Blossom with me

 

I love Blossom Dearie, in case you were wondering. (I'm actually fairly sure you weren't wondering.)

Some talented person with a lot of time on her hands made the above animation to accompany one of Dearie's most darling tracks,"Doop Doo Dee Doop." First of all, that's a genius song title, and the promise of the title comes to full fruition with the first lines: "Why don't you join the group? It's better than being a party poop." Although I have a gorgeous and growing list of replies to that question, the lighthearted joshing of the invitation could almost convince me.

The animation confounds me, however. It seems to depict a dream sequence, or a shopping trip to the local greengrocer. Or it could depict the complicated life of a carrot. Hell, I don't know, but it's charming, nostalgic and makes you wonder if the artist was a Freud fanatic. It could also be complete artistic randomness. I couldn't find much information about the animator. All links led to... well, nothing much.

Back to Dearie... She's one in a list of unapologetic artists who purposely promote a stylized character in their music. Dearie's is quiet but confident, straightforward but playful, naive and simultaneously savvy. She chose standards with heartbreaking stories (Sophisticated Lady) and sang them as a confidential counselor, empathetic and unintrusive. She transformed downright corny Broadway tunes like "Surrey With the Fringe On Top" into salacious, private invitations.

She's been criticized, of course. In an interview Fresh Air's Terry Gross, Gross asks about detractors of Dearie's "tiny voice." Dearie says, "It's very funny to have worked and sung for so many years, and then someone tells you, 'Well, you're not breathing properly.'" But she was unconcerned: "I think that [working with a vocal coach] would probably make my voice more powerful, but at this age, I don't think I'm going to worry about it."

In other words, I'm the one with the career. Buzz off.

As a singer, I find I'm also amazed by her conversational diction. She speaks the words with unabashedly American pronunciation - strong R's and nasal vowels - and rarely elongates a word, even if she slows down the song. She places lyrics, almost talk-singing, and the style makes me feel like she's having a friendly chat, telling a story over coffee. There happens to be a jazz pianist at this coffee shop, but that's just fine.

Actually, I would pour money on that coffee shop. If I had any.
 

Of course, Dearie was the pianist - a pianist first and a singer second. Her sense for rhythm and restraint starts on the keyboard. She punctuates the song with her voice rather than possessing the song with a full-body belt. I envy her musicianship, her sense of comic and dramatic timing, and her minimalist abilities.

In later tracks, she shows off her vibrato a bit more, and this reinforces, for me, the deliberate choice of her delivery; she didn't whisper her songs because she couldn't sing, she chose that character. She laid back on her piano bench, approached the mic with her sweet secrets and became an icon.

I would love to have that confidence. I have no idea whether I even have a signature style, especially since my tastes range from the self-possessed divas (and divos) who came out of the Big Band era to the subdued (and possibly stoned) understatements of Cool Jazz.

Perhaps if I pursue a carrot amidst a rain of fish, it will all become clear. I'm taking a nap.

Status variabilis

Tell me how this melody can break out of white noise. How can an entire chorus stop a busy station in its... um... tracks?

My psychiatrist bought a used copy of the Carmina Burana and knew I'd be amused that he found it far more colorful than he'd expected. He also took a Lactaid in front of me, added milk to his coffee, looked at the expiration date on the little carton and read aloud "July 3, 2013." He looked into his mug. "Well, it didn't curdle." I'm in good hands.

He told me that the "Echay Grahtoom" is his favorite track. I resisted a lecture on Germanic pronunciation of Latin texts. Not that he would have minded; the man's a nerd of the first class, but by then my brain had corrected him and moved halfway through the piece at a nice gallop. Iamiam cedant tristia! Sadness has ended! Spring has come again!

I still get excited when I see those first green shoots of crocus and tulip and daffodil. I still feel my heart thudding in my chest when I hear a beautiful melody spun out of thin air. I have to believe in change, at least in a cycle, that sometimes plunges me under but will eventually raise me up again. Maybe my "up" is still below the surface, I don't know. I have to hope I'll be able to poke a finger through to the sunlight, that that will be enough.

and thank you for riding the MBTA

Confession: I secretly believe that Lucretia The Guitar and I will rise to stardom through busking in train stations. I will be that pitiable yet alluring starving artist who rejuvenates songs by one-hit-wonders that have since settled into the backwaters of pop music due to overly rich and hopelessly dated soprano saxophone solos. People will lean against tiled pillars, perusing their text messages and avoiding each other’s eyes until, lo!, they hear a familiar strain and can’t quite place it. Such musicality! Such expressiveness! What talent to draw out pure beauty from a song heretofore passed over by even the most nostalgic of music lovers! Unrecognizable, and yet immediately embraced by those weary denizens of rat-races and corporate ladders! Yea, even the Ugg-clad adolescents find they must lower the volume on their sonic devices to hear her rend her soul for the mere coins in her guitar case…

I should learn how to tune my guitar first.

and dreams

Lately it’s every time I go through Park Street station; there he is, packing up his guitar, wrapping up cords, zipping bags and gathering gear. I always miss the music.

He has brown eyes, big bear build, colorful, detailed tattoos sleeving strong arms. His head is shaved shiny. He wears brown and jeans and has a wallet chain. When he sings into his mic, his voice surprises me with its flannel softness.

In my work I don’t waste time with shyness, or coyness for that matter. The café is a stage and I act my ass off. The day flies by in a series of vignettes – this customer likes to be courted with sweet how-was-your-weekends and how-is-your-handsome-sons, the other one likes to be teased, told we’re out of his favorite things, made to pout before delivering his order exactly as he likes it. Old Man T comes in for his bagel, toasted darkly, one butter, small coffee, and sings vaudeville tunes to me as I hustle for him, trying to smile in appreciation when I can.

It’s funny that Park Street Guitar Guy leaves me tongue-tied. Musicians in general, performers in general, leave me tongue-tied. Perhaps it’s my own discomfort as a performer – it’s nice to be told someone enjoyed your performance, but also unmanageable. You say, “Thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed it,” and try to sound sincere, but really you know all the little things you missed and mangled and want to tell everyone how unworthy of praise you feel at the moment. And so what do you say to an artist you admire?

As I lean on the fourth metal column, past the second fan, across from the big subway map, I think of how to talk to him.

“My timing’s off. I always miss your music now…”

What would he say to that? Sounds like the start of an awkward conversation. And even though we make eye contact fairly often, I don’t know if he remembers seeing me. If he does remember seeing me, perhaps he won’t like the familiarity. Who needs a stalker?

“So, do you make any real money?” Hmm, seems rude. As does, “Do you play anywhere… else? Like, real gigs?” How could I put that better? “Nice elbows.” Thinking that, I laugh to myself. He looks up and I hide behind the column for a minute.

Well, I console myself, he could be a douche. He does play a lot of Dave Matthews, after all. He’s probably like all the pseudo-hippie frat boys I’ve learned to avoid, trying to get laid with a little heartfelt tune here and there, playing the misunderstood, suffering artist. Ugh. If he has a pocket-sized dog-eared copy of On the Road or Howl on his person at all times, it’s already over.

Still, there's something to be said for hormones and dreams, isn't there? A crush is a crush. It makes your heart bubble, makes you sweep your hair back, straighten your back, and hope.

remember when i was a writer?

I don't.

I did have some creative fun making this today, however...


... for a Chorus fundraiser. I've done more cheerleading than raising of funds, since I'm historically terrible at asking people for money. (Thanks, however, to the good, kind, much-too-nice-for-their-own-good people who have helped out. Sweet nothings shall be whispered in your general direction.)

DJ Jazzy JoBiv

Last night I helped out my Canuck Melissa with a wee project. She's running an event (a benefit gala) for her work and needed a soundtrack. Now, last year we developed a short album of carefully chosen songs that would bring people in for hors d'oeuvres and then kick them out at the end of the event. I sat and wrangled tracks from all over my CD collection, flexing and stretching to appease the client.

This year, I was prepared. Having lots of time on my hands these days (artificially, anyway), I put together 38 tracks of possibilities, choosing with Canuck's pickiness in mind. The songs had to be clean, classic, and not too adventurous. I, of course, insisted on putting in a few gems that she simply had to hear, 'though I knew they wouldn't make it to her compilation.

So after two hours, two bowls of homemade chili, two pudding cups and too much music, she walked away with three perfected soundtracks, hand-picked and groomed. Some great things got left out (my favorite version of Chet Baker's "My Funny Valentine" got blacklisted for its extensive, but I think understated, drum solo) but some greater things will get an introduction (Madeleine Peyroux, Jamie Cullum - new school meets old school).

All of this is to say that I was shocked at how happily I drifted off to sleep last night, completely immersed in my music. I was full of my expert status and gleeful after sharing music that's informed my vocal personality (including non-vocal tracks, mind you). The silly thing is, I forgot about this. I forgot that I'm good at something. Or some things. I forgot how good it feels to share and teach the things that make me passionate.

Let me cling to it a little longer. There has to be a way to use this in my life, right?

So nice to see you again!

8:15 am (already late for work): Hello, Kevin D., friend from college who still corresponds with my cousin Laura. How's life, Kevin D., now that you've grown out of your stoner phase and wear sharply ironed shirts on casual Fridays? Miss college, you say? I don't. Yeah, I'm working with kids again. Life is okay... Good to run into you!

8:30 am (don't worry, I warned them I'd be late by now): Hello. No seriously, hello. Yeah, I remember you from when Richie was in the toddler room! Yeah, that's right, I worked with the parents. I heard you have a baby girl! Seven months! Oh I bet we'll have a spot open when she's old enough... so good to see you! Have a good one!

3:30 (on the greentop, which is blacktop made of green spongey stuff): Hey, I remember your handsome face. Are you Jimmy? I worked here two years ago! Of course I remember you (because you were clearly born of a jackal)... Well, this ball is for the little kids. ...You're a big kid. ...No, I'd rather keep it for the little kids. ... Because you big kids don't know yourf own strength sometimes. You can kick it and throw it so far, sometimes our balls get lost. ... No. Thank. You. Bye Jimmy.

6:20 (Anna's on Harvard St.) [Waving to punk boy]

6:24 (same as above) Hey! How you doin', yo? Oh I'm fine... How are things with you? I see you took out the big earrings. ... Ew. Infections suck. ... So I'll come stalk you in the fall when they start up auditions. Another hug... how could that hurt, you huggy, punky boy? Alright, see ya.

6:32 (same as above, with expected company.) 'Kay guys, I'm getting in li-... Claudia! [stooping to hug twelve yr old] How are you, sweetie? I was so happy you came to my concert! I was so surprised to see you! Do you get to see Lil Pea these days? What are you doing for the summer? ... No, tell me about you! MIT camp - sounds perfect for you! You have to let me know if you're in any plays or concerts, okay? Ok, bye lovey.

7:18 (at All Saint's, on stairs leading to choir loft/storage space of rehearsal room, gutting two cabbages with a comrade, who then leaves me.) Just you and me, Shane. You and me and flaming cabbages. [sigh]

9:40 (at end of choir party for which cabbage was wrangled) Hi, Cath. Yeah, I'm gonna miss choir this summer... How do I do what? ... Me? Calm and happy all the time? Hunh. I just... this choir is a big treat for me, I guess. I love coming here. I guess. Yeah, have a good summer.

11:03 (in bathroom and bathroom mirror.) I almost see you, social Jo. Other people do, and I can almost make out your shape. Don't turn off your phone. Don't stop writing. Don't stop talking. Keep coming toward me. Keep coming.

boithday

There was summa dis










And summa dat













Not so much of this














But a very spicy dash of
THIS!

A prezzie from Becca and co.! Framed! Matted! BIG!







Aaaand, itsy bitsy sharpies, telescoping pens, squishy hold pens, sketchpad, colored pencils... all from Sir Novelist! Cuz he's the bestest!

I'm not even going to tell you how I got peed on today, then rained on, then abandoned, then to 4 hours of chorus dress rehearsal... That was all just fine, because it all ended with a 80 voices singing Happy Birthday in perfect harmony, and tiramisu and chocolate bomba at Vinny's Testes with chorus friends.

Tired.

Old.

G'night.

JoBiv's Best Interaction of the Day

Setting: The Back Bay Fens, where the Walk for Music took place today. I was one of the three women helping the Brookline Chorus to get organized. I stood on the basketball courts on a perfect spring day, the air rife with pollen and sunshine, the musicians of Boston milling about in mass confusion. I stood, looking for Chorus members, directing them to the correct registration tables.

Enter Jerry, a tenor in the choir who looks quite dandy in a red hooded sweatshirt at 73 years old. He has mobile eyebrows and a penchant toward old fashioned dirty jokes that aren't quite dirty enough to be funny or offensive. Despite the symbolic bravery of a red hooded sweatshirt, Jerry looks confused - nay, lost. I wave to him, gesturing for him to come toward me.

JoBiv: Hi, Jerry! Are you ready to walk?

Jerry: I am indeed. What should I... where should I...

JoBiv: Here's what ya do. Proceed to yon table, get a name tag, go waaay down to the end and get a t-shirt, just like this one (points to self), wear it at Tuesday's rehearsal and tell everyone we're twins.

Jerry: (Pause, creased forehead.) BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahaha...

JoBiv: (giggling to self.)

Jerry: I've been told we're hard to tell apart. (Wiggles eyebrows in a Groucho-esque manner.)


I have no idea how to construe that as flattery.

JoBiv v. Opening Day

I survived, I guess.

Oddities number one and two: My schedule for the Tuesday instructed me to go to the optometrist, do laundry, and go up to Newbury. I got out of bed, showered, ate something, and set out in record time.

As I headed out to the appointment I was forced to walk around a skinny dude putting up huge lights and camera equipment, right outside the laundry room.

"Hunh," thought I, "I hope I'm not in his way when I do my laundry."

I bravely marched onward, made it to the correct floor at the correct time, announced myself to the secretery of the Boston Eye Group. "That's with a B?" Yes. "10 o'clock?" Yes. "With Dr. Moss?" YES. "Jo Hannah, I have you scheduled for tomorrow morning at 10 am." Good God damn!

I trudged back to my apartment with laundry on my mind. As I came up the steps I was surprised by a full cast in full '50s garb, the skinny camera guy busily setting up shots. I had to walk aall the way around our hedged-in courtyard, realizing that laundry would not be an option. SO! I decided instead to...

Oddity number three: Walk to Newbury Street. On Opening Day. Yes, in fact, I AM a dumbass. By St. Mary's I began to realize my blunder. For some reason I'd thought the game wouldn't start 'til seven or so. I was WRONG, I was wrong I was wrong. By Kenmore, I was getting overwhelmed by the crowds, so I...

Oddity number four: Hid by the banks and listened to a pack of old white men playing New Orleans jazz. The drummer caught me watching an winked salaciously. JoBiv + old men = not so mutual adoration.

Now, realize that I then managed to walk all the way to Arlington without dying or buying anything. Proud of me? I went to this Needlepoint shop where I bought some frickin' expensive yarn for a baby blankie for Baby Boy Biviano (due in late June). Since I bought my yarn there, they let me know I was welcome to return for lessons or guidance in my blankie-makin' process. Nice peeps, yo. By the time I was ready to head back,

Oddity number five: the game was letting out, and I couldn't take the T without crying, so I had to walk back. I guess this isn't an oddity so much as bad timing on my part. And of course, walking was nearly as bad because I had to duck and weave through drunk people. Drunk people + glaring sunlight = SAD. But the Sox won, so all's well. I got home in time to eat a quick dinner, fill up a water bottle, and head off to Good Choir. As the rehearsal came to a close, some people from the Concert Committee looked suspiciously organized for 10pm post-Mozart rehearsal. They invited me to join them for a quick meeting regarding concert venues. (I am on the committee - by choice? Unclear.) So we walked out and tried to figure out a place to meet, when finally it was decided that we should...

Oddity number six: Meet in Honor's car. FIRST of all, yes, her real name is Honor. SECOND of all, it's lucky there were only four of us. We sat, cramped, the dome light on, as we meticulously went through pros and cons of about 13 venues. After this wonderful torture, I finally got home by 11:30.

WHEW!

Swingin' from tree to tree

Oh how happy I would be
If I were a monkey-key
Swingy-swing swingin' from tree to tree

- copyright JoBiv, thirty seconds ago


I am indeed swingin', from the happy tree to the hopeless tree. Last night at Good Choir, I saw I had a message from The Novelist and went downstairs to check it at our break. The message was an overly dramatic rendition of "You Are So Beautiful" accompanied by his brother yelling at him to shut the hell up. I will save it forevor.

I laughed quite heartily for a minute, then made my way back upstairs to the rehearsal space. And there, near the top of the stairs, my whole body seemed to rock with the swing from that happy warmth into something much more scary. I looked up; there was Gentleman Ben, the 60-something man who attends both choirs and suggested I try out for Good Choir. Ben is a psychiatrist and knows a little about what I've been through, because I knew he was safe, and he worries about me.

Gentleman Ben was shuffling by the door and saw me come up the stairs. He froze, his eyebrows dipping in concern, and I walked over to him.

"What do they have you on? Are you taking Ativan for panic attacks?" he asked.
"No, I told them I was on it before..."
"And they thought you might be addicted."
"Yeah." My eyelids gained forty pounds each. I wanted to close them. I was sure I could sleep standing up.
.
"You look... like you're having a tough time."
"I do?"
"You look tired."

I could feel the tears rising in my eyes and throat. "Yeah," I said. "It's still tough. Not having the support from the hospital, all my days empty..." I backpedaled then, telling him about the opportunities arising in my life, my plans for getting myself back together.

"Have you seen your friend from Singapore? The Indian girl?"
"Meera? No... I haven't."
"Hm."
"She's doing pretty well, happily married, taking photos..."
"Don't you do something artistic?"
"Yeah, well... Yeah, I paint, draw, collage, print..."
"You paint?"
"Yep."
"With what?"
"Watercolors, acrylics, ink..."
"I use watercolors, too!"

At this point I recognized a few things that I love about Ben. He can absolutely nail things on the head, and then he can ease away from the distress if he causes it. A professional.

Ben told me about a figure drawing open studio in town. $15 to just show up and draw, Friday mornings, ten to one. He expects me to be there.

Swoooooosh... A tree of serendipitous ease...

I used to be able to whip up words for any celebration, tragedy, or current drama. People would call upon me for Occassional poetry, a speech, a few words of advice or pith.

These days... I can't find many words to soothe myself, much less soothe others. I try to push away this feeling that any good thing in my life is just a precursor to a kick in the figurative balls, but honestly...

So, Gary Thomas died. No one can tell me how. His memorial service is next Sunday and I won't be able to make it. Besides pure logistics, it's too much - seeing all the ghosts of my high school, Shane's death day (today), my general state of mental unhealth.

Of course I've had more than my share of self-pitying moments this... year. But add this to the list and let it be a kind of eulogy. I always thought that if I ever got talented enough or someone could possibly risk thousands of dollars on me on the faintest whim and I got myself recorded, Gary Thomas would be numero uno on my dedication list.

Why? It's occasionally easy to explain and occasionally... odd. I mean, there's the obvious fact that he was a music teacher, and I spent half my high school career in his room, learning, singing, letting him watch our small dramas unfold. But then I think of the times he wrote me lesson passes so I could get out of study halls or math class because all I needed to do was cry. He let me hide myself in his room because he caught that look in my eyes some mornings. I would drag my sad body into school with tears encrusted onto my face from the previous night's sleeplessness or nightmares. He would ask, "JoBiv, are you okay today? Will we see you at lunch?"

When I was really, really losing it my senior year, there was a carnation sale for St. Patty's Day, raising money for some club. I remembered that day because it was god-awful. My mother had taken me to physical therapy that morning. I had stayed home for a part of each day that week. I had spent so much time in the bathtub, floating, hating myself, wanting to drown. I got school that day, and Mr. T had bought me a carnation. No one else, just me. The message that came with it was appropriate (surprising for him, really), but showed utter faith in me.

Two thoughts cross my mind now - how sad he'd be that I'm still going through all this, and how proud he'd be of my successes. If he could even hear my voice, how strong I can be remembering his faith in me... Does that sound saccharine?

Briefly, my Wednesday

10:00 - First time I was asked by many group members, "Whoa... are you okay today, Jo?"

12:12 - Could not control tears. Had to leave the room so I could sob properly. The discussion: What happens when the people who are supposed to protect you harm you instead? That thought is pertinent, but this thought upset me more - What if you don't let your protectors help you; do you then deserve all that's happened to you?

12:30 - Sniffled through lunch and noticed everyone's discomfort with me too weak to entertain them.

3:00 - Booked my ass to Beacon St. for intake at a certain psychotherapy practice. Withstood intake as well as can be expected. Cried s'more. Withstood compliments as gracefully as possible with snot threatening to drip onto my shirt.

4:40 - Made it to Cambridgeside mall to look for interview clothing. Found it, bought it. Decided that I felt grimy and went to a salon to have my hair washed. "Only washed?" they asked. "Yep," sez I. "Oookay," they said. The washer and the receptionist couldn't figure out what to charge me, so I just gave the washer a tip.

7:30 - Walked into English Jo's apartment exactly on time, very proud of myself. We went out to dinner at a place called Orinoco that had lovely food and strange service. Flan = HEAVEN.

10:00 - Wandered to Wally's to catch some jazz/funk fusion. So good. So tired.

10:50 - Slugged myself to the T and knitted all the way home. Except when I was walking.

11:50 - Took cold medicine and sleepy-time medicine. Will pass out shortly.

Listless

(As much as you people must love my lists, that's not the kind of listless I mean. It's pure coincidence that this post doesn't have one.)

My phone showed a missed call. It was Papabiv. Checked voicemail. He's in New England this weekend, the people he's here to see have flaked out on him. He has free time--do I have free time?

I do. Acres of it. None of it is free enough to put myself through another dinner with Dad.

Once I realized this, the tears started coming. That was about an hour and a half ago. Now I can't stop. I spent some time laying on my bed with the music on very loud, my hands uncomfortably pinned behind my back. My bald spot...

Well, I had this literary moment the other day, much like this one, when I thought of my dad's natural baldness, and how my illness is making me more and more like him. Physically. A bald spot.

I have to call him back at some point to tell him I'm too busy to see him. I can't be crying when I call. I've picked up most of the clothes on my floor, sorted them. Played Snood. Back to laying with the hands pinned. Put more clothes away. Sing along with Leela James. Still crying.

24 hrs

Wednesday:

10:00pm - Went out for a post-chorus drink with Rickety Split (J.P. Licks boy) to celebrate some person's dodgeball victory. Met roommates. Did not press vagaries of friendship. Enjoyed self.

11:40pm- Remembered I had to work next day.


Thursday

12:40am - Arrived home, got me ready for bed.

1:50am - Looked at clock, wondered why I was awake enough to read it.

3:30am - Turned clock around so I would stop looking at it.

5:50am - Turned it back around, sure I didn't set the alarm. (I did.)

7:15am - Alarm went off. Michael Bolton singing. Terrible way to start the day. Luckily, I set my clock a good twenty minutes fast and I was able to soothe that terrible start with a wee nap.

8:08am - Miraculously got out the door with wallet, cell phone, coat, scarf, mittens, ke... Waaaait a minute, where are those keys?

8:10am - Buzzed upstairs neighbor and tried to communicate the fact that I could see my keys dangling in my door's lock. She eventually let me in to retrieve them.

8:30am on the frickin' dot - Pea's dad opened the door proclaiming, "Pea, looks who's here!!" Pea looked, burst into tears and buried her head between Dad's knees. I picked her up. She stopped immediately and asked for milk.

9:40am - Cleaning people arrived. Pea refused to eat breakfast because, according to her, the entertainment had arrived.

10:30am - We met up with a nanny friend to hoist ourselves to the Children's Museum

12:00pm - Arrived at museum. Yes, an hour and a half later... Chased lil people around, had some fun, turned them around and got them back on the T.

1:20pm - Pea fell asleep on the T. I swore loudly. Several strangers rebuked me with their eyes.

1:40pm - Rewarded myself and extended Pea's nap with black raspberry ice cream. At J. P. Licks. Shush now.

2:40pm - Got Pea home, put her in her crib though she was partly awake. She whined unconvincingly, fell asleep for another hour and a half.

4:30pm - Susan P. Bloom called me, asked me to meet her at The Huntington Theatre at 7:30. I said yes immediately, filled with absolutely unfettered joy upon hearing that her grandson arrived safely at last! I hung up and wondered if I was conscious enough for theatre.

7:30pm - I was conscious enough. It was Les Liaisons Dangereuses. The set and costumes were amazing, the crowd was unresponsive despite quality acting. Bloomers updated me, asked pointed questions, received vague answers.

10:00pm - Dropped off by Bloomers, tired beyond belief but somehow sated.

11:36pm - Listened to Ben Harper. Thought of my grad school friends. Felt my eyes crossing with exhaustion.

Oh, Virgin Megastore, you cruel mistress

Now in my incredibly tasteful collection (in alphabetical order):

fiona apple, extraordinary machine
jackson browne, for everyman
jeff buckley, mystery white boy
dogs die in hot cars, please describe yourself
ben harper et al., burn to shine
leela james, a change is gonna come
bonnie raitt, souls alike

I usually limit myself to my list, only buy 6, do the punchy card thang and get a free one, but apparently one of the CDs was only $7 and thus didn't figure into the deal, so I HAD to get the Jeff Buckley CD. Really, I did.

How come nobody told me that Ben Harper would ROCK MY FRIGGIN WORLD? You? And you? Why no tell JoBivius?

Oh yes, the perks of nannying...

I remembered the reasons I chose/fell into nannying for work; no cubicles, I get to play outside every day, and I'm laughing all the time. On most days, anyway. Even today, when I had to be there at the ungodly hour of 7am, which meant I had to get up at 5 so as to limit shower schedule interference in my apartment.

So as to. What a terrible charm bracelet of meaningless words. Orwell would be annoyed with me.

As I was saying, even today, when I could barely keep my eyes open, I had a five-minute-straight giggle fit resulting from Pea losing a shoe and peglegging around the house, marveling at her weird gait and the funny pad-tap sound of her footsteps. She kept looking up at me to grin as though she'd just won some kind of prize. "Look how clever I am!"

Also, Pea prefers reggae. WERS plays a steady stream during her dinner time, and she bops her head while she smushes avocado between her fingers.

ALSO, Pea fell asleep in the stroller one friggin' block before we got to the apartment. Usually, she wakes up when I take her out and acts like she's been asleep for four hours, ripping the place apart and making me nuts, so I tried to wake her up immediately. She was out. Limp. Useless. Halfway up the second flight of stairs, she groggily lifted her head, looked at me, smiled, and gave me an open-mouth-on-cheek baby kiss. Then she snuggled into my shoulder and let out an unladylike snore.

sometimes i feel like i don't have a partner

sometimes i feel like I'm all alone
it's the city I live in...


This past week was much too lonely. The coming week can't possibly be anything like it. I can't allow it. Nope.

I'm feeling that restlessness in between my ribs, like something is trying to stretch me or crush me there, like my lungs are forced to push honey in and out, then suddenly nothing, no air, something too light.

I walked to Comm. Ave today, to Guitar Center. I had driven myself crazy last night trying to tune my guitar, and then decied, duh, I need to buy a tuner. So today that thought served as a beacon. Yes, Jo, you have an excuse to leave the apartment. Go get the damn tuner. I planned my purchase the whole way, playing and replaying the coming transaction with each step. I walked down Longwood toward Kent, turned onto this little street called Marshal. There are brick houses on one side, brick condos on the other. I crossed Beacon and walked up to the park on Amory, walked on the grass that can't decide if it's frozen or not. A little white dog yapped around my legs and I stopped my brain to say hello to her. She seemed to smile and slid back down the hill to her owner. I thought, "You go in, there's a person on the left who stamps the receipts as people leave. You can ask him where the tuners are. Nevermind, you know where they are; to the left. You go back to the counter there, and there are always two people working. They're always just kids. Always boys. Ask one for a tuner for an acoustic guitar. You want one that's about twenty dollars. Simple. He'll be the expert, let him show you the choices. Choose one, then pay with your debit card. You can pay with the debit because you found that check in a card Mom sent in November. You'll have to tap in your PIN. It'll take a bit. It'll take a bit. You'll have to wait. Then get the receipt, but don't put it away. The boy will tell you to show it to the person at the door as you leave. You'll say 'thank you.' You'll walk over with your receipt and the bag with the tuner in it. The person will ask for it. You show it to him. He takes the receipt, stamps it, gives it back. You go out the door, turn left. It's done after that. Go straight home."

It took three revolutions of that before I reached Guitar Center. It's a long walk, but it prepared me. The receipt-stamper was a girl, and I was surprised that I hadn't allowed for that possibility in my brain. The boy who helped me asked if I wanted a chromatic tuner. I said yes, and that I didn't know why they bothered making the old kind. He laughed a little. "You want something simple, right?" I nodded. "This is your best bet. It comes with batteries, they never run out, it's chromatic... twenty bucks." "That's the one." He took my debit card when I handed it over. He swiped it for me, then I used a lil stylus to put in the number. It slipped out of my hand and onto the crowded counter. My heart raced. I felt my skin burning. The words came out slowly, though, like I'm not a freak, "I'm sorry about that." He smiled back, "Oh, no prob, I got it. Okay, make sure you show this receipt to the girl at the door..." I was nodding already; I knew that part. Nodding, turning, there's the girl, she stamps, out... The air was cold and I breathed it in sharply, like a new baby shocked into extra-womb life. There were tears bobbling on my lashes. Fucking tears.

Did I mention I have an appointment with my doctor for the first week of February? This has to stop.

Singing and Happiness

On Tuesday, NPR's All Things Considered broadcast a piece about community choirs. It's very lovely, and true to my experience. Have a listen if you please.

Ten pieded, Señor

Ten piedad de nosotros

If I ever pray again, I might be able to pray in Spanish. The way the soft d curls into my tongue feels holy, penitent, and worshipful. The way an r flips feels private, a tiny genuflection against the roof of the mouth.

It reminds me of the one song that brought tears to my eyes in church when I was younger.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Oh, Lord!

Sometimes it causes me to tremble
tremble
tremble…

Even now, I can’t sing those words without feeling. Is it in me? Is it possible for me to have faith?

Dios, estoy desapareciendo. Ten piedad.