The Power of Music

Scientists have long recognized the power of smell; it’s ability to link directly to the old, primitive dinosaur brain, eliciting long forgotten memories, powerful emotions with a single whiff. So what is there about the power of music, it’s ability to so directly influence the human psyche?

I can come home after a long day of work, feeling tired and drained. Then, after putting in a CD of Mozart, Bach, Paul Simon, Coltraine, Bob Marley, Beck or Willie Nelson, I find myself in a different world, a different place, a whole different mood. How does music accomplish this magic, not unique to me, but shared by most members of our species? Do our brain waves respond to the harmonics we hear? Is it all a trick of association, a linkage of a memory to a previously heard tune?

Music is said to be a universal language. What makes it so? Which rhythms, cadences make you want to dance? What melody captivates your mind, forming recursive loops you can’t seem to escape, even through effort of will? What sound is most likely to bring joy to your heart? What is the power of the Blues? Sad to say, I am not a musician. Beyond sucking on ice cubes in 4/4 time, or beating my hands on the nearest table top to the sounds coming from the stereo, my musical abilities are non-existent. Yet, I love and appreciate all different kinds of music, and each seems to have a profound effect on me. Feel free to weigh in, to educate me, or just share your favorite from you personal jukebox.

I’ve long ago have come to the conclusion that life is way too short, not to mention frequently absurd, to be taken too seriously. That’s why, when I look back and see my postings taking on a serious tone, or I find myself pontificating as if somehow I had the answers to the problems bedeviling most of us, I need to step back and lighten up. I know of no better way of doing this then by sharing with you the words of one of my favorite humorists, George Carlin. Here are a few of my favorite Carlin’s New Rules for 2008:

• No more gift registries. You know, it used to be just for weddings. Now it’s for babies and new homes and graduations from rehab. Picking out the stuff you want and having other people buy it for you isn’t gift giving; it’s the white people’s version of looting.
• Don’t eat anything that’s served to you out a window unless you’re a seagull. People are acting all shocked that a human finger was found in a bowl of Wendy’s chili. Hey, it costs less than a dollar. What did you expect it to contain? Lobster?
• If you need to shave and you still collect baseball cards, you’re a dope. If you’re a kid, the cards are keepsakes of your idols. If you’re a grown man, they’re pictures of men.
• Ladies, leave your eyebrows alone. Here’s how much men care about your eyebrows: Do you have two of them? Good, we’re done.
• Just because your tattoo has Chinese characters in it doesn’t make you Spiritual. It’s right above the crack of your buns. And it translates to ‘beef with broccoli.’ The last time you did anything spiritual, you were praying to God you weren’t pregnant. You’re not spiritual. You’re just high.
• I don’t need bigger mega M&Ms. If I’m extra hungry for M&Ms, I’ll go nuts and eat two.
• If you’re going to insist on making movies based on crappy old television shows, then you have to give everyone in the Cineplex a remote so we can see what’s playing on the other screens. Let’s remember the reason something was a television show in the first place is that idea wasn’t good enough to be a movie.
• When I ask how old your toddler is, I don’t need to hear ’27 months.’ ‘He’s two’ will do fine. He’s not a cheese. And I didn’t really care in the first place.
• And this one is long overdue: No more bathroom attendants. After I zip up, there’s some guy offering me a towel and a mint like I just had sex with George Michael. I can’t even tell if he’s supposed to be there, or is just some freak with a fetish. I don’t want to be on your webcam, Dude. I just want to wash my hands.
• I’m not the cashier! By the time I look up from sliding my card, entering my PIN number, pressing ‘Enter,’ verifying the amount, deciding, no, I don’t want cash back, and pressing ‘Enter’ again, the kid who is supposed to be ringing me up is standing there eating my Almond Joy.

SMILE

In my line of work, trust is an essential ingredient. My patients have to believe that I’m there for their benefit rather than my own, that I’m competent at what I do, and that the tests, treatments and prescriptions I give to them will help them to feel better, to recover from illness, or will at least palliate to some degree the discomforts of their disease. To aid them in their faith, I have a wall full of diplomas from highly credible, good name institutions as testaments to the twenty-seven years of formal training I have completed,  certificates from specialty societies attesting to my having passed their competency examinations, along with an academic title. I try to model in my behavior those who have impressed me in my training with their knowledge as well as their ability to successfully communicate with the people who have sought their help. I know that if I’m unable to establish trust, no matter how knowledgeable or well meaning I am, I will not be able to solicit the compliance from my patients that will be required for me to do my job. Sometimes, it is an uphill battle to overcome the suspicions of those, who having been inundated by negative images of the medical profession by the media, or perhaps through some unfortunate personal experience, come to me only reluctantly, looking for the slightest evidence to confirm their negative bias. Alas, as much as I wish it were otherwise, this is also a part of my job. Perhaps that’s the reason the following poem struck such a resonant chord with me.

Insiders

You lie face up, careful not to move,

The huge, humming eye in its groove

Taking you in from thigh to brain.

The cath slithers from vein to vein.

Out of the loop, and old husband,

I hold my own unskillful hand

And wait, trying hard not to doubt

The men who know you inside out.

Don Thompson

As I sit down to write this piece, my Favorite Poet’s plane should be landing in Paris. It was wonderful to have him home for the holidays, but I once again have to relinquish him to his chosen life in the City of Lights. Seeing him so happy there makes the separation more bearable, though I already miss him.

During this past weekend, we watched two movies together. One was the always excellent Tom Hanks in “Charlie Wilson’s War” deserving of two thumbs up, and the other was “The Bucket List.” Though the story of Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson facing cancer and dying is hardly the stuff of suspense, the quality of the writing and acting is such that I have to place it on my “do not miss” recommendation list. Those who’ve seen this movie will appreciate the following poem even more, though it stands on its own merits.

Exit Strategies

After Edward Lear

You might be bit by a rattler hid in your boot

or choke while drinking green tea;

could be killed by the kick of a madwoman’s foot

or be drowned in the syllabub sea.

You could murder yourself in New York with a fork

or melt in a crater of lava;

You could die by too frequently popping the cork

of your favorite brand of Marsala.

You could be gored by a virulent bull

Or be bored by a brute of a bee.

Your skull could crack like a china doll’s

when you fall from a three-story tree.

You might be split in two halves by a horse

or you could go more peacefully, of course.

Julie Moulds

The pundits and talking heads have finished analyzing the events of the past year. People all over are recovering from their celebrations heralding the arrival of 2008. The new crystal ball in Times Square has fallen, and the streets of New York have already been cleaned up from the tons of confetti and garbage of last night’s revelry. The last football game of this New Year’s Day is almost over, releasing millions (mostly men) from the trance of the Bowl games. This is a good a time as any to talk about hope.

I admit, hope may not be the first thing that comes to the mind of someone surveying the current state of our world. Faced with wars, poverty, global warming, depletion of the planet’s resources, materialism, hunger and the myriad of ills made immediate by the various media, it’s easy to grow weary and cynical. And yet, this is the time when we most need to reach out, for hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances we know to be desperate.

As we had a quiet evening last night with friends, sharing food, wine and stories while waiting for the clock to strike midnight, I was reminded by our conversation of all the acts of kindness each of us had witnessed in our lives. We remarked that this was somehow contrary to what we might have expected, conditioned as we are by the media to be afraid of our fellow man, and that we should listen to our experience, and allow hope in the goodness of others to have a more prominent place at our table.

Reflecting on my own life, being born and raised in a Communist dictatorship, I would have had difficulty 20 years ago in believing that my homeland would now be free, that the Berlin Wall would fall, that Communism would topple in its own homeland. I also have to acknowledge all the angels who have appeared in my life, who’ve given me aid and comfort at times I least expected. There are many who have been less fortunate than I. There are more who have been afraid to accept someone reaching out to them, not recognizing the grace they are being offered, having given up on hope, fearful of another disappointment.

I’m not a Pollyanna.  I recognize the myriad ways in which we can ensure our eventual destruction in this world. I also recognize in ourselves the capacity to overcome adversity. There is a folk-tale about Destiny, who appeared to three inhabitants of an island. “What would you do,” asked Destiny, “if I told you that tomorrow this island will be completely inundated by an immense tidal wave?”

The first man, a cynic, said, “I would drink, carouse, and make love all night long!”

The second man, a pagan, said, “I would go the sacred temple, make sacrifices to the gods, and pray without ceasing.”

The third man, fearful and troubled, replied, “I would assemble our wisest men and begin at once to study how to live under water.”

Hope, which whispered from Pandora’s box only after all the other plagues and sorrows had escaped, is the best and last of all things. Without it, there is only time. And time pushes at our backs like a centrifuge, forcing us outward and away, until it nudges us into oblivion. Wishing you all hope in the New Year,

J.