An Accident of Hope

I wrote a post earlier, and then thought I would erase it. I'm new to this blog thing, and I feel like my entries have been so complainy and depression oriented. I started to feel bad about that. Then I read this from the ruling Ali Edwards:

"We have stories to tell, stories that provide wisdom about the journey of life. What more have we to give one another than our 'truth' about our human adventure as honestly and as openly as we know how." (Rabbi Saul Rubin)

and this is the reason I am sharing. I have spent the duration of my life trying to be *ON*, and well, that just ain't reality. Sometimes I am inspired, happy, ready to take over the world. Sometimes, more privately, I feel like I am hopeless disaster. I am thinking maybe by not hiding it so much, this 'unattractive'part of me will join the table, and be part of the whole picture.

I love to be inspired like the best of them, but I also sometimes crave the messy stories, the stories of creative nose dives that people take. Sometimes when I read blog entries from artists loving their imperfections, I want to know: what ARE those imperfections? Do any of these people ever feel financially freaked out? Or have crippling doubt? Do they feel anger or jealousy? Do they ever feel misunderstood or alone? I think there is wonder there too. As one of my favorite poets once wrote: "the worst of anyone/can be, finally,/an accident of hope."

And let's face it--I am a moody artist type. I always seek out the hope, but often I stumble over the reasons for doubt. I don't think I am alone.

So, I pull out the list and remember, bit by bit: Say thank you, nourish yourself, remember where you are right now. I remember that the times I am most descouraged or sad or depressed, often something deep inside is working itself out. It isn't ready to let me in on it--but perhaps it will.

Or what if it doesn't? I pull out the list and remember bit by bit...

Things that light me up

1. talking to kids
2. baking pies
3. performing music to audiences
4. making people laugh--in particular, my father, and my friend Jenny Sue
5. drawing
6. writing
7. writing a good song
8. reading about women's lives
9. taking polaroid pictures
10. hearing about people's experiences
11. drinking coffee with Graham in the mornings
12. traveling
13. dancing to 'Sex Machine' by James Brown
14. Delighting someone I love
15. eating cookie dough
16. going to bakeries
17. posing in photobooths
18. getting up early in the morning
19. beautiful book covers
20. walking in cities

Hope this weekend lights you up.

Now for something completely different...Oh! is for Orlando

I went to go see Kingdom of Heaven the other night with a couple of women from work. It had been awhile since I'd been to a giant multiplex for the purpose of seeing a hot guy on screen for 2+ hours. I think the last time was for Ripley Scott's other sword wielding epic, Gladiator. I still maintain that Russell Crowe is the hottest thing swinging two swords. But I digress...

My two conspirators were two ladies from work: Helen, who has a thing for men in chainmail, Shakesperian drama, and weaponry; and Heidi, who sends me pictures of Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom during her lunch hour with subject lines that say "Something to Make You Smile:))". She agrees with me on the Gladiator fetish. Her ex-boyfriend once asked her, "What is it with that movie?" She said, "It's my porn." Need I say, I was in good company?

Now pride urges me to make it clear that normally I am the arthouse type. I like arty films that usually change your life or at least try. I am very tired of Hollywood flicks because they just don't take me anywhere anymore. I can't stop thinking, "Oh that's Leonardo DiCaprio in balck hair" or "Julia Roberts looks cute in that sweater." I'm never lost in the story that Hollywood seems to produce. But lately I'd been feeling a little too serious, you know? Kind of like that last few blog entries. I work very hard on myself and my art and everything goes toward that end of finding meaning and purpose. Sometimes you've got to just say the hell with it--I want to look at Orlando Bloom's "work" for awhile.

So we went out for tacos and margaritas before hand and blew off some steam. Then we walked across the street and pushed our way through the cast of Jedi knights and ewoks waiting for Star Wars Episode III, to find ourselves in the smallest theater in the biggest multiplex.

Five commercials for Coke, assorted candies, and cars later, the previews started. I love previews often more than seeing the movie itself, and none of them were that fun or interesting. I should have taken that as a sign for what was to come. I gotta tell you that the movie wasn't great. It took itself very very seriously, and therefor so did its star. That may have been its greatest weakness. Even Gladiator seemed to know what it was--an action/adventure flick infused by Grecian drama and cloaked with fantastical costumes. Kingdom of Heaven was long and drawn out and overstuffed with history, and besides that, Orland Bloom took off his shirt ONCE! Only once! The 'heated' romantic scenes were reduced to a kiss and a candle being blown out. Well, let me tell you that my flame was blown out at that moment. All reports that Bloom had worked out and buffed up for his role in Kingdom of Heaven, fell to one single moment of him putting on his tunic. Otherwise you'd never have known what his physique looked like in the one-size-fits-all shirts that were fashionalble in Jereusalem for that season. I had to resort to paying attention to his acting, which was adequate, but tepid. Apparently, his emotional range, as Dorothy Parker would say, goes from A to B.

The three of us left the theater agreeing that Orland needs to try a romantic comedy. The epic just isn't his thing. It really isn't for me either. I went home and called my boyfriend. He's much hotter anyway.

The List

Last night I was in a horrible mood. I'd spent too much time inputting and not enough time outputting. I came home and felt overstuffed with media, other people's lives, stories of success and failure. I immediately set to the journal. What a Godsend! I realized a couple things. One, that there are already elements of my "Ideal Life" in my life now. In other words, there are pieces in my life that are living the dream. Two, there are certain daily practices that keep me present to this. At the end of my journaling I came up with a checklist for daily living. I'm going to try to adhere to it for a week and see what happens. This is what I came up with:

Have you experienced something of beauty or meaning today?
Have you remained connected by staying in touch (with friends, family, & outside world)?
Have you moved yor body today?
Have you created anything?
Have your nourished yourself?
Have you done one thing of pleasure today?
Did you drink water?
Have you made an effort for the good (made your bed, paid bills, kept up with things)?
Have you said 'Thank you' for all that you do indeed have?

Questions to ask at the end of the day. Good things to note, to feel good about.

For the beauty & meaning, I give you the above painting. It's by Kamilla Talbot, who I used to know years ago. I knew she was a painter, but I didn't know she was a PAINTER (in all caps). I love surprises like that. Go see her website, her work is beautiful: www.kamillatalbot.com

What are your lists?

Right Now

I've been re-reading the letters of the poet Anne Sexton lately. I love letters by artists. I am already mourning all that won't be chronicled by the lack of post in this day and age. At first, it was a real inspiration to be reading this book. Anne Sexton is perhaps my greatest influence as a songwriter--her letters reminded me of what matters most--the dailiness of writing and staying connected. Then, like so many other times, I became discouraged by my block--or the loss I feel over my inability to write as I once did. That snake hissed in my ear again: Never again...you've lost it...horrible...horrible...
I began to consciously wonder why my mind turns against me so much. Have I been hurt that bad? Have I damaged the machinery so much that I can't process it or heal it? This is reality. It isn't a movie or a book. It's me living my life.

On Saturday, I was driving into San Francisco with my dear friend Kirstin. She was telling me about the two psychology classes she was taking. Since she recently quit her job to be a stay at home mom with her 6 month old son, I was blown away that she was also exploring another dream she had. I asked her if this meant she was going to grad school. Kristin then told me of an interview she had heard with Anne Lamott that day. Lamott was quoting another writer, akinnig writing to night driving. When we drive at night we can only see twenty feet in front of us, yet we make it home anyway. "That's how I am trying to look at it," Kirstin said. "I am not saying I am going to grad school--I'm not going to make broad pronouncements. I am just taking two courses. Then we'll see what's next."

I felt a huge truth drop into my heart. I'd heard about the night driving quote, but had never really grasped the depth of the metaphor--how you have a limited vision, but you make the journey anyway. I need to see this as my view too. Too often I need to make announcements about my life as a way to be okay: I a now a musician, I am going on tour, I am now an artist, I am going to do this, and that, etc. But here is the truth, here is the reality:

Right Now: I am working on a calendar.
Right Now: I am getting ready to move to New York.
Right Now: I pick up the guitar and play every day.
Right Now: I am in love with Graham and I am happy.

What is happening RIGHT NOW? Nothing more. Nothing less. I think that's all I need. Right now.

The answer to everything: Thursdays!

I'm having a serious attack of the jealousies today. I feel like everybody is cooler, more attractive, more interesting, and has a better life than me. I know what you're thinking: Does this chick do anything but say,Wah! Wah! Wah!

Nope.

I think I've been reading too many blogs. I love being able to see how clearly I work: I have a blog for two weeks and it's already inciting insecurities. I'm already comparing myself to other people. I do it with everything else that I like--why not this new catagory of expression? That is the nature of things that mean something to you, no?

Luckily, it's Thursday! Thursday has quickly become my favorite day of the week, because I get to hang out with my best friend, Jenny Sue. A couple of months ago we decided to make one day a week our thing, and I cannot tell you how friggn' great this has become. I feel like it's a re-start button for me. I can feel completely uptight or beaten down, then Thursdays will roll around and WHAMO! Back to normal--back to cracking up and feeling good about my life. Back to ME! This is me and Jen a couple of weeks ago, trying on Graham's glasses.

It's one of those party games we never get tired of. Lord knows why. Graham is utterly patient with us, watching us with mild amusement. When I put them on, I like to become an arty book publisher, and talk about absurd coffee table books. Jen just wishes she had bad eyesight so she could wear glasses on a regular basis. We both think that we look hot.

Writing this down, I feel better already. I like my life with Jenny Sue in it. She's the shizzle. I know there are a million other people who are more blog-portant than me, but don't I just look FASCINATING in dark rimmed glasses?

Radio Radio

Yesterday I did a radio interview and performance on KUSP's 'The Open Road' show (hi JT!). It was a last minute thing. My record company contacted me Monday and I went in yesterday. I had the option to schedule it later, but I thought, what the heck? At this stage in the game when someone wants to hear a song or two, I'm not finicky. Tell me when and where. It didn't stop me however from having a mini freak out before I went--I didn't have enough time to practice, what if I forget the words? What if I eff up? Who am I kidding anyway?

So I practiced right up until fifteen minutes before the show. I practiced in the parking lot and I practiced in the KUSP's staff lounge. In moments like this I like to remind myself of the mantra: I am bringing my gift to the world.

During the show, I went through some sort of psychosomatic ADD. It felt like it was taking every ounce of strength to concentrate on the guitar and my voice and the words coming out. Suddenly thoughts of friends and what they are doing in that moment will took over the screen of my mind, or a memory of something inane like eating ice cream 3 months ago. Then I would snap back--the song! REMEMBER THE SONG!

Luckily JT the kindly DJ made me feel interesting and welcome. I wouldn't have been surprised if she offered me some cookies, that's how comforting she was. Unlike many other interviewers, she had read my bio and asked me specific questions that I was happy to answer. I even got to talk about not meeting Bruce. I left remembering that I actually love playing music. I love it so much and it makes me so happy. That, beyond anything else, tells me I am supposed to be doing this.

I felt so good I went out and had a slurpee. I felt like a kid who had just found two bucks. I filled the cup with half Coke, half cherry and then sat in the car and tasted all the sugary sweetness.

Surviving a Four Year Old

I have a four year old brother. My dad decided to continue with his lineage at the age of 54. Brave man. I love my two baby siblings. Probably more than just about anybody. I see them maybe every other week. I'd been missing my brother in particular, so I was really looking forward to yesterday afternoon. So, you can imagine my disappointment when--in a fit of utter fatigue--my little brother Luke decided to take all his grumpiness on me.

It started with "You're poo." Continued with pretending to shoot me and announcing, "You're dead." Followed by dinnertime badgering "Stop talking! I don't want YOU to talk!" everytime I opened my mouth. The grand finale was him yelling at me at bed time, "I don't like 'I love you' to you. You're not my family! You're not my friend!" To which I finally gave up all attempts of love offers and funny faces and said good night.

Sometimes I think four year old boys and seventh grade girls have A LOT in common.

This one's for my baby

We went out for breakfast
and didn’t say much.
It was mostly because we were hungry,
and concentrated on the toast and butter and coffee.

We are happy. I am happy.
Despite the skirts that don’t fit,
the self image is in tact.
It’s the first time in years
I’ve felt so at home.

I wish I could remember the last moment
I felt this way. I know what town I was in,
and how old I was, but such things don’t happen
in an instant. It’s a collection of moments,
like a page of a photograph album,
or worse, like the eye of someone dying—
it slowly dulls, the light is going out.

What I want to tell you is that today
I could be anybody: a writer, a poet, a musician,
who travels through towns and likes it;
someone who receives phone calls
on snowy afternoons.

Even when I don’t say anything
over eggs and toast and coffee,
with every bite I am telling you,
this is so good.

Selections from Summer Pierre: The Box Set

The thing I love about music is that more than any other medium, it acts as an immediate reference for memories. If music were one of the senses, it would be smell. I love art and writing, but I never look at a Picasso and say, "Damn, that takes me back..." the way I do when I hear Psychadellic Furs sing "Pretty In Pink."

Since I am getting ready to move, and I am broke, I started going through CDs to sell. I found it a brutal, but necessary procedure--one that made me feel better after having done it. I decided to honor some of the CDs with a selection of their associations, and wish them luck in other people's collections.

Babes In Toyland, Fontanelle
I was living in Vermont and wanted to be a Riot Grrrl, with an angry feminist attitude and baby barrettes in my hair. It was my last year in college and I was doing my thesis on women in rock. I lived in a small apartment above a bread bakery. I wore combat boots and a polka dot dress. I've been holding on to it for sentimental reasons, but I tried listening to it a few months ago, and just couldn't. It was somewhere between metal and punk, ultimately outdated. Sorry ladies.

Breeders, Last Splash
From the same time period. I feel the guiltiest letting this go, because somehow I feel it still makes me cool to have this in my collection, but when was the last time I listened to it? 1998? I'll say thank you, and put it with the polka dot dress that's too short and worn thin anyway.

Bic Runga, Drive
I bought this after the Lillith fair compilation in 1999, which featured the song "Sway." It's one of the most perfectly produced pop rock songs ever. I STILL love that song and have put it on more mixed tapes and CDs than I can count. Turned out, it was the only song on the album I liked. Runga's voice is pretty, but the album is depressing and cold, like Boston in February.

Ellis Paul, Live
God bless the Boston Folk scene. No kidding, it's where I got my start. Ellis Paul is one of its reigning champions. The engineer for my album also engineered the recording of this double live CD. Ellis also produced my producer, Rob Laurens' CD, Honey on the Mountain. I wanted so to understand this lovely man's appeal, but beyond the song "Take Me Down," and his glorious hair, I cannot. Since I am now living on the West Coast, I thought it would be safe to unload this CD. Habit made me look over my shoulder, as I pushed its case to the crusty forty-ish recovering punk rocker behind the counter. He gave me five bucks for it!

Patti Rothberg, Between the 1 and the 9 and Tracy Bonham, The Burdens of Being Upright
I bought these two CDs on the very same day in the spring of 1996. I was living in Palo Alto, my first year out of college, wondering what the hell happened to my life plan. Hot off the high of discovering the voices of women in rock, I was deeply interested in who else was out there. I bought Rotheberg's CD for the song "Inside," and Bonham's for the song "Mother." It would take me another 4 years to find out that you don't buy CDs for just one song, and just because they are girls with a guitar. It would take me another 6 years to find out you don't hold on to them for almost 10 years, just because you feel guilty for not liking these women and their CDs.

By the way, they wouldn't buy the Rothberg. I think there is a conspiracy around Patti Rothberg. I've tried selling that CD 3 times, in 3 different states and no one would take it! Same with all my Indigo Girls CDs. They are all in good condition too--I mean, what gives?

Paul Westerberg, Suicaine Gratification
I actually like this album, but it reminds me of one of the lowest points in my life. I won't get too into the details, but it involves a long, cold drive in New Hampshire in February to a bridal shop. I would try on the wedding dress, look in the mirror and say to myself: This is never going to happen. Every time I think about that dress I think of Westerberg singing "It's a beautiful lie, I still get by on those..."

CDs not elaborated on: Rolling Stone Magazine's Women in Rock Collection, Paul Westerberg's Eventually, Rosie Thomas, Only With Laughter Can You Win, The Nields, Play, Alanis Morrisette, Jagged Little Pill, and one other that I won't mention, because it's a local band, and I know one of the members, and I just don't want to start any trouble. (For those of you who are worried, I will give you a hint: It is NOT Speed Not Steel. They aren't entirely local anyway.)

Safety Man

I went and saw Dan Chaon read from his novel You Remind Me of Me last night. I love it when an event takes you by surprise. I should have known it would, because I was resisting it. Thinking, I don't have time, I should be doing more artwork for the calendar, etc. etc. Rico was introducing him, and spoke highly of his work, so I said, what the hell. I was stunned by his writing. Riveted. His descriptions are deliciously visual, and the loneliness he describes is not bleak or tired. It's a presence in itself, like the two characters of the boy and the dog.
He lives in Ohio. Why is Ohio romantic to everyone else but people who live in Ohio? I don't know why, but I have this romance with Ohio--the firelflies and thick green trees; the river that devides it from Kentucky.

Before I went to see him read, I started a portrait for the Great Gals Calendar of Susan Sontag. She has an amazing face--ragged, strong, and dark. Drawing lately centers me more than anything. It's like a practice of being still and watching. I always forget this until I start a new picture. It stops my mind and teaches me to really look.

When I was driving home from the reading, my head was on the ego trip again--that old dragon was shoving at me, spinning tales of empty glory. I thought of the Susan Sontag picture, and I remembered a time when drawing had become hard for me, but my songwriting was taking off. I mourned and struggled over the loss of that easy ability of drawing, and ignored the songs that were coming to me easily, and fluidly. It was a good reminder that I go through periods of struggle with the mediums, but one always seems to dominate. I yearn for the one that is unavailable, while there is an obvious flourishing of another. Why do I drive myself nuts?

This is the truth: In the 3 years I have been struggling with songwriting, I've released a CD, produced 3 calendars, and a completed a first draft of a novel. Why am I so bound and determined to believe that I am wasting away? Why can't I trust that things come around again?

I went home and read the first story in Chaon's collection Among the Missing. It's called 'Safety Man' and it's both funny and tragic. The main character's mother says, "...I'm very comfortable with doubt, and I thought you'd be the same way, because you're my child. But you're not that way at all!"
Sandi doesn't know what to say to her. "Comfortable with doubt?" What does that mean?

I looked at the Sonatag picture. I am amazed by the things I still cannot see.

A Snake With Wings

I want to be famous. There I said it. Don't shoot me, okay? I realized consciously this morning that this is my biggest liability as an artist. For some people it fuels them--they call it ambition. For me, it stops me from doing 90% of what I really want to do. I call this doughnut ambition--ambition with out the goods. I would surgically remove this desire if I could. It's a leach to my creative power. It's the ego stuffing me with junk food. This morning, like so many mornings, I struggled over why I am still having a hard time with songwriting. Why, after years of work, what once came naturally for me, is a daily battle. Every time I start a new song, a feel this snake curls up behind my ear and hisses: Already been done...Not good enough...Everything sounds the same...no meaning...it's not as good as you used to be... It also fills my head with pictures of fame and glory, where the audience is filled with people who have done me wrong, movie stars, people I want to impress, and they are all so WOWED. And then I freeze up, I can't move forward. On Saturday I was listening to the late great Joseph Campbell say the ego's mythological symbol is the dragon. You must slay the dragon to get to your heart's desire. And what is a dragon, but a snake with wings?

My ego stops me from learning, it stops me from moving forward. As a result, I am seeing I am in a terrific battle with myself. I am not willing to let go of all that I have built up, but it is dragging me down and holding me there.

My friend Rico told me the story of William Faulkner. After 3 novels that failed to sell well, his publisher dropped him. Faulkner took this as the greatest gift of his life. He moved back to Mississippi from New York, feeling he could at last write whatever he wanted. What he wrote next became American classics.

This morning, I started trying that on. What if I looked at my life with a sense that 'failure' is actually a gift of freedom.

Wish me luck. I need it to slay that dragon.

37 Years ago today...

My dear friend Rico was born. Here are some things you should know about Rico:

He cooks a mean porkchop.
If I see him after he takes a nap, his hair looks HOT.
He is the funniest book seller on the planet.
He has the best reading voice EVER.
He deserves to get his novel published.
He loves cookies, plans, his friends, his cat Stella, and backpacking in Death Valley with his girlfriend Molly.
He can sing and play "Tangled Up in Blue" by a bonfire, like the best of them.
Did I mention he cracks me up? Seriously. He does.

We celebrated his birthday on Saturday in San Francisco. One of his friends gave him a candy necklace, and he wore the thing all night--offering bites to many people.

I for one, am dang grateful that he is on the planet.

Happy Birthday.

Please don't let this be the metephor for my life

First, let me just say the following:
1. Sorry, this is a REALLY LONG post.
2. I’m a girl who believes in synchronicity, fate, and charted paths.
3. I almost met Bruce Springsteen last night.

Okay, so let me get down to the story. It has been my dream for many years to see Bruce Springsteen live and acoustic. I think the man is a genius, and probably one of the best American writers we have. So, I was very excited to get two tickets to see him play acoustic only, at the Paramount Theater in Oakland. A creative dream was becoming real. My boss and friend Julie was going to come with me. We had this planned for a month, but as life happens, especially with a child, she couldn’t go two days before the show. So I called my back up: my dad. He was already huffing and puffing about not being my first choice, and when I found out that he would have loved to go, a little stickie note attached itself in my mind and said: remember this. So I called him 2 days before the show and it was like giving a kid that dream bike that was unaffordable until now. This had some special meaning to me, because I never get time alone with my dad. He’s remarried and has two small kids, and so time alone with my dad is really never an option. I couldn’t be more thrilled.

The day of the concert, I called back my mom, who had been trying to get ahold of me for a couple of days. She sounded busy and I asked where she was, and she told me she was at work: LOADING IN THE BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN CONCERT. For those of you who don’t know, my mom is a roadie for rock bands. She has been building stages and loading in equipment for the best in the business since I was 6 years old. I couldn’t believe it—she was working the show?? I told her I was going to that show with my dad. She informed me that she had just been talking to her buddy George, who was Bruce’s tour manager, about me and my CD. Could I bring a CD with me to give to him? HELL YES.

So here’s another thing: My parents have been in the same room maybe 4 times in the last 20 years. Not only am I going with my dad, but we will see my mother—I will be in the same room with MY PARENTS. This is so strange. At this point I am thinking: what is going on? What is brewing?

The plan is to meet my mom after the show, and then to meet George, and give him the CD. Bruce is leaving right away so I know already I won’t be meeting him.
The show is amazing. I weep without restraint when he plays The River on the piano. It’s like seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time, after having a postcard of it the entire time. It has more depth and beauty than I ever imagined. The lights come up and my dad is blown away and thrilled.
Then we meet my mom at the stage door, and she gives us 2 backstage passes and we are back stage. Inside it’s electric with Bruce’s performance. People are waiting for him to come in. My mom escorts us to the stage manager’s office and tells me that Bruce is not leaving right away, and that she is going to see what she can do about getting him in here. I am strangely cool about this whole scene. I greet some old road buddies of my mom’s that I haven’t seen in 15 years, and then she introduces them to my father. I look at the two of them and can’t believe that this all seems so normal.

I hear Bruce come in the next room, because the crowd that has been milling let out shrill wooping. I could probably go into the next room and see him. Why didn’t I do that?? I am thinking I might be special and see him one on one. I know how it works.
A minute later my mother runs back in and asks if we’re parked in the parking lot across the street, because they are going to lock us in, if we don’t move it. My dad leaps up. I think: if I move from this couch, I won’t meet Bruce. But the angel on my shoulder doesn’t want my dad to go into a dark parking lot at midnight in downtown Oakland. So I ask, “Dad, do you want me to go with you?” He says, “Yeah, come on! Let’s go!” On our way out, I see Bruce’s white limo waiting for him. I know already, that it will be gone by the time we get back. We end up not being able to find any parking. We drive around the neighborhood and find a little pay place and park. We run back to the stage door, and the white limo is gone. The energy that was back stage is gone. Bruce is on his way to catch a plane.

When we leave, I watch my mom and dad hug and exchange: "How are you? You seem great." like they are old friends that haven't seen each other in a long time. They are not the divided people I grew up with, that hated eachother my entire 32 years. I look at them, knowing I am their product. After all is said and done, I still can't make sense of anything.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JENNY SUE!

Today is my best friend Jenny Sue's birthday. I can't say enough good things about her. She gives one the feeling that you are in the most exciting moment of your life whenever you're around her. Even if you call her crying and say, "I am wretched, I feel like crap, my life is nothing." You hang up thinking this is the most important moment of your life (not that I know this from experience or anything). Essentially, she is the super hero I have been waiting for my entire life.

You RULE, Jenny Sue! Happy Birthday!

Surviving Reviews

It finally happened. I got my first review of my CD in print today. It's something I've been eagerly awaiting for years. I thought it would make me a little more legit as an artist. Upon reading the review it felt more like being a little girl, who can't wait to gorw up and be a woman, only to realize you have to have periods. It's not all high heels and wearing lipstick. There's real messy parts that come with the package, and no operating instructions on how to handle how YOU will feel.

Well, I got my period today.

It wasn't a horrible review, but it wasn't great. It was predictably luke warm. The lady who gave me the review first cited me as more of a fan of music, than anyone who is benefiting the genre. Then she allowed that I am a good writer. My writing saves the album from being mediocre. Oh, how generous.

I don't know what I was expecting, but I know what I was hoping. I was hoping I would be cited as a genius, and that someone would give me an award. Or I would show up under "Best Kept Secrets of 2004." A girl's gotta dream, right? I could list a whole bunch of things I think are wrong with my CD--I know it's flawed, because I made it. It took so much pain and frustration and TIME to get that sucker out. There were periods of time I HATED the CD, and would have thrown it to the dogs, if it wouldn't have insulted all the other people who worked on it, and devoted time to it. Yet, there comes a time when you have to stand by your work. Flawed or not, your name is on it and it ultimately you have to stand by it. So I will.

Also, there are some comments I could make about the review itself, like she got the wrong song title for the lyrics she quoted; or that she should try making an album herself and then write a review; or that she must be a very closed minded person, with no sense self; or worse, a fan, and not anyone who benefits the genre of review.

But I won't say that. Graham pointed out that she listened to the CDin its entirety and took notes. That's the best I can hope for from anyone really. So, thanks to her for listening.