Reflected in your eyes

Brian and Susan, December 2009

I met Brian in music camp, when I was 16 and he was 17. We both ended up at Indiana University and stayed in frequent touch after graduation, seeing each other through various crises.

For one reason or another, we mostly lost contact around the mid-'90s. I thought about him every now and again, telling myself I should try to find him.

Eventually he found me. He was going to be in Phoenix over Christmas. Would I be around? If yes, he'd drive the two or so hours to Tucson and we could catch up.

I was. We did.

Seeing Brian was something. As we filled each other in on the intervening 15 years, it felt as if we'd last hung out a week ago. He hadn't changed at all, except to become a more fully realized, confident version of himself.

The strange part, though, was the feeling that I hadn't changed.

After leaving graduate school and settling into what I'd consider my real, adult life, I'd faced unforeseen challenges. Challenges I failed again and again to overcome. By December 2009, when I reconnected with Brian, failure had inserted itself into my DNA. I'd gotten used to seeing myself as somebody less, somebody who always fell short.

But Brian saw the same person he knew in 1994. He liked me for who I am, not what I do or how well I do it.

I think I'd forgotten there was a difference.

Brian left town shortly after that visit, but the experience stayed with me. I finished the song it inspired a year ago today. It's called "Ten Years Later" because "Fifteen Years Later" didn't scan.

This little live-in-Ron's-living-room scratch recording goes out to Brian, and to all the other friends who've stuck by me through the years. Here I am, reflected in your eyes.

Ten Years Later

lyrics by Susan Wenger
music by Susan Wenger and Ron Amistadi

1

Heading home
Driving slow
Changing stations on the radio
Trying to find a song that understands me

Take in the scene
With fresher eyes
Oh, I've got every street sign memorized
And still I feel somehow I've lost my way

CHORUS
Once I stood before your camera
Gave a smile, struck a pose
Facing fearlessly the future
As the past drew to a close
But the choices that I made
Were not the ones I thought I chose

2

You called me up
Blew into town
It's been ten years since I've seen you around
And seeing you makes ten years feel like nothing

I filled you in
You reminisced
About a person who does not exist
But there I am reflected in your eyes

CHORUS
Once I stood before your camera
Gave a smile, struck a pose
Facing fearlessly the future
As the past drew to a close
But the choices that I made
Were not the ones I thought I chose

3

Heading home
Still I find
Our conversation looping through my mind
What I forgot and what I must remember

Find a groove
Or go astray
It will not matter to you either way
For we are more than just the roads we take


CHORUS
And I'll stand before your camera
Give a smile, strike a pose
Facing fearlessly the future
As the past draws to a close
And the choices that I'm making now
Well no one ever knows

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Copyright 2010 Cinder Bridge. All rights reserved.

Instant social life: just add music

Ron the Drummer and I decided to play hooky from rehearsal tonight so that we could go to a double-bill gig at the Casbah, a vegetarian restaurant/coffeehouse on the hippie-ish side of town. Scheduled to perform were a couple of people who had come to Old Town Artisans to see us. Ron didn't feel well by the time evening rolled around, so I ended up going by myself.

A few feet away from the entrance, I heard someone call my name. It was my friend Kevin. I used to run into him once every week or two at gigs or open mics. But he got busy, and I got busy, and the last time I'd seen him was before his now-eight-month-old son was born.

It felt like old times, and reminded me of what I liked about them. It wasn't simply being free enough to see live music when I felt like it. It was the fact that socializing at the spur of the moment could be so easy. That I could just go where the music was, and other people I knew and liked would be there for the same reason.

Missing Persons

Earlier this week I did a long-overdue culling of our mailing list. It's around 30 obsolete e-mail addresses lighter now. I don't know who most of the purged people are; a couple, however, stand out.

Megan Mitcher. The first singer I ever worked with, back before I could sing or even thought I could learn. She had a low, lovely voice and the kind of self-effacing yet utterly cool demeanor that made you want to hang around for as long as she'd let you. I did a search on her name after taking her e-mail off the list. Can't find her. It's like she never existed.

Vanessa Zuber, a Tucson folksinger. I liked all of her songs, but one in particular stuck with me, a heartbreakingly gorgeous tune called "Hands Touching the Sky." I requested it a lot. When I google Vanessa, a bunch of shows from 2001 come up. Nothing current. I can't find the song anywhere either.

I think I've been spoiled by the Internet. I've grown so accustomed to being able to access any piece of information whenever I've got a computer within arm's reach, it surprises me when the people I lose touch with are actually gone.

Megan and Vanessa: If you happen upon this post while idly searching for your own names, drop me a line. I'd love to know how you're doing.