Now and again life seems to simply lift us to a new level. Suddenly we're operating on a new plane, pushing and focusing on ideas and projects that were once out of our reach.
My son and I took a trip down to California to visit with family and share the holidays. One stop had an enormous party, with magic and wonder galore. Another spot - right next door - had peaceful stillness, and a sense of reaching. Our last place to visit was empty, clear, and somehow waiting. All three places were a bit surreal, as I caught a flu bug going down and spent the weeklong trip in a fever.
My sister threw an amazing Christmas party, with actors, dancing, decorations everywhere, carolers, food and more food. Most of my memories are in snapshots and sounds - my son taking the dance floor with his cousin, the carolers' voices pealing out over the heads of the partygoers, the hired "pickpockets" darting through the crowded rooms, the actors playing Mr. & Mrs. Fezziwig turning in unison and gracefully greeting a latecomer, my mother laughing and holding court in a cozy room decorated to the brim with candy canes and sweets. Woven through it all was a bittersweet and tender regard for my family. This odd, wonderful family that drives me crazy and keeps me sane - and that is filled with people the likes of which I'll never meet out there in the wide world. Providing magic is work. I lost my voice working the party and spent a few days curled up on the couch gently riding fever waves and doing my best to keep my personality from capsizing in silent tears of bewildered non-connection.
Next door to my sister's house lives my mother. A force of nature, an artist in every sense of the word, she's been a touchstone for me creatively for most of my life. She's decided to paint again and is finding her way around the concepts of creation once more. Her home is quiet, simple, clear. Watching her work her way around the house as she works her way through ideas left me with the understanding that there is no end to what needs to be done and no reason why anything at all should not be attempted.
My mother plans. She dreams in steps and to-do lists. Her wishes are not distant stars, they're concrete bullet points that outline exactly how to get from where she is standing to where she wants to go. Her issue now is time and energy. It's not talent, or permission, or whether or not she can do something. She knows she can't use the same tools she used 15 years ago. She assumes that new tools will arrive. I left her home weeping with intention so fierce it made me grit my teeth.
Down further south, to South Central LA and my stepmother's house was the final stop. I love my stepmother greatly. The huge loft that once held my father's worktables and art projects as well as their living space was now half empty and nearly shimmering with a sense of whatever is next. My son and I were invited one level up to visit Halfland, a hand crafted puppet/animation universe (www.notesfromhalfland.blogspot.com). Watching the different puppets and sets I got the same impression as I had a floor below - as if the everything was ready to leap into motion at any moment and all I needed to do was wait and pay attention.
One week, one fever, several bits of information. Magic takes work. Dream in to-do lists and work with the tools that show up. Wait and pay attention. Now that I'm back home and it's the end of the year I feel as if the last 12 months of slogging through each day has been exactly right. All that grinding work and I'm somehow popped up onto a new level, with ideas flowing, plans and projects jostling for my attention and a clear flow of energy.
Happy new year. It's going to be stellar.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Gathering Thunder.
I did a freebie gig last week for the SHARE folks (http://www.share-sn.com) and sang "Leaving" solo, a cappella, standing at audience level. My voice felt like a skittish horse - dashing all over the place with me hanging on for dear life. It's amazing to me how varied an experience it is to sing live, picking up the meaning of the song and letting the audience's mood color the way my voice moves.
I came earlier than I needed to to perform, sitting through the event itself and letting the ideas and stories of the people there gather inside me. "Leaving" is about violence - it's not an easy song to step into - and I wanted to be able to give my best. As a result, by the time I sang I felt like I had gathered a storm inside me, fits of lightening and sudden crashes of thunder as meanings and reasons ran riot.
After I sang I felt like the moment just after a downpour stops, when everything is still dripping and full of motion but somehow gentle. As I drove home I remembered how exhausted and joyful it feels to head home after a performance and I wondered yet again why I'm not performing regularly anymore.
One reason that pops up is the lack of fellow singers in my life. I prefer to do live work with 3-6 singers, all of us working together to create an experience larger than our selves. I've tossed a few feelers out now and then to the community here but have not really had much of a response. Offering singers gigs that require 2 rehearsals a week with a small bit of cash a few times a month does not seem to be appealing - which once again shows how very odd I am since that sounds fun to me.
Looking back, the one very successful experience I had with creating a singing group that lasted was the Random Choir, in Santa Barbara in the 90's. Perhaps that is what I should do again. Gather singers and simply have them do what they want, find the gigs and then rehearse and perform what they would like to do. Gather singers, let them sing, gather thunder, and let the downpour start.
I came earlier than I needed to to perform, sitting through the event itself and letting the ideas and stories of the people there gather inside me. "Leaving" is about violence - it's not an easy song to step into - and I wanted to be able to give my best. As a result, by the time I sang I felt like I had gathered a storm inside me, fits of lightening and sudden crashes of thunder as meanings and reasons ran riot.
After I sang I felt like the moment just after a downpour stops, when everything is still dripping and full of motion but somehow gentle. As I drove home I remembered how exhausted and joyful it feels to head home after a performance and I wondered yet again why I'm not performing regularly anymore.
One reason that pops up is the lack of fellow singers in my life. I prefer to do live work with 3-6 singers, all of us working together to create an experience larger than our selves. I've tossed a few feelers out now and then to the community here but have not really had much of a response. Offering singers gigs that require 2 rehearsals a week with a small bit of cash a few times a month does not seem to be appealing - which once again shows how very odd I am since that sounds fun to me.
Looking back, the one very successful experience I had with creating a singing group that lasted was the Random Choir, in Santa Barbara in the 90's. Perhaps that is what I should do again. Gather singers and simply have them do what they want, find the gigs and then rehearse and perform what they would like to do. Gather singers, let them sing, gather thunder, and let the downpour start.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Art, Rage & The Inner Child
I'm having a temper tantrum.
I'm upset that I'm struggling still after all these years to get my music out into the world. I'm angry that I'm working at such random things in order to make ends meet - and frustrated as less and less time is used for music and more and more time is used for earning money in non-musical ways.
In years past, music has contributed to my life financially, emotionally, spiritually. I've lived simply, focused on art, studied, taught, wrote, sang. The last year has been simply surviving - teaching a bit, writing little, singing less.
Today I'm finding myself exhausted, and somehow empty. I have this load on my back, this warmly bundled pack of unwritten, unsung work and I'm worn to the bone with carrying it endlessly forward.
For the first time in my life, I want to just leave the pack by the side of the road.
What is it like to just live a regular life? Work at a normal job, finish the day and go home to dinner and a night of TV or time with friends and family? I'm trying to imagine waking up in the morning with my only obligation a day job and responsibilities wrapped around the people I love.
No sense of falling over and over as the music does not meet the idea and I try once again. No feeling of pressure in the back of my heart pushing me to write it down, sing it out, translate thought into reality. What if I did not have to write? What if it's not my job to make sure that music gets created? What if I don't have to teach, to learn?
There is nothing glamorous about being a composer. No one applauds when a note is written down. Few people even notice when the note is sung. So why am I doing this? What is the point of all this struggle if the work I'm doing dies with me, unheard? Why the endless pressure, the relentless obligation, if what I am doing makes no difference?
I'm having a temper tantrum. Kicking my heels, pounding my fists, hollering and wrecking my voice for the next few days. I need something back. I need something to happen back, something to come from all of this worthwhile work I've been pouring out into the world all these years.
God I'm tired. Bone tired, and sitting by the side of the road with a load of music I can't carry and can't leave behind.
I'm upset that I'm struggling still after all these years to get my music out into the world. I'm angry that I'm working at such random things in order to make ends meet - and frustrated as less and less time is used for music and more and more time is used for earning money in non-musical ways.
In years past, music has contributed to my life financially, emotionally, spiritually. I've lived simply, focused on art, studied, taught, wrote, sang. The last year has been simply surviving - teaching a bit, writing little, singing less.
Today I'm finding myself exhausted, and somehow empty. I have this load on my back, this warmly bundled pack of unwritten, unsung work and I'm worn to the bone with carrying it endlessly forward.
For the first time in my life, I want to just leave the pack by the side of the road.
What is it like to just live a regular life? Work at a normal job, finish the day and go home to dinner and a night of TV or time with friends and family? I'm trying to imagine waking up in the morning with my only obligation a day job and responsibilities wrapped around the people I love.
No sense of falling over and over as the music does not meet the idea and I try once again. No feeling of pressure in the back of my heart pushing me to write it down, sing it out, translate thought into reality. What if I did not have to write? What if it's not my job to make sure that music gets created? What if I don't have to teach, to learn?
There is nothing glamorous about being a composer. No one applauds when a note is written down. Few people even notice when the note is sung. So why am I doing this? What is the point of all this struggle if the work I'm doing dies with me, unheard? Why the endless pressure, the relentless obligation, if what I am doing makes no difference?
I'm having a temper tantrum. Kicking my heels, pounding my fists, hollering and wrecking my voice for the next few days. I need something back. I need something to happen back, something to come from all of this worthwhile work I've been pouring out into the world all these years.
God I'm tired. Bone tired, and sitting by the side of the road with a load of music I can't carry and can't leave behind.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Death of Men Nearby.
It is a time of death, apparently. Well, perhaps a year of death would be more accurate. The last 12 months have brought the death of my brother, my father, my uncle, 2 family dogs and a family cat.
All of them have been male.
We're mostly a gathering of women now, with the men scattered few and far between, working best they can to keep the torch lit. My brother went first, unexpectedly, then the cat. Then my uncle, one dog, then my father. Lastly, the other dog.
How strong our love is for animals. In my heart the grief is real and profound for the latest of the deaths, a charming dapper fellow named Wolfgang that lived his life full of the wit and whimsy that Lasa Apso's bring to the world. He lived longer than his body would allow, keeping going with a persistent insistence that kept him moving well past when he should have stopped and laid himself to rest. My father did the same thing. Both of them held souls that were greater than the sum of their body's parts.
And both of their deaths were expected. They had practice runs, medical care, near misses and long stretches of simply inadequate health. There were vigils in hospital rooms as my dad went through surgery and long phone calls about different treatments for dogs, and everyone knew that eventually they would die. We talked about it, did the logistics of it, even cried in advance discussing what it would be like when they were gone.
But I never realized the loss would echo so deeply in me. This last death, the death of Wolfgang, has driven home the end of an era. My last memory of Wolfgang was sitting down near him and petting him very lightly as he completely ignored me, his focus on his beloved Gwendolyn and her movements around the room that he could perceive. My last memory of my father is our exchange of I love you's as I walked out of his room at the care center and his focus on getting the words right and loud enough to be heard. One worked hard to keep his love in sight, and the other worked hard to let his love be known.
And who will do that now? Who will focus on us, perservere for us, push himself to be heard? Where will the women of our family turn now for the things that we could get only from the men that were so much a part of our everyday life?
I still pick up the phone to call my brother, dead almost a year now, to tell him about my mother's latest adventure or compare notes about raising an only child. I still feel that rush of chill deep inside when I realize that he's gone, that my father is gone, that so many have left and here we are, women. Strong, capable, creative women that mourn each day for the death of men nearby.
All of them have been male.
We're mostly a gathering of women now, with the men scattered few and far between, working best they can to keep the torch lit. My brother went first, unexpectedly, then the cat. Then my uncle, one dog, then my father. Lastly, the other dog.
How strong our love is for animals. In my heart the grief is real and profound for the latest of the deaths, a charming dapper fellow named Wolfgang that lived his life full of the wit and whimsy that Lasa Apso's bring to the world. He lived longer than his body would allow, keeping going with a persistent insistence that kept him moving well past when he should have stopped and laid himself to rest. My father did the same thing. Both of them held souls that were greater than the sum of their body's parts.
And both of their deaths were expected. They had practice runs, medical care, near misses and long stretches of simply inadequate health. There were vigils in hospital rooms as my dad went through surgery and long phone calls about different treatments for dogs, and everyone knew that eventually they would die. We talked about it, did the logistics of it, even cried in advance discussing what it would be like when they were gone.
But I never realized the loss would echo so deeply in me. This last death, the death of Wolfgang, has driven home the end of an era. My last memory of Wolfgang was sitting down near him and petting him very lightly as he completely ignored me, his focus on his beloved Gwendolyn and her movements around the room that he could perceive. My last memory of my father is our exchange of I love you's as I walked out of his room at the care center and his focus on getting the words right and loud enough to be heard. One worked hard to keep his love in sight, and the other worked hard to let his love be known.
And who will do that now? Who will focus on us, perservere for us, push himself to be heard? Where will the women of our family turn now for the things that we could get only from the men that were so much a part of our everyday life?
I still pick up the phone to call my brother, dead almost a year now, to tell him about my mother's latest adventure or compare notes about raising an only child. I still feel that rush of chill deep inside when I realize that he's gone, that my father is gone, that so many have left and here we are, women. Strong, capable, creative women that mourn each day for the death of men nearby.
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