THE PHANTOM TIDE ROLLS IN: BUSKERS WHO ARE BREAKERS

PHANTOM TIDE AT VALUE VILLAGE

This blog is supposed to be about busking with a social conscience.  When I began this blog in 2010 my main instrument was a banjitar.  However, early on I found that unless I was set up in the middle of a parking lot, the banjitar was too loud for my consumers.   

Then I started slinging my guitar which was much more appropriate when my buskspot was in close proximity to commercial main entrances.  (Adding some blow harp to my guitar busking was a no-brainer.)   

When the winds of autumn froze my fingers I switched to my didgeridoo, which I could play wearing gloves or mitts.  I quite liked busking with my didge, but it did prove to be boring after a few minutes.  There are only so many tunes I can blow on a didge, if one can call them tunes.

Anyway, Carlo, owner of the ITALIAN STAR DELI on Victoria Avenue in Regina, asked me to busk in front of his store. 

You’ve got carte blanche, my friend, he said.  Busk whenever and wherever you want on my property!

And surprise, surprise, Darren my PHANTOM TIDE band mate, brought along his banjitar!

Through the noon hour we played on the front entrance brick patio at the ITALIAN STAR DELI.  The STAR consumers, a constant parade of Italian sandwich-eaters-to-go, proved to be generous, too, to our cause (SCHIZOPHRENIA SOCIETY OF SASKATCHEWAN) too.   

It was INDEPENDENCE DAY, the FOURTH OF JULY, and one lady even tossed American money into my guitar case!  Another very generous fellow, a Regina Police Officer, was wearing a white t-shirt with an American flag waving on the front!  (I remind you, dear readers, I am a Canadian busker, and the Italian Star Deli is in Regina, Canada.  I also remind you, dear readers, that the majority of Canadians LOVE Americans -- ME INCLUDED, though the lunatic fringe of say 15% seem to be significantly vocally against!)

After our lunch-busk at the Italian Star, we rolled into the front entrance at VALUE VILLAGE on Broad Street.  Value Village is one of my favorite places to busk my consumers there are my predictable kith.  I always know how much money I’m going to make and I pretty much know the regulars who always stop and chat.  This day our first guest to stop was Hank’s Potatoes (nickname for my octogenarian familiar stranger who loads and sells sacks of potatoes every day).  And the second guess to stop was Chrysta, owner and manager of the ISLAND KITCHEN, situated immediately inside the main door of Village Mall.

Not wanting this to be a shaggy dog type essay, I shall return to my point.  This blog began as a busking voice of social conscience.  In this specific regard I’ve decided different ways to express this conscience.  Thus, here is my history, my bildungsroman on busking with this social conscience.

First, I approached the executive directors of the SASKATCHEWAN SCHIZOPHRENIA SOCIETY and the CANADIAN MENTAL HEALTH ASSOCIATION, Anita Hopfauf and David Nelson, respectively.

Both Anita and David had my busking signs made to fit into my guitar case for display.  In return, I advertised their website on my blog header (just scroll down the right side), and I also paid their signs whilst busking, the minimum wage a worker in Saskatchewan would earn in an hour, approximately 10 dollars. 

This, however, proved to be tedious.  First, I was busking out there in the weather, my energy and my guitar, both of which wearing after an hour or so, and second then, having to calculate the amount, stuff the dollars into an envelope, and taxi the money to the appropriate agency.

Surely my value to these agencies can be enhanced, I had thought to myself. After all, I am a counsellor with the academic credentials and a wealth of pragmatic experience; surely I can offer more than just money.

And then my epiphany!  I am in the process of revamping my downtown private practice.  Rather than label myself as a counsellor of interpersonal relations, I have decided to sell myself as a PSYCHOLOGY CONSULTANT. 

Here is my reasoning:  Good counsellors NEVER ADVISE ... NEVER GIVE ADVICE.  Good counsellors interview/question/interrogate their clients until the solution to their clients’ problems come from WITHIN the clients.  This is good counselling, having the professional expertise to elicit good strategies that seemingly come from the client.

Here is my quarrel with that sense of reason.  Most of my clients do not have the insight nor the focus to really come up with sound strategies to improve their situations.  Yes, yes, they can come up with solutions, experience these strategic solutions back in their workaday worlds, then discuss the positive and negative outcomes of each during the next counselling session, which is typically scheduled a few weeks later.   

All clients, with good counselling, will eventually experience positive outcomes by their designed strategies from within, but … this takes time.  And … time is money for the counsellor.  The more sessions it takes, the more money to begot (for the counsellor).

This is good.  This is win-win.  I’ll not begrudge any counsellors their livelihood, nor will I begrudge any clients their participation in their recovery.  I am not suggesting counsellors abrogate their ethical notions.  For me though, as a PSYCHOLOGY CONSULTANT … I see things differently.

When a client goes to a consultant in any other field, the client expects some advice.  Should I buy?  Should I not buy?  Should I move ahead with this idea?  Or should I hold back and creatively procrastinate?  What, what, what should I do?  I repeat … clients approach consultants for their supposedly sage advice based on their expertise and experience.  And most clients will acquiesce to paid-for-suggestions.

As a PSYCHOLOGY CONSULTANT I’m thinking I’d feel OBLIGATED to ADVISE -- I WILL GIVE ADVICE.  This would be especially true when the clients are bemused and confused.  Most of my current clients are either addicts in recovery (somewhat shaky with a low self-esteem), or clients who could soon be consumers of government mental health services (such clients are never confident in their abilities).   

Every way I ponder this, I see it as offering a more expedient approach to my counselling practice, rather than dilly-dally and molly coddle through the traditional four to six sessions as suggested by most employee assistant programs, with more sessions requested through formal letters of appeal.   

Though I must confess I am not an expert in any regard, I am confident that my professional and experiential credentials exceed those in most, if not all, of my clients.  And I must also confess that I could easily become a counsellor who is pedextrous, one who could walk on the path of either counsellor or consultant.

My NHL friend thinks I should charge 260 dollars a session for such a consulting service.  My band mate thinks I should charge 190 dollars per session.  My complicated friend thinks I should charge 140 dollars.

(Hmmm … whatever my rate, for those clients referred through either the SASKATCHEWAN SCHIZOPHRENIA SOCIETY or the CANADIAN MENTAL HEALTH ASSOCIATION, the fees shall be PRO BONO PUBLICO!)

And speaking of my complicated friend, click on to my YouTube account top right second box of this blog header, who inspired my lyrics in our latest song, AFRAID TO FLY.

Though this song reads like a billet-doux (it could be I suppose), she is really more in the role of my nemesis, a preferred critic in my every social and professional regard.  Here are the lyrics and chords ... but click on my YouTube to have a listen!

AFRAID TO FLY

VERSE 1     

D                                  A                     D                         G

She doesn’t like to dance … she doesn’t wear a dress

D                               A                           G         A        

She says she’s in a life she can’t escape

D                                  A

She says her life’s a mess

D                         G

And I must confess

D                A                   G                    D          

She is my dark cloud hanging over me

[CHORUS]

D                      Bm          A

I am old and afraid to die

D                                 A                       G

She’s still young … and afraid to fly

D                                   Bm                                        A

Afraid to spread her wings above the stormy sky

VERSE 2

D                                  A                        D                              G            

She says I think too much … as she drives her Chevy car

D                                                  A                 G        A       

The top rolled down and her dog in the back

D                               A

She never gets too far

D                                        G

Gets distracted by the stars

D                A                   G                    D

She is my dark cloud hanging over me

[CHORUS]

VERSE 3 

D                   A                            D                    G

My fantasy friend with her minor league dreams

D                                                 A                             G          A        

She’s the beer pong champ and the wrestling queen

D                                      A

Says she’s got big plans

D                                                     G                                     

But that dark keeps her in the rain

D                 A                 G                     D          

She is my dark cloud hanging over me

[CHORUS]

[REPEAT VERSE 1]

ONE HAPPY CONSUMER AT VALUE VILLAGE

 IT WAS A MOST PERFECT DAY FOR BUSKING!

MY BUSKERVILLE HOUND: GRRR ...

Obviously my snappy title for this blog is in reference to the hell-hound in the Sherlock Holmes tale of terror mystery (The Hound of the Baskervilles, 1902) set in Dartmoor, England.

My tale is not so terrible.  My tale is set in present day Regina, Canada.  My tale is one of frustration, a tale of attempting to solve the mystery of how-to-draw Zoey, which I did solve, but after three tries.

Here is Zoey:

And here is attempt number one:

Though the actual artwork is appealing, I quite disliked this picture because it did not look like Zoey.  I, the critic, saw the face as being too narrow, the snout too small, and the eyes too big.

And here is attempt number two:

This depiction of Zoey was closer but not quite what I was attempting to do.  To me, it still did not look like Zoey.  The snout was still a tad small and the eyes a tad too big.  The width of the face I got!

And here is attempt number three:

Finally!  A Zoey drawing that I like!  I’ve never met Zoey but still I recognize that at last I DREW the Zoey that I SEE in the picture sent to me on my IPhone.

Zoey was a mystery, and Zoey proved to be a mystery that I solved.

And, dear reader, why would I write such a drawing tale?  Is this story of Zoey really just another of my Aesopian tales to be pondered? 

Could this story really be about searching for a life that I can love, a life of meaning and adventure, fulfilled by drawing people and pet portraits down on the sidewalks in the local farmers markets?

Or could this story of drawing Zoey be a last middle-aged attempt to create an amaranthine existence, imagining that my I-am-old-and-afraid-to-die signature on the bottom right of every portrait that I sketch shall be forever hanging in a frame on a wall within a house somewhere in the world?

Could it be that this tale of Zoe (pun intended) is simply an appeal to my complicated friend, Robin (whose mother belongs to Zoey:), an attempt to contribute something of significance (to her) toward our friendship?  To put this into perspective, are the frustrations of drawing Zoey representative of yet another significant (to me) dram of my complications at work and at home and at play?

Could it be that I am but a thinking-too-much meshuggener, with just another of my crazy tales told to embellish and embigger what I really do with my sketchbook and pencil down at the Market?  That by adding all these fanciful graphite details of drawing Zoey somehow makes my portraiture much more important that what it really is?  (Referring to portraiture rather than sketching does this too, does it not?)

Or am I just the ever tormented narcissist attempting to convince the reader that I’ve this prodigious talent for drawing faces, and I need to keep wanting the world (the readers of this blog and the walkers of the market) to know this?

Could it be that I am that wildcatter busker (pun intended), first sketching portraits of people, now sketching portraits of pooches, lobbying for sketching cats next on the list?  (Several people did ask if I could draw their moggies should they bring pictures of their mousers to Market next Saturday!)

Or … is this particular essay just another drawn-out pointless shaggy-dog tale (pun intended on all sorts of levels), offering excitement for the writer (me) but boring for the reader (you).

Hmmm … not surprisingly, I did meet some very enjoyable people down at the Market.  Here is my CHAUCERIAN PARADE of humans ... NOT hounds:

RON

KORY and KEVIN

MADISON and BAILEY and RYLAND and JILL and MARIUS

STU and PEGGY CRAM

• RON said I made him look old ... he was being funny.
• KEVIN insisted he tell every passer-by my age ... he was being funny (a lovely couple).
• MADISON and BAILEY and RYLAND and JILL and MARIUS was my BIGGEST drawing ever.  What a beautiful family!
• STU is my favorite photographer who has shot me many times over the years.  This is the first time I'd met his wife, PEGGY.

Stu’s accoutrement is his camera -- my accoutrement is a pencil. 

Stu’s camera shutters at the truth -- my pencil never lies!

  

DRAW DOGS: I'M A BOWSKER!

This past week I’ve been drawing dogs.  Last Saturday when I chose not to take my soggy pencil to the market I received a poignant text from my complicated friend ... “I was at the market.”  This suggested that she went specifically to the market to visit me; rather, she took her doggie, Luke, to the market so I could draw him.

Then she sent me his picture:

LUKE

And this is what I drew:

LUKE'S PORTRAIT

And then she sent me another picture of her little dog lost, Max, who disappeared just over a year ago:

MAX

And this is what I drew:

MAX'S PORTRAIT

And then she sent me a picture of her mom’s dog, Zoey:

 

ZOEY

 And this is what I drew:

ZOEY'S PORTRAIT

 

Hmmm … the people that I know who have dogs … really, really, really love their dogs.

I know a childless couple who refer to themselves as Mommy or Daddy when anywhere with their dogs.  Every time they go out as a couple, like on a date night for instance, they hire a dog-sitter.

Some people, including my daughter, Natika, regularly post pictures of their dog on FACEBOOK.

NATIKA AND GLEETNA

NATIKA AND GLEETNA

I know a lady who constantly brags about her dogs, and who is forever willing to tolerate considerable discomfort for the minimum pleasure of bragging rights immediately following any one of her twenty-five dog shows she and her dogs attend year after year.

I know people that are limited to staying in pet friendly motels because of their dogs being their constant companions.

Our penchant for pooches has, indeed, figured significantly into our culture, an apparent example by the dog representation in our language:

Every dog has his day.  You look as though someone just shot your dog.  You need a little more of the hair of the dog that bit you.  If you lie down with dogs, you’ll wake up with fleas.  It’s a dog-eat-dog world.  You can’t teach old dog new tricks.  Let sleeping dogs lie.  His bark is worse than his bite.  You are dog-faced liar.  The place has gone to the dogs.  He’s in the doghouse.  I’ve been working like a dog.  You need to run with the big dogs.  Hey, bird dog.  Sun dog … Moon dog … Dog day afternoon … Dog’s breakfast … Straw dogs!     

The bond between humans and bow-wows began over 10,000 years ago.  We have connected more with dogs than with any other creatures on the planet.  Dogs march with us into battles.  Dogs sniff out drugs and dogs sniff out bed bugs.  Dogs mind the sheep and dogs lead the blind.  But for a little love in return, even mutts and mongrels make for humans the very best of companions.

This week I’ve been more than a bowsker, drawing people, too, of course.  Yesterday the Farmers’ Market was ripe; it seems, for couples wanting their pencil portraits.  Strangely, all my clients posed as couples or as family, there was not one posing singular.

My CHAUCERIAN PARADE for this week:

CARTER AND SYDNEY
(note by projection of SYDNEY ... SHE RULES:)

 

CARLA AND MIKE

 

JORDAN and CAREN and PENNY and MOLLY

According to Mark Twain, the most precious gift we can give to anyone, is time, just a little personal association.  Though I know certain people who give their time grudgingly, oppositely give loads of time genuinely and generously to their tail-wagging friends.

Hmmm … the people that I know who have dogs … really, really, really love their dogs.

ROBIN IN HEAVEN

Discovering the quiddity in a dog's face is really similar to discovering the quiddity in a human's face.  For example, in the drawing of Zoey, several dog pictures above, I really didn't capture her nose (I drew it a tad small), or her eyes (I drew a pinch too big).  As for Luke and Max, I most certainly think my sketches did them justice.

Ah yes, be they human or canine, faces have become my pencil forte.

And, as long as humans have their pooches for companions down at the marketplace ... it’ll pay for me to keep my bowsker pencils sharpened!