, if from the vacuum of ten or twenty untouched years, can bring a thrill of a haunted presence from one’s own past. If these are just memories, which can’t give us any new information, value is found in recognizing those things which we would choose again, given everything we know now. To discover something new within such a memory is to discover something new about oneself. U2’s Achtung Baby is my purest example of such philosophia.7 I can state with an undoubting conviction that I would not be who I am today if I had never heard this tremendous album.

“Time is a train, makes the future the past. Leaves you standing at the station— Your face pressed up against the glass.” (“Zoo Station,” Track 1)

The guitar work of on this album is truly inspired. He picked up a flair for some Americana-style methods while working in California for Joshua Tree, and he carried many of these motifs into Achtung Baby. He is truly, as Jimmy Page called him, a sonic architect.

5 Suppose this observation is called the “pubescent imprint theory” and is more than a phenomenon, relating to some true evolutionary advantage; just as a newborn chick imprints the idea of “mother” on whichever moving object it finds in its immediate proximity. Although sometimes this “mother” is a farmer’s boot or a rolling tractor tire, it is much more likely to be its actual mother hen, which will naturally teach it how to survive. 6 Some hormonal reason is surely the culprit for this. Although there are likely to be a range of influences which are formed before this time, this moment is special because nearly everything gets incorporated into one’s psyche. 7 Although the word “philosophia” is simply the French word for “philosophy,” and it is generally associated with the Philosophes of the Enlightenment—Hobbes, Voltaire, Diderot, Hume, Rousseau, etc.—it conjures for me a sense of its meaning in the song “Philosophia” by Guggenheim Grotto. Philosophia: That which defines us.

“Have you come here for forgiveness? Have you come to raise the dead? Have you come here to play Jesus To the lepers in your head?” (“One” Track 3)

I find it so remarkable to hear these questions from within my memory. It’s very much like the interaction between Homer and his spirit coyote; only in my case, it’s my memory which is asking me pertinent rhetorical questions. Yes: Why am I back here? What am I trying to find? Well, I have an answer, and it was a particular memory which was something like the 1883 eruption of Krakatoa, in that I was not aware of its influence on me until fifteen years after the fact.8 Coincidentally (although probably not coincidentally, given this entire theme), the central character in this event was closely associated, in 1995, with the U2 song “Mysterious Ways.” In my first version of The Nashville American, I included a dedication page which read: “For Michelle and Rufus: may you meet one another in the afterlife.” This is a strange dedication, yes, and this will be my first attempt to explain what it means. The first thing one should know is the concept of the book: it is a mystery, and it has clues strewn about for the reader to pick up, collect and put together. As dull as the story may seem (and yes, the plotline is far too monotonous), something of a map or a portrait will emerge for the reader. The second thing to know is the significance of these two people—Michelle and Rufus—and the role they played in the creation of the story. To throw in a third thing for the sake of trivia, these two also have an homage-like presence in the novel, reflecting their influence on me.9 Although I knew Michelle all throughout high school, the entirety of her influence on me and the reason she was named in the dedication for The Nashville American occurred on a field trip to the Minneapolis Institute of Art. The field trip was for our Humanities class, and it involved the 40-or-so students in our grade’s honors classes. Beyond simply enjoying ourselves in one of the nicest fine art museums between San Francisco and Chicago,10 our mission on the trip was to find a particular painting, sculpture, or artifact in the museum and write a reaction, which was something like a one or two-page comment or essay. I made a layup out of the assignment by finding Vincent Van Gogh’s “Olive Trees...” and gushing about its evocative colors. Michelle, however, got so invested in the assignment that she delayed the bus’ departure for Elk River by a half hour. When a pre-departure head-count and its subsequent recount

8 When Krakatoa erupted in 1883, changing the world for all and ending it for some, the blast rang out at 310 decibels, registering at 180 dB 100 miles away. This means the wavelength of the sound was over ten miles. Try to comprehend this: although the blast was heard 3,000 miles away, if you were standing on an island 5 miles away, watching the explosion (before being killed instantly), the 310 decibel blast would be entirely inaudible. 9 There are two details in The Nashville American which can be explained with all of this back story about Michelle and Rufus. In the library sequence in part 9, there is a book which is left open on a table—The Penitent by Isaac Singer. This is the book which J. Rufus Fears said changed his life, as though through divine providence. Also, in a moment of aporia and answer-seeking by the main character, Kevin, he comes to understand the difference between the words “The Third of May, 1808” as a date in history and as the name of a Francisco Goya painting. 10 Another great one in this class is the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City, Missouri—just sayin’. inconveniently came up one short, we collectively figured out who was still missing—Michelle. We all wondered: where is she? Didn’t she remember we were leaving at 1:30? So on and so forth. So when she suddenly appeared beside the bus driver, she took on a cascade of sarcastic applause as she walked down the aisle to the back row.11 As she sat down in the seat furthest to the back, the bus was already pulling away from the curb. Within moments, I turned to talk to her, and due to grace, composure, or both, it seemed she wasn’t the least bit upset about all the sardonic attention she had just gotten. In fact, it seemed as though she had been crying, but had gathered herself at least five or ten minutes before. I asked why she was late. She said she lost track of time. I asked why nobody could find her. She said nobody was looking for her. Indeed, she said she had been sitting in the same spot for over an hour…perhaps two. So then I asked why she had so much to write, and why she couldn’t just do the assignment later. After all, I explained, we were all going to miss our bus rides home from school. This is the part which struck me in some invisible way. She had an answer, and although her answer made perfect sense, I couldn’t understand it. Her explanation seemed logical, her actions seemed reasonable, but somehow the situation did not seem actual. Between my questions and Michelle’s answer, some unseen aporia opened up for me which would take years, along with inspiration of my own, in order to revisit and ruminate upon. What happened was this: Michelle was searching for a painting to dive into and respond to. Upon seeing a certain painting, she instantly knew it was the one she was looking for, and it inspired something like an epiphany or an ineffable and incomprehensible idea which she allowed to sweep over her in a rapture of subtlety and complexity.12 She asked if I knew which one she was talking about, and I said yes—in fact, the reason I noted it was because I saw her sitting on the floor in front of it! I simply thought: Oh, Michelle picked her painting… So I asked what was so moving about it, and she said she didn’t know. It had something to do with the fact that the subjects in the photo were all illuminated by a single source of light, and that this source of light was blocked (a lantern, blocked by a face or a forearm).13 An identical effect can be found in Francisco Goya’s masterpiece The Third of May, 1808, although this is something I did not know at the time. I have seen this painting several times since the field trip. I always take a moment to observe it on my regular visits to the M.I.A.. It is a reminder of the five things which make it a

11 For some time, I had held a minor crush on Michelle (in fact, she’d somehow secured “Mysterious Ways” as an emotional touchstone, causing me to think of her when it was on—one cannot do much better for a theme song). And ironically, it was this exact moment which ended my attraction to her. This peculiarity in my personal history (that this moment ended my crush) will be investigated in the upcoming essay “Es Muss Sein.” For now, think again of my “Krakatoa” analogy, because Michelle was actually doing something very extraordinary and brave with her lonely walk. Also: consider my cruel 180-degree sea change of affection with these three facts: 1) everyone sat in the same seats on the way to and from the museum, 2) She was the first one on the bus and had taken the back seat; so I with the second pick took the kitty-corner seat in hopes that we could talk, and 3) As everyone (but not I) teased her while she walked all the way down the aisle, I was mortified that she was sitting down next to me. 12 If one were to call this “Stendahl’s Syndrome,” it would assume the phenomenon to be somewhat common. 13 Although I know precisely which painting this is, I will only invite readers to travel to Minneapolis and discover it for themselves. piece of philosophia which has shaped my life as a writer and philosopher. First, the sense of aporia it caused: to know there was something I did not know. Second, the depth of emotion it stirred in Michelle, who was willing to sit still and capture a sense of understanding—to do absolutely nothing else until she could make sense of her thoughts and feelings.14 Third was that there are things like this in the world: concepts, experiences, works of art, which can open up a new world of emotion and understanding. I now have two more reasons to list, and they are the same two reasons I opened my book with a dedication to Rufus and Michelle. Because it was my discovery of the lectures of J. Rufus Fears—in conjunction with those by Daniel N. Robinson, Elizabeth Vandiver and Dorsey Armstrong—which brought on an extraordinary flood of new ideas and influences in my life. This renaissance of thought, this second sailing into a new golden age of life-altering influence, happened for me while I was in my late 20s—far too late to help me out in my discussion with Michelle in the back of the bus; and as it would turn out, also too late for me to have a present-day conversation about the topic with a long-lost old friend, because in 2010, at the age of 29, she died suddenly. I found out through a mutual friend, and I couldn’t believe it. And what settled in with me, after I’d thought through her encounters with me in my life, as people tend to do upon hearing the news of someone’s death, I felt the pressing loss of what could have been a very good friendship. Even though we’d found our ways into happy relationships, families, careers and so forth, I realized I’d failed to ask myself a question and search for its answer—this regarding Michelle. So to say For Michelle and Rufus: may you meet each other in the afterlife, I was reminding myself to wonder what would have changed in my life if I’d met the influence of Rufus in the mid 90s: at this age of wonder where all influences and interests key themselves into the soul of a person and drive their path forward. My hope with the book, to presume I’d somehow succeeded, is for the reader to get a glance at the moment of inspiration, so that they might seek it out for themselves, as soon as possible. Franz Kafka was right: our outside influences—especially books, music and works of fine art—should be an axe to the frozen sea within us. Beyond breaking ourselves open to introspective searches of self-appreciation; works of art can inspire us to find that compelling necessity which draws us further into the world. With this axe, we can break the surface; then begin clearing trees to build a boat. And maybe the cartoon coyote spirit voiced by country legend Johnny Cash is right: we can’t get anything new out of an old memory. If there is something new for us, it will come when we follow the feeling and see where it leads us. A memory can’t give us new information, but it can give us a lifetime of illumination.

Kevin Umhoefer April 15th, 2021 Thank you

14 How could a sound be so loud that it ruptures the eardrums of people 50 miles away? How could inspiration cause a person to be oblivious to everything else? And to tie in Krakatoa with the theme of fine art, Edvard Munch’s The Scream (1893) was partly inspired by ash-filled evening skies which glowed orange over Europe.