Crow's Tree

If you are reading this, you're probably already aware that we lost brin metzendorf (aka madbunny, aka Samual Crow Walker), a valued member of many of Cleveland's edgier arts scenes, last month. This past weekend, a number of his friends and associates gathered in Tremont's Lincoln Park to plant a living memorial to him.

If you go to the gazebo in the center of the park and then head down the path leading directly out to West 14th street, you'll notice three younger trees on the left-hand side. The middle one of these, a cherry tree set farther back, is his tree. Crows like cherries, you know; and its a rather tall and skinny tree, for a tall and skinny fellow.

i'd like to ask people who are in and around Tremont to stop by from time to time. Whether walking your dog, catching some rays, or just relaxing on an afternoon, take a little detour to visit. Bring some water if it hasn't rained lately, but bring something else too. Bring the things you'd tell brin if you could. What are you up to lately, what are you working on, what have you accomplished? Play some music, read it a poem, work on a sketch beneath the branches. Consider it a sort of mailbox where you can drop off messages - and who knows, maybe receive some as well.

i know that not everyone who reads this will share my beliefs and ideas about things beyond the known, but that's ok. This can still be just a nice spot in the park, a living thing that needs all of our care and attention to thrive. But if you have Belief - and i know that brin himself did - it can also be something More. There are many things a Tree of Tales can mean, many ways it can manifest. i have my vision; i hope you all will add yours. And most of all, pass the message along. This spot may be most special to those who knew and loved him, but the idea is one that can grow past even his wide circle of influence.

Thanks, folks. To everyone who came out and helped plant, and everyone who will continue to nurture both the tree and the legacy brin left behind. And if you'd like to discuss any of the deeper concepts implied here, i can often be found on the patio at Edison's, at the theater, or sitting outside Civilizations. Just ask for the village witch.

Un Reve Sans Consequence

In my mind, a small plane of suspect registry has just landed in Bulgaria. The sole passenger, a tall, taciturn, jet-lagged fellow whose blocky black glasses inexplicably have one lens fogged up exits, a rucksack of clothes on his back, a guitar case in one hand, and a coverless copy of Rossignol's curiously titled tome "Origins of a World War" tucked in his pocket. With a nod to the pilot, he heads off, on foot, away from any sign of civilization. At a barely discernable crossroad miles from the airport, he meets a man whose name consists mostly of consonants and exchanges a few grunts and a complicated series of hand signs; after which he is led to a half-collapsed thatch roof shed invisible from the roadway. There he exchanges a handful of grimy bills and a carton of U.S. smokes for a dilapidated but serviceable motorcycle and a hand-drawn map. And before the dawn breaks, he is on his way..

Some of you know, or have heard, that my dear friend brin - Crow - passed out of this world the other night. He was one of the first two friends i made when i joined the theater, re-introduced me to the experimental music scene, turned me on to the Dresden Dolls, Madame P, Electric Six and Boris, Plastic Crimewave and Celebration. He taught me sound design and basic lessons in automotive mechanics. He brought the iMac i'm posting from back to life after it conked out the third day i owned it and to this day he - and his step-daughter Iris - have user profiles i see every time i log in. He could keep rhythm on a bass drum and tap a snare with the head of the guitar he was playing at the same time. He wore bowler hats with goggles before steampunk was big, tailored jackets and t-shirts over tight bellbottoms, while living in a trailer at the end of an abandoned rail line. Drove a 65 Rambler wagon, or maybe an 84 AMC Eagle on jacked-up wheels, to eat breakfast at the Steel Trolley Diner. He called himself a biker and rode a Honda 750 named Annabelle. He called his band, and sometimes himself, madbunny, and made music that could range from incomprehensible noise (on rollerskates) to gentle dreamy ragas. He understood the dichotomy between growing up in a backwards ohio town and living amongst the arts intelligentsia of a city, and could walk in both those worlds.

Right now i can't fathom that he won't set foot in either one again, not in this form. Farewell, crowboy. i hope the skies are clearer where you're flying now, the guitars give exactly the sound you want and never break a string, and all the classic cars only need worked on when you feel like it.