Even though it was a smaller group than usual gathering for the November Songwriters Woodshed at Sparkytown on Tuesday night, the songs presented didn’t disappoint. If I didn’t know better, however, I’d have said there had been a theme for the evening, as four of the seven songs presented were about lost loves. And two of the songs took place on porches.
The first of what I’m calling “torch songs” was titled “A Thousand Times a Day” and the first lines about wanting to be just friends drew me in. After the relationship ends, the singer only thinks about the lost love “a thousand times a day”. It was nice to have Dana contribute a song. In my opinion, he needs to do this more often; it adds polish to his critique of others when he presents his own work to them in return.
“I’m On the Rebound” was a very nice change from mostly folk melodies and I long to see Wendy perform this one on stage; her energy can make this one special. Chris’s song (not my hubby, another Chris) about autumn and a photo on the wall reminding the singer of a lost love generated a bit of conversation regarding the meaning of “water under the bridge” and what that represented, although I felt several of us got it the first time. I don’t remember the title of this piece and do not have the lyrics to look back at today; however, the song has stayed with me.
Sometimes there is a division of the sexes in the room after a song is done that is vividly apparent; you can almost see it in the air. The men do not understand the lyrics written by a woman sometimes. It’s not a matter of intelligence, it’s more genetics, I believe. One such lyric last night that I found magical that had some of the guys shaking their head was from a song called “From Here Ever After” written by Joanne: Did I know my own skin? (I always love it when I turn to hubby and ask if he understood it and he paraphrases back my understanding of it; that’s why he’s my husband and I love him bunches.) Sometimes it’s not about the story; it’s about the emotion of the song.
A quirky song from Tom, a newcomer to the group, about lawn decorations, “Exterior Decorator”, made me chuckle but needed a little more work. It was easy to picture the yard he was describing.
Songs that seem transparent on the surface but may not be so simple appeal greatly to me, and I think we may have heard one in “Don’t Be No Fool”, written by Gavan, a musician that intimidates me by his memorable rhymes and guitar picking. I often ask myself “what’s he really saying?” It’s always a delight to hear his latest work, even if I can’t figure it out. Maybe we’re not supposed to.
And that leads me to my favorite of the night, one of the “porch” songs. This song, currently titled “Vacherie, Louisiana”, paints a portrait of a moment in time. For me, the song was a lonely man that life was passing by until someone stopped to take his picture and made him feel important for a minute. No one else saw it that way, and that’s ok. There were lots of other interpretations. And isn’t that the way a really good song should reach us? Shouldn’t it keep us thinking, keep us wondering, keep us rolling the words around in our heads, humming the tune? I loved it.
Thanks again, gang, for the tunes, for the way you inspire without even being aware of it. Sparky, I hope the music never truly dies at Sparkytown because it belongs there. See you all next month!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Woods, Writing and Politics
My writing group went on a retreat yesterday, meeting at the camp of one of our members, an hour’s drive away. It was a glorious fall day and we were all welcoming the break from our usual routine. We settled into comfy chairs around a wood stove, pulled out the pieces we’re currently working on and took our turns reading and offering critique. I swear our words sounded more elegant out there in the woods, our critique more concise, our ideas more sound….this environment suited us all just fine!
The “camp” is a spacious house, sprawling across grounds that include several other little buildings such as lean-tos and a gazebo. I could easily picture myself sitting in that gazebo and finishing a poem. There’s plenty of room – inside and out – to gather together OR to find that quiet time that writers need so much. We can’t wait to figure out a time when we can all go back there again, maybe for a longer stretch of time. We know our words will flow there.
As usual, we enjoyed lunch together, too….and talk turned to politics. We had a mayoral election yesterday. It was particularly painful for us, as someone we know was a candidate for the party many of us support. Some of us were finding it difficult to support this particular candidate, however, and had not voted for her in the primary. At lunch time none of us had yet voted; we were still conflicted on how we were going to vote and even IF we were going to vote. We had a rather spirited conversation, weighing the pros and cons of the other candidates. I was even considering casting a write-in vote for one of the members of our group! I loved our conversation; we've learned how to disagree agreeably. It was heavenly.
I did end up voting. I was more terrified of Grandma Priscilla’s rage from the grave haunting me if I did not exercise my right to vote – one she worked so hard to earn for women, as she once was unable to cast her vote herself – that I did not choose to ignore this election in protest as one member of my writing group did, and as I, too, was tempted to do. I did something else that even this morning I cannot believe I did, and those of you who know me well will laugh or cringe or think it may be time to do some kind of intervention when I tell you what I did indeed do in that voting booth: I pulled the lever and voted for a Conservative Republican candidate. (He lost.) I know. I almost can’t believe it myself. Still, I think he was the better candidate. It is the first time in my life I have strayed from the Democratic ticket. I hope it is the last. This guilt is almost too much to carry.
But at least I voted.
The “camp” is a spacious house, sprawling across grounds that include several other little buildings such as lean-tos and a gazebo. I could easily picture myself sitting in that gazebo and finishing a poem. There’s plenty of room – inside and out – to gather together OR to find that quiet time that writers need so much. We can’t wait to figure out a time when we can all go back there again, maybe for a longer stretch of time. We know our words will flow there.
As usual, we enjoyed lunch together, too….and talk turned to politics. We had a mayoral election yesterday. It was particularly painful for us, as someone we know was a candidate for the party many of us support. Some of us were finding it difficult to support this particular candidate, however, and had not voted for her in the primary. At lunch time none of us had yet voted; we were still conflicted on how we were going to vote and even IF we were going to vote. We had a rather spirited conversation, weighing the pros and cons of the other candidates. I was even considering casting a write-in vote for one of the members of our group! I loved our conversation; we've learned how to disagree agreeably. It was heavenly.
I did end up voting. I was more terrified of Grandma Priscilla’s rage from the grave haunting me if I did not exercise my right to vote – one she worked so hard to earn for women, as she once was unable to cast her vote herself – that I did not choose to ignore this election in protest as one member of my writing group did, and as I, too, was tempted to do. I did something else that even this morning I cannot believe I did, and those of you who know me well will laugh or cringe or think it may be time to do some kind of intervention when I tell you what I did indeed do in that voting booth: I pulled the lever and voted for a Conservative Republican candidate. (He lost.) I know. I almost can’t believe it myself. Still, I think he was the better candidate. It is the first time in my life I have strayed from the Democratic ticket. I hope it is the last. This guilt is almost too much to carry.
But at least I voted.
Monday, November 2, 2009
A Family Affair...Arlo Guthrie Comes to Town
My brother Alan gave hubby and me an early Christmas gift last evening: tickets to see Arlo Guthrie and Family perform at the Center for the Arts in Homer, NY.
What a wonderful evening! Arlo, his son, three daughters, a son-in-law and several grandchildren sang songs various members of the Guthrie family had written, including several Woody Guthrie songs. What fun they had on stage! How proud Arlo was of his offspring singing a song they had written or playing a guitar -- there's no way the pride on his face could have been faked. In true folk style, this family was sharing tradition with the audience, in almost perfect harmony, sharing stories of how the songs came about and what it's like to live within the swirl of a family like the Guthries. What it was like was right there on all their faces, especially at the end when they sang "This Land is Your Land", certainly a song they've all heard a zillion and two times...yet they sang it for us as if it was fresh off the presses and they love singing it, you can tell. Their smiles sparkled and their voices entranced. We all left that lovely little church that's been converted into an art center with smiles on our faces, peace in our hearts.
I kept thinking that my brother, a talented writer and musician, should have been born into the Guthrie family.
Thanks, Alan. It was the perfect gift, one to be long remembered and cherished.
What a wonderful evening! Arlo, his son, three daughters, a son-in-law and several grandchildren sang songs various members of the Guthrie family had written, including several Woody Guthrie songs. What fun they had on stage! How proud Arlo was of his offspring singing a song they had written or playing a guitar -- there's no way the pride on his face could have been faked. In true folk style, this family was sharing tradition with the audience, in almost perfect harmony, sharing stories of how the songs came about and what it's like to live within the swirl of a family like the Guthries. What it was like was right there on all their faces, especially at the end when they sang "This Land is Your Land", certainly a song they've all heard a zillion and two times...yet they sang it for us as if it was fresh off the presses and they love singing it, you can tell. Their smiles sparkled and their voices entranced. We all left that lovely little church that's been converted into an art center with smiles on our faces, peace in our hearts.
I kept thinking that my brother, a talented writer and musician, should have been born into the Guthrie family.
Thanks, Alan. It was the perfect gift, one to be long remembered and cherished.
Friday, October 30, 2009
It Could Have Been Rupert.....
I like to cry when I eat spicy foods, watch chick flicks or read beautifully written novels, NOT when I read about police busting down doors of innocent people’s homes resulting in a dog getting out and run over by a car and killed. The police thought the dog was guarding drugs or guns, believing the barking to be that of a pit bull; it was a Pomeranian. They were responding to a “possible shots fired” call. We get those often in my neighborhood, though it’s usually only the yahoos behind us on Gertrude Street setting off fireworks.
This bothers me greatly, as many of you may understand, as Rupert is part Lab, part pit bull. If you ring our door bell – even if he knows you well – the first thirty seconds of your visit to our house, you may wonder if you want to step inside our door. Of course, once he knows it’s you, all is fine. But if that same group of police officers had come to our door and heard Rupert, he’d never have had the chance to escape – I’m certain he’d have been shot dead the first time he showed them his teeth.
Rupert never once destroyed a sock, a shoe or even one of his own toys as a puppy. He’s never been a destructive dog. Protective, yes. Once we came home and the curtain that hangs on the half window of our back door was on the floor and many items on a bookshelf we have near that door were also on the floor. We know that someone had tried to break in our house and Rupert scared them away. He did his job. Now every time I set a pan on my hanging pot and pan holder over my sink, he starts barking and howling – I believe the scratching sound the pots make going on the hooks is what he heard at that back door by our kitchen when someone tried to break in. He would scare me, if I didn’t know what a sweet dog he truly is.
I’d like to think that we know the police who patrol our streets well enough for something like this to never happen to us, but I’m really not that confident. Just last month I called 911. I was out walking Rupert and witnessed four young men orchestrate an ambush of a woman pushing a child in a stroller. Another woman walking with these men proceeded to beat the daylights out of this woman on the hood of a car parked on Green Street while the baby cried in the stroller and the men stood by and cheered. Here’s how the 911 call went:
“Do they have any weapons?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does anyone need medical attention?”
“I don’t know.”
“We can’t send anyone to the scene unless there are weapons or someone needs medical attention, ma’am.”
OK. I guess next time I should lie and say “shots fired” and then make sure I lock Rupert up in the basement.
This bothers me greatly, as many of you may understand, as Rupert is part Lab, part pit bull. If you ring our door bell – even if he knows you well – the first thirty seconds of your visit to our house, you may wonder if you want to step inside our door. Of course, once he knows it’s you, all is fine. But if that same group of police officers had come to our door and heard Rupert, he’d never have had the chance to escape – I’m certain he’d have been shot dead the first time he showed them his teeth.
Rupert never once destroyed a sock, a shoe or even one of his own toys as a puppy. He’s never been a destructive dog. Protective, yes. Once we came home and the curtain that hangs on the half window of our back door was on the floor and many items on a bookshelf we have near that door were also on the floor. We know that someone had tried to break in our house and Rupert scared them away. He did his job. Now every time I set a pan on my hanging pot and pan holder over my sink, he starts barking and howling – I believe the scratching sound the pots make going on the hooks is what he heard at that back door by our kitchen when someone tried to break in. He would scare me, if I didn’t know what a sweet dog he truly is.
I’d like to think that we know the police who patrol our streets well enough for something like this to never happen to us, but I’m really not that confident. Just last month I called 911. I was out walking Rupert and witnessed four young men orchestrate an ambush of a woman pushing a child in a stroller. Another woman walking with these men proceeded to beat the daylights out of this woman on the hood of a car parked on Green Street while the baby cried in the stroller and the men stood by and cheered. Here’s how the 911 call went:
“Do they have any weapons?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does anyone need medical attention?”
“I don’t know.”
“We can’t send anyone to the scene unless there are weapons or someone needs medical attention, ma’am.”
OK. I guess next time I should lie and say “shots fired” and then make sure I lock Rupert up in the basement.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tea with the Ladies of Song
I left the house last night expecting to host an Open Mic Poetry Night at Sugarpearl and found out they'd changed it to the first Wednesday of the month instead of every Wednesday (yeah!) and had forgotten to tell me. No big deal. I called a friend who had mentioned she might be coming and gave her the update, pulled some poetry I was editing from my bag, ordered a cup of tea and settled in at a table for some quiet time. At the very least, I knew I could enjoy the company of the Sugarpearl staff and edit my work without Rupert's cold doggy nose butting up against my arm, his way of trying to convince me that throwing the ball would be more fun than rearranging words on paper. If I was lucky, Joanne would arrive, we'd have tea and a nice friendly chat on a chilly evening. It can't get much better than that.
And then the door opened and there was a familiar face. It was Judy, a very talented musician I always enjoy listening to at the Woodshed. I'd never seen her at Sugarpearl, but everyone else in the world loves coffee, so why shouldn't she stop in for a cup on a chilly Wednesday night? Or was she there for the poetry reading? Yes. She was going to listen to me read. I was shocked. Humbled. OK, let's be honest. I was absolutely terrified. Her lyrics often make me gasp, they are so good. I was so relieved the event had been cancelled, so I could get used to the idea of having her in a future audience. She ordered coffee and we had a delightful chat, got to know each other a little bit. I'm still in awe of her talent.
I'm always surprised when people show up to hear me read. Joanne did indeed arrive, and then Wendy came, too! These two ladies often delight me with their music. I love hearing them strum their guitars and play the songs they've written, often dealing with situations in their lives that are heartfelt. They make you feel their pain, take you right to the moment. I try to do that with my poetry, too. I feel a connection with them. I never tire of listening to them and hope to never bore them, either. They honor me when they offer such support.
We had a nice little chat about various things. I'm definitely the outsider, yet it does not matter. I have such respect for their talent and the way they blend their passion for words and music into their lives. They always inspire me. And I do look forward to actually reading for them sometime soon.
And then the door opened and there was a familiar face. It was Judy, a very talented musician I always enjoy listening to at the Woodshed. I'd never seen her at Sugarpearl, but everyone else in the world loves coffee, so why shouldn't she stop in for a cup on a chilly Wednesday night? Or was she there for the poetry reading? Yes. She was going to listen to me read. I was shocked. Humbled. OK, let's be honest. I was absolutely terrified. Her lyrics often make me gasp, they are so good. I was so relieved the event had been cancelled, so I could get used to the idea of having her in a future audience. She ordered coffee and we had a delightful chat, got to know each other a little bit. I'm still in awe of her talent.
I'm always surprised when people show up to hear me read. Joanne did indeed arrive, and then Wendy came, too! These two ladies often delight me with their music. I love hearing them strum their guitars and play the songs they've written, often dealing with situations in their lives that are heartfelt. They make you feel their pain, take you right to the moment. I try to do that with my poetry, too. I feel a connection with them. I never tire of listening to them and hope to never bore them, either. They honor me when they offer such support.
We had a nice little chat about various things. I'm definitely the outsider, yet it does not matter. I have such respect for their talent and the way they blend their passion for words and music into their lives. They always inspire me. And I do look forward to actually reading for them sometime soon.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Going Back To Bed
Ssssh. Don't tell anybody.
It was raining this morning. Pouring. We walked Rupert as usual. Chris drove off to work, I dried Rupert off and he curled up in the Barcalounger for his morning nap. I went upstairs, took off my soaking wet socks and the sweat pants I'd worn for the walk because the pant legs were soaked and had made my way into the bedroom to make up the bed and start my day.
The flannel sheets welcomed me back, my pillows still bunched up from too short a night's sleep....AND....the bed was empty....hubby safe at work and the hairy beast snoozing away downstairs. It was still dark and dreary outside. No emails demanded response. Denise is working today, Mary Ellen and Jeffrey are out of town, the mother-in-law staying in her end of town today, I could wait awhile before printing out poetry for the Open Mic tonight and any household chores can certainly wait.
I climbed back between those sheets, something I'm not usually inclined to do, as I'm one who has a difficult time napping. I stretched out and enjoyed the full width of the bed, not my usual position of nearly hanging off the edge as hubby likes the middle of the bed and Rupert often sleeps between us. And I fell fast asleep, had a lovely dream about a circus in Afghanistan, not surprising as I'm re-reading The Kite Runner and Water for Elephants currently.
But I'm feeling a little bit guilty for indulging in this rainy morning pleasure.
So, don't tell anyone, ok?
It was raining this morning. Pouring. We walked Rupert as usual. Chris drove off to work, I dried Rupert off and he curled up in the Barcalounger for his morning nap. I went upstairs, took off my soaking wet socks and the sweat pants I'd worn for the walk because the pant legs were soaked and had made my way into the bedroom to make up the bed and start my day.
The flannel sheets welcomed me back, my pillows still bunched up from too short a night's sleep....AND....the bed was empty....hubby safe at work and the hairy beast snoozing away downstairs. It was still dark and dreary outside. No emails demanded response. Denise is working today, Mary Ellen and Jeffrey are out of town, the mother-in-law staying in her end of town today, I could wait awhile before printing out poetry for the Open Mic tonight and any household chores can certainly wait.
I climbed back between those sheets, something I'm not usually inclined to do, as I'm one who has a difficult time napping. I stretched out and enjoyed the full width of the bed, not my usual position of nearly hanging off the edge as hubby likes the middle of the bed and Rupert often sleeps between us. And I fell fast asleep, had a lovely dream about a circus in Afghanistan, not surprising as I'm re-reading The Kite Runner and Water for Elephants currently.
But I'm feeling a little bit guilty for indulging in this rainy morning pleasure.
So, don't tell anyone, ok?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Looking Back
In a waiting room today I overhead a woman telling a teenager to enjoy herself now because these were the best days of her life. I literally wanted to puke. Or take that teenager aside and tell her the truth.
I’m not one to want to look back on what others might refer to as “good old days” very often. To begin with, those days simply weren’t all that good then and certainly don’t seem that way to me now. I don’t understand the “life was so much simpler then” comments I sometimes hear from others, accompanied by deep sighs of contentment. I guess their bowl of cherries came without any pits.
The truth is, I’d much rather look forward. I think today is one of the best days I’ll ever have, and that tomorrow is going to be even better. I’ve been that way too many years to even think about. And I hope I stay that way, no matter how many times someone calls me Pollyanna.
That’s not to say that I never do look back, because sometimes I do. And I’m often puzzled by the tricks memory plays on us, how people can remember events so differently. I think we’re wise to hold our memories up to the light and reflect on choices made. When I do that, I always find myself happy with whatever path I ended up taking, because each path led me to exactly where I am today, which is exactly where I want to be, and I could not be happier to be here.
I’d tell that teenager to learn to trust her own instincts, assure her that she’ll know when she’s happy and what the best days of her life are, she won’t need anyone else to tell her, just give it time.
I’m not one to want to look back on what others might refer to as “good old days” very often. To begin with, those days simply weren’t all that good then and certainly don’t seem that way to me now. I don’t understand the “life was so much simpler then” comments I sometimes hear from others, accompanied by deep sighs of contentment. I guess their bowl of cherries came without any pits.
The truth is, I’d much rather look forward. I think today is one of the best days I’ll ever have, and that tomorrow is going to be even better. I’ve been that way too many years to even think about. And I hope I stay that way, no matter how many times someone calls me Pollyanna.
That’s not to say that I never do look back, because sometimes I do. And I’m often puzzled by the tricks memory plays on us, how people can remember events so differently. I think we’re wise to hold our memories up to the light and reflect on choices made. When I do that, I always find myself happy with whatever path I ended up taking, because each path led me to exactly where I am today, which is exactly where I want to be, and I could not be happier to be here.
I’d tell that teenager to learn to trust her own instincts, assure her that she’ll know when she’s happy and what the best days of her life are, she won’t need anyone else to tell her, just give it time.
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