My journey continues on its tricksy winding path, leading me to surprising endings and unexpected openings. For one, I’ve decided to cancel the ‘Salon Phoenix’ series. The first one was lovely, with several beaming faces encouraging and applauding, and with the added bonus of Selwynn sharing her beautiful song. Now there’s a rising star in the making! I’m very grateful for the support of my friends and beloveds and the experience was awesome all around.

Still, I’m in the process of feeling my way through my life, going by what feels right rather than what looks best, or what felt right in the past… and my feeling now is to let go of that regular Tuesday commitment. It just wasn’t feeling right to keep going. Another factor (but not the deciding factor) is, my body wants me to go for the Tuesday evening yoga class at Seaside yoga which is right around the corner from my house. Pnina is a wonderful teacher and my body is in desperate need of just this very thing! I’ve never done yoga and now I’m an addict. Must… keep… going… must…

My reasons for initiating the salons in the first place was to help me to gain comfort and confidence playing in front of people, and I’ve found an equal-yet-opposite alternative that requires no regularly-scheduled commitment. Yay for busking! Yes, my busking journey continues with much better results than first reported. After that first day, I’ve received nothing but happy faces and coins in the case. Somebody even gave me a hat, last time. It’s true! He had nothing else to offer, and pleased with my rendition of ‘House of the Rising Sun’ (which I played at his request), he offered me his hat. Which I accepted, because really, it’s the perfect busking hat, dark gold felt, very funky and cool. You’d never know I hadn’t picked it out myself. I’ll post a photo of it soon.

The last few days I tried to go busking, it poured rain all day so I haven’t gone in this week yet, but today I hope to head in to Nanaimo for an audition for a busking permit there. That’s right… audition… to busk. It’s an odd concept, but Nanaimo has some fairly stringent rules with which they apparently hope to weed out the less-than-dead-serious. But they’re not going to stop ME, nossirree, LOL!

The ‘audition’ consists of me presenting a list of 8 songs, three of which Vanita (sp?) will pick at random, and I’ll play them. If I know the songs, I’m in. No biggie, and easy to do. I’m learning all kinds of cover tunes these days and having a great time with those. You should hear my version of ‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone’!

Still, the love of my heart is playing my own songs for people, so I’m very happy about this house concert coming up at SoulSpeak this Saturday. I hope it goes well. I hope people come. I’m a little nervous. It’s been a while. Gulp.

It’ll be good, though. Even if it’s just me and a couple friends. It’s all good when it comes to music.

I had a strange and mythically lovely long weekend, camping with friends from out of the country. We camped on the Cowichan River in the first really warm weather of spring, with the dark discordant note from the death by drowning of a young man a few miles upriver from us, and the consequent constant whine and roar of the search and rescue planes and helicopter. Sad and shocking, though being the Scorpio Blue Moon, something of the sort almost had to happen.

We played a lot of music, shared songs and memories, and you absolutely can’t go wrong with that. And then… I arrived home, to find out that my stepmum Connie had died that morning. Another strange Scorpio Blue Moon ending. I was saddened by the loss of my sweet second mum, who I haven’t seen much since I’ve been an adult, to my regret. I didn’t go for the memorial, but I wrote something that my Mom read for me. This is what I wrote:

Connie lived her life for love. Love of her kids, her family, her friends, and most of all, the great love of her life, my father. She gave and gave, and never complained. Every birthday and Christmas for forty years, I received a card with a caring, personal message, signed “Love, Dad and Connie,” written in her handwriting. I have always felt this woman’s overflowing heart and appreciated it more than I could say. I would regret that I didn’t say so while she could hear me, except I have a feeling she hears me now just fine.

The morning after she passed away, while unpacking from my weekend camping trip, I found the card she sent for my most recent birthday leaning against my suitcase. I feel her strongly with me right now. Still loving, still giving.

I wish I had been able to spend more time with her. I wish I had sent her a card once in a while. Perhaps these words will suffice. Connie, I’m honoured to have had you in my life and grateful for your love and example. Dad had excellent taste in wives.

The assignment this month over on Northern Scribblers Online was to write about a windfall that happened to somebody. It made me remember the following true story. Go magic!

Miracle in the Parking Lot

Nothing makes you appreciate money more than not having any. Raising two boys on an income fixed at a level well below the basic needs of my family meant not having any was the norm for the last two weeks of every month. They were hungry boys, growing fast, and I liked to eat a bit myself.

On this day of days, I was desperate. What to do? We were out of everything: bread, cheese, pasta, condiments, anything the kids would eat, and my cheque wasn’t due for another week. I’d exhausted all the possibilities: I’d rolled up and spent the last of my collected coin stash and used every scrap and shred of food in the house. I didn’t know anyone I could borrow money from, and I was unwilling to get into a pattern of owing money I knew I couldn’t repay.

The ache in my chest swelled to bursting and I began to cry in pure thwarted need. I left the house and began walking in the direction of the grocery store. “God, fairies, whatever magic exists that cares and could help me, I really need it now. I don’t know where to turn. Please, my kids are hungry, help me.”

I repeated this prayer over and over like a litany, wandering aimlessly with my eyes to the ground, my tears mingling with rain that streamed from the deep gray belly of cloud that hung so close overhead I felt I could reach up and touch it, if it weren’t such a burdensome effort just maintaining an upright stance. Part of me wanted to give in, collapse to the ground, and let somebody else take care of my kids, somebody who could. I felt a horror of failure, beaten down by circumstances and my own painful inadequacy.

When I got to the grocery store, I stopped short. What was I doing here? I had no money to buy anything. I turned to walk through the parking lot, thinking to take the path that would lead to the beach on the other side. My cast-down eyes spotted a strange-looking scrap of paper flattened by the rain. Without hope or real curiosity, simply because my body seemed to want to, I walked over and picked it up.

It took a few heartbeats to recognize what I was holding, and when I did, my heart nearly stopped. It was a hundred dollar bill. I couldn’t have felt anymore stunned if it had been a million. Do these things really happen, my numb brain wondered? Who would drop a hundred-dollar bill in the parking lot?

An angel, maybe, or a helpful fairy. Perhaps my own desperate desire magicked the thing out of thin air. I didn’t care which. I only knew I had been saved, that my kids would eat.

When I walked home laden with everything from bread and cheese to toilet paper, I told my boys the story of the miracle in the parking lot. More than anything, more than the fact of finding the money or having enough food for the rest of the month, I was grateful for this evidence of real, practical magic in my sons’ lives. It made the stories of miracles and magic I loved to tell them seem more true and possible. A crack had opened in the grey clockwork universe that let shards of light, colour and mystery enter my world and the eyes and minds of my children.

It was very interesting. I had prepped myself heavily beforehand, grounding deeply, telling myself, “This is not about the money, and it’s not about whether anybody likes what I’m doing. It’s about strengthening and deepening my connection and commitment to the music. It’s about the moment, it’s about the practice and it’s about the singing.”

I kept repeating that, over and over. I had to, because all around me people were doing exactly what I do around buskers: hunching slightly and hurrying past as though I were a torturous gauntlet they had to pass through. As though if they paused for a second or gave a sign that they heard a single note I was singing, they’d be obliged to shell out hard-earned cash and they were determined not to do that.

It was an education all right. I could see myself in them immediately. It was easy not to take it personally though, because it’s so clearly not about whether the music is any good. When I see a busker on the street, my own body adopts that hunch, I turn away slightly, and I walk a little faster and avoid eye contact. Above all I try my hardest not to hear any of the music. As though I have my fingers in my ears, reciting the multiplication tables to myself. I had never realized that I do that! But I totally do!

I admit… I’m scared of buskers. I’m scared to look at them, scared to listen, scared to give them anything. I’m scared that I owe them something just for being there. I’m scared that if I like their music then I’ll feel bad about not giving them money, and I don’t want to give them money. I resent them as though they are demanding something of me, I resist them as if they are grabbing at me. It’s all projection, and I don’t know yet what the root of it is. But I’m not alone in it, and that became clear.

This is all very unconscious; I don’t tend to be aware of this process in myself at all. A light has turned on in that room inside me and it’s cringe-inducing to see myself in that glare. This gives me something to work with, all right. I don’t understand why I have these feelings, or why anybody does, but I’m very glad to be unearthing this stuff. It feels potent, as though the key to some mystery I’ve been attempting to resolve might be hidden in here someplace.

Still, I had fun. I pulled out the covers I knew that seemed energetic enough to be heard over the traffic and sang quite a few of my own songs too. All in all I played for a little over an hour, and I made just under the minimum wage. Most of that–$6–came in the last five minutes of that hour, from one woman who worked in the shop I was standing outside of. She said, “I liked your ‘Ghost Riders’” and dropped in three toonies. Lesson learned: it pays (literally) to play those covers.

I quit when I had to pee and had to pack up to find a toilet. I made enough to cover my gas (my car gets good mileage), and I didn’t want to push it, feeling some soreness in my throat from singing so hard for that long, competing with the outside noises. I’ll try again tomorrow, with more awareness, and we’ll see if anything changes.

It’s the Taurus New Moon today! Time for grounding and getting real.

I’ve been a busy girl—it’s been a while since I had time to write. Experiences pile up when you don’t write regularly! And then I feel overwhelmed by things to say and so don’t say them, and so more experiences pile up and more things to talk about. Whew!

News first: “Salon Phoenix” starts next Tuesday at SoulSpeak and will take place on alternate Tuesdays following (look for me under ‘Weavers’ on the SoulSpeak website). Each evening will revolve around a particular theme; I’ll sing an hour’s worth or so of songs that explore that theme from various angles, then we’ll do an hour of discussion and interactive exercises that develop the theme further.

Next Tuesday’s theme will be: ‘Finding Guidance Within’. I hope you can make it out. I’ll send announcements out a week or so ahead of each Salon evening.

My house concert at SoulSpeak takes place on the 31st of May; I’ll be sending reminders of that as well when the time approaches.

I’m stepping off a scary edge in myself–I’ve decided to try busking on the streets. This is something I’ve pictured myself doing in the past, but never quite had the proper sequence of opportunity, desire and willingness! As of today (the Taurus New Moon seemed the appropriate time to take this step), I am the proud holder of an official City of Duncan busking permit, so expect to find me occupying random street corners over the spring and summer. I also plan to apply for a permit in Nanaimo.

Why busk? I hadn’t realized this, but in some folks’ minds there’s a stigma, as though buskers are ‘merely panhandlers’. I was surprised to hear this recently from a musician who admitted he’d always wanted to try it but never had because he didn’t want to be seen as as some sort of beggar.

I enjoy buskers, though. I admit to a bit of an icky guilty feeling if I can’t afford (or don’t want) to toss money into their guitar cases, so I must share that bias too, a little. Still, I want to try it, partly because it’s an opportunity to make some good love dollars playing music (I can’t think of a good reason why not), and partly for the experience, as a form of dues-paying.

My new busker friend Joseph tells me that busking got him off the street. Musicians receive money to play their music all the time; street performance has a time-honoured tradition and I’m proud to join the ranks. Thus goes the internal pep talk. It’s true. Why not be proud?

Truth is, I can really use the experience and practice playing in front of people, whether they are bustling by on their way to someplace else, pausing to hear a few bars or even settling down nearby to enjoy the music. There is a kind of magic to playing in the presence of others, attentive or not, that doesn’t happen playing alone, and alone is how I nearly always play unless I’m performing. And the whole wandering minstrel mystique appeals to me in a big way. So wish me luck, and if you happen to pass by, a toonie in the case would be well-received .

It’s very scary, though, and that tells me it will be excellent for me to do it. I am moving in the direction of my fear these days and finding vistas of joy and good feelings open up as a result.

In addition to the salons and the busking, I continue to play and gain experience at the open mics in the area, on Gabriola Island at the Roxie this coming Saturday and at the Dancing Bean the first Saturday of every month. I also have become a regular at the Nanaimo Singer-Songwriter Circles at the Mermaid’s Mug, the second Thursday of the month. I feel I’m growing a family of very supportive musical friends and starting to really accept my self-identity as a musician.

I once was a wannabe. Now I am. Sweet. The feedback I receive after the open mics and songwriter circles has been superlative. I’m almost embarrassed to keep reporting it. Ok, I’ll tell you a little bit of it :-).

After the Dancing Bean last Saturday, an audience member said, “It’s nice to hear somebody singing Leonard Cohen songs who can actually sing!” That gave me a laugh. Someone else compared my voice, in the same sentence, to both Bjork and Suzanne Vega (who sound absolutely nothing like each other). Last month I was compared to Buffy St. Marie. Either my voice is constantly changing, or I don’t sound like anybody and so I get compared to other woman singers who also don’t sound like anybody! I love it!

I definitely feel a great improvement in my singing ability, thanks in no small part to Penny Sidor who has been coaching me over email. Thank you Penny!! The exercises and visualizations have helped tremendously. I feel a mini-revolution in my voice, and I’m all about revolution!

I’ve been recently told, variously, that I have an ‘absolutely riveting stage presence,’ that I ‘had them in the palm of my hand,’ and that I’m ‘mesmerizing and entertaining.’ Since these similar bits of feedback came from three different sources at three different venues, I’m having to take it seriously! What, little ole me? There’s my perfectionistic, self-minimizing Virgo rising perspective for you. But I’m learning to accept that perhaps I’m a wee bit interesting after all. Mostly I’m growing a solid commitment to this musical path, and I imagine it shows.

I had an epiphany around that recently. For a long time I’ve talked myself out of taking my musical self very seriously because I felt I was ‘too old’. There is a strong consensus in society that music is the sphere of the young, and I’ve never really questioned that. I wallowed in self-pity and regret that I ‘gave my precious and fleeting youth’ to raising kids instead of pursuing my dream.

Then I realized something that awakened me and allowed me to begin to take myself seriously again. It is this: Johnny Cash, who was my very favourite singer throughout my childhood, and who remained fresh, vital and relevant for his entire long career, released his best album just before he died in his eighties. This was my epiphany: I don’t ever have to stop! I can continue getting better for as long as I live; in fact, if I keep doing it, I can only get better. I can write songs, and sing them, and I have a good thirty years left of growing and deepening. That’s a plenty long time. What a release, what a relief to realize, I can do this!

My life keeps opening like a beautiful flower, and I recently surprised myself by noticing that I now view myself as a happy person. In the past, I’ve had many pleasurable and joyful experiences, but since my childhood I felt myself to be rather dark and even bitter. My default facial expression in my youth was a resentful sort of pout; I first noticed permanent frown lines between my eyes at the age of eleven. Now my internal emotional climate has shifted. I am a happy person who occasionally has dark moods. Even when I feel dark, the light embraces the darkness and I feel simply, strongly optimistic and utterly confident of my ability to move through the darkness with all of myself present with me. I have fallen in love with life!

I’m also having a wonderfully profound and sweet time doing card readings these days. The cards have a life of their own and I just have to get out of their way and let them talk to people. It’s a lesson in magic, for me as much as the people I read for. I am not a psychic; I don’t ‘psee’ into their souls or anything like that. Instead, I let the cards talk to them, and they are so clear and direct that I don’t have to say a lot. It’s amazing to see what a lucid picture the card readings paint, over and over, and it’s incredibly heart-opening to see the ways that the cards melt people. I am falling in love with people.

Tears do flow on a regular basis, though I try not to mention that part for fear of frightening the poor souls who come to me more than they already are. Every day that I am set up to do readings, somebody comes by and says some variation of “I’m tempted, but I’m scared. I don’t want to know.” Yet I’ve witnessed powerful transfigurations in those brief 15-minute take place when the ones who are most frightened are willing to say ‘yes’.

Really I am as much of a skeptic as anyone, deep down. I first painted the cards without an agenda. They just happened, the way a baby is born. I began reading with them because they were there, primarily as a form of entertainment, and I welcomed the opportunity to show my art too, for I put a great deal of creativity into the design and execution of the deck. I’m as astonished and moved as my customers are by the unerring accuracy of these readings.

Recently I acquired ‘The Faeries’ Oracle’ by well-known Fey artist Brian Froud and I’ve begun using it as a supplemental deck with my own for those who seek (and are willing to pay for) a more in-depth reading. The faeries are tremendously helpful and fun to work with! I believe each card IS a faerie—yes—I do believe in faeries. I do! I do!

Just watch me: I’ll end up being an itinerant street performer and gypsy fortune-teller! My life’s ambition realized! My children will be so proud!

I hope you are all having a blissful spring. Part of my euphoria today in particular has to do with the long-awaited warmth and sunshine. How can one not be happy on such a day? Floral-scented breezes wafting through the treeses, ahhh…

Awhile ago, I was talking with a couple of friends when one of them asked me if I knew my power animal . I have had many meaningful and profound encounters with animal totems and friends, including Bear, Moose, Wolf, Cat/Panther, Honeybee and Slime Persons (known disparagingly by humans as ’slugs’ ). But when I tried to identify one of them as my particular power animal, I couldn’t come up with one. Then in a flash of inspiration, it came to me.

“Gaia is my power animal,” I stated firmly.  It felt like one of those goosebump moments of truth when the molecules in the air seem to resonate with affirmation. After a moment of silence, my companions said in an awed kind of way, “I felt that.” “Yeah!”

Now, on this Earth day, I feel it’s also a bEarth day for me. Now I am sitting at the Camelot Coffee House, a place I like to go to work on my computer and drink coffee (it’s the only place nearby I can do both those things). While I was writing the last post, about the bEarth of my ‘Salon Phoenix’ project at SoulSpeak, the server (a young woman I have done a card reading for in the past) said to her boss, “She reads cards!”

“Oh!” she replied eagerly, “Would you like to set up here with your cards?”

As a matter of fact, I said, I’ve been looking for a convenient place to set up another day of the week. We agreed on Tuesdays. Then I let her know I was a musician. And wouldn’t you know it, she also wants to open the space for folkie countryish stuff of the very sort that I play. I love the idea of having another regular venue. I don’t need big crowds. I’m just ready for some space in which to play for folks. Even one or two is good. It’s a start, and it feels like a nice balance to the Salon evenings.
It feels like another bEarthing for me. A new beginning. It is significant to me that these openings are manifesting on this day, this Earth day, my power animal day.

It may seem like hubris to claim the entire planet as one’s totem. But it feels more like She has claimed me, and what can I do but surrender? Why would I want to?

I’ve updated the ‘what i do‘ page to reflect these new openings and shifts in my world. Do check it out.

Hallelujah and glory be to She.

Salon Phoenix is coming

I’m very excited to announce my new project, hot off the presses! A few minutes ago, I sent this email to my friend at SoulSpeak:

Great talking to you yesterday!! I found myself inspired and sparked into other possibilities afterward. I’m looking at my 100%–what do I REALLY want to be doing? Do I want to be teaching classes and workshops right now? No… I’m not ready for that, and perhaps it’s not really my path. I seem to be experiencing great resistance around it. I want to be teaching, yes, but I want to have fun with it and have it be fun for people. I want to teach through singing and talking. My house concert on Saltspring was lovely–the discussion afterward was stimulating, lively and very enlightening, and I was the ‘host and moderator’, facilitating and guiding the talk which was inspired by the content of the songs. And there was talk between songs, too. It really worked.

Then I recalled the very first remark that was written in my little comments book after my first house concert last fall, which began (caps hers) ‘This was a perfect evening or ‘SALON’” and a light went on… I wrote down, ‘Salon Phoenix’.

I’d like to reserve Tuesday evenings for this and do regular informal salons in which I will sing, talk and be stimulating (as I can!). This will benefit me, because I really need a regular venue, at least once a week in which to polish my songs in front of people, and it will also give others a chance to get to know me and my material and what I have to offer. Somebody mentioned to me recently a study that showed that people have to be exposed to something new a minimum of seven times before it sinks in.

I would love to try this, starting next Tuesday… I will show up and play my music, with no amp or mic, just informal me and my guitar, and I’ll put the word out to my network and create something for you to put the word out too. It’s possible no one will come for the first time or two, but I want to start it anyway, open the space and vibration and create magic with my intention and love.

This would be different from the bigger, more formal house concerts like the one we’re planning at the end of May; it is a sort of prepare-the-ground time for that, to generate interest and to give me the experience I need.

She responded immediately in the enthusiastic affirmative, so we’re on! I’ll post more details as I know them, and I’ll be creating some promo material soon too. I love spring.

Lots of news in my webly world–and my really world too! I’ve made some changes to the format on the website. I removed the ‘astroblog’ because it seemed redundant. The worthy astrological and metaphysical postings I’ll link to on the ‘articles‘ page, with the aim of keeping it simple. Everything gets posted here anyway. It’s all an experiment, ever-changing and rearranging, just like life.

I’ve created a new page for a listing of upcoming performances, the link to which has replaced ‘astroblog’ in the menu bar. I’ll be updating that one often, so do check in. It looks pretty good when it’s all laid out that way! I’m particularly looking forward the house concert at SoulSpeak which is coming up at the end of May. Look for more information about that one, coming soon. And do check out the brand spanking new SoulSpeak website, isn’t it lovely? I can be found on the ‘SoulSpeak Weavers’ page, and what a community of offerings we are spinning here!

Speaking of SoulSpeak, I’ve decided to postpone the classes I’ve been planning to offer. Instead, I will start off with evening workshops (to be announced) and work my way up to ongoing classes as interest is generated.

The house concert last weekend on Saltspring was a sweet treat indeed. A smallish group cuddled on couches and chairs and the floor listening with every appearance of enthrallment, feeding my Leo Moon with waves of appreciation. Blissful sigh of satisfaction… we ended the evening with a kind of salon, a stimulating group discussion about everything under the sun which was inspired by the lyrical content of many of the songs.

And I collected a couple of comments which I’ll be adding to my testimonials page. This one is my favourite (from a young woman traveling from Australia):

“Heartfelt. Brave. Expressive. Everything I aspire to be in my music, myself, my life. I hope one day I am able to bring them together, connect, with the eloquence and beauty you have. Thank you.” - Amelia

My goodness. Thank YOU, Amelia. That’s the sort of response that gives me strength and courage to continue, makes me feel I’m on the right track after all. I have my moments of despair (being a creative depressive with a tendency to shoot myself down on the slightest provocation), and these comments are pure gold for getting me through those moments.

Here’s another:

“Love your faery song and the one you wrote for women’s camp. You have a unique gift for songwriting. Thanks for sharing.”

and

“When you sing, I feel our presence of Gaia. Singing, speaking, blessing, teaching, healing.”

and

“Thanks be! Thank you Phoenix for giving your being in song for the good of All.”

All right. I deserve to live after all. Sweet. That’s a joke, Mom. Sorry. Dark humour is my forte, though not everybody finds it funny. Repeat after me: “I will not worry about Phee.”

To quote a Talking Heads song that I love to sing, “I’m okay, I know nothing’s wrong.” I feel good today. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, spring is approaching through the chill in the air. Blessings and goodness.

My friend Shauna said to me this morning (laughing), “You couldn’t promote yourself out of a paper bag!” And I had to laugh rather than be offended because despite appearances (this blog and all the self-trumpeting I do online) it’s so freakin true.

I played the open mic at the Dancing Bean Cafe again last night. I’ve done that every month for a few months now, and every time I get positive feedback, I think of all the things I coulda shoulda done to promote myself.

And you know, I really shoulda. Last night I got the best feedback! it was a golden opportunity for self-promotion. When folks were praising my superlative wonderfulness, did I say anything like “Thank you! I have a house concert on Saltspring this Friday, if you’d like to hear more,” or “Would you like to join my mailing list?” or “Here’s my card,” or “If you’re interested I have a CD for sale from my former band, TreeRoots Revolution,” well, duh. No. I didn’t. All I could think of was the ‘thank you’ bit. And I smiled and nodded a lot.

Once again, I ‘forgot’ to bring business cards. I ‘forgot’ to bring CDs. I ‘forgot’ to mention the house concert. And I ‘forgot’ about the mailing list. I could call it a mental block, but that’s a cop-out. It’s an emotional block. I’m scared to say nice things about myself in a real, live, in-person way. I’m actually very shy, even bashful, about what I do, the ways that I put myself onstage and sing my own heart out.

I blame my childhood (that’s always easiest, and often true). I was embarrassed, growing up, about the ways I stood out from the other kids. I had a big family, lots of siblings, step-siblings and cousins my age, and my parents and other relatives tried to treat us all equally. I interpreted that to mean, “Nobody’s any better than anybody else. Nobody’s special. Stop bragging. Don’t be so conceited.” And that was hard for me, because I was quite the gifted little hotshot, what with my succession of straight A’s, singing at grown-up parties, awards for artwork and all. I tried hard to be quiet about it so I wouldn’t stand out. I got real good at being quiet. Too good.

Now I find myself called on to put myself out there in all the ways I was discouraged as a kid. It’s weird. It’s hard. I’m not so good at it yet, but I suppose I’ll learn, being no dummy.

I’ll pass on the nice things other people said to me last night in the hopes it will sink in. Maybe I’ll get that it’s okay to blow my own horn. It’s my horn. If I’m scared to blow it, why should anybody else?

A lot more was said last night, but these are the words that stand out in my memory:

(from a table of women who beamed and bobbed agreement with their spokeswoman as I left the stage) “You were wonderful! What a lovely voice, how gifted you are! And you were so present–that’s not easy to do–you had us in the palm of your hand!”

(from a man who sought me out during the break) “That was a great song–that Mother Earth song. And that Leonard Cohen song, wow, I’ve never heard it done that way. You took it to so many different places. It was just beautiful.”

(And from Phil, emcee / sound guy and member of the awesome host band, the Flying Accusations) “That was a dynamite set! That’s the best you’ve ever played here! What have you been doing?”

Phil then gave me a pep talk, with some suggestions for next time. “Next time, I want you to come on earlier in the first set, because I want you to set the tone.” And, “Next time, I’m going to turn the sound up on you. Way up. I don’t want them to have the option of not listening.”

He had other things to say of a similar vein. Was this guy drunk? Was he coming on to me? Really, I didn’t get that vibe. He just wanted me to get how well I did. He was very sweet. At the end of the night, he gave me a hug and said, “You’re part of the family now.”

Thanks, Phil. I feel honoured.

Tripping lightly across the keys, I seek to dazzle with insights to brighten my day. Failing that, I seek at least to distract with interesting turns of phrase, tricksy poemizing of the crazy kind.

Blind is one thing, dazed and confused another, yet my mind is bruised and contused these days as the grey winter haze and drizzle frizzes my hair and sizzles my inspiration. What pounding thought bludgeons my brain, causing this pain? Oh how boring, it seems my true love story has come to a sordid end. Must friend become foe? Is this a test? To what end?

Call me blessed, for the one I loved still harbours warmth, though I have been displaced as the inspirer of his ardour. The hardening of the heartery is in me, for I cannot forgive, that overrated activity given such shrift by gifted largehearted souls purporting to show the rest of us how to become lighter than a feather and waft our way to heaven on waves of unconditional love. But what of we whiches who wish to tear the hair from our heads, to spit blazing balls of flame in bursts and spurts of spite?

The fruit which was ripening fell to earth untasted, and oh, I suppose it was not wasted, for such seeds might take root where they land instead of being excreted and flushed. Still, in my cold thwarted heart, the Cinderella story I inhabited exploded, dumped me without dignity back in the ashes of my lonely hearth. I wuz framed, set up for failure by some malevolent invisible entity. As divinely choreographed as our beginning seemed, so this end shows distinct signs of diabolic interference—’twas a plot, I say, designed to puncture my nascent faith in love.

And as this plot thickens and sickens my abandoned innards, left to fend for themselves with scraps of sugar, spice, and my daily bread, I am compelled to admit that the love wasn’t all that after all. So many needs went unmet, desires unfulfilled, wants unsatisfied, but I compromised for the sake of the parts that were being pleasured, smothered, sucking up mass quantities of deliciously sweet love. Hours spent in endless pointless verbal sparring and blather were considered well spent in exchange for other hours cuddling, snuggling, holding, stroking, sweetly sobbing and sighing in bliss.

My road ahead spreads wide without apparent direction; I must needs close my eyes to let my feet find their way. This results in aimless wanderings; I flounder, foundering on excess, shoving treat after treat down my gullet in gluttonous greed, seeking endlessly that which I cannot conceive even in imagination. The hungers which which went chronically unmet collide with those once sated but now thwarted, adding up to a gaping maw of rageful starvation which eats me from the inside and threatens to consume the world. Hurling imprecations and blame at he who abandoned me, I must face the fact: it was myself.

When I was a child I drew, I sang
and when I was old enough
I read. I didn’t write.
I tried. I flailed, then failed
daunted by utter incapacity
to find words, any words that might
say something I meant

ever haunted, hungry,
possessed by an overwhelming, urgent
yet ultimately powerless rage to communicate

Every Christmas I asked for and received a
new blank diary for the year to come
Each time I gazed with love upon
its pristine pages, resolved afresh
to fill it with my thoughts

Then hit the wall immediately, and hard
I struggled, stared at the first bare page
as it blurred through a thickening film of tears
and then I finally surrendered, sighing,
to write after the date “Just routine today.”
By spring I abbreviated it to “JRT”
and filled month after month
with that acronym, scrawled large
with impotent frustration

Instead, I doodled, scribbled, drew, let the
lines flow without thought as the tip
of pencil, pen and crayon flew,
filled page after page with sketches

of body parts, eyes, hands, feet, faces
images of people and animals but
never landscapes, seldom things
I wasn’t interested in backgrounds
only players

I starved for acknowledgment, contact
effected disconnected pictures from my
alienated self, drawing on my innerworld
as substitute for actual reflections of the people
and animals that populated my surroundings

My powers of observation were turned inward,
and ’twas self I saw in the fey faces,
pointed ears and great glaring eyes
that stared from my pages.

They scared me, dared me to stop,
drew my pencil-point excitedly onward

I struggle, still, with that block in my brain
and sometimes must manifest some shock
profound enough to slice through the stuff
that separates my inner world from the
shared world of people and animals,
places and things

So I sing, I read, I want, I hunger,
I suck like a magnet with infant passion
upon the attention of those who notice
until they withdraw, depleted, to seek
attentions of less voracious and
more giving others

It makes me notice the way I still be
as a child, it makes me notice child self
filling my shelves with denied
soul’s shrieking

This insufferable pain is actually ecstasy denied
Such pleasure disallowed converts to agony
become a frenzy of demons wreaking havoc
upon the plains, rivers and seas of self

A constant, unnamed background pain
pressures my brain, colours me
with shame hues of purple and maroon
punctures my balloon before it inflates,
makes me wait for my fate to unfold,
places my life on hold

And it, the pressure, builds to crescendo
til the release valve blows, allows me
a song, a picture, a poem, a dance,
a chance for eternity’s freedom
until release relaxes me
back into my box

Into this paradox I live, makes me
crazy like a fox, freeing me with locks
and trapping me in bouts of freedom
I need more wisdom than I currently access
to pass this moebius test; it twists me
in and out of sane

Old Time is devil and saviour of my life
I age and grow at varying rates
racing against the pace chosen
by the majority and called consensus
though my vote hasn’t yet counted

I learn, slowly, that though I grow
and appear to age, I am becoming in truth
more youthful, more able, more fluid,
more stable, more magical and more alive.

When I was a child, this is what I did.
When I am a child, this is what I do.