Archive for the ‘Antidotes for Sadness’ Category

h1

Rockin’ and Reelin’

August 26, 2008

My new favorite song, Northern Line by Opal:

I’m dreaming on a night train
It’s only been a light rain, and a darkened sky and a starry night
I’m humming on a cold train
I’m singing about the wreck of the Old 97

And I’m walking through this city
I’ll tell my story to the rain
And I won’t come back no matter what you say

I’m feeling no pain
I don’t care if I ever see your face again
I’m riding on a Northern Line
I got no money – but I got a lot of time to spend

And I’m walking through this city
Yeah I’ll tell my story to the rain
And I won’t come back no matter what you say
No I won’t come back no matter what you say

After a recent crash-n-burn with a friend I never dreamed I could have a falling out with, Mr. Twittles suddenly reappeared. An email after months of nothing. Rather than starting another firestorm, I decided to answer with a graceful if non-commital reply. Non-commital seems to be what people want, or at the very least, what they can handle. So that’s what they’ll get until I get a clear signal otherwise. Which I don’t think I’m going to get.

This leaves me with my music and singing, which means more to me than anything. A and I are back on regular rehearsal schedule again, in spite of his job and apartment hopping. I forgive him because he is adrift in the fast-moving stream of life and I’ve been there. I’m pretty sure he’ll settle soon, and as long as he makes rehearsals, I don’t care what he does with his own life, as long as he’s clean and not hitting me up for money.

We will record in mid September. And then up goes the web site. I plan to shoot a lot of video footage, and have music vids on our site.

I have an audition next week for a backup/lead singer position with a cover band. I am making huge strides with the new coach I’ve been working with. He gets pop music, and I am learning how to transform all the training I’ve had into something that works for these genres.

I persist, although my heart is broken.

h1

Stealing Is Healing

April 3, 2008

I found a link worth stealing on Dooce’s blog. If you haven’t read Dooce (see my roll for the link), y’all need to get yerselves over there, and be sure to check out the dog videos and pics. The pics are adorable, the stories are hilarious and the videos… well, the best part about Dooce’s videos is her sniggering in the background. About the same as I would do, had I shot stuff like that. Of which I am entirely capable, I assure you. Go on, have a snigger.

I stopped by chez Dooce a few days ago and found a most moving link to some before/after death photography. Gruesome, you say? Life changing, I say. It sure kicked me out of my doldrums. Or at least, shuffled me a little closer to the warm sphere of light in which I normally waft and willow. Sort of. On Tuesdays, from 3:07 to 3:11, occasionally.

Don’t be afraid to look at these. They just might help you figure some shit out.

h1

On Second Thought, Who Needs Her?

October 8, 2007

I’ve learned when sad or feeling bitter as I am today, to turn to beauty. I just sang for the first time in almost 10 weeks. There were some nice sounds, and also much work to be done. Blacklightblue shall perservere, as always. My time in NYC, I realized, will be well spent spoiling myself with all kinds of sensory wonders, and lo and behold, the flat, I just learned has a piano. So there will be singing too. Seems meant to be, ya’ know? And what better than a flat in Manhattan to get a few more pages of that story you’ve been working on since last year written? Maybe I’ll make some serious progress.

And finally, here are words that I love. Ted Kooser, former American Poet Laureate. What a noble title. And he deserves it. When I read this, I just want to be on that road, waving to somebody… Enjoy, babies.

And P.S. Donna: you are a friend, and I look forward to getting to know you better, too. Thanks for commenting today, it helped.

So This Is Nebraska
The gravel road rides with a slow gallop
over the fields, the telephone lines
streaming behind, its billow of dust
full of the sparks of redwing blackbirds.

On either side, those dear old ladies,
the loosening barns, their little windows
dulled by cataracts of hay and cobwebs
hide broken tractors under their skirts.

So this is Nebraska. A Sunday
afternoon; July. Driving along
with your hand out squeezing the air,
a meadowlark waiting on every post.

Behind a shelterbelt of cedars,
top-deep in hollyhocks, pollen and bees,
a pickup kicks its fenders off
and settles back to read the clouds.

You feel like that; you feel like letting
your tires go flat, like letting the mice
build a nest in your muffler, like being
no more than a truck in the weeds,

clucking with chickens or sticky with honey
or holding a skinny old man in your lap
while he watches the road, waiting
for someone to wave to. You feel like

waving. You feel like stopping the car
and dancing around on the road. You wave
instead and leave your hand out gliding
larklike over the wheat, over the houses.