very often, I am shaken and afraid.
today I got scared again. So afraid I thought, maybe I won’t survive! Maybe I’m not memorable… maybe when I’m done, I’ll fade into obscurity … nothing I’ve done will matter …
It seems I am often cut down, and unable to explain. It happened for a while in a relationship I once had. I couldn’t explain its difficulties. But in public, I came off looking small and petty and strange and neurotic – and my friend was the “stable, strong, leonine, under-control person.”
It took years to learn and unlearn the lessons of it all…
I hang on, somehow. In May, I learned how to cling tenaciously and my death grip on my sanity only had to get tighter and tighter. The year did NOT improve. But musically…….
the last half of 2011 has kicked more rocking hard core ass than could be even explained… I know this too is even a phase. But that this is a phase I go through honestly. With full respect for my intelligence. My equality.
I have flown so far away from the don’t-touch-the-mixer-babe world I used to know. And yet I feel a femininity and a safety that allows me to mourn an adult-childhood; to do all that past-current-future grieving.
These tiny seahorses I saw in the aquarium in the beach town of Galveston. I grew up thinking that I would share destiny with a man who sang ‘Galveston’ to me, and I don’t know why I thought that. We called it BOI, born on the island. It sounds terribly romantic. But the time for the fuzzy things that are just All Snow … that’s done. I continue to breathe and bleed.
I hear it all the time, and I crave more and more surrounding myself with people who say “how ARE you ..?”
and they’ll mean it. and keep meaning it.
I don’t know much but I know that the music I’ve made is me telling My Story. It is real and it is true and I can feel my blood and my heart and my fluid pulsing through it. It’s my house and seat of power.
My pianos were that. Are that. Should be that. Mine. I am me.
I carve things into my skin to remember. Tattoos. Birds, mostly. So I won’t forget. If I hurt too much, I start erasing my memories. I can feel myself erasing the last two years of my life, committing fully to the future.
There is no truth for me in the past. Nothing that rang of the real.
I’m generalizing a bit. But I know that my past-truth shared with present liars makes for a hollow stomach feeling. I have left important pieces of myself behind in my life with people who do not hold me dearly enough, I think. Leaving rooms with me still there, turning out the lights. And walking back into them, expecting the most ludicrous scenarios to then transpire with no regard for my reality.
The reality of *that* is narcissism. Plain. Simple.
I can see protection for the convenience of others, sometimes, in the fiction that I hid behind, that I allowed myself to write.
But I am becoming real-er now. Grittier.
Less polite, maybe. Perhaps less easy to tie down. To shut up.
I may make more noise, this time around.