boy and girl

Someone please explain this phenomenon to me. Boy digs girl, boy watches girl from afar, boy comes on to girl, girl responds with positive feedback, boy and girl kiss, girl makes effort with boy who she otherwise would not have noticed, boy freaks out. Girl wonders why. Boy tells girl that he never thought girl would like boy back. Boy walks away from it. Girl is left wondering. Had boy never opened the can to begin with, girl would not feel so bad. Girl kicks herself for falling for the attention and not the boy, because then girl would not feel so bad and boy would not be so freaked out.

Cry baby

Adele sang here at Canal Room on Wednesday night. Then I went over to Rockwood Music Hall and hosted the monthly series I do there for Rebel Spirit Music, my friend Greg Holden played- he is wonderful. Then I went home and watched American Idol eliminations. What an array of musical experiences. And the one that made me most emotional was, ironically, the last one. It is strange, I am not really THAT into American Idol, I think it is a bit cheesy, no matter how I try I can not help but see the artists as sell outs, skipping the road dog days for instant success, selling their dreams of originality for money and fame and so on. I watch it to keep up with how low the standards have reached in our dying industry. But this season, this girl, this young thing, Alison Iraheta, she could sing and she had this innocence about her that was addictive, her voice just did not seem to match her naivete, her youth. And it was special. When she was voted off, not that being 4th place on American Idol is a sad spot to be in, she cried, but she cried for joy, maybe that was it, as though she could appreciate the moment for just what it was, the experience for just what it meant and all that had led up to this for her. It is only the beginning, of course, but I envied her. Not for what lies ahead, not for singing a pretty rough cover of Janis Joplin's "Cry Baby," certainly not for the poorly died red hair she has, but for her ability to enjoy the moment.

I don't think I ever do that. I am not sure I ever did that. I always wanted to know what was next. I never appreciated my time, never thought it was good enough, I guess. I just wanted to be bigger. I feel bad about that. Because I am turning 28, I have had fabulous experiences and I have not valued them enough to even carry a camera around and save snap shots. Have always waited to get doubles from friends, tags on facebook, snapfish album invites from others. It is like a lack of commitment. The ability to commit is enviable and it's also vulnerable. Which makes it scary.

The only thing I stick to shooting is my cute dog. She is the farthest thing from scary, and she certainly won't ever turn away, so maybe that makes it easier to stick to it.

text sex

never done it. The lady sitting next to me sure has, or is having it. Or is having text foreplay of some sort. All I know is her text ring is rihanna and the "texts" she's having is good. I've been text foreplaying with my latest victim who is out on the road in Cali somewhere playin his drums. Another non prospect. But at least he calls me beautiful in text and in person. And I can tell the foreplay will be worth it.

I'm mobile!

I have managed enough free time on my hands to figure out this whole blog on the go phenom! And now I can kill time on my busride home to new jersey! Woo hoo! I just switched my seat. I was next to a woman who would not stop fanning herself! And I do not need to be fanned. Her 50+ years indicated her hot flash might mean otherwise. Or she was just trying to get rid of me. Either way it worked and here I am!

Have I mentioned yet that I'm thinking of heading to Malawi for two months this winter. Well I have not told many folks. It sounds a lot luke something I say I'll do bet never end up doing. Only I appear to Be following the steps. I have the cause, the organization and a meeting with my potential partner volunteer!

I can't imagine letting canal room know. I feel as though they will feel betrayed and I don't know how to follow through. I also have no idea where I'll go when I return? I do know at this point I feel a touch worthless, as though my job provides nothing to not grateful people (aka selfish, struggling artists). I'd like to do more. Who knows if self or selfless reward I'm searching for. But I know I want more.

Helpless

Songs attach themselves to the people you spent them with. It's fact. Very few people listen to music for the tonal inflections and for the drum quality, for example. I mean they do, but there is always more. Like sense of smell, sense of hearing reminds you of the moment attached to it. And songs take up space in your life at different times, so while there might be a song you attached to goodness one time, it may turn to a song you attach to badness at another time, depending of course on how life panned out.

Neil Young sings with ease, his sweet tenor quivers and his lyrics are indicative of his youth spent toiling for his craft, far from home and fearless, at that. My father used to play Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young on our car trips. He always had great taste in music and was not shy about singing along. It was my introduction to the music of songwriters I would later in life continue to appreciate and at a much deeper level try to emulate, in craft and in lifestyle.

I had never seen the Last Waltz, I had no idea who Robbie Robertson, though I knew The Band, I had no idea they accompanied Bob Dylan at a time, nor did I know they gathered musicians together to create a show that would go down in history. A show chock full of artists known all over the world, timeless and attached. No one ever told me about Joni Mitchell's many lovers or about Patti Boyd and George Harrison and then Eric Clapton. I knew the songs, but not the stories.

When I met Dean I could hold my own at least in terms of our musical tastes, but he knew so much more about these songs, these stories, he knew the facts. And he shared them, compulsively of course. Books, talks, records, movies all about this generation of music.

When I hear the song Helpless by Neil Young, or any song from that genre, I am forced to remember and admit, that most of what I know now, like where the Big Pink is and who the Kinks are and why Rod Stewart is more then his hair and the song "Forever Young," is thanks to Dean. He doesn't remember the good times. Maybe he does. Most of the time I don't. At the end, when we hated, he always, over and over, let me know we never listened to music enough. He was wrong or he was lying, normal for him. He knew as well as I that music was what we shared, it WAS our relationship, it was our love.

Regardless, he has left me helpless, I hardly listen to music anymore, unless my boss spins tunes on Pandora, unless I am at a show I feel like I have to be at. It bothers me. I am a musician, I am a music person and I grew up with it in my ears, in my car, in my home. I don't know if its part of the mourning process or what is indicated in the fact that when I do listen to music now its off a list on my itunes that Dean actually created for me.

What am I holding on to? It is not really him. He is worthless, he is not who I loved, but he did represent what I wanted to love and then what I slowly started to hate. Maybe my stopping to sing, to listen to music is directly related to the loss of my voice, directly in conjunction with the rise and fall of Dean and I. Maybe that is it, maybe it's not.

I guess I will have to recondition myself with music. It is likely the same for love. Maybe my music gravitation will return when I figure out how to gravitate towards love. When I am willing to lie helpless in someone else's world, not just their music world, but their lives, my life, there arms and my arms. Maybe then I will listen to James Taylor's "Carolina in my mind," with a smile and without fear. Maybe then.