Downhill Fast

At work now. Everything possible that could happen that is just bad … has. Of course this is a hyperbole, but I like to take my liberties.

You know that famous movie quote, “I’m not even supposed to be here today?” Well, I actually am supposed to be here today … and yet I didn’t really press hard enough to get out of it. I could bitch and moan, I suppose. I don’t know. A couple good things happened. I don’t really seize the day as effectively as I could though. I suppose it could get worse.

I have voided the cash register nine zillion times. When I have a bad day … I have a BAAAAADDDD day. They should just completely write this day off. Just pretend it didn’t really happen. I don’t even really want to get into why it happened.

I have magical powers. I’ll just come out and say it.

This is not something that I talk about very often. This is something that I’ve been in denial about for a really long time.

When someone comes up to you and says “I have magical powers,” you tend to look at them funny. But the way that this has manifested itself in my life is that I feel things. On the outside. I feel when things are wrong. And then stuff happens. It’s nothing huge. And there’s a huge level of deniability about it - both from other people and from myself. Just because it could be that I’m having a bad day. I could be on my period. Overreacting. Just plain wrong.

But I’m not usually doing any of those things.

It’s so abstract. Someone says something really horrible. Or wrong. And it’s so subtle. And I just start panicking. And people like me are so sensitive to these things. Sometimes I know it’s going to happen before it happens. I can see the patterns. Sometimes I even smell them. Which is really … just … weird.

Some people just smell wrong. Some of the people around here smell wrong.

And then there are people who smell right. But I’ve been wrong before. Some people who have smelled right in the past have allowed themselves to decay. There are people who have been around me before and have gotten scared. Hell, I’m afraid to even type this. It’s freaky shit.

But it needs to be talked about. Because my radar is up all the time. Hell, I could always just … deny it. Say … this is all just fiction dude. I write science fiction. What’s real? What’s allegory? What do you know?

Something that bothered me happened yesterday. People’s attitudes toward me have gotten … well, let’s just say they’ve gotten more apparent. As a result I’ve become uncomfortable. Because I’m not good at swallowing discomfort, I am one of those people who just deconstructs. Falls apart. Not good. I don’t really know what to do about that, but I can’t really suck it up.

Once again, thumb up my butt, sounding like Woody Allen. I’m not prepared for the onslaught. I even discussed this with my husband on the way to work. I have to build myself some kind of a temple or it’s just not going to go well for me. But I can’t make myself impervious to every kind of attack. I was talking to this person that I’m starting to feel safe around - this very old soul … but I was just sitting there stone-struck. I couldn’t make my lips move. I couldn’t commit to it. It was like I couldn’t bring myself to make any sense. I wouldn’t let myself come out of my cage. I wanted to explain what had happened. But I don’t dare. there is the bitching about it factor. People don’t want to hear about it, and I don’t want to do it.

But when I’m completing the daily sheet for today, and I’m thinking of that like it’s a metaphor - I’m thinking of other things too. I’m becoming passive aggressive. I get asked if I still play the piano.

Nope. I quit. I receive a stunned silence as a response. Just kidding. I say. Then I riff on that for a while. I do some deadpan morbid bullshit - some cryptic goth-chick problem child don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass attitude problem behavior. Who knows? But it’s not right, and I shouldn’t do it. What is my response supposed to be? I’m thinking, Of course I’m still a musician … I’ve been mixing my original songs, right here, behind the counter, people. I practice 5 hours a day. You don’t tell people this. It’s tacky.

The appropriate answer is “when my husband can spare me from my duties as wife and future mother; I play for his (and my) enjoyment. Hopefully someday I can have little ones and we can spare my reduced income here; having purchased a home.”

So the daily sheet says “lots of mistakes were made” and I want to protest not all by me. My new friend says I shouldn’t have to explain myself. And I’m defensive and bitter because I’m always doing so. This has all got to stop. And it’d better be soon - I can feel it in my complexion and my fitness level.

 

Career Moves

I’m in the bathroom, getting ready for Work.  Work has become Work.  With a capitol “W.”  I don’t know when this happened.  I’m not going to get into this.  This was supposed to be a place where I came to write about how I felt about the work I was doing.

What is “work?”

Anyway, I’m putting on my makeup, so that I can go off to smell like cigars.  I haven’t had time to write … cigar reviews.  Not even those.  I avoid blogging in one of the many blogs I have created that I cannot decide on … because I don’t do anything but whine.  I only wrote in here because I have been at the shop for long enough to know that nobody gives a shit.

I take pictures - some … but I haven’t had time to post them.  I haven’t gotten organized and I haven’t figured out how to do this really.  I need an uninterrupted work week.  Or three.

No, I don’t mean Work.  I mean WORK.  As in my work.

As it is now, I know how to do things for other people.  I know how to watch as other people live out their dreams.  I have gotten really good at sorting things.  Wiping things off.  I excel - at doing those things.  I believe that the phrase used was - that I was “a godsend” at those types of things.

Housewife stuff.  Have been good at that for years.  But I’m a girl - and the other thing that was mentioned when my … uh … potential … was discussed; was that I have a “great rack.”  Not necessary to really know your merch … if you can distract your clientele with your hooters.  Nice.

And this right smack dab after discussion of Paul Simon lyrics and their content.  Sheryl Crow.  Sometimes I feel like the underpants gnomes have absconded with my life.  I wasn’t writing about any of this before.  I’ve decided, screw this.  I’m writing about it now.  I just don’t even care anymore.  No one is going to agree with any of this, because I have a uterus … this is what I was thinking.  But then the thought - no, no one is going to read this won out - so here I am.

I have more I could say, but I’m not tacky yet.

No one is paying me to be myself.  So if I don’t want a Vegas-in-Austin version of what I was doing at church, I’m going to have to watch my back.  That is, if I want to do what I want to do.

I’m getting paid (a bit) to work here.  No one is paying me to play.  I’m going to have to do that on my own.  I’m going to have to fight to do that on my own.  It is much more useful and expedient if I am not playing … if I am committed to the dreams and musical presence of others.

I must ask myself daily as I fluff and stick and straighten and have no time to write and as my practice time dwindles …

Do I want to be a smoking groupie?

 

job-job-jobby-job-job-job

It occurs to me that the reason that I don’t really have a job per se - is that perhaps I’m not really meant to have a job. I try and get a job and it’s kind of funny, the only one I can actually manage to hack turns out to be a kind of … pretend job. This ends up being fine with me; because I should really be practicing. I haven’t heard anything about working from anyone for a couple of weeks. This is really okay. I don’t even care anymore.

I’ll say it again. I should really be practicing.

I don’t even know if I’m going to keep this up - here. I don’t know how well this went, here. I didn’t really publicize it, I didn’t really do anything about it. It was really just a fracturing of my brain onto four different corners of the internet. I already have a livejournal. I thought about doing some reviews … but what is the point of that when you have a pretend cigar job and you don’t really believe in it anymore? I don’t know what I really want to write about anymore. I don’t know if I really want to think about cigars while I’m smoking cigars anymore. I don’t know if I want to write about musicians when I’m listening to musicians anymore. I am thinking that it’s all just a huge ploy to get attention. I’m thinking that every time I lay down another letter - that this is also a huge ploy to get attention. I wonder what drove me in the past.

In the past, for instance, I sounded pure. Now, when I go back over what I’ve written - I sound a little desperate. And I don’t really care anymore. When you regularly see someone walk down the road in a thong everyday - you start thinking that there’s really not much you can do to distinguish yourself. And you’re not really thinking about quality either. There’s not much going on in your mind except for how you’re going to pop through the metal bubble.

The air is thick and lousy with musicians and artists. Every time I leave the house I want to choke. And it’s a bitter feeling. It’s not like an artist’s community feeling. It’s not even like music school - where there’s a sense of competition and you’re trying to find your place in a pecking order. It’s almost like you just want to hide, and say nah, I’m not going to say anything … I’m not going to be all like “me too, me too,” because even you’re in a band now and it’s become completely ridiculous. So ridiculous I literally want to barf. So I almost don’t want to tell certain people what I’m doing personally anymore. I literally changed the subject when I was about to talk about my work … my ideas. I’m going to screen my phone calls, because I have work to do this week. I’m not going to blog overly much about my ideas - because I am really protective about shit getting derailed.

It’s really important that I follow through on these new ideas. They’re different from the others. This is new stuff. This is stuff that might actually work - but I’ve got to get to a certain leaping off point with it all. And if I start talking to people about it, I already know what will happen. I’ll get “me too-ed.” And my little balloon will get busted. My wonderful mojo will get pissed on. My day that is about me, and my energy that I wanted to keep about my business will be redirected onto someone else. I’ll get one-upped and the metaphorical microphone will get grabbed from me.

I don’t rightly know if it’s because there’s an element of not being able to stand my success. And it’s not even suc-cess anymore … it’s just a little prog-ress.  It’s as if I need to be slapped down and sat upon. the crabs in the bucket analogy.  Except the crabs that are almost out of the bucket are looking back down at my ass even though they’re way ahead of me - and that’s not friggin fair!

Why would any success of mine be such a huge “thunder stealer?” Particularly at this point.  Why would I need to have drama thrown in my general direction ..?  So I don’t really know what it is. I just know that I have to stay away from it. I have to not be in a place where I say that I’ve got a recording session finally booked and sound tentative and quietly proud and hopeful about it - only to be told that (oh yeah!) … well they’ve got … uh, THREE sessions with EIGHT famous bands booked and so does their wife child momma and greasy grandma and two year old even though they aren’t even musicians (I exaggerate, but it’s your basic concept of not being able to just say - “oh, good for you.”  PERIOD). And it doesn’t matter … they’re feeling all casual about it and it’s no big deal … blah, blah, blah … these things happen every day, but we’re so happy for your little thing, what-was-it-again … nevermindmememememememememememeeeeeeeee …

I can’t deal with being around that energy. That dismissive bullshit that I can’t stand. I need people around me who are for me for once. That are focused on me. That say - “that’s her!” I know her! I love her music. I’m her fan! I want to be a supporter of “her.” Let me tell you … about her! Not, “let me tell you how she reminds you of this other person …” or worse, how she reminds you of “this other person … and then ME,” or maybe “… JUST ME!”

More importantly, that don’t punish me when I actually have the gumption to stand up for myself.  Because usually I’m quiet and allow myself to get walked all over in order to insure the comfort of others.  This is what I’ve allowed myself to get taught in relationships for the past however-many-years.  It’s mostly been because a lot of these people have been in church and music with me.  So much has been expected of me, but when I turn it around it mysteriously goes to radio silence.  I’m expected to be the bigger person.  But I’ve actually been told that I’m expected to be strong but they’re sorry they’re weak - I should forgive their failings. Excuse me?

So I took the liberty of having a little “failing” that made it necessary for me to have to go off somewhere and take care of myself.  Occasionally I get lonely, or sucked back in, or there’s guilt or whatever.  But usually I just own my choice and I move on.  I felt I shouldn’t have to be constantly available when others chose not to be constantly available to me.  I thought that when I looked up whore in the dictionary, that the difference between whore and what I was doing was that whores get paid.  And I decided that if I was going to sit around and suck for free; that whores had more integrity.

Skulking around like a sycophant does not keep focus on me, where I want it to be.  It was on me when I was confident, when I wasn’t apologetic about it. I actually thought it was my God-given right to self-promote. If there was a piano in the room, I would play it. I actually thought that it was deeply annoying that other people would play sub-standard crap on pianos. I worked hard to have something ready to casually play that was excellent and just off-the-cuff good. I let it slip for a while because it just didn’t matter. Then I stopped because I started having true contempt for all audiences that didn’t care to hear. Now I think that they should be reintroduced. I think I could find my audience. I owe it to them to look from them. I feel that it is not their fault that I have been hidden from them by imbeciles - that I am going to have to wade through people who lack discernment in order to find them. It will just be part of the work that I do.

It will be just a small part of what I provide. One of the many services that I do.  Which I hopefully will get paid for.

 

funny from my bro Christian

 

woody-woodpecker

I think I’ve figured out why I haven’t written in a while - and it’s because I haven’t liked the sound of my own whine. I’ve looked at myself on the internet and thought - ‘oh man … the only person who should sound like Woody Allen is … Woody Allen.’ So that’s not good, right?

I’ve been thinking of a lot of different things though. It’s going to be rough to organize my thoughts.

Finally sitting out here with the kitties. They miss us. We are neglecting them. They are plotting our demise.

We are going to the Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings show.

I am becoming more and more boring as each word leaks out of my fingers. This is because it is late, and my quads have this computer-shaped flat space kind of etched out onto them. It’s kind of sick. I’m going to have to start doing computer squats and exercises for mouse cramp once again.

 

I’m sitting next to a auto repair place thinking about death. The iPhone is very slow. It corrects only 20% of my words correctly because I’m not quite used to it. They upped my dose, which I would like to talk about, but know that I really shouldn’t. I still haven’t learned anything.

Jay’s car is working. I’ve been helping him with it today. We’ve been talking. I’ve talked about dreams, medication stuff (was that a bad idea?), and “work related things” (we both work at the cigar shop).

I was sitting here staring into space while I was waiting for him, thinking - I’ve got to do something. I don’t really know how much longer I have to live. No one really knows how much longer they have.

But then again, I’m a morbid soul. I actually got scared though, this time. Usually I feel like I’m being dramatic. I buy into the label. The Denise label, the woman label. This time, I actually freaked myself out.

 

Practice makes Perfect!

I thought I’d blog here again, you know, just to prove that I exist. I haven’t been online in a while. I thought that when I was working at the cigar shop - that there would be this wide expanse of faff-off time where I would sit with my laptop on the counter and just write and surf and get shit done. It is not to be. I’ve been a busy girl. Cleanin’ and scrubbin’ and stockin’ and ringin’ up and organizin’ and DOin’ and all kinds of cigar-y nonsense.

I don’t know about this. But I like it. When you voluntarily go back to work to hang out, I suppose that’s not such a bad thing.

The thing is, I don’t know who my “hangout” people are. I am really in a state of flux. I don’t who my friends are and I don’t know that they’re going to stay that way. Things are really good with the husband right now. But I’m not writing much. That’s never a good sign.

I tested for another belt stripe, but I’m not losing any weight. I don’t seem to be coalescing in my career - which to me is still more important than my job. I was so busy that I didn’t get the regular “too much” practicing that I am usually accustomed to. So the latter part of the weekend was spent just throwing myself at the piano and not really looking at tasks that need to be completed. And I do have list items. Such as “finish the damn song” and “practice the entire folder worth of things you can’t play” and “pick up guitar” and “turn on amplifier.” Plus: “record something, anything - for Pete’s sake ..!” I was just reacting, hacking at Chopin nocturnes that no one really needs me to do and I will never play live in front of anyone. This is just for me and my technique. This is self-practice, just-for-me, intellectual frotteurism that is not really doing any good for my ultimate goals or anything. It’s not really going to get me Out There. I rationalize and say it’s Good for My Technique.

So I can’t just sit here and write cigar reviews and be all smoky. I’ve got work to do. I’ve been noticing more and more that the people that sit around that coffee house and the shop … the musicians - they don’t know anything about what I really do … I don’t really put myself out there. I guess I’m afraid. The times when I do try to put myself out there have just really been going downhill more and more. The thing that happened with He Who Shall Not Be Named being the worst of all. The reason that I say I can’t play in this town (or, at least the most recent one). That’s the reason that no one there would hear me unless I booked myself somehow.

And another “He Who Shall Not Be Named” seems to get booked there easily and flawlessly. I don’t know quite how this works, exactly. I’m not sure who you have to blow to get on these things. All I know is that I need to not get distracted by my job from getting this CD done - so that I can get the work out there. The work speaks for itself, I know. Then I don’t have to blow anyone - I already know that no one wants that out of me anyway. Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind …

Just kidding … maybe …

Anyway, I practice and practice. I don’t know why I do it. I do it because I am trained to. I will do it always - no matter how successful I get or don’t get. I think it’s in my bones now. It’s just the way that it is. I think that it’s just something for me now. I think that I’d play even if no one would ever hear me, ever again.

Maybe that’s how you “know.”

 

Habana Ho

I got an actual job. You know, where I work. Like, for money. It’s really kind of weird.

Hence the title of this post, Habana Ho… I guess I’ll have to learn everything there is to know about cigars.

I actually did have those two “auditions” over the past week or so. Predictably, none went well. Friggin’ Chronicle!

 

‘Emily’

I changed my recording today and wrote a blog about it on my myspace blog. For the last few months, I have been featuring the other two recordings on my myspace page. While these are more current recordings, I feel that it’s time for a more “current” decision - I’ve changed my mind about this today for a few reasons.

‘Emily’ is an old recording, which my vocals sound very “young” to me on, it’s true. This was why I was reticent to open the page with the song in the first place. But I have been listening to the others open the page on a low quality laptop, and because of a lack of mastering and the home studio environment I was restricted to; I think that ‘Emily’ better shows what I could do in a studio (at least, what I could do in 1999 in a studio).

Anyway, I have come to terms with the fact that I do not have “female vocalist” voice. I just didn’t train up into that. And I sound odd and fake to myself when I try to do it up too much. I just sound youthful in timbre, surprisingly so - but this is how is appears to me, and I live in my head.

This is also a recording with a band that I made choices in forming. These were musicians that I felt comfortable with and they were doing things that I wanted them to do at the time on the piece. This represents what I want now - which is to have access to people who would work with me and believe in my vision - and not turn into what my band and some other experiences became … isolated thinking - not seeing the good and cohesive new thing a project I envisioned could become. People who were for themselves during their times with me - and so I shared my music in service to them. These were choices I made, but I thought I had to at the time. So I’ve seen talk but little evidence of what I have wanted so badly. Golden Promises.

‘Emily’ is one of my few pieces of evidence. ‘Emily’ was the closest I’ve probably ever gotten to anything real. You can tell someone that you played with someone that almost happened or at a particular place at a particular time (a place which is usually no longer standing with a club owner who has long since disappeared) … but a recording is something that cannot be argued with. You don’t have to “go back to kindergarten” with a recording.

Emily has stood up, I think. I sound young on it, but it has not aged too badly. A decent recording is a good credential to people. A magic and *famous* recording, with names - of course … would be better; perhaps attached to a tour … but this is a good proof that in 1999 - if I had been a lot more assertive and bossy - perhaps I would be someplace very “magical” today.

I have not yet seen the music in my head come out of vocal chords and pianos and guitars and other instruments into the mics and boards and computers and finally arrive into ears. I have had some luck with engineers. The rest was getting people firmly on their own paths to walk a little on mine, in essence, to believe in me.

Emily was the closest thing I got to the recording I wanted - but I have a long way to go.

I’m going into recording in June or July, I believe. To say my expectations are high is putting it mildly. If it were up to me, the entire album would be tracked already … ah but the involvement of *other musicians* … this is where things start to get hairy. So I will try to push forward. I am wiser now.

 

a quick one

We’re going to the cigar shop. I just put a poem on myspace. I think that this was an ineffectual decision, but probably much better than writing strongly worded letters to people in my past. This would accomplish nothing.

I’m “trying out” for a band today - in about four hours. I’m also going to try to make it to lodge. I told Christina that I was thinking of it like “I was going to audition them” though.

EXTRA: Something justhappened that makes me really angry. I am not going to talk about it though. I may post another poem, but here this time.