oh, hello!

I forgot I had a blog! Now that I can have some normalcy in my life, maybe I will pick up the habit again. Have a nice Saturday!

Dear Monona Bay,

things look clearer at dawn

from inside you

when your cold, murky water

shocks me to life.

a slimy defibrillator

makes me, for a moment,

see you for how you really are.

the novelty of a hazy summer morning,

juxtaposed against a chiseled, skyline, Greek Revival

makes me feel rotten from the inside out

a suitable friend to the decomposing globs

hanging from the safety ropes

floating

residents, quacking, reminding me-

how lucky you've got it.

sing me to sleep

sing me to sleep
i'm tired
and I want to go to bed.

sing me to sleep
and then leave me alone.
don't try to wake me in the morning
cause I'll be gone.
don't feel bad for me.
i want you to know
deep in the cell of my heart
i will feel so glad to go.

sing me to sleep.
i don't want to wake up
on my own anymore.

there is another world.
there is a better world.
well, there must be....

Bye bye.

something new

My latest obsession - orange cream soda. it is just so delicious. I bought a bottle on impulse at the Decorah co-op last week and I just can't stop thinking about the orange goodness. Tonight I picked up a sixer on my way home from teaching some Easter lessons. Chilling them in the fridge took much patience, but it was so worth it. Perfect beverage to accompany another new interest.

B is teaching me some ways of jazz. I can't stop listening to it. I want to practice Anthropology all day long and I am just going to practice bebop, diminished and blues scales all day long, wear a beret and get some bepop glasses. maybe not all that.

What does one wear at a show where he or she is playing a piece about snakes?

I had a pretty miserable Easter. I slept until 10:30 and spent the day alone. I finally ate something at 4:30 when I walked over to the coffee shop. I finally got myself into the shower and ate 3 cadbury creme eggs. [that was for you, grandma]

Which brings me to the final new thing: exercise for the sake of exercise. I kindof just like exercising as a side-effect of transportation or doing something fun like walking home 1.5 miles from a bar, biking in the countryside or to pick a few things up from the co-op. But this summer, I would like to do a couple of long rides, perhaps the Scenic Shore 150 (leukemia/lymphoma) or the ACT9 Aids ride. I will probably do the 65 mile Tour de Cure (diabetes). I am going to need the American Diabetes Association to help me out if I keep drinking these cream sodas.


"they flat their fifths, but we drink ours."

new experiences(?)

Lately I have been thinking a lot and have been trying to be a better person. I want to listen more to people, look strangers in the eye, take time. I guess the biggest is that I want to take the time to accomplish nothing. Accomplishing nothing means that I just sit and look out the window without thinking about what I have to do. It means that I listen to every word that B says and understand how she feels. It means that I forget about myself and all my plans.

I feel like I am cultivating myself for this career in music, thinking about it all the time. Well this or that looks great on my resume. I came to the realization sitting in a bar that I could potentially not have a career in music someday. That there are bigger things than my life and such and such, blah blah blah.

Maybe what I am trying to say is... I shouldn't drink.

!

shit! I forgot I had a blog!

Earlier today I realized that I have too many books.
Books authored by moi
in pencil, blue, black, occasional Sharpie with differing styles of penmanship:
The angsty teenager, the newlywed
(who remains an angsty teenager),
suicidal undergraduate,
the twenty-two year old who never truly celebrated turning twenty-one,
explorer of the world's religions, quoting the Good Word
or The Hymn of the Week.
Then there is the quarter-of-a-centurion
questioning, doubting and fucking up royally.
All of these are regular contributors to the books:
one is the book of favorite poems with randomly interspersed calorie inventories,
two is a sampling of original writings from said author,
three is a book of lists
four is lists but with the added bonus of sporadic statements about life
and fearsdreamsfantasies
beer labels attached from summer vacations
tickets and other artifacts
that don't seem so significant otherwise.
But there they are, in a book.
Walking down the street today I realized
that my life is scattered about in too many books.

there's that snow again

Woke up this morning to MORE snow. In a previous post I lauded snow as a quiet, meditative blanket dampening the world with peace.

Now I am sick of the @#$^.

I had a great week though, thanks to the snow. I got two days off from teaching and I didn't use it to practice. I spent Wednesday shoveling the white stuff with a friend and then we rewarded ourselves with some good Wisconsin food and beer at the Old Fashioned. I am a huge fan of their $2.50/9 pitcher of their beer of the month. This month it is the Goat Shagger Scotch Ale. The name concerns me, but the beer was great.

Thursday I got to do some cleaning and planning. Planning takes up a large portion of each day. Once I get all my lessons rolling along, there won't be much time to think. At the moment, I am taking time to think. I tend to get into a routine of doing things and I don't sit and breathe; I feel guilty if I am not constantly doing something. I am trying to break that habit. For once in my life, I feel like I am making some progress toward understanding my life plan. It really helps.

SG is sleeping next to me on the couch and B is still upstairs sleeping. I am just going to sit and recover from a symphony weekend and a rather boisterous performance of the Symphonic Dances from West Side Story. I love playing the piece when it isn't a train barreling out of control. But I guess the best part of going to La Crosse is my car pool buddies.

That and the world's largest six pack of beer.

reading in the snow

Now i lay(with everywhere around)
me(the great dim deep sound
of rain;and of always and of nowhere)and
what a gently welcoming darkestness--

now i lay me down(in a most steep
more than music)feeling that sunlight is
(life and day are)only loaned:whereas
night is given(night and death and the rain

are given;and given is how beautifully snow)

now i lay me down to dream of(nothing
i or any somebody or you
can begin to begin to imagine)

something which nobody may keep.
now i lay me down to dream of Spring

a good day

woke up early but slept late
sweet almond in my mouth
from the bear claw that i ate.

deep snow-divots
carved by geared, metal steeds
warm hands, toes, and fingers
homesick clowns, mournful sounds
of an over-sized viola still lingers.
i need... i need...

nothing.

but your socks don't have matches anymore.

merry christmas

losing so much and never expecting that you would have to go through it all alone,
you are warmed by your fake fire in your fake fireplace in a house that doesn't get cold.

Tis the season to be busy as crap

I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed the hour I took today to walk around the hood in the snow with my neighbor and her dog - including the random old men that approached us to pet said dog and to inquire as to whether or not we needed someone to "shovel our sidewalks". Needless to say, I was thankful that the dog was there.

There is something quiet and peaceful about snow. Sounds are muted but visibly, sights appear to be enhanced. My holiday spirit was enhanced today as I chewed a candy cane. I am a candy cane chewer, you see. I relish in nothing.

So now it is the season for me to drive all over the kingdom. I miss B. I want to cuddle and pull homemade espresso and make a gingerbread house.

First is a woodwind quintet recital. Then I commute to Iowa City for the weekend - super excited to rehearse with friends and do a recital Monday at U of Iowa. After the celebrations close, I am to travel to La Crosse, WI, for some Christmas symphony shenanigans. That will be my whole week - that and cramming in as many private lessons as possible. Finally, the coup de grace: my annual journey to Tennessee. I look forward to it and I don't.

I am currently resisting the urge to tally up hours in my car.

Manifesto 2: life is too short? (or F you)

Life is too short to be doing what I don't want to be doing. My life is too good to be complaining about anything - I am self-employed, I am getting by, I have my health and my family and a beautimous one. And a furry cat-rabbit. When I lose sight of this, when I feel anything less than grateful, I sometimes have to take a step back and reflect upon what it is that shuts me down.

So, F you, people.

F you all who are negative and try to bring me down because of your own insecurities. F my insecurities. F the fact that you get to me so much. F this town and all the Fing hipsters and yuppies and know-it-alls. F you. I can be a hipster if I want. I threw out all my effing skinny jeans and now I am going to wear all black. I am not alive today and I am not where I am because I am a "realist", so F you for trying to make me see the world for what it really is. I effing tried that and it was too damn depressing. F you for being so depressing.

F you, to all y'all who complain about your wonderful lives. Worse yet, you complain and you do nothing to change it. So F that. F you to the people who drive up on my ass and tailgate me and pass me and glare. F you facebook and F the status updates and the people who use it as a way to re-create themselves. F showing the world only what I want them to see and F the g-d "like" button. F the pictures where you pucker your lips and look all emo. I know how you look in real life.

F those of you who think success is being better than someone else. And F you for thinking you are better; here is news for you: you aren't. I hope that I can be the pile of dog poop that you fail to notice and step in. I hope that I fail in front of you, fall on my face and make mistakes and Fing laugh about it, because that is how people improve themselves. F!

F you for thinking that the south side of madison is a bad part of town. F you for turning your nose up at the g-d bus and better yet, F you for turning your nose up at me because I will drive my car .5 miles to get where I need to go. I am going to burn oil and I am not going to eat chicken unless I know where the F it comes from.

F you Anthem for charging me more because I fail to meet the optimum weight and F you weight for being higher than I want.

F you if I want to drink PBR. F you if I listen to stadium rock or F-ing folk music. F you if I care as much about one girl with a guitar as much as I care about dead white guys. F you, particularly, if you think classical musicians are dorks. I would learn the effing guitar if I wanted to, trust me. F Republicans and F democrats. F you irritating athiests, F you irritating Christians oh and F all the other religions.

F you, every major holiday. Including the bank holidays.

F you anxiety, insecurity, fear, hatred, anger, but even moreso...F you subconscious. F off trying to be all uppity about psychology when you have never even been to a g-d therapist. and while I am on the subject, F to you for telling me I need therapy. I have therapy in the fridge.

F anyone who tells me that I can't drink before 3pm. And F you if you think I can't eat dessert for breakfast or drink coffee after 3pm.

F YOU!

pp

my search for the perfect platform is over.

http://hatshapedhat.tumblr.com

I still avoid stepping on cracks.
not because I am worried about breaking my mother's back,
but because it is comforting to know exactly where my feet land.

These little obsessions and repetitions disguise themselves this way,
though they are born of an increasing anxiety whose origin I haven't yet pinpointed.
While I avoid the task of investigating,
I will eradicate every stray hair from my thoughts and my face.

And if I am melancholy it is because I am sorry that your mom died.

What is missing?
The aching radiating out through my fingertips.
There is something else, but what?

You don't fit in anywhere. Not at that hospital, alone.
Square pegs being forced into round holes.
Blood pulsing through the veins at a steady tempo of 72-85
makes me nauseous, makes me hot.

Feeling her pulse against mine must be a great thing,
but I like to think that I don't have one.
It is easier than having to admit that I am alive.

I need a stiff drink.

away from the lens

Sitting up here in the tree house, I like to watch the mean squirrels skitter about and the occasional cardinal or blue jay perch briefly outside my window, the yellow leaves a nice frame for the bay. I love this season but dread the onslaught for which it is the prelude. On the bike to New Glarus I could smell death. It is the dry, brittle smell of winter and I am torn between breathing it in, welcoming and accepting it, and wishing I was a Jewish octogenarian snow bird making my way to Florida in my Winnebago.

I wrote a poem about winter back when I was in high school, over 10 years ago. I wish I had kept better track of it, but I am terrible about saving such things for posterity. They were so private and too embarrassing so it would be better if those creations were to evaporate into the ether, leaving no trace.

My ability to hang on has improved since then.

steed of another sort

I have had three cars in my life.

To have fifteen years of car-driving experience under my belt, that seems like a lot. But why is it that having more lovers than cars is more desirable as age 30 looms? Aren't both situations somewhat of a "money suck?" I can't complain about my car-life, but I will. Everyone does.

The hunks of metal of my past have been memorable, even lovable and I think back fondly to those times that we had together. The car with which I learned the art of driving and struggled with as a teenager, was already in the twilight of its life with 250 thousand miles and a front end that threatened to fall out on the interstate. Isn't that the story for almost every Honda Accord of the late 80s? The cigarette burns in the backseat were endearing, as were the stories of forgotten cheese burgers from my elementary school years. My parents ordered it in 1986 and it traveled to the US on a boat, one of the last, truely Japanese Hondas. But a love like that won't last forever. So we parted ways, and I knew that it would always occupy a special place in my heart, despite our diverging paths. My life was taking off, but the Honda, the Ghettosled, would have to stay back in the hills of Tennessee.

My second car was lovingly referred to as the 'fart cart'. The odor, our odors, and its lemon-like ability to destroy the day combined to make this nickname increasingly more appropriate over the years. The pee-green (yes pee, the overly asparagus, vitamin-laden type), baby-poop yellow, officially champagne Altima was lacking in the mileage department but not lacking in freak-style mechanical errors. And luck. I was rear-ended 3 times in one week in various locations within the DC metropolis. When my parents took it off our hands for $1, I shed narry a tear. It was nice to see it go. It was not to be trusted. That may explain why they turned around and sold it for cash without telling me. I did Mom a favor and removed the HRC sticker, but the CoExist sticker remained and I think it stayed there, along with the power T and the black, stock mirror. How did that mirror thing happen again?

Now my Subaru... my current car, my third car, what I wanted to be my last car is making its mortality known and well-apparent. I never thought that I would have to have a contingency plan. I always thought that it would live forever. The run has been good, Subie. At 163k it has to have its first major, devastating repair (devasting primarily for my wallet). The clutch finally wore out. Now, that is impressive. What is depressive is that the gasket head must be replaced and this defect is common in all Subarus; Subaru owners brag about their wagons with 300k miles, how they would survive the nuclear holocaust ... but just like everything else, they wear out. They are not immune to this world, if anything they are more susceptible to its elements than we are. I have driven it into the ground, so to speak. Is that any way to treat someone so important?

Given the prognosis, I panicked. My first reaction was extreme hopelessness. When my car wouldn't move, I cried and dropped a few f-bombs and thought that beating the living hell out of it would help. I became angry and I refused to forgive the car and Googled all of its downfalls and decided that it was good for nothing, good for scrap and that my state of poverty would leave me carless, would complicate my life. This car isn't even mine. I didn't buy this car and yet, it means too much. I am stuck with it and when I cough up the money, albeit plastic money, tomorrow, I will probably cry and fall into a state of agitation, stare into space and grieve.

But I'm ready for the future now and know that if I truly love it, then I must be prepared to let it go.

day four

two-wheeled trusty steed,
pedals fast, red leaves flying,
apt perch for autumn.

manifesto 1

I think about the clarinet a lot.

Typing that just made me really uncomfortable. I feel as if I made a very risque confession just then and I am not the type of person that keeps a lot of those locked away; however, I came to a very important realization the other day about what and how I repress emotion and anxiety. More on that later. I pride myself as the type of person that politely refrains from discussing the black stick, knowing that it is what I do and that I should be more "party" and less "business"; the opposite of what one would(should) desire when selecting a new hairstyle. Unless, of course, you can pull it off.

I digress. And will continue to digress, but in another direction.

I have a new sense of wonder.

Every night, Becky asks me to tell her a story. I am not a storyteller unless I have had a couple of glasses of wine, after which I speak with the eloquence of a country music singer. How does one take a single, little grain from her life and grow a story, an epic, an Iliad or a Ulysses? Some authors paint such vivid pictures, artistes in their own right, unlocking the mystery of the human life and putting into words what we (definitely I) wickedly feel and are unable to explain. Creations like this continue to amaze me daily.

What people paint, say, sculpt, sing,
the ways they move, down to the dancing in the eyes, the corners of the mouth,
the myriad sounds of laughter, regret, exhaustion, excitement, sadness that escape impress me.

I find nothing stoic, nothing dead, nothing stagnant in this world-the natural one, at least. I am beginning to reclaim my sense of wonder and I feel my own mortality. I drive down the roads of Iowa, past the Amish, past the alpaca, past the Jews, past the corn, past the mighty Mississippi and I cry. I cry because I have missed so much.

'When I look down I miss the good stuff. When I look up, I just trip over things.'

How much have I lost?

How can I remember everything? How do I archive a life? Only fragments will remain and only speckles will be on my brain. I am not ready to forget the hills of Tennessee, the dew on the grass when I go to the barn at 6am to find a newborn foal, the embrace of family I barely know after playing Mendelssohn for my dead Papaw, my first awkward/hurried/regrettable kiss and the subsequent breakup that leaves me wishing that I wasn't so scared, the yellow lines in the road at midnight and sleeping on the roof under the stars after prom (even if other memories from the night are unbearable). I don't want to forget the times I lied to make others like me more or how the trusty automobile broke down in rural Virginia (because we bragged on it, jinxed it). Let's not forget the hole in my bedroom wall, the first time I heard my mom slip a curseword, playing for hours with my sis.

Please don't let me forget my honeymoon or my cat or any of the good times. Please don't let me forget the moment I discovered that loving someone does not equate to keeping them safe, does not equate to sacrificing my own person, does not equate to being a half-person or a many-person. I can't forget the details of the woman who is here for me now and her muscle over her left eye that quizzically looks at the world and me, the sometimes-knitter, the composer of the soundtrack to a good yearplus of my life.

How can I hold on to all of these memories? This sense of loss is relentless as of late and even as I have new experiences, the void opens before me and envelopes me with grief for the little bits and pieces that evaporate. I don't know why, I don't know why this grief is boiling up, up through my body, throat, arms, radiating to my fingertips.

The final digression.

If I can help someone become proficient enough at an instrument of communication, to express what she never thought she could express, to feel something grow from a little pod in the depths of her stomachbeing- into something exploding from her heart-into something filling the void that we leave as humans-into the ether and into the ears of consciousness...

then I can die a happy person.

A little over a year ago, I scribbled in my ever present black book the following, which my friend Paul glanced at and wanted to read and I let him even though I didn't want him to:

STOP CRYING
STOP CRYING
STOP CRYING
STOP CRYING

Now I can command myself, no gently allow myself, (or is any sort of permission necessary?) to cry.

brunch memories

Yesterday morning I ate breakfast out on the porch because it feels, smells like fall and I could hear flute coming from the house down the street. The Count of Monte Cristo is the only book I can read right now; it keeps my mind off of things. My legs were sore from a thirty-mile bike ride and I ate bacon, eggs, and toast while I read about one man’s elaborate plan for the ultimate act of vengeance.

As I sat reading, crumbs of my scrambled eggs sat out in the sun and a yellow-jacket buzzed and hovered. He landed on a little chunk of egg, played with it, perhaps ate it (I don’t know what they are doing with all of those appendages), wrapped his legs around it and took off into the air. The weight rendered him less than graceful, but he ambled away to God only knows where. He came back, minute after minute, to break apart, envelope, and carry off pieces of egg, sometimes flying as far as a nearby leaf before setting off again.

I watched him do this for a long time with the intention of letting him fly away with every single piece, but I had to get up, go inside and worry about something else.