Compare & contrast.

Things attempting to damage my calm today:

* Woman in elevator at office asks if I'm in tomorrow; I'm confused as to why I wouldn't be. Takes me a minute to realize it's Good Friday, which I don't celebrate because I'm not a Christian, but people assume I'm Christian until/unless I tell them otherwise. Somehow I thought the black nail polish and dyed red hair would be enough to project a stereotype here! Maybe I should start wearing my pentacle to work? Or more tattoos....hmmm...

* Coming through the security doors on my floor of the building, I vaguely hear footsteps before the door closes behind me. A woman says, "Thanks" in total sarcastic mode. What, the eyes in the back of my head were supposed to let me know you wanted me to hold the door? 'Cause clearly you're able to speak....but weren't able to ask me to hold the door since you were, uh, BEHIND ME?

* This article pulled from the Sudan Tribune, talking about the dangers of colonialism inherent in so much charity related to African countries. Makes me question where the donations I've made to "Save Darfur" are really going. Sonuvabitch! But a good reminder to me to do the effin' research before sending money to anything. Intentions are important, but thorough knowledge doesn't hurt. Time to wade into learning more about Sudan, I think.

* E-mails from family members basically telling me I don't trust Yahweh enough and also am un-American for thinking taxes make a better society. Yes, taxes suck, but the alternative sucks worse. Also, stop trying to convince me to have faith in Jesus.

* Danny Glover speaks truth about the Obama administration and racism. A bummer, but also informative.


Things helping me hold on to sanity:

* Ellen Brown preaches to this choir about how banks are totally fucking evil. Maybe not in those words.

* The Mayer explains a fear exercise I love to hate.

* I have started a trend of reflexively un-friending or un-following or un-subscribing stuff that bugs me. I love Chicago Honey Co-op, for example, but yesterday, they were pimping out some article or program or something or other talking about "get off your fat ass and bike to work." Which, you know, just doesn't seem like it's gonna be anything but a bunch of "omg I'm so fat and lazy and disgusting, I need to bike - oh, and starve, too - my way to a socially acceptable body," and you know...I just don't feel like wading through that kinda bullshit just to hear about how the local honeybees are doing. Buh-bye! Ditto bloggers or Facebook friends who are dieting, proselytizing, selling something, or posting total nonsense. Someday I may crawl out of the echo chamber...or maybe not. For now, my brain really appreciates relaxing its tolerance muscles a little. I mean, they get enough exercise at the office, anyway.

* Elle posting at Shakesville about water. This is a beautiful, heartbreaking post.

* Speaking of really awesome posts that tear me up, there's this one from Beth at Fake Plastic Fish, one of my fave green blogs.

* This playlist:

"Slow Dancing in a Burning Room" - John Mayer
"I Got a Name" - Jim Croce
"Mr. Curiosity" - Jason Mraz
"A Case of You" - Jane Monheit covering Joni Mitchell
"The Part Where You Let Go" - Hem
"The Shape I Found You In" - Girlyman
"Running on Faith" - Eric Clapton
"Comfort You" - Denison Witmer covering Van Morrison
"One Good Year" - Slaid Cleaves
"I Drive Alone" - Esthero
"St. Peter" - David Ford
"Rootless Tree" - Damien Rice
"By Way of Sorrow" - Cry, Cry, Cry
"Heart of the Matter" - India.Arie covering Don Henley
"They Were Wrong" - Matthew Ryan
"Dear Chicago" - Ryan Adams
"She's Out of My Life" - Josh Groban covering Michael Jackson
"Mexico" - Kim Richey covering CAKE
"Say It To Me Now" - Glen Hansard
"31 Today" - Aimee Mann
"Spilt Milk" - Matt Duke
"Ain't No Love" - David Gray
"Gravity" - John Mayer

Bullet points.

* Yeah, the gov has been arrested. Here's my surprise face. Did anybody think it was anything but a matter of time before this dude was caught in something shady?

* Both The Mayer and Mraz are up for multiple Grammies. Yay!

* The show last night was...a Monday night show. Adding in everyone (Thanks Chris D.!) who showed up on my behalf, we had a total audience of three people. Sweet! Luckily there was bar staff and all the other performers to pad that number a little. I've played to smaller crowds, so this wasn't so bad. The other performers? Jayme Dawicki (piano driven pop with tasty harmonies and really slick arrangements) and Riely O'Connor (good ol' John Prine-y storytelling songwritery goodness!) - yay for funky spellings!

* I'm playing Risque Cafe in Wrigleyville tomorrow night. 9:30. It's free to get in, and they have $2 PBRs. Just saying.

* Also, I'm playing the holiday event at Lake Side Cafe, my fave veggie joint. This is vegetarian food that non-veggies will love; I personally prefer it to Chicago Diner, even. Anyway, the tix for the event are $19 in advance, and worth every penny....plus of course, I'll be playing after dinner.

* The website has been recently updated, with some free holiday mp3s on the front page...plus I posted up a recording of "Ode to an Ass Clown," the meanest, nastiest, cussingest bitter break up song I've ever heard. If you like that sort of thing.

The path back to sanity.

Despite the fact that I write this missive from the nerve center of a 6 x 8 cubicle where I daily slip my soul into a drawer in return for a tidy sum that pays my rent and keeps me in guitars...and also despite the fact that I can, at most points in my life, be counted on for calm, logic, objectivity, perspective, and (most importantly) sarcasm...one of the paradoxes I hold is that of the reasonably functional tortured artiste.

I often feel like I am standing on the edge of going stark raving bonkers, and that my skin is entirely too small to contain the maelstrom of restlessness and conflicting emotion that is my own personal cross to bear. I have described it many ways over the years, sometimes happily, others with less appreciation. Whatever it is, it's the thing that fuels my creativity, that drives me to craft words and music and art and whatever else it is that I make in this world. The recent video of Jill Bolte Taylor that made the rounds on the internets....struck a chord with me, as if it held a piece of it, too...which part of me is freaked out by, wondering if I'm two steps from a stroke or something (and then there's the other part of me that constantly wonders if I'm just an undiagnosed manic depressive or something - but then I remember that I am relatively functional, and rule out the crazy).

It's hard to describe. Sometimes it's triggered by some intense experience - beauty, turmoil, someone else's suffering, conflict, all of these can send me into a restless funk. I can spend hours or days trying to sort through the ineffable malaise, trying to put a finger on what's wrong or missing or desired. It's a thorny process, because none of those words quite describes the problem properly....and neither does "problem." Things can be totally fucking fine, and yet they're not. It's all shades of gray and misty bleeding bullshit that can't be clearly defined. Generally, I just wind up wandering around observing something, jotting down lines of music or poetry into a notebook, not speaking for a few hours, finding the current of silence that runs under the frenetic nonstop action of life.

Today is one of those days. I'm restless, and there's something I...don't have? don't understand? can't do? Something hurts, without hurting. I'm not describing it well.

I decided to distract myself from my discontent by searching out new music. I coasted from music blog to music blog, reading descriptions of bands and artists I hadn't heard of. I crawled through archives and trolled link lists. I thought that surely, somewhere, was the new thing that would make it all right, that would flip the switch and return my brain to its regularly scheduled programming. I followed link after link after link.

And then, for some reason, I thought I'd go see what The Mayer was blogging these days. And found this:

What now, then? I can only really say for myself: Enjoy who I am, the talents and the liabilities. Stop acting careless. In fact, care more. Be vulnerable but stay away from where it hurts. Read. See more shows. Of any kind. Rock shows, art shows, boat shows. Create more art. Wear hoodies to dinner. Carry a notebook and hand it to people when they passionately recommend something and ask them to write it down for me.

Root for others.

Give more and expect the same in return, but over time.

Act nervous when I'm nervous, puzzled when I don't know what the hell to do, and smile when it all goes my way. And never in any other order than that.

And when it's all over, whether at the end of this fabulous career or of this life, which I hope takes place at the same time, I should look back and say that I had it good and I made the most of it while I was able. And so should you.

This also led me to Rothbury Festival, which not only combines massively diverse musical action AND environmental awareness....but also is being held about twenty miles from my dad's home in the middle of nowhere in Michigan. Fucking unbelievable.

Yet again, the weird synchronicity of this man whose life is mine-two-steps-to-the-left....is somehow what I was looking for. Or at least the beginning of it.

Grammy Recap (wherein I wax poetical)

I don't usually watch awards shows. For some reason watching a bunch of pretty people patting each other on the back for being so darn pretty just bores me. (Which isn't to say that there aren't often worthy performances...the shows themselves that bore me, despite knowing that people have sometimes earned a pat on the back for doing their jobs well. Although to be honest, the giant fucking paychecks seem like they ought to be reward enough. Lord knows that's all I get, only on a much much much smaller scale. Not that I'm bitter.)

(Anyway....)

But last night, I was doing laundry and futzing around with the guitar and a notebook, and so I put the Grammys on for background noise. (Yes, I know I chose an awards show over freaking Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy on Masterpiece.....but sometimes in the battle between lust and the Muse, the Muse wins.)

Some of the show was....er...blah.

• Carrie Underwood, I know you're an American Idol and stuff, and that song is (relatively) badass (if a little trite) and everything, but thigh- high boots with hot pants? Seriously?


• 
  Beyonce....love. Seriously, you're fabu. But the dancy-pancy beat-poetry trip down black women's performance history - while highlighting some seriously freakin' awesome musicians - had me scratching my head. Unnecessary. It seemed a little gratuitous, you know?


• 
  Amy Winehouse. Can someone explain to me what's so damn great here? Setting aside the almost absurdly true-to-life lyrics...the music seemed (to me) solid, but not spectacular. Certainly not what I would call award-winning. (Clearly I define this differently than the Academy.)


• 
  I wanted more of The Mayer. Seriously, Grammys, what's your problem? That bitty guitar solo was not enough, even if Alicia Keys is growing on me.

However....

• 
  Kanye. I don't give a shit if his mouth writes checks his ass can't cash, if he's a sore loser, or if he rocks with Daft Punk and lets the asshat announcers get away with never mentioning them. Kanye is brilliant. I don't like a lot of rap, but I like what he does. And I was blown away by his tribute to his mom. That kind of artistic expression is what fucking music is FOR. Well done.


• 
  Fergie with John Legend....wow. I'm not a big fan of her music (I mean, how can I take someone who sings about "lady lumps" seriously?), but this was a gorgeous performance.


• 
  Carol Woods and Timothy Mitchum and a gospel choir recreating my absolute favorite rendition of "Let It Be" EVER (and the likely reason I'll shell out for "Across the Universe" on DVD). Although part of the impact during the movie for me was the context created on film...it was still a heartbreakingly beautiful performance. I forget sometimes how very much I love gospel-style music, and how much that figures in my own performance style. Plus Carol Woods just fucking rocks.


• 
  Andrea Bocelli + Josh Groban = too much gorgeous singing for words. Although I did feel bad for Josh, taking a breath halfway through that last note; he may have a singularly beautiful voice, but Andrea Bocelli actually *is* an opera singer.

My favorite artists don't often appear on these programs (some of them because they're Jim Croce and dead....others because they're Dan Bern and not the kind of thing that gets enough attention, despite being AWESOME). But I can't say that there wasn't a boatload of talent featured on the Grammy stage (Dan Fogerty! Aretha! Tina Turner!), and parts of the show I was glad to have seen.

The real trouble with watching this sort of thing is how it gets me all fired up about music. I mean, to watch some of these performances and feel my own reactions to other people's art, it just makes me all the more intent on creating my own, expressing my own stuff, sharing my vision of the world through those creations. Because when someone whose life experience is so vastly different from mine can create something that evokes such a strong reaction in me...it reminds me just how freaking powerful art can be. Musical, visual, poetical, literary....art is such an amazing mirror to see ourselves in.

A Monday like any other Monday.

Winter solstice is about six weeks away (the planning begins now!). Solstice - the mark that the sun is returning to warm things up again, the turning point, the shortest day of the year.

It makes me think: enough now. Enough gloom and doom. The world has seen civilizations rise and fall, and there are still forests and mountains and beaches and sunshine and moonlight. Enough fear and stress. Dictators have come and gone, and the tide still rushes in every evening and birds still sing every morning. Enough rage, enough grief, enough fury. The universe knows what it's doing, and you've always believed that. That collective energy that holds everything together, that we all feed and that feeds us in turn - it is always there, no matter what any one man, or any hundred men, or any million men might do. Yes, lives may be at stake. Yes, freedom may be at stake. Yes, the sky may shake with the horrors mankind contemplates in its strange animal-denying-its-animal-nature way. And yes, I believe the universe will take care of me, that I can be an instrument of change, that those who commit horrors will have it revisited upon them in this life or the next.

It will all work out all right. I don't know how, it just will.

Enough.

I feel the need for a list. To whit:

1. Today my fingernails are blue. And not in a "heart attack imminent" kinda way....I painted them and they're all pretty-like.

2. I need to update my website, since voting for Kerry is no longer possible and my latest news is woefully out of date....but I almost want to leave it for awhile, and hold onto the way I felt the last time I updated it, before my nephew passed, before the election...you know, happier, hopeful.

3. New lyrics from the Mayer:

Hold onto whatever you want, baby
Hold onto whatever will get you through
Don't know how much longer I'll e around, baby
'Cause I don't trust myself when I'm loving you

Damn. It's like he has one of those cold-war-era red phones to my heart....boy, that line sounded good in my head before I typed it out. Aren't you glad I left it in anyway?

4. More illumination from the Mayer: "I am severely full of shit 18 out of 24 hours." Amen.

5. Fuck me, I am restless today. Well, okay, I'm restless abut 60% of the time, but today I'm feeling it. The thought of selling everything I own but my guitar and my favorite boots and my blue jeans and my ugly red cowboy hat.....and just getting out, just leaving, just going out wandering....goddamn, it appeals to me today. I love so many parts of the life I've built for myself here in Chicago, and I'm committed to meeting the challenges I have set myself, but the road is in my blood, and every now and then it reminds me. I can hear it out there, leading somewhere, keeping its secrets for whoever tops the hill first...AAAAAARGH!!! Why am I cursed? I'm going to have to go home and rearrange my furniture!

6. My cats have determined that I should get no sleep. They've spent the past few nights running circles around me, taking turns curling up beside my head and purring at the top of their....whatever it is that purrs on a cat, and sneak-attacking my toes whenever they pop out of the blanket. It's hell. And before you suggest I close them out of my bedroom...tried it. The meows were just as bad...maybe worse. Ugh. I love them, and I know it's because I've been gone so much lately....but still. A girl needs her damn sleep!

Okay, enough whining for today.

200 down....a million more standing in line to get out.

So, a gig just fell in my lap. Gotta love that!

Yeah, so if you're within driving distance (or el distance) (or walking distance), come on out and see me play at Phyllis' Musical Inn Thursday night at 8:30, along with River! There's no cover, and this show will be filmed for Flabby Hoffman, a cable access TV show here in Chicago. Dude!

Of course, it's not like TV is new to me. Back in 2000, I did a segment segue for CNN's "World Beat" music program, live and in costume from the Georgia Renaissance Festival. Here's the transcript...scroll down about 3/4 of the page to just before the Blackmore's Night segment, right after the Gloria Estefan interview...."unidentified female" - that was me! The "hey" was actually an "oyez" - their script, not mine. I *never* said oyez. "Hear ye," sure. "Oyez" NEVER. Well, just the once, for the TV show.

I can't believe I found a transcript for that.

This is my 200th entry...well, actually my 719th, if you count the 519th in my old, locked diary. But we don't. So, yeah, happy Bicent-entry-al to me!! Woo hoo!

I contemplated writing up a list of 200 startling revelations, but remembered that I am too busy experiencing startling revelations to make a list of them. Which sucks because I greatly enjoy lists. Anyway, so no list of 200 startling revelations. Instead, I present you a list of some other stuff (patently NOT 200 items long):

1. I caught part of a TV show last week wherein Kelly Osbourne played the role of the fat chick. Only in fucked-up TV "reality" would Kelly Osbourne be the fat chick. Whoops! I mean "full bodied" per the PC term the guy with the hots for her used on the show.

2. I recently found Dolly Parton's version of "Stairway to Heaven." It fucking rocks. Two words: banjo solo.

3. You wanna know what sucks? Now that the roomie is gone (leaving behind, for some freakish reason, some highly trashy porno and assloads of trash and even some dirty clothes - wtf?!), I'm realizing that first off, I don't really like living alone - it leads to too much talking to myself and not keeping up with the housekeeping; and second, I'm probably going to have to move away from my fabulous heaven-on-earth I-love-it-so-much apartment into a one bedroom once my lease is up....I'm tired of dealing with shitty roommates. Ugh.

4. All the time I spent at home over the past couple weeks really reminded me how little room there is for me in that world. It's home, but it's not *really* home. I think differently, my priorities are different, I speak a different language half the time. When I was a kid, I always knew I wanted out, that my edges went beyond the places I knew....but I didn't realize how painful it would be. It's not like you can really ever let go of those ties...but you never truly hold them, either, so you're sort of caught in this weird limbo where the shadow of who you used to be stands over your shoulder whispering sugar-coated memories at you, while who you are now stands there trying not to burst into flames. Okay, so I'm not sure how much sense that makes, but there it is. Stream of consciousness.

5. From the Mayer:
"Ya know, this is a weird thing about life is that, people aren't ever really single. Like, people are always kinda still hanging on to this little tendril of that relationship or hangin' on, off this little tete, and like, just one...down to like...just like, just like, just every little once in awhile, 'I'm still touching you, I'm still touching you... but I'm gonna go out and see other girls. No, no, but I'm still touching you.' And, and, it's a weird thing you never meet people who are single anymore. You meet people who still have these, these remaining ties with people. (female voice) 'But eh, you don't understand. I don't want to be with him. I am kinda single.' And it's like, that is all messed up. So, I...my stuff is packed, all clean and folded, ready to go whenever I meet someone I like. I am as single as you can possibly be and there's no phone calls I have to make before I jump in the car with you." Me too, John. Me, too.

6. I wish sometimes that I was one of those people who could get up in the morning, eat a bowl of cornflakes, go to work, work all day without fucking around on the internet and typing up song lyrics in empty e-mails and chit-chatting with friends all day via e-mail and AIM....come home, sweep the kitchen, drink tea and watch Survivor, go to bed, and do it all again the next day. Sometimes.

7. More from the Mayer:
"Music is a mirror that is unlike any other mirror in your house. It shows you looking at yourself the way you want to be seen. It has the image of yourself as you would really want to be: emotionally and stylistically. It is the image of yourself that you wish you were and might actually be."This stings a little, but it's totally fucking true. I think this is why my songs tend to be sort of self-fulfilling prophecies, I think. I mean, I wrote several bitter break-up songs before I ever had a real bitter break-up....and lo and behold, months down the line, I did have a bitter break-up that fit the lyrics a little too close for comfort. Now, of course, I'm writing happy songs that involve me getting laid often.

8. My heroes are Dennis Miller, for using the word "fuck" with such panache; da Vinci for being all Renaissance Man, but also just crazy enough to write everything backwards in his journal; Einstein for being brilliant, but still silly enough to have his most famous picture taken with his tongue out; and the Mayer for being a 6'3" guitarist with brains and a heart and a way with words that blows me away constantly....he gives me hope that there might actually be the Perfect Dude For Me out there somewhere.

9. I'm on an "I fucking love John Mayer" kick. Sorry.

10. My head is full of songs right now, but none of them seem to want to come out and play. BLARGH!!!! Being a tortured artist is fucking lame!!

And have a nice day!

Friday already?

So, I wrote this song a couple days ago that's been *stuck* in my head ever since. It's immovable, it's so catchy and fun, and I can't get rid of it. Litrally, the morning after I wrote it, I had to play it a couple times before I went to work, and same story this morning. And it's not even, like, some amazing piece of musical gold. I mean, fer chrissakes', it's called "loveghost" and involves the line "My brain's still scrambled even though our love is toast." I mean, admittedly, that's a great line, but it won't be getting me into the songwriters' hall of fame anytime soon.

But holy crap is it fun.

What's really amazing is what inspired the song. As I think I've mentioned, being off work for so long gave me lots of time to think, ponder, dwell, and muse. Normally reflection is productive for me, and a good brood can usually yield a couple songs, but for roughly six weeks, I didn't write a line. I was so caught up in the funk that I couldn't say anything about it. A big part of this musing was a remembrance of where I was and what I was doing a year ago.

Last April, I was pretty ecstatically happy. ((I went back and read last year's diary entries from April just to make sure I wasn't sugarboating things in my memory.)) I was getting a new apartment, getting laid, giving good music, working the job....things were pretty spiff. Of course, a couple months later, much of that fell spectacularly apart, beginning a slow and painful decline that would take eight months to finally keel over and die. But at this time last year....things were good.

So, that's my state of mind. Maybe for the first time in my life, I'm living in a place where my history goes back longer than a year....there are memories in so many places here in Chicago, and I'm not planning on leavinganytime soon, so I have to live with those memories. Certain places inevitably bring to mind certain circumstances and people and situations....it's a very strange feeling for me. I know most people deal with that all the time - they're not used to picking up and leaving any time things get complicated...but I am. And to walk streets, pass clubs, visit theaters and restaurants where I've had such amazing times with people who wound up hurting me in ways I'm still exploring even after so much time has passed...it's new to me, and I'm not sure how to handle it.

The other night, I happened to walk down this street I've walked down many times without really paying attention, and I looked up at just the right moment to see this sign for some body shop...and it was like a time-warp to a year ago, and passing that sign in a cab on the way home after a night of drunken revelry...and I was so sad - I miss the drunken revelry, I miss the fun, I miss so much of that chapter in my life. And I don't know that I can get it back, or even that I really want it back. When I got home, I got out the notebook and started writing. I was very much in the "used to be her town" (James Taylor, wasn't that?) mood...but since that song's already been written, I wanted to take it in a little different direction. So I whipped out the old 12-bar-blues, added a nice upbeat, driving rock tempo, and made the lyrics kinda tongue-in-cheek. It's really quite a fun tune. And has been stuck in my head ever since, despite hours of listening to as much Mayer as I can stand to try to get rid of it.

Which is a *lot* of Mayer.

Anyway, it just struck me odd this morning that such a fun song could come out of such a complex, melancholy mood. Yet more proof that there isn't a word to describe just how strange musicians are.

On another note altogether, I'm reading Mo'Nique's book (Skinny Women Are Evil), and am really enjoying it. Damn, is she funny.

Final note for today's entry...I'm a little verklempt today, what with all the retrospective bullshit. My birthday is coming up in less than a month, and all of a sudden, I'm starting to wonder if the best parts of my life may have already happened. That's a vomitous thought.

I'm baaaaaa-aaaaaack!

This is maybe the first Monday morning in a very long time where I don't feel like my life is a black hole wherein everything positive has been sucked into the whirling vortex of self-flagellation, guilt, and rage that was a direct result of too much time spent thinking about what a schmuck I am and what a crap-fest I've made of my life.

Although I typically enjoy hanging out by myself, apparently eight weeks of hanging out by myself is toxic.

So, rather than run through a huge, long-winded recap of the hell I've been snuggled up in for the recent past....I thought I'd just summarize the salient points:

1. Ass Status: So, basically when I fell down the stairs I snapped the end of my tailbone right off. This would explain the excruciating pain. Sadly, though, it took a set of x-rays, a one scan, and an MRI to find the fracture (it was apparently well hidden behind the twisted little fragment of my tailbone). For awhile, I was worried that the whole thing was really all in my head, and that I was being a baby about things....and thus finding the break made me feel a little less crazy. Anyway, now, I'm back to work, the ass is still sore, but much better than before, and I still have painkillers if I overdo it. Allegedly, it will take years for my ass to be anywhere even close to normal...which is a cheery thought....but I try to look at the bright side: I fell down a flight of stairs and didn't break my neck. Score! The downside: no shoes with heels....I'm relegated to flats for the foreseeable future. I have a feeling that might be one order from the doctor that I'll ignore once the immediate pain fades a bit. I have too many cute shoes, and summer is coming, and dammit! I like to be tall. Well, taller. I mean, only in certain company is 5'9" short. Also, another thing that sucks is that I'm not supposed to Tae Bo. Apparently all the kicking puts a lot of stress on the ass. This sucks because I was ecstatic to find a workout I actually enjoyed....and now I can't do it, so I'm back to square one.

2. Music: This is where my life is taking the biggest hit. Medical bills have sucked pretty much all of my disposable income, not to mention the cash I'd set aside for recording, which means it may take me a few months to get back on track. Dammit. Plus, all my ambitious plans to buy my own recording equipment and embark on a journey of discovery in the field of how much crappy music I could make crappy recordings of....well, they scrapped at present. I did, however, buy my first electric guitar, which has been perhaps the biggest bright spot in this whole ordeal. I fucking love that guitar. It's so much fun to mess around with, and it has brought my understanding of barre chords and punk rock to new levels. I have to say that my guitar skills have greatly improved over the past couple months. I had lots of time to practice.

3. Work: Back to the grind. Woo hoo!

4. Home Life: Well, the roomie moves to LA at the end of this month and I don't have a replacement roomie yet. The cool thing is that my landlord is being super cool about it and has given me lots of options for taking it on myself, which gives me some breathing room when it comes to finding someone. I won't have to take on a roomie I have doubts about, which definitely makes me feel more comfy about things. On the other hand, it means stretching my dollars even further than the medical bills and my swank lifestyle strecth them already. Ugh. Not a particularly happy concept.

5. My Peeps: Lucky for me, I have been blessed enough to stumble into several of the most wonderful people it's been my pleasure to know, and they've been a tremendous comfort throughout this whole ordeal. I swear, having people I can talk to, and hang out with, and wander about suburban shopping malls with, and make jokes about my broke ass with....that's what got me through.

6. Miscellany:

**Well, I got a tattoo. It's a celtic trinity knot, plain black, on the back of my shoulder. It hurt like a bitch, and the experience gave me severe doubts as to the likelihood of ever getting inked again. I am, however, very pleased with the one I have. I think it suits me.
** I've also got a line on a possible audition for a little musical production of some sort, courtesy of my girl J, which means that there's a distinct possibility I'll be returning to the stage for the first time in a few years. I'm stoked. I've missed shows and acting and such. We'll see what happens with it, though.
**My adorable housecat is still the cutest thing ever, and I miss our afternoon nap together already.
**During the ass-fracture-hunt, they found all kinds of weird issues with my body....you know, a couple deformed vertebrae, an ovarian cyst, arthritis in my feet...most of it is passive stuff I don't have to worry about unless it starts to bother me, but the arthritis one kind of bothers me. I mean, I'm 25. If I've got arthritis *now* (though I haven't actually noticed any pain or stiffness, so I dunno what's going on there), what the hell will it be like when I get old??? It's not altogether surprising, though, since I broke my left foot about (eek!) eight years ago (I feel so old), and my right foot has been afflicted with this really horrid (speaking of old) bunion since I was 12 or so. So, yeah, my feet being f'd up? Not really much of a shock there.

All right, I've rambled on long enough....but I don't want my stupid feet to be the last thing I talk about, so....instead I'll throw out some Mayer lyrics I'm loving right now:

I will go to my grave
With the life that I gave
Not just a melody line
On the radio wave
It dissipates
It soon evaporates
But home life doesn’t change

Damn skippy.

Today.

Sometimes I wonder if my enthusiasm for potentials and my idealistic nature set me up for disappointment.
I thought about writing a whole big long rant about that....berating myself for seeing the bright side and coming off so naive all the goddamn time. But you know what? It's part of my nature. I choose to walk the line between cynicism and idealism. I know I'm supposed to be all jaded and (take my word for it) I am...but I'm also hopeful. I hope things will turn out well, and I try to act rightly when given the chance, so that I contribute everything I can to make reality reflect my hopes. I like the fact that I'm ballsy enough to take risks when they matter, on the big stuff. I like the fact that my regrets are few and my stories plentiful. I try to avoid leaving myself to look back and wonder what might've happened, you know? Besides which, even my new musical hero promotes being reckless:

So, enough crying over spilled milk. I'm wearing a cute black miniskirt, guitar-shaped earrings, and a shirt with French cuffs. I'm having a good hair day. I am coordinating the schedules of six fabulous musicians to rehearse and record eight of my songs, plus getting a few others ready to demo up myself during the same set (why not?). I'm looking over my recently re-orged website and digging on my new design. I've got blisters on my finger from rocking out on the guitar last night with the harmonica player. I'm listening to a mix of my own music and Johnny-boy's, and it's good. It's honest, it's true, it's beautiful.

I'm a really goddamn lucky girl. Not one person in a hundred thousand has what I have, and knows it. And you know what? Fuck anyone who can't be as happy about that as I am.

A retrospective.

2003: Year in Perspective

January
I started the year with my dear friend J from high school, in a little pub in downtown Chicago, amused by the waitress and disgusted because I'd actually found a tequila that even *I* (who loves cheap tequila) thought tasted like ass. I was convinced that I was in love, I was nervous as hell because I'd finally worked up the nerve to do something about it, and I was basically hanging onto hope for dear life that I hadn't made the biggest mistake of my life.

Heaven forbid I have a nice, quiet New Year.

February
This month held some of the most ecstatic days of my life, and osme of the most frightening. In my over-analytical craziness, I ping-ponged between joyjoyjoy in my life, my music, my body, my job, my *everything*.....and the niggling uncertainty that kept me wondering if it was all too good to be true. As it happens, it *was* too good to be true, but there were times when I didn't even care. The moments of bliss, illusory though they might have been, were worth it.

March
This was the month where the other shoe dropped. Where a bucket of cold water dumped out over my head and I got the first wake up call, which I chose to ignore. This was the month where I learned that I was just as gullible as any other dumbass woman...and that I was really good at deceiving myself. Though there is something to be said about forgiveness and acceptance, which were the other lessons I learned here. Oh, and I also bought my gorgeous, beautiful, fabulous guitar. She's my baby, and I love her.

April
This was the month wherein the band landed our first "real" (read: paying) gig, which was an unmitigated success. The music was on track, my heart was happy again (stupid, stupid, gullible heart!), and my roomie and I managed to land a fabulous apartment. Sure, I doubted every second of happiness, but I was happy to take them, even if they were bullshit.

May
My birthday was here. It was lovely. I am, of course, leaving out all the agonizing I did when I started to get the feeling that something was rotten in the state of Tari.

June
Gosh, this was a fun month. Only not. The rug was pulled out from under me not once, not twice, but thrice. Everything I had allowed myself to believe, I could no longer believe. I spent several nights on the road for work, trying to come to terms with reality, and then deciding what was the right action at cusp, so to speak. I opted to take the high road, to set aside the injured pride and broken heart, to forgive the deceptions and misunderstandings and lack of communications....in favor of professionalism and being grown up about things. There were moments when I regretted this. And my roomie left this month to head to Arizona for a few months with her family.

July
Things with the band progressed. I spent a lot of time alone, thinking, grieving, hanging out with my good friends Ben & Jerry, and asking myself why the hell I hadn't built myself a network of friends in Chicago...all my friends in various locales around the country were wonderful, but they couldn't come hang out and watch movies or have pedicure parties or indulge in some shopping therapy....bleh. Not my best month. I did, however, work in some quality solo coffeehouse gigs, as well as book some studio time for my solo material. This was less about wanting out of the band, and more about wanting an outlet for stuff I didn't feel fit the band very well....girlie singer-songwriter material is a poor fit for a band that's 2/3 testosterone.

August
This was the month I finally admitted what a slutpuppy I can be. Yep, the month of the rebound hookup. This was therapeutic in some ways, but probably not the healthiest thing in the world, either. Also this month, I resolved to get off my ass and meet some people I wouldn't have to agonize over constantly. I started a Tarot class, hosted dorky little game nights, and generally worked the whole social butterfly angle. Woo woo.

September
Here's where I really started making connections with some actual local friends...a neverending source of absolute joy. I got a cat, a decision i agonized over but have not regretted since.

October
This month I played my first solo-solo gig, to an enthusiastic, if diminutive, crowd. My roomie was back in town (finally!), my new friendships were growing stronger, my community was becoming closer, my cat was eating me out of house and home, and every now and then I managed to squeeze in a little action with Mr. Hook-up. The band hopped on board with a theater company to do the music for a new production, including writing '50s-esque music for lyrics by Shakespeare. I'm tempted to put that on an album just so I can register a copyright with me co-writing with Billy Wigglestick. Fabulous.

November
I took a trip to the Southland, got sunburned, and (in true slutpuppy fashion) took a Southern Gentleman to bed. I cooked Thanksgiving dinner for friends and family. The band rocked the house with '50s covers, including a seriously sexy version of "Sixteen Tons" that I swear will be going on a CD sometime during my career. I saw John Mayer live (and managed not to swoon into anyone's pierced belly-button). I was reminded again and again how very much I have to be thankful for, that I am blessed and lucky as hell.

December
I got a shock this month, as some truths came to light with the band...some truths that hurt me in unexpected ways, but also made me realize several things about myself and how I relate to the band. I went home for Christmas and enjoyed some quality time with my family and old friends. I have been overwhelmed by the love and support of the people in my budding community, and I honestly feel like it's time to really open the floodgates and let life knock me on my ass. I think maybe I can take it now.

So, that's my year. Ups, downs, but I still stand by every choice I made. They make me who I am, and even if everyone else thinks I'm an asshole, I love me.

I have to share some Mayer lyrics, because this song really hit home for a number of situations I was in this year:

Do you ever get the feeling that we started in the middle?
Or have you ever had the sense that we've been lying just a little?
I mean, come on
It's not like we've known ourselves that long

And I can't say I really blame you for being bored with the beginning
Always staring at the score to figure out who's barely winning
But don't you know
There is a reason strong moves slow

And I'm okay
If you're okay with wasting time
but when you trace
you always see the bottom line
We are tracing
I hope you know
We are tracing

And if you want to know the moment I knew that I was still alone
I found I never learned your number I only stored it in my phone
You'd think by now
I'd know the shape of calling home

And I'm okay
If youre okay with wasting time
But when you trace
You always see the bottom line

We are tracing
I hope you know
We are tracing
We're both alone
We are tracing
We are tracing

Did you ever get the feeling that we started in the middle?
Or have you ever had the sense that we were lying just a little?
I mean come on
It's not like we've known ourselves that long.

2003 brought me that much closer to being the person I want to be. Here's hoping 2004 does the same, but maybe without all the agony this time.

A decision.

It was in March 2002 that I first stumbled onto John Mayer on mp3.com, rather randomly. I was struck by his music, his words, and what they said about him as a person. See, some artists you know through their music - and these have always been my favorites. The way you can feel Don McLean's rage and a sadness so deep it made him sick in "American Pie," his bittersweet sorrow in "Vincent," the frenetic energy of "Dreidel"...Jim Croce's tongue-tied affection in "I'll Have to Say I Love You in a Song," his hope in "Hey Tomorrow," his cynical frustration with hypocrisy in "Which Way"....Willie Nelson's love of all things Cowboy in more songs than I can count. That's what a good songwriter is all about - letting you see the person behind the persona. It's not just about being a peerless musician, it's about giving people a glimpse of your heart, letting them see that under all the stuff we all hide behind, there's something human and vulnerable - something like we all have inside of us.

It's not limited to music, either. One of the most profound experiences of my life was seeing the Van Gogh / Gaugain exhibit when it was in town. To see the paintings I've admired in prints for most of my life...to be in the same room with them....you got the same glimpse inside the shell the world makes us all wear. You saw his passion for everything, his love of life and the world and his frustration at seeing all this beauty and not being able to capture it or even find anyone else to understand that he saw it. You could feel his loneliness, his sadness. That's what makes his art great, is the fact that it moves you. The fact that a painting of two sunflowers doesn't take your breath away because it's two exquisitely painted sunflowers, but rather because those sunflowers mean something, communicate something about friendship and love and courage and fear.

If you ask me, that's the purpose of art, the point of being an artist. To be that universal communicator, to say the things people can't say, without saying them. To go beyond language to someplace eternal and primeval and common, where we all understand in silence. It doesn't matter how you do it, just that you do it.

There are a lot of people chasing that pipe dream, wanting to be the Next Big Thing, the one who finds the right words/colorsshapes/sounds to bring people to that place of connectedness and wholeness. Some of them have a shot. Some of them don't. Some get caught up in the technicalities, and lose track of the larger goal - they spend so much time focussing on perfecting this or that technique, trying to fit into a mold they think means success...that they never find success itself. And I don't mean the kind of success that gets you Grammy nominations and platinum records. I mean the kind that makes you stay up late and get up early because if you're asleep you're missing too much of your wonderful life.

I don't necessarily think that I'm one of those people who can tap into the universal and connect with people....I think I'm learning more and more every day about who I am and what I want and the things that being me entails, the things I have to do to be true to myself and my talents and gifts. I think, regardless of whether I ever reach any level of quantifiable success, that getting to my true self is the key to my success, the key to happiness. Part of that is making music, which I'd be doing even if I sucked, even if people hated my work. Luckily, they don't seem to hate it, and I seem to have a bit of talent, so things might just work out.
This is what I'm about, why I do what I do, why I feel how I feel. Nothing anyone can do or say will change that. It doesn't rely on anyone else, and so it's affected by no one but me. This is what I'm supposed to be doing.

You know who else uses that line? John Mayer.

The difference is, he's cute and marketable and famous and touring the world....and I'm.....uh.....not. Well, and also, he's a better guitar player than I could ever dream of being. But I think we share the same view of what it means to be true to yourself, to do what you do not because you want to do it, but because you have to.

So there you go. March 2002 I discover a musical inspiration. December 2003 I discover that nothing but the music matters, and I'll be making it regardless of whatever else is going on in my life. Even if I'm singing my songs to my cat and my TV, I'll still be singing them. Period.

Thanksgiving: Part Deux

And now, John Mayer.

I think I drove K nuts by saying, "I love this man" once every five seconds, but gosh-darnit, I just couldn't help it. He just hits all my buttons, all the ones that matter, and nobody in my experience has ever done that before. I feel like we're living these weird parallel lives sometimes. I've asked myself "Why Georgia?" I can't tell you how many times...I've wanted to call it "Love Soon" before, regardless of the risk...I know how it is to hold onto something just to have something to hold. And right now, the track that's singing to me (other than "Come Back to Bed" which just makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up it's so eerily close to things I've said) is "Home Life," which is so much where I am right now, I don't even know how to begin to explain. During the show, he did a snippet of "Man with a Suitcase," and I've been there, I've been on the road non-stop, I've been looking for that home life, that one place where it clicks and it matters and it's all right, and you're home.
So, yeah, it was a good show.

He opened with "Neon," singing about the Peachtree Street nightlife I remember from my wilder moments in the ATL. He closed with "83," taking me back to a time in my life when I was too young to feel restless or lonely and my parents were still together and I was just starting school and the world wasn't as dark as it is now.
Our nosebleed seats didn't afford me a good view of the "guitarist face" I love so, but I got the idea well enough. (I love the contortions that good guitarists put their faces through while playing. They're crazy.) Also, the cameramen were spot-on when it came to focussing on his hands whil he played, which was nice. He's got great hands. Damn, damn, damn, the things I'd like to do with those hands!!

But I digress.

There was a slight hiccup in my total enjoyment of the show: the fact that K and I were a bastion of IQ points in a sea of blond, midriff-baring, trendy-piercing, fangirl-dragged-her-boyfriend-along, Britney-Spears lookalikes.

I exaggerate, but only slightly. It was hell. I seriously doubt that the majority of these bimbettes-in-training really listen to the songs they're going apeshit over (any surprise that "Your Body Is a Wonderland?" got the biggest crowd response? I think not.) (sidebar: you know Johnny-boy has to be spitting every day over the fact that *that* song - a good song, but certainly not his best, deepest, most complex musically or lyrically - won him a damned Grammy). During "Why Georgia?" he threw in a cuss word (as he always does live) and the entire arena erupted in screams like these twits had never heard anyone say "shit" before.

Needless to say, I was probably the oldest person present that didn't come with my kid. Thank goodness K was with me, so I felt obligated not to commit a felony and throttle a moron in the name of Darwinism....wouldn't want to drag K to jail with me.

I'll say it again, and again, and again. I adore John Mayer. Not for his good looks (I actually don't think he's particularly good looking). Not for his amazing guitar skills. I adore him for playing twelve-bar blues for his encore, because it was Chicago - but not saying so, so that the kiddies in the audience were clueless, but a few of us grown-ups got the message. I adore him for saying he was on "cold watch" or maybe just that weird day-after-Thanksgiving thing. I adore him for writing lyrics that I wish I'd written, for putting in words things I haven't been able to express yet, for knowing that music is communication, not just expression, and for sticking to his voice and taking responsibility for what happens with his music, good or bad.

Yup. Lost my mind. Dunno where it went. Oh, well.

On the way home from the show, much fun again - we sprinted through the Rosemont el station to catch the train, only to be accosted once seated by a strange Russian man who seemed bent on conversing with me about his daughters, the cold weather, that he was from Siberia...and, inevitably, about my apparent beauty.
You know what would be nice? If someone I wanted to think I was beautiful....thought I was beautiful. But noooooooo....I get creepy Russian men old enough to be my father. And garbagemen. And taxi drivers. And truck drivers. And broke, stranded dudes who ask me for money.

Never - and I mean NEVER - do I get big, tall, strapping, hot, curly-haired musicians in kilts. Why the hell is that?!?! No justice, I tell you!

On to the rest of the weekend. Saturday was veg-a-licious. Me and the couch got reacquainted, and I watched a few movies and generally lounged like a maniac until it was time to relocate to bed and sleep. Niiiice.
Then yesterday, roomie and I went to see "Love Actually," a movie I knew I was going to love about five seconds into it. The story is quirky and convoluted and wonderful and life-affirming and heartwarming and real and honest and gut-wrenching and sad and happy and bittersweet and amazing and fabulous and I loved it like I haven't loved a movie in quite some time. I want to own it now, so I can watch it again.

Because love actually *is* all around us.

After the movie, I went home and got stuck in this creative frenzy which led to a few epiphanies about my life, which led to some in-depth Tarot spreads which led to the realization that I am being rather cavalier about changing my life and really ought to get up off my bum and do what it is I really want to do, otherwise I will wind up bitter and lonely. And I don't mind bitter and lonely so much, it's just not near as much fun as doing work I love, spending my time producing something I care about, living a life I believe in, and having someone around to talk to and read with and wake up beside and shag rotten a couple times a day and that kind of thing.

So, some changes are in the works. I'm not sure how or what or when or anything like that. I just know that old patterns are not serving me, and new ones need to be constructed.

This oughtta be fun.