Unlikely Pilgrims & White Cotton Briefs & a Little Bit Wonderful...

So I’ll give it to you the best way I know how. With a true story.

The year I can’t tell you. But I think it was a good year. And a dear friend had returned to his humbler roots in our hometown from the hustle and bustle of the big, big city beyond all reaches of the sleepy sea air, a hotshot lawyer with all the other young hotshots out for blood. And he could work as hard and play as hard as the toughest among them, climbing that upwardly mobile ladder one liquid cocaine after another, and another, and another. He was a natural. And we’d all known he could do it.

He could do anything.

And with a signature chuckle, eyes twinkling. Like it was nothing.

And he loved his new life, he did.

But on the rare occasion, missing home, he would make the journey back to his family and lifelong friends with the effortless expediency of business class, and once his plane coasted along the tarmac and came to a welcome stop, he’d shrug off the city that never slept and slow the fuck down, one of us again, just like old times.

Just like old times.

And then I’d get my special day.

I always got that special day, one sumptuously unhurried and special day, where he was all mine.

And on one such special day, in this that good year for it must have been a good year, he whisked me off to a little Italian eatery in the only gentrified quarter we had to offer the relentless foodie. Charlie’s I think it was called, as long as it lasted, now a whiskey and cocktail lounge, and only as long as that lasts.

But Charlie’s was a safe bet back then. Ours a fickle bunch of heathens in this, the only gentrified quarter still. And it deserved better. And for all its limited menu, the kitchen faithfully served up Italian fare unfussy and simple and what they did simply they did bloody well. Beyond this, and still far more than we deserved –not to mention in the most fundamental of all the exacting requirements of my friend’s discerning tastes – their winelist was formidably impressive.

And no, I know what you’re thinking.

But the big, big city hadn’t turned my newly city slicking friend against the virtues of a dependable plonk, those household names the order of the day in our parts.

Ours the kind of folk who knew them well, always a bottle at home in the pantry cupboard, and it was safer that way on any winelist. Ours the kind of folk who relied on the uneventful eventuality that the house wines of household names would be dry enough and fruity enough, just like the staple bottle back home, and just like the bottle before it, and the bottle before that, and surely what more could you want with a Thursday night curry. But my dear friend had always stood apart from the rest.

No, never a heathen. Not even in our young days, him the bartender and me a waitress at a classic but unpretentious Jewish joint where the white linens were always pressed to perfection, but the renowned lamb shank with mash a hefty portion of such hearty tradition it would’ve been just as at home in any reputable pub the world over. No, never even then.

Even then, I’d laughed out loud when he’d told me he wore only white organic cotton briefs and nothing else, available at one upscale chainstore branch in our city, and this one alone, and of course in the most aspirational of shopping malls we had to boast at the time. And boy could he woo a table with his talent for wine pairings, daring and cajoling and arm-twisting even the most reluctant among our kind of folk to venture forth bravely from that faithful plonk. To take a leap of faith. To flirt with insanity. No plonk, not tonight!

Just for that one night and one night alone if nothing else. And nothing in it for my persuasive friend but to raise us all to greater heights. To taste with him, that elixir of the gods. And he didn’t really care for big tips. Not really.

He was a Buddhist. Still is. If you ever cared to ask. And if you seemed sincere enough.

And he wasn’t in the least bit a posh prick. Never could be.

Everybody only ever wanted to be his best friend. And everybody got their chance.

He was warm like that, a big heart, a slap on the back… Democratic about it.

And what did I know? He was the first Buddhist I’d ever met.

But he knew what he liked and he’d spare no cost, money just money, and be it a pair of undies or a bottle of bubbly. My curious introduction to Buddhism. And I never doubted him. Never.

How could I?

Not if you knew him.

Each and every time his eyes would twinkle and he’d chuckle that signature chuckle of his and for a fleeting instant, you’d bask in it. We all did. The bliss, that exquisite bliss of that catchy carefree chuckle. And coming to call a master of the chuckle as the closest of friends and everybody’s best friend and mine too… Well, I’ll tell you this. If I know anything now. This. That chuckle, oh the chuckle. Eyes twinkling always, chuckling. The chuckle may be distinct, sure. And the most masterful of all a calling card in even the most crowded room. Sure again. And rare, so rare, dead certain.

But in truth, they’re all the same.

All the same and all one with the universe and all so catchy and carefree they often catch you quite unawares, and treasure them, and savour their music a while longer, as long as you can, and bask in the bliss, like we all knew better, in that exquisite bliss, oh the chuckle, and eyes twinkling, for trust me, you have stumbled upon the truly enlightened pilgrim. Oh the chuckle. Ah the pilgrim. Unlikely. And unassuming. And always a curious introduction. And even the best of them can appreciate a good pair of undies.

And my own curious introduction returned and on this night, my very own Buddhist full of chuckles as we gabbed away in that gem of an Italian eatery. It didn’t take long and the bubbly flowed, then a fine bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, then lord knows, but it flowed, and it flowed, and then the cognac, ‘Fine, man!’ hailing the bartender like a champ.

And then. I just can’t say really.

Whether it was the basking, the booze (and so much booze!), the hour all the more hallowed in the last table left, just the two of us… Who can say? Really. And Eddie Vedder’s soundtrack to Into the Wild began to play achingly in the background, and with it, my aching heart began to sob, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.

“It’s just so goddamn beautiful. Jesus.” My chest heaved, tears flowing. And his eyes just twinkled knowingly, and a knowing smile on his lips. Eddie could do that to you. And we sipped on our cognacs, dizzy and punchdrunk and smiling like a couple of goofballs, soaking in something so goddamn beautiful, for all the tears just wouldn’t quit. Just the two of us. And Eddie.

And God bless the curious Buddhists.

And God bless Eddie.

Oh that Eddie.

God bless.

And not because he is the voice of a generation. Or effortlessly cool. For all he’s probably both.

Sure, I see you, gathered in stoic reverence at your Nirvana séance. And I see you, Anthony Kiedis die hards readying to bludgeon me into believing with the bedside bible that is Scar Tissue. So help me God, I pray that it’s the soft cover… For all I coveted Blood Sugar Sex Magik as much as the next die hard. And who doesn’t love a good séance. But to me, it’s Eddie Vedder. And Michael Stipes. And their music only gets better and better still with the passing years, all the while irrevocably my teenage sweethearts. My generation.

And God bless Elliott Smith, gone too soon.

Another voice of a generation. He’s worth a séance, and God bless him.

And God bless Ben Folds.

For all he is the voice I need to hear when I need it most, no matter how he goes down in history.

And God bless all the curious Buddhists and unlikely pilgrims.

And organic white cotton undies.

And God bless the so goddamn beautiful you sob your aching heart out.

And no, it’s no author these days that steals my aching heart as the most unlikely pilgrim.

God bless the lot.

But that Ben Folds. He’s the one. He’s my unlikely pilgrim. All music and lyrics.

Yeah, that curious Buddhist I got to call friend taught me the art of spotting even the unlikeliest of pilgrims.

Gospel.

It’s Ben Folds who makes me want to write, against all odds.

And the authors I worship… Nope. Not them.

No, not John Irving. Not for me. I’d need his ego. You need a whole lot of ego to pull off his flawless stronghold when it comes to sheer stupefying ambition tamed into absolute submission. Besides, what kind of egotistical majesty begins with the last sentence of each and every weighty behemoth, and only then is he ready?! Now that’s ego. To have the last say like that. And to know that it’s immortal. And even more, to trust, as a writer, you can stronghold ’em, each and every one, one after the other, each and every one as much a feat of brute brilliance, and maybe the next even better. Goddamn.

You gotta love that ego.

It’s no wonder he was a wrestling man. And disarmingly handsome too, if the only photo I have of him is anything to go by, and I’d like it to stay just so. No need of any other. A black and white in the inner sleeve of my old hardback edition of The Hotel New Hampshire, once my grandmother’s. Already his gaze steady, unapologetic, omnipotent. And naturally he writes every word by hand, like all the greats. Me, I’ll opt for the easy way out. A good font and the backspace key over my incomprehensible scrawl for all my good Catholic teachers tried hopelessly to save it.

At least I can say in my humble attempts at writing for my little nephews, I have written each by hand in a hardback blue lined school variety notebook. Slowly and spaciously. And ideally on a mild and cheery Spring day outdoors and with the dandelions just pushed through the earth for company. But a behemoth? Nah. I’m a slave to convenience and my little Lenovo. But Irving, with Irving you can just see the final manuscript, each and every page of each and every stronghold of a sentence, all stacked on high, just as it should be. Uncompromising, and with every bloody right to be. Yeah, that’s ego. In all its glory. And you just gotta love it. And in all its glory, I count myself lucky just to read Irving as I always have, and that is to say, as it should be, and in that most faithful spirit of quiet servitude.

As it bloody should be.

Pure bloody ego.

And for all I’d wish it so, no, not Haruki Murakami. No, not nearly, never, in his sense of ritual obligation. Waking as he does at 4a.m. without fail when he has embarked upon a new novel, to unravel the next masterpiece in those stiller, unfettered hours, his most productive, and leaving his afternoons religiously free for his famous love of running, or a good swim, and later, it’s gotta be jazz. For all I’d wish it so. No. There ain’t enough wishing wells in all the lands. And that’s the kind of ritual that simply exhales a pace, a story, a stiller magic you just can’t fake.

I could never pull it off.

A tortured insomniac since a little girl. For all I love the clock when it strikes midnight maybe as much as Murakami his 4a.m. solace. Like floating in water, free, free at last, though mine a more frenzied mind. Never the steady strokes of a seasoned swimmer.

But fleshing ideas, then taken, scribing meandering emails to beloved friends distant shores away, and another idea, then scrambling to find a Murakami quote that just came to mind, then maybe another idea, quote still scrambling, and another idea, frenzied, so frenzied, and a gnawed pencil as nightwatch, until I have enough incomprehensible scrawl to collapse in bed just before the birds. And a terrible late starter, Lenovo out eventually as the clock nears noon, still in my gown and noon near striking as the frenzy returns with its unforgivable glare and the insatiable urge to type and type and type , frenzied, so frenzied. To do anything justice. Anything at all. But I could never do Murakami any justice at all.

And there’s the Japanese thing I guess. What could I add to the culture that gave us ikebana?

Nope. Not a thing.

And Angela Carter. Not a chance. And I like it that way. No other voice could give birth to the likes of Fevvers, the Cockney Venus. And to me, no other voice so bewitching. Nor well, just hers. I leave her cloaked in mystery. The goose that laid that golden egg. Yeah, I like it that way.

But Ben Folds.

Humour. Heart. And often enough, heartbreak too. In even the most mundane, he takes it to soaring heights. What it means to be now and as it’s always been and human and deeply, deeply flawed but just as wonderful, and oh the heartbreak. And Fred Jones Part 2 kills me every time.

My aching heart.

My unlikely pilgrim.

And as life so often has it, as Nick Hornby’s 31 Songs touched me, inspired me, consoled me, just as Ben Folds has with each and every album, so Hornby’s had his own love affair with Ben Folds with their collaboration album, a gem in my dogged CD collection. A birthday present from a roommate who always did give the most perfect gifts.

A blessed union. A great album.

And I’m no Ben Folds. For all he makes me want to write.

But I still love what it means to be now and as it’s always been and human and deeply, deeply flawed but just as wonderful… And oh, the heartbreak. Just as wonderful.

And I’m no Nick Hornby. For all I have him to thank.

But I am a fan. And yeah, it’s just as wonderful.

And will anyone give a shit?

And even if you give a shit, God bless you.

But that’s probably the end of the road.

But that’s never really the point when we do something because we want to, and we need to, and we simply have to, and when that siren sings you astray. On a fool’s errand. For love is the biggest fool’s errand of all. And it will be deeply, deeply flawed, but maybe, if I’m lucky, a little bit wonderful.

Ben's Notes by Ben Folds