Tsohonis - Covids Metamorphosis

Im tempted not to even write this, as Ive come to avoid the habit of capturing moments from my life for the archive of posterity. Perhaps to some extent due to experiences Ive had in recent years with social media, Ive found that the intent to document a moment can sometimes rob it of its potency.

Much like the musician who tries also to record their own performance may experience, wherein the music may suffer as a result of the musicians divided attention; or, similarly, in the moment between Sean Penns and Ben Stillers characters in the recent remake of Walter Mitty when, upon finally espying the snow leopard in its native habitat, the National Geographic photographer elects no t to capture the moment on film, and instead decides to preserve it in a mutual memory between the two menin honor, we may suppose, of this odd twisting moment of fate that brought the three beings together, there in the Himalayan snow, in such a fleetingly possible window of overlapping coincidencethis is what I have come to believe is a central tenet to a life well-lived: To live to the hilt in the moment, and not to fret about the record of that moment or its implications, on whatever scale it may occur. Its almost impossible to live to that degree of fullness, if youre trying to control or capture the moment at the same time.

I left Facebook a year or so ago, because of an epiphany that occurred to me. I realized in conversation with an acquaintance one day that my use of the social media tool was, effectively, cutting me off from perhaps my favorite means of interaction with other human beingsi.e. the telling of stories to people I know, about my crazy life. And it is a bit of a crazy life, albeit also an embarrassing one at some points. It strikes me as an obnoxious thing to say about oneself, but I am something of a living legend to the people I grew up with.

Certainly not in any heroic sense.

No, perhaps it would be more honest to describe my life as a cautionary tale, for people to share with their children, a tale that warns of the consequences of following ones bliss, going ones own way, doing whatever the fuck one wants in lifeso far, anyway, thats how its all played out.

I remain convinced, however, that as soon as one of the creative works or disciplines Ive developed over the last couple decades finally generates some traction, the snowball effect that will inevitably happen with my other worksincluding music and guitarbuilding, acting and illustration, etcwill transmute that facet of my identity into something rather impressive, as opposed to the slightly sad characterization I think my longer-term community has come to favor in its perception of me.

Of course time will tell, and anyway Id be equally comfortable spending the rest of my life on the back of a freight train, if thats what the universe had in store for me. I learned to draw satisfaction and fulfillment from life without the participation of others, quite a long time ago. Ive done a bit of trainhopping in my life, toothough Im reluctant to call to myself a hobo, and not because I would be ashamed to be known as such.

Quite to the contrary, I feel a great sentiment of affinity and admiration for those who truly immerse in the life and culture of a hobo. I have an UncleMy moms uncle, in fact, so really a Great Uncleand he really was great, in my opinion. Robert J. Symmonds, or Uncle Bob, was also known far and wide as Guitar Whitey. He originally took to the life with the very first hobos, in the Great Depression. His father had lost his job; Dad and Mom were also caring for his three sisters in their home on Queen Anne Hill, in Seattle, the city where I currently reside.

Uncle Bob went out, along with a number of others preceding and following him, and rode the trains from job to job to job, sending money home as he went to keep the family going. At some point his adult life took on greater spans of regularity, in terms of his location or line of workhe became a noteworthy enough guitarist that he and his wife had a musical duo that played Knotts Berry Farm. My mother has always sworn that he once took a lesson with legendary classical guitarist Andres Segovia, which I wouldnt necessarily doubt. He also taught guitar for a number of years, and did a whole lot of other stuff besides. I think he went to Elementary School with Hank Ketchum, creator of the Dennis the Menace comics.

He wrote a book thats still available on Amazon, called Ridin Fre e , I think it mentions that in there. Its a compilation of shorts published by Zephyr Rhodes Press, that describe his life as a hobo and a human over his 70-some years, at the time he published it. He used to send chapters to me in the mail from time to time when I was a child, when hed finished one he felt like sharing. He was even the featured narrator and host of an award-winning PBS documentary in the 90s, Riding the Rail s an attempt to capture some real-life accounts of the hoboing life in days of yore, before none yet lived to share their stories.

Guitar Whitey passed into the eternal dream in April of 2019. I believe he was 96 years. When I last saw him hed been 91. He still had this brilliant, benevolent light of sublime kindness in his eyesa light that had always marked him, in my impression. He just seemed to carry with him this air of understanding and acceptance that you could practically float on when you were with him. Like a guru.

Uncle Bob and his wife Joyce settled in San Luis Obispo, at some point. We visited them there once, when my family drove down to Disneyland for vacation. I saw them at one or two family get-togethers over the years, too. I remember them busting out guitars and singing and playing together. They were bright and loud and well-rehearsed. All we had to do was just ride along and smile. There was something masterful about the control he had on the guitar, I remember noting as a kid. It was maybe the first time I observed a professional artist in their element, beheld their mastery of craft. I remember, as a young child, feeling intimidatedhow did someone ever learn to get that good at something? But it was so rare that we got to see them, us having been in the Pacific Northwest my entire childhood, and them in Southern California.

Even up into his 70s, Guitar Whitey would go out and spend months at a time on the rails, living as a hobo. He even stopped through Wenatchee once, when I was in Middle School. Hed called my mom out of the blue, asking her to pick him up down at the tracks. Then he crashed in a sleeping bag, on the living room floor. They owned a house in Southern California. He didnt hobo in his later years because he had to.

He did it because he loved it.

Eventually his wife made him stop, as it was clear that he had aged physically to a point that too great a risk now existed for him in the sometimes dangerous activities required of a hobo. I heard one funny story about Joyce getting pissed because some ladies from within San Luis Obispo had seen him dressed up in hobo rags, and busking on the street cornerI could have that entirely wrong, as none of us between the Tsohonises and the Symmondses talk enough with each other, if at all. But I love the story because it seems emblematic of Whitey to me, and of what I adore about him. Its also highly demonstrative of the sort of line Ive tried to draw in my own fashion of living.