So...

Funny how life can be at times. I plunge into what seems the worst possible nadir of depression, write the most dismal poem I have probably ever written, and begin to feel better.

My "I paid way too much for it" copy of Grant Hart's out-of-print acoustic CD, Ecce Homo, also helped by arriving in the post on Friday.

Saturday, I went and had a long, excellent visit with my friend Sue, and I brought my drum to show her, and we also spindled, knitted, and talked and talked and talked, as we have not had a chance to in a long time. I cherish this woman. We struggle with some of the same issues, and I know after sharing some of my troubles with her and learning I'm not alone, I feel so much better, like I can go on, the moment after my dreams have died.

And have they really died?

On my bad days, yes. I can't see past the bad day gloom and doom. It's hard to find anything that really helps in any obvious way.

On my good days, I feel differently about everything. Today, for instance, after Friday's wallow, Saturday with Sue, and Sunday dealing with a waterbed that had sprung a leak, I came home from work and sat down and wrote, in a blitz, an eight-page short story. Inspired by a song of Grant's, it began to come to me this morning while I was sitting amongst my tools and wires. I hoped it would be with me still when I got home, and lo and behold, after an hour or two, it was. I am very happy with the end result, though I know in a few days' time there will probably be a bunch of things I need/want to fix.

But for now, the story pleases me, the repairs to the waterbed have held, my bedroom is neater than it has been in months, and I feel pretty darn good.

Grant, even though you'll probably never see my blog, I still want to thank you for "Flexible Flyer." Food for thought, and catalyst for a story. My arse has been saved by music, and my response to it, yet again.

Grant Hart, Brighton Bar December 18, 2009

Any Grant fans know the name of this exquisite little number?

Grant Hart, Middle East, Cambridge MA, 11 Jan 2010 (1/4)

Never Talking To You and Flexible Flyer.

Bad Day at Black Rock

That's what my father used to say when I was little, and we'd had a bad day fishing. As I get older, though, I tend to think of that phrase, wryly, when my mood matches the sentiment.

As of today, I have 18 days let to be 47. Once again, I feel wiggy and weird about the approach of my birthday. Another year, and what have I accomplished?

If acceptance of the fact that life just has not worked out at all the way I thought it might back in my semi-optimistic youth is an accomplishment, then so be it.

But I'm not there yet. I'm still in kicking and screaming mode. Railing at fate one last time before my star -- if I ever really had one -- has faded, and I sink into anonymity.

I only know I have to say this somewhere. I don't know where else to take it but here. So, for what it's worth...

Coffee Break Musings

Be still; stand by respectfully; bow your head and doff your hat

And hearken to the wind that carries my sigh.

Listen a moment and hear,

O hear my feeble cry,

Borne on that wind as my dreams die.

Time and years have swept on by.

Why was I so unaware of their passing?

How did I come to be so old,

With my songs unsung and my tales untold?

Or is it simply

That I have sung and I have told,

But no one ever really heard?

And why do I think they’ll listen now?

Does anyone really know or care to pause and listen

As the wind blows by, bearing my sigh?

Do they matter to any, these tears that I cry

While the cruel wind tears away my last sigh?

O, won’t you acknowledge this moment at all?

Be still; stand respectfully a few small seconds,

And hear the wind fleeing away with my sighs?

Will you bow your head and doff your hat,

And hold it close against your breast

While you stand still and silent and grave,

And mourn with me as the wind swirls by?

Hear, o hear that sighing sound.

Stay close by my side and hold my hand,

And assure me there’s reason to carry on

The moment after my dreams have died.

~CP Warner~

5 February 2010

It Only Took Twenty Years...

His album, "Intolerance," sounds as fresh to me today as it did in 1990, when my sister first gave me a copy. From the opening track, "All of My Senses" to the poignant last words of "She Can See the Angels Coming," I was riveted. Listened to it over and over and over, along with Nova Mob's "Last Days of Pompeii," and couldn't get enough.

My sister lived in the Twin Cities in those days, and she got to see Grant Hart play as a soloist, and as the lead singer/drummer in Nova Mob on numerous occasions. Stranded in New England, I couldn't even get to the one show I heard of, in Providence at the now defunct Living Room. If only I could have gotten a babysitter that night, but no such luck. I was so envious of my sister having such ready access to those shows. Not only that, but sometimes she even got to talk to him. Hot damn!

So, "Tell him!" I said. "Tell him that I, a classically trained musician, am mightily impressed with his work!"

I don't think she ever had enough conversation time to share that with him, but...

I guess I forgot to mention that Grant played ALL the instruments and sang ALL the vocals on "Intolerance." Keys, guitars, drums, voice, sound effects...the sheer versatility and skill blew me away.

I bought his other CDs as soon as I heard of them. Sadly, I don't own every single one he did since the break-up of Husker Du, but I do have most of them. And it had been a very long time indeed since the release of "Good News for Modern Man," about nine years, actually, when a random e-mail landed in my inbox, announcing concerts in the Greater Boston area. I usually give such things a cursory glance and hit delete, but something prompted me to read this one, and there, way down at the bottom...Grant Hart at the Middle East? Oh, sweet Jesus! When? And the tickets are how much? NINE DOLLARS????? You never saw a person head for the ticketmaster site faster than I did that morning. And then it slowly dawned on me: if he's touring, there must be a NEW ALBUM.

Indeed, there was. Hot Wax is fabulous. I can't seem to get enough of the opening track, "You're the Reflection of the Moon on the Water."

But I digress.

We have fast-forwarded from 1990 to 2010, twenty years since I first heard "Intolerance" and "Last Days of Pompeii." Grant Hart is coming to the Middle East in Cambridge, and I have tickets in hand, and a head full of all the music of his that I own. I am ready for him on Monday night. More than ready, after twenty very long years!

He is not touring with a band. It's just Himself with an electric guitar, and maybe a few distortion/overdrive pedals. (I'm guessing here, as I'm not much of a gearhead). When he arrives, I recognize him instantly, but other folks don't seem to. He just walks in quietly with his guitar case, eyes twinkling as he passes. I'm not sure exactly what to expect, but am certain it will be interesting.

Within minutes, I've changed that opinion. Interesting, my arse! I cannot take my eyes off him. He draws me closer and closer to the stage, into a sea of people, and that's no mean feat: I generally avoid being hemmed in by crowds like the plague. But in this case, I don't see them. There is only this man, and this astounding music, and the poetry.

He plays and sings hard for a full hour and a half, performing at least 20 songs. So many favorites are going by, one after the other. And towards the end of the performance, I add up the time, and realize: Twenty years. My God, I have been waiting for this night for twenty years! And then, as the evening draws to a close, I feel driven to share that thought with him. I MUST let him know...

As these things go, if you miss your moment, it's gone. If it's meant to happen, it will happen.

He passes by me and in a second he will be in the thick of the crowd, and I won't have the nerve to follow. And so I speak.

"Grant!"

He hears me, and whirls 'round on the instant, shining a beatific smile on me. Furthermore, though we have never met before, he is looking at me as if he knows me, and has known me for a very long time. There's that twinkle in his eyes, brows raised inquiringly. He is not tall, and I am more or less nose to nose with him.

I lean towards him and say it: "I've been waiting to hear you play live for twenty years!"

The smile gets broader and he laughs, and replies, "Well, it's about f*cking time!"

Then I'm laughing, too, and what do I say in return? "Yes, Grant. Yes it is."

I tell him we have a friend in common back in the Twin Cities, whereupon he inquires if I smoke. There's a pack of cigarettes in his hand, and he's in the process of shaking one loose. I'm not a smoker and tell him so, at which point he takes my hand and starts moving towards the exit door. "Come with me anyway!" he says, and my head is reeling. A quick hello is turning into an opportunity for a more in-depth conversation. He is acting as if I'm an old and dear friend, and I am utterly at ease with him.

We are halfway to the door, and I am telling him I'll be happy to walk out with him, but just as we are halfway to his destination, he is waylaid by someone who wants CDs.

He offers an apologetic shrug and a smile, and says, "I'm sorry, but I guess I have to deal with commerce now."

"That's all right," I say, feeling lucky to have spent as much time with him as I have. "I've got to go now anyway, but--Grant, thank you so much! It was beautiful."

And I'm caught in a bear-hug that lasts awhile, and we say goodbye.

I hope that someday, some way, we might have a chance to resume that conversation, but even if we don't, at least he knows what the music has meant to me all this time. What it will continue to mean.

"What's left is all that remains to be seen." ~Grant Hart~

Long Time No Update

Wish I was Here, though perhaps not right now, when it's gotten awfully cold in Massachusetts, and so must be even worse in Northern Maine. These pics were taken in August, in Baxter State Park, during a week of Record High Temps in Maine. honestly, I have all the luck. Go someplace cool in the heat of high summer and walk right into totally non-typical weather in Vacationland. Well, at least there was one day when it was cool enough (sort of) to hike.
Can I remember the name of this spot now? Heck, no, but it sure was pretty, even though Daphne and I had both been stung by the same hornet by the time this pic was snapped. Dang thing bounced off my hand and on to her shoulder. Lesson learned by Daphne: don't tailgate Mom on a hike in the woods.
Then Daphne took a pic of me and Keith.
Now on to some recent spinning. One bobbin of Gray Cotswold, and one of a luscious BFL roving from Infinite Spirals. It was called Sand & Sea, and I couldn't resist, even though it was the last 2.5 ounces. I decided to ply it with the Cotswold to maximize my yardage.

And here's the plied skein, which is rather highly energized and still needs a wash.6.15 ounces, 490 yards. Looks like it might be a great sock yarn, as the twist is really tight. I'll see what it's like after it has had its bath.

All through with the final edit of Doubtful Sound and am now contemplating how to tackle writing a synopsis. I really should have one written before I start sending out query letters. Also contemplating how to compose a heart-stoppingly thrilling query letter that will make some Big Publisher shout, "This woman is a genius! We must publish her NOW!"

Well, I can dream, can't I? LOL.

Doubtful Sound Update

If you have been following my Story, Doubtful Sound, please see my latest update. There are two pages. You may link to the second page by clicking "NEXT" at the bottom of the first page.

I have made a much-needed artistic decision.

If you have been reading, please wish me luck, send good vibes, say a prayer, or whatever.

One way or another, someday in the not-too-distant future, this will be a real book you can hold in your hands, and enjoy.

New Spinning Batts!

These are fresh off the carder today, my friends. If any of them calls your name loudly, please feel free to visit Mad Angel Creations and indulge yourself!

Iris. Wool, Silk Noil, & Angelina.

Water Lily. Wool, Silk Noil, & Angelina.

Fire. Wool, Bamboo, & Angelina.