holy crappin' crap

I am playing with my favorite band. My favorite. Band. Who cares most of you are not likely to have heard of them? I LOVE these guys! The days when some of their records were released were like holidays to me. I used to go see them play live over and over, and it just never, ever, EVER got old. And this afternoon the dreamy singer was standing in my dressing room playing and singing some of my most favorite songs, and I was playing and singing them, too, and we were playing and singing together, and he liked it, and... and... So what he's been a good friend of mine for years? That makes this that much more sweet and fun, and it takes away none of the thrill whatsoever.

The four of us have played together twice so far, and there are two more full practices planned, but this afternoon was one-on-one with the lead dude, fine-tuning. G finds it very amusing that this was what it took for the excitement to really settle in, but hey, whatever it takes. I am most definitely excited now. Yessiree. I guess it's partly that things are going very well, that it all makes so much sense now that I'm finally here. We're pretty well in agreement musically. And those guys are all very supportive of me and my newbie-ness. They're all also asking and expecting enough so that I feel pleasantly stretched. AHHH.

I had a nice holiday and all that. Through it all I've been busy practicing and listening and working things out. I'm behind on reading other blogs, and I imagine I'll remain slightly out-of-touch for another week or so. (The first show is a week from tonight.) I just thought I'd come check in and jump up and down a little in blogland as well as in my kitchen. Yay, yay, YAAAYYYYY! Jumpity jumpity jump. Oops, I mean, rock horns here. Heh.

5 weird things you didn't know about me

I was tagged by Jana to list five things you don't know about me, but I saw a version of the "5 Things" theme over at Teri's which I feel compelled to incorporate: five weird things. Perfect. So.

1. From age 11 to age 14, I sang in a group of about fifty kids called "The Young Talents." I learned many beloved/classic/random songs this way that I wouldn't have otherwise--at least not so soon--though mostly shortened versions from medleys: South Pacific, Fiddler On the Roof, West Side Story... We performed with lots of stiff riser-bound choreography in hideous matching red-white-and-blue polyester outfits. The director, my elementary school music teacher, would implore us to "Sparkle!" and demonstrate by lifting her eyebrows to her hairline and pulling the corners of her mouth back to her earlobes. I can still recite the Gettysburg Address, or pretty close, because we learned an extremely cool version of it set to music. I sing it to myself every now and again and I still get choked up.

2. When I meet someone for the first time who will turn out to be a particularly significant friend, I recognize them right away even though I don't know them yet. This has played out several times in my life--like, seven or eight. I spotted my husband as one of "my people" too, though it took me a few weeks to figure out I wanted to be with him, you know, romantically.

3. I enjoy watching shows about autopsies on TV. Fascinating.

4. My spine is so flexible I can touch the floor with my full palms while bending my elbows slightly, but my hips are so inflexible I can't even make a ninety degree angle with my legs. I remember a young gymnastics instructor insisting that I must be able to spread 'em further, when I was a spry nine-year-old. Nope.

5. I have had many lovely mystical experiences. Here's a favorite: It was during a phase when I was particularly attuned to the Voice (in my head that offers wise guidance) in my day-to-day activities. When I really listen, it says all sorts of helpful things, about anything and everything. Anyway, I was also discovering old ballads, but realizing that I had always loved them and I just hadn't been exposed or sought them out enough to fully recognize the affinity. I had the thought around then that a song I loved at age eleven, Gordon Lightfoot's haunting "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," so strange to my ear for top forty radio, was in fact a ballad. Then I got a mad craving to hear it again. This, children, was before either the impending glut of seventies nostalgia or the fabulous song-finding tool known as the internet, at least in my house. So I just thought wistfully of the song on and off for a few days. And then, one foggy, stormy morning as I waited in my car for a friend to return from the appointment to which I had driven him, as I hummed and tried to remember the words to that tragic song-story, I had the specific thought, "I wish I could hear that song!" And the Voice said, "Turn on the radio. We'll find it for you." So I turned on the radio. And I turned the dial. And after about five or ten seconds, I heard Mr. Lightfoot's wailing guitar. Wow! But, I thought, that guitar plays between many of the verses... maybe it's almost over! Nope. Just started. The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitchigumi... Heard the whole thing. All eleventy-seven verses, clear as day. And after the last word of the very last verse, just when the seventies fadeout ending kicked in, loud static began to take over and the signal faded. But before it disappeared completely, I heard the announcer do a station i.d. I had been listening to a radio station two states and a hundred miles away on a day when the fog and rain was so thick the clouds seemed to be sitting down on earth with their feet up.

we three kitties

No burning agenda today; just thought I'd post an update. I'm still pretty Christmasy... went to a show last night where some friends and others performed an eclectic seasonal mix which included many of my favorite musical elements: banjo, SH, bluegrass harmonies, old-time music, safartic (Channukah) music, Christmas, and friends. The atmosphere was laid-back--lots of sweet little kids frolicking down front (until they got too distracting and were shuttled off to play outside the auditorium). I got to sing on a couple of SH tunes. Lovely!

I've had big ugly boogers in my lungs making my cough for nearly two weeks now, but I think going out and basking in seasonal joy last might might have been just the thing for it, as this morning I'm much clearer and quieter. Ahhh.

The three-and-a-half-hour nap I took yesterday with all three of my kitties probably didn't hurt, either:



(Thanks to G for taking advantage of the photo-op.)

In other news, (and this may be partly because I haven't been playing my guitars enough, but...) in the last month, I have knitted nineteen scarves and crocheted three potholders!



(The little kid models are in front.) I for one think they're all mighty fine. A few of the scarves have already gone out as birthday gifts, and have been very well received. What fun! And how geeky is that? [Well, this is not the first activity I've fallen in love with that's Geek- and/or Granny-Approved. Geek Power, baby. And come to think of it, in my experience, most grannies know what is up, yo.] I actually only started crocheting in earnest this week, and I feel borderline compulsive about it--I crave it. I want to be doing it all the time; it's so meditative. I guess I'll have to start making blankets after all these Christmas presents are done. Yes, indeedy. Huge, time-consuming afghans. And I can't wait.

tears on my kitty: christmas blubbering, part 2

I decided yesterday that I needed some new Christmas music, and set about browsing over at iTunes. I listened to samples of about five hundred different folks' versions of "O Holy Night," a favorite so dear that even typing the title just now choked me up a little. Still, even in that blubbery state I could find nothing that inspired me to make a purchase. Finally I clicked the "holiday" category and was presented with an array of new releases, including Sufjan Stevens "Songs for Christmas."

Now, I may try to pass myself off as musically hip from time to time, but though I do have a faint clue about what's happening in the world of new/interesting/alternative/Cool music, I am frequently long in the dark about wonderful offerings that the actual Cool kids have known about for years by the time I find them. I even catch myself resisting certain things just because they're considered Cool, and much of what the the Cool kids go apeshit over is not actually all that great, in my opinion. I could list several artists I don't particularly care for here to illustrate how discerning and inadvertantly contrary my tastes tend to run, but I won't, because I overdo it in part to make myself feel Cooler than the Cool, and it's really not good for me or for anybody to be concerned with anyone's else's tastes or preferences, whether to gravitate toward them or away.

This summer I finally noticed a song called "Chicago" by Mr Stevens (listen to a sample here--scroll down) which had been around for a full year before I let myself take it in. I had wanted to turn up my nose at the zillion overdubbed tracks, the pseudo-symphonic arrangement, the repetitive chorus sung by what sounded like friends and roomates. A Hip Hippy--whatever. But the song really caught my ear in the movie, "Little Miss Sunshine." It was a perfect expression of the better nature of that film. And damned if the lyrics and that straightforward real-person singing didn't pierce my ill-considered armor. "You came to take us... all things go, all things go... to recreate us... all things grow, all things grow..." Hmmm. But what really got to me was the part where Sufjan sings (over and over), "I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes..." Somehow his inflection got me right there, and put me in direct emotional contact with the part of myself that was acutely aware of how imperfect my choices in life have been and how desperately I needed to confess this to my own Soul. And somehow in that same moment of full awareness which this song managed to kindle in me again and again came immediate and total forgiveness. Redemption. I put the song on a short mix titled "War and Peace," and found I couldn't listen to it without crying. Weeping, really.

[But did I seek out other songs by the guy who was able to punch this nearly unbearably deep place in me and then set me down ever so gently back in my life, renewed and refreshed? Nah. And it turns out G loves this guy; he has two or three of his records on the iTunes file he shares with my computer. Sometimes I wonder what the heck is the deal with me.]

Well, to get back to my Christmas story, I was excited to see a Christmas album by this guy. And--Good Lord!--there were forty-two songs on it! I sampled a few, became further intrigued and cautiously optimistic, and clicked "purchase." I then spent the rest of the afternoon listening, and weeping.

Readers must be getting pretty bored with all my tear talk. It's a bit much for me, too, believe me. But I just had to share this discovery. He gets it. He GETS Christmas! It's pretty obvious that he's a Christian, which I'm not convinced is required but sure doesn't seem to hurt. Now, in the right frame of mind I could listen to Babs or Englebert sing O, Holy Night and be struck by the song itself (most beautiful song ever written? I could make a case - ) and be really moved. One reviewer of Songs for Christmas wrote, "As for the traditionals, who would have thought anyone could find sincere pathos in "The Little Drummer Boy"...?" Well, I for one am absolutely cut off at the knees the first ten or twenty times I hear that one every year. It kills me. Still, eventually I like everyone else will grow tired of all the hoopla, my resistance will strengthen as to a virus, and suddenly I'll hear only the over-slick heartlessness of most versions of my favorites, and I will want them to shut up, already.

This is not bloody likely to happen, however, with my New Favorite Christmas album. Banjo! Regular-person singing! Old English hymns! Old American hymns!! Piano! Actual Sincerity! This is not the maudlin, syrupy "sincerity" contrived and sickeningly overdone by so many Real Singers (definition: it's about them and their Performance--not the song, not the music, not the truth or spirit). I mean, come on--the guy manages to make "Jingle Bells" sound fresh and fun. Okay, it's a fifty-second instrumental. But still, it sounds like two people jauntily playing one piano, and it's actually really great. Plus, there are many killer original tracks. One, called "That Was the Worst Christmas Ever!" is unbearably sad and exultantly beautiful to me. It conjures a complex, rich, and intense sense memory of childhood and Christmas Past in all its darkness and all its ultimate light, more than anything else on the record. But the whole record--though yes, a bit too long (though this is mitigated by the fact that it's technically five cds in one)--the whole damn thing with all its forty-two songs absolutely immersed me in a radiant constellation of precise memories, made crystal through hindsight and higher yearnings, for the entirety of its two solid hours. It split me open.

I learned how to weep silently as a child so as not to draw any unwanted and unhelpful attention. Sad but true. This skill comes in handy these days when I'm sitting here on a jag with my headphones on and G is working fifteen feet away. Don't wish to disturb! Yesterday afternoon I woke the sleeping kitten on my lap with the large teardrops I kept inadvertantly missing with the tissue and dropping onto her fur. She didn't mind the water, though she appeared concerned when she looked up into my face. I reassured her. Yep, it hurts. But in a good way. It was all okay. We are all okay.

Happy Christmastime, everybody.

today's thoughts

Yay, Christmas. I was out shopping yesterday, humming along with the Christmas music on the overhead and getting all warm and squishy. Last night, we caught the Grinch on TV and I turned into the blubbering retard that this time of year predictably brings out in me. It might look maudlin, but the emotional sensation is absolutely exquisite. I suppose I could just enjoy it, but I was thinking about how when we have a child they will inevitably become increasingly mortified by my waterworks over anything regarding the True Meaning of Christmas. (Or animals in distress. The two boys I provided childcare for several years back used to bait me with "The Adventures of Milo and Otis" so they could have laugh at the expense of the very silly grown-up.)

Speaking of Christmas shopping, this happens every year these days: I spend more on G and me than on everybody else combined (which isn't that much anyway, come to think of it). That sounds a little selfish until you consider that I will wait to buy new linens and pajamas and the like until the old ones are literally falling apart with wear and are no longer mendable. At Christmas time, a switch in my head flips: the one that sends the okay-to-spend signal. I guess this system works well enough. For now.

One of the items I bought yesterday was a cheap pocket watch with an alarm feature, to help remind me to practice hourly. The instructions were so obtuse I was convinced after ten minutes or so of messing with the thing that, although a "chime" feature was mentioned (without any explanation or correlating instructions), it wasn't going to do what I needed it to do--beep softly on the hour. I tossed it along with the mangled packing materials, unintelligible instructions and receipt back into a bag and put it in the "to be dealt with" pile. Then the bag started beeping softly on the hour. Eureka! Now if I can only disable the alarm that went off at 2:20 am this morning.

G's new employers are in talks with many venture capitalists regarding an initial investment. Several are watching developments closely. One potential funder, the VC branch of a company whose name I recognized immediately, has entered into some sort of serious and promising-sounding confidentiality agreement with them. Which is good. Initial funding must be secured before actual success can even be pursued Everybody involved believes that, this way or some other way, it will happen soon. But the founder is spasing out now, dreaming of the possibilities. The other day he called G to ask, among other things, if in a major buyout situation we would hypothetically be willing to move across the country temporarily for many millions of dollars. Getting a wee bit ahead of himself, methinks. I told G that it didn't sound tempting, in any case. Why compromise something as important as living where you most love to live, surrounded by friends and family, for money in amounts that you couldn't possibly really need? Sounds empty and lonely to me. G said we might have a slight difference in opinion about that. But when he said "slight," he didn't mean it ironically. He's just more ambitious than I am, and the idea of raking it in appeals to him on some level. Luckily, he's also a very grounded dude with fundamentally sound priorities. If anything approaching this wild hypothetical ever comes to pass, I know we'll be able to make decisions we can live with joyfully. Which is nice.

In the meantime, my fervent and currently out-of-range wish is for a woodstove. I absolutely need the smell of woodsmoke in my environment from October through March. Lucky for me, we have a neighbor who provides a fix to tide me over fairly regularly when I go out. Still, it's just not the same as having one's home smell all warm and smoky inside. Plus, what can compare to that intense and concentrated heatsource when you feel chilled? There's a spot in the living room that will lend itself perfectly to a tiled corner hearth. I included images of a fireplace and glass-doored stove in my collage last spring, and I am visualizing madly. All I can do now is wait.

A very sad update: My brother's wife's pregnancy is ending. It's one of those situations that just plain sucks, and there's nothing to do or say about it. I was able to help in a small way by answering some questions and talking with her a bit about my experience, which at that point hers was paralleling. And I'm glad for that connection. (It's not easy to find opportunities for gratitude at times like this, but I will observe those that present themsleves.) It's good that we'll all be gathering again in a couple of weeks.

wahoo!

Our jam/audition went great. What a blast it is to play loud rock music! I openly mused about why I hadn't started doing it twenty-five years ago. G and I both played well for the circumstances (16 songs, one week's notice), and we all got on famously--it was a good day. We won't get to do it again for about three weeks, but then we'll start cramming for the show in early January. Oh, and they liked the new voice parts I added. They also expanded my role on guitar--I'll be playing a little textural acoustic on some other songs, too. I guess G and I will be helping out at another concert scheduled at a favorite local venue this spring as well, and who knows what else might come up. Who knows? I heard the guys talking the other day about making a record or two over the summer. Hmmm. Well, I've certainly made it clear that I'm up for anything if they would like my help or participation, and I will continue to do so, as the Arnold Horschack approach seems to be serving me well.



This band is like two bands in one, since they do intense, deep and often spooky acoustic music as well as this really loud, swirly rock. The acoustic incarnation is even more special to me than the electric version, in fact. I got a big smile this afternoon when the topic of an acoustic set at the spring show came up and I once again put my hat in the ring, reminding them that they had my number for that one, too. Come to think of it, there was actual, bilateral talk of incorporating me--it wasn't just me going, "Ooh! Ooh!" and them grinning warmly yet ambiguously. My, my, my-my-my. As a close friend of ours who has also had a few happy turns lately put it upon hearing our good news, "It's like we fell out of the blessing tree and hit every branch on the way down." Amen.

Speaking of blessings, let me tell you about yesterday morning. When I woke up, my Rock n'Roll Blister had become an erupting wound, and my whole finger was red and swollen. In related news, I have been dealing with and fighting off unpleasant symptoms like headaches and coughing this week, and on the morning of audition day--whattaya know!--I had only a discomfiting sputtering, guttural growl to speak with, and no singing voice whatsoever. But I felt like the Whos in Whoville when all their stuff had been stolen: it was still Christmas morning, goshdarnit. I was still happy and excited. I can honestly say I never worried or feared. I just gave it all to God to take care of. The Course in Miracles idea I was scheduled to work with was, "God's healing Voice protects all things today." God's healing Voice! Perfect. The associated reading was about how that Voice would tell me what to do in all circumstances, and that all I had to do was listen to it. Even more perfect for the day. I meditated on that for awhile; I repeated the idea to myself as I ate breakfast and got dressed, really taking it in. And when I went over my songs again one last time before we headed over, my voice was just there when it was time to sing. It stayed full and clear all day. And I was able to play my guitar relatively painlessly with some of that thick white boo-boo tape over my Rock Wound. Blessings large and small.

At this point, I want to restate that the Artist's Way work for which this blog was started is quite evidently behind these wonderful musical opportunities opening up in my life. It's really amazing to me from my present vantage point that when I did some of the excercises designed to disinter and process just this sort of thing, I was flooded with long-ignored and all but abandoned wishes for the very specific scenario that's now unfolding. I'm so very glad I used those hokey little power tools (powerful little hokey tools?), and that I had this outlet to express the resulting ideas out loud, so I could hear myself say them and get used to the notion that they were not only real and important for me to pursue in a "follow your bliss" sort of way--no matter what--but that when it came down to it, they were also probably quite achievable. And not even all that big a deal. Like, seriously--not at all. What was I waiting for? What was I afraid of?

Funny how things start to seem so unmanageable when we deny our heart's desires, stuffing them down, trying in vain to shut them up. I wonder if our demons are really just denied true directives, demon-y only because they're demanding our attention more and more fiercely. Like a crying child! When you go and put your arms around it, that frightening little banshee quiets right down.