Transitional Anxiety

I’ve been evaluating the course of my life a lot lately, being significantly influenced by my recent travels and current place. If anything was learned from the past few weeks, it’s that we live in a global community. In spite of my internet boycott, I realize how it can allow us to reach anyone in the world. My blood used to flow with a viral NY-centrism. I was so proud of my affiliation with this city and ability to survive that just the mention of Manhattan would create an endorphin rush. Lately I’m feeling disenchanted. I’ve felt this way before- trust me. It encouraged a rather impromptu relocation to Hawaii, a cross-country drive to Los Angeles, and even a return to New York but a year after my Hollyweird relocation. Spontaneous and drastic as I have been, I feel the undercurrents of frustration creating the potential for another insane move. If I could do anything, I’d choose to be on tour, traveling in a Volkswagon bug from city to town to city, like a hippy. Like a nomad.

I’d travel with a team of fellow musicians and artists, burning nag champra and dancing in random fields along the way.

We’ll see what the next months bring.

South by Southwest

I’m reinstating my internet link to the world, after being limited to 0-10 minutes a day to check my email and log into the plethora of networking and blogging sites. Let me say that life was much better in real time, in the real world. I cannot say I missed the cyber-landscape that much, but I barely had a spare moment to feel longing for it. I did, however, record the following “vlog” on a late night in a five-star luxury palace known as the Rodeway Inn.

A Week of the “Formers”

This evening has concluded a week that has brought forth every chap I ever seriously loved. My birthday assisted a few in using their opportunities to reach out, but for the most part it was purely coincidental. These spontaneous moments of outreach came in all forms- email, texts, phone calls, and one even met with me to toast my 52nd birthday. One of them just appeared in a dream, but upon checking his uploaded photo on Myspace, I saw it had changed to a photo taken when we were together. I’d say that counts.

The funniest call came from my often-nomadic Irish partner-in-crime from my days as a nineteen-year-old in Hawaii. Given the chosen year, and my current age, I’d say that took place around 1943. Last I’d heard from him, I received a cryptic message on my home machine, saying if I didn’t hear from him in a few days it meant something bad happened. I assumed this to mean someone put a hit out on him. He also informed me to call or email to ensure he was missing (I don’t have either updated contact numbers or email addresses).

I wasn’t sure if it was an inebriated ploy to get me to try and track him down or he was really on the run from some “friends” in Providence. Last time he lost his cell phone at a laundromat in Seattle and I received phone calls from the place for weeks, asking if my friend would ever come and pick up the missing phone. When I received a call from another pay phone at another train station or bus depot in Oregon, the Irish Chap revealed the phone was a lost cause. He didn’t care.

Nothing in his life seems secure to me, except for his faith. He’s never worried about the next job, next home, or next adventure. After recently reading one of my blogs about meaning to revisit Hawaii, he said he was relocating so I could visit. I told him about my recent love of New England and Martha’s Vineyard, and he offered to relocate there and I could be his part-time girlfriend. With his impulsive nature, I can never be too sure if he means it or not. It’s not something I want to risk.

What I love most about our infrequent conversations is his undying kindness, even if the flattery is brought to an abrupt halt with him insulting my musical tastes and performances. But this is a man who routinely sang “I’m Easy Like Sunday Morning”  while intoxicated and threated to kill James Taylor if given the chance. He also thought I was a fool for not wanting to see the Drop Kick Murphey’s. We were never a musical match.

The Nomadic Irishman also has an impeccable memory for all my other heartbreaks and crushes over the years, and will ask about the lawyer-who’s-not-a-lawyer who hated and banned my use of Secret deodorant. In a monologue, he often retorts that he would gladly pay to smell my armpits in that given moment. Laced with an Irish brogue, that kind of charm and candor can even inspire tender giggles from someone as cynical as me.

When I discussed my recent sadness in my prospects and ended flings, he’ll always promise to board the next flight to New York and kick the arse of anyone who’s bringing me grief. We may not have a future together, but I can almost always welcome the freshness of his candor.

My heart may have been stampeded a few times, my lyrics may often reflect the vitriolic fervor that swarms my soul, but this week brought me something else. Perhaps the origins were with a “Former” who toasted me just before the stroke of midnight on my birthday. He articulated how certain people come into our lives at a certain point to get us to where we are today. I just may be beginning to see the light in all of these years of turbulence. This, of course, does not mean I want a return of all the “Formers.” It’s just nice to see their placeholders on the time line of my life.

The video of this week, delayed a few weeks from my last shared effort and in black and white because it seems most appropriate. I’m also partaking in Oprah/ Ekhart Tolle’s “A New Earth” class and it’s quite inspiring and in alliance with this song.

Honesty could be the cure
I failed so many times before, with lies I thought consoled me
Though it wasn’t as I planned, even I don’t understand. These notions
of denying. And as the sands of time blur past, I don’t think that I
can last, on this path anymore.

As time slips away and we lose more days
Let me relish in the laughter
Before the curse of Fate, before it’s just too late
and there’s nothing left here but ashes.
Let’s abandon pride for the sake of peace.

V.2. I was in the in-between of a memory and a dream and we were all together.
And then the clouds just went away as the sun came out to play.
Enough light to last forever.
I thought by now I’d know it all, but my knowledge seems so small. Still I don’t have all the answers.


As time slips away and we lose more days

Let me relish in the laughter

Before the curse of Fate, before it’s just too late

and there’s nothing left here but ashes.

Let’s abandon pride for the sake of peace.
In the name of peace…
before we’re all just ashes

My 52nd Birthday!

My 52nd Birthday!

Today is my birthday and I’ve decided to turn 52. If I’m deciding what
year it’s going to be (1976) then I can choose my age as well. “Why
52?” I keep getting asked. Well, I was watching Oprah last week as I
pounded away at the workout center for seniors and Jews, and my special
haven- the 92nd St. Y. The show glorified women in their fifties, as
each accomplished woman said she was happy to reach a place of peace
and that they no longer feel the daily fight to conquer the next thing.
They learned to protect their hearts, honour themselves, and enjoy the
journey. At this point I said, fuck my twenties. If my age is going to
define me and pigeon-hole me, then I want an age that brings wisdom and
tranquility. My twenties so far can be defined by one term- turbulent.

also correlates with my latest song, inspired by a screenplay written
by my co-partner in “Bette or Bust,” that takes on the viewpoints of
sisters in their fifties and sixties. It’s called “Ashes” and I may
post a video of it this week.

It’s funny to see the people who
reappear on a birthday, sending their wishes even when they’re not
present the rest of the year. I recently met with someone I was once
very close to and did something that often terrifies me (but would
probably not scare a seasoned woman of 52). I sang to him songs
inspired by us and written years ago, one on one in my bohemian
apartment. He was moved to tears and I was reminded of the beauty of
human connection when you step out of a comfort zone. Deep. Meaningful.

I feel blessed and grateful. Now onto my confetti cupcakes and possibly the Central Park Zoo.

52… it’s going to be a great year.

Heart Rocks My World

Today and tonight felt so dreary, lucky as I was to return to NYC before the entire Metro-North schedule was delayed for hours. I’ve adorned my bed with a curtain that is a makeshift blanket, patch-quilt, splendor of burgundy velvet, velour, satin, and tapestry. As I’m approaching my 52nd birthday (more on my chosen age this year to come in my birthday blog), I’m sinking into a burgundy trance courtesy of some red wine and Heart.

Yesterday I had a pre-birthday celebration with my best friend. Not often does she speak up about my personal life, opting to be a listening ear instead and letting me be the opinionated party in all conversations revolving around love, lust, and heartache. But today, with such clarity, she drove up to the train station and looked at me with hesitation. Then with concern and conviction she told me, “He’s just not worth it.” She’s right. I wonder if it’s possible to ever stop yearning for more. It’s going to take a few more nights of Heart and Shiraz to truly move me forward. And how I love Heart.

Heart – Crazy On You (LIve in Seattle)

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