Thursday, March 26, 2015

Spent




A couple of weeks ago I got a random call from a writer from The New York Times. Full disclosure, it was acclaimed author Ron Lieber, with whom I went to Amherst College.  He was editing a special section of the Times that would include stories about financial turning points and remembered I’d written a Facebook post a little over a year ago about my process of looking into buying a house and having to move.  He invited me to contribute something to this special section. He wrote me, “Maybe an essay….maybe even a song.”  I was in the studio on the day of the release of my newest album, ‘That Kind Of Girl,’ making another record with a side project of mine called Applewood Road (an acoustic trio of three women singer/songwriters) and my first thought was ‘Now? I’m completely exhausted…”  My second thought was ‘THE New York Times? Hell yes!’  You see, a few months ago, maybe even a year ago, I started contemplating a life that had more balance.  A life that included less time wasted in cheap motels in days off in between shows miles away from home. A life that would make space for gardening, time at home with friends, dating, maybe even – gasp – a relationship.  And part of that contemplation involved a lot of meditating and prayer about wanting to write more and tour less. Not just songwriting. Whatever-writing.  A week prior to Lieber’s invitation came another invitation to guest write for a column in the Nashville Scene. So my prayers were being answered, I could see that and be really grateful for it, but the timing was a bit fishy. I was overwhelmed and depleted and didn’t think I could do it.

Knowing that I had to do this, not ‘gun to the head’ kind of have to but a personal mission of ‘I WILL do this’ kind of have to, I called Neilson Hubbard, one of my favorite people and one of my favorite songwriters. I told him the assignment. I said, we have to do this today. He said, ‘I’ll be over at 5.”  That’s the best thing about living here in East Nashville. I am surrounded by people way more talented than I am, way more fluid as songwriters, as musicians.  And we live within a mile or so of each other. We write songs. We record songs. We play guitar or bass or drums or produce or tour. When we are home we are HOME. When we are not, we are in far flung places for a good amount of time.  And when called upon to write a song, we show up and write a song. I have a wonderful group of songwriters I meet with mostly every week to share new songs with, for critique, for the experience of throwing a new idea out to the world. We write all the time. Because our neighbors are writing all the time.  It’s not a competition at all here in any kind of negative way; it’s more of a call to arms to the artist inside. Create! Produce! I love it. I feed on it and being here in the middle of the juice has made me a better writer. 

We wrote a song called “Spent” in about an hour.  It was easy to write once we decided our subject matter was pretty much right next door.  We live in East Nashville, TN, a bohemian neighborhood in Music City right across the Cumberland River from downtown that, for many years, has been home to one of the most diverse populations in this city.  Bisected by Gallatin Pike where an uber-hip coffee shop might sit in between a Discount LIquor Store and a Check Cashing Shop, this area is peppered with quaint cottage homes, that, until just a year ago, were affordable for the Artist Class. 

In the past five years, we’ve seen an explosion here in development downtown, and that has crept across the river to East Nashville, as well, where small, once-affordable homes are being bulldozed to make way for quickly-built condos and larger homes.  The artist class is being pushed out to make way for the nouveau riche hipster. 

A little more than a year ago, the owner of the home I’d been renting for 5 years gave me a month’s notice to buy the place or find someplace new. I started the process of looking into buying a home of my own for the first time, which was daunting.  I am a single woman in my mid 40’s.  I make a living at making music. I do not have a ‘dayjob’. This is my dayjob. And I make a living at my art, which is a dream fulfilled. 

But for many of us working-class musicians, painters, artists, writers, we live a precarious financial existence of our own choosing.

I remember a few years back, a conversation with my father.  He’d been a company man for my entire life. A salesman, then a Regional Manager, then a Vice President, then one of a handful of owners who bought the company they’d worked with for many years.  I remember the year of the buyout well, because my father was able to buy all four of us kids cars – not new ones, used ones, but our own car.  We all got computers. I didn’t have to carry a student loan for my final year of college. My parents’ took us all on an incredibly extravagant vacation where we learned to sail a boat together.  A few years later, though, the owners sold the company to a multi-national, whose executives then turned around and ‘let go’ of the original owners one by one. My father was jobless at an age (and salary) it would be impossible to compete with younger men and women competing in the same field for less money.  My father was out of a job but more than that, he was deprived of the thing he’d been working for all those loyal years: the golden ring at the end of the 1950’s corporate rainbow – the retirement party, the big hoopla over a life well-spent towing the party line.  My Dad did all right on his own, created his own company and consulting business until he chose to retire to volunteer for the Boy Scouts of America and spend more time with his church and with my mother and his grandchildren.  All the time I was in my 20’s and 30’s, working three jobs, trying to ‘make it’ as an actress and then a singer and songwriter, bartending by night, personal assistant or temp-secretary by day, working my way up the artistic food chain until I had a manager, a booking agent, a label, until someone famous recorded a song I’d written and gave me my ‘break’ and I could live very modestly off my artistic work without a support job…all that time my parents held their skeptical tongues. Until one day, my father said to me, looking back upon his own career, “I’m so proud of you. You are your own boss of your own business. You did something you love. That’s the most important thing in the end.”  It was one of the most important conversations I’ve ever had with him.  That he saw me and got it. 

I have a friend who used to say “We don’t make great livings but we have great lives.”

We are the artist class. Some months we make nothing. Some we make $10,000.  It’s the rare one of us who knows how to manage our money.  And it’s the very rare one of us that has a corporate entity like a Major Record Label who pays for all the things we need to make our art.  We are all independent artists in the end. And we rely upon our audience in order to make a life and a living. Whether that be from record sales off the stage, the cost of a ticket to see a live show, or help from Kickstarter or Pledge or any other patronage that may luckily come our way.

I did find a house I could afford and, with the help of a generous friend, we entered into a rent-to-own situation and, for that, I am extremely grateful.  But they are tearing down the small cottage homes nearby to throw up $400,000 homes and changing the aesthetic and social fabric of this little area where a session musician or a non-famous folk singer could once buy a house and a piece of the proverbial Dream. 

"Spent"  (Amy Speace/Neilson Hubbard)

Come take my hand let's walk to the end of this rainbow
Do you think that we'll ever know
Where to find all that gold

Once I heard someone singing a dream we could have and hold
Something of our own
A place to call home

We're head over heels
And in over our heads
We borrow and steal to pay the rent
How we gonna save any money when it's already spent

Years keep rolling the houses keep falling like dominos
They're throwing up condos
The new for the old

It's not enough to hear your own song on the radio
When your credit is far below
What they need for a loan

We're head over heels
And in over our heads
We borrow and steal to pay the rent
How we gonna save any money when it's already spent

Can we stay or do we have to go
Could this be the end of the road
How we gonna save any money...

We're head over heels
And in over our heads
We borrow and steal to pay the rent
How we gonna save any money when it's already spent

Friday, January 2, 2015

Resolutions


I'm not much on resolutions.  I can resolve all I want and the next day something will come up because something always comes up and there goes my resolve, melting like the butter on my toast.  And then I'm left with soggy burnt bread and a deflated ego that says "you failed again, didn't you." So rather than resolve, how about I intend a few things? Intentions seem more honest to me. Intentions have an out clause, an apology built in for human frailty.  Intentions say "I'm going to do my best and I know I'm flawed so if I don't make it each time, it'll all be ok."  Resolutions demand. Intentions ask. Resolutions are the closed fist of an aggressor, challenging the Gods. Intentions are an open palm to the kinder spirits. 

2014 started out in the perfect place: in confusion. It might be my age, but I honestly don't remember where I was on New Year's Eve last year. Was I with friends? Was I at home alone? I just can't remember.  This year, looking back on the past 10 or so, I remembered the long-ago years at Steve & Alex's brownstone in Jersey City, 3 years in a row or more, I think.  Great dinners -  the four of us, sometimes five or six depending upon who was visiting, loads of good cheese and bread and wine (so much wine...blue-stained-teeth kind of nights).  We'd have these amazing intellectual conversations about music and art and film, laugh and dance to the Rolling Stones until the words started slurring and I'd slink an Irish Goodbye out the backdoor at about 2am before anyone could see how sad I'd become, leaving the party to rage without me until the sun rose. Those were great dinner parties and I remember them fondly. At least the first few hours. That's about how it always was.  I'm not in touch with them anymore, the friendship went the way of the marriage as these things sometimes do... and in my gut, I can almost physically remember the disparity between the beginning of the night and the end. Before the ball drops and after. It was always a tricky thing, getting out before the sparkle changed.

Where was I last year? I honestly can't remember...

I remember chasing cabs in the heart of the Village, party-hopping in heels with friends, in my early and late 20's on a champagne and tequila buzz, heading to the Jane Magazine Party because we knew someone who knew someone. Or landing in a dive bar on Avenue C that had the best jukebox in the City, loaded with Lou Reed and Jerry Lee Louis and Louis Armstrong.  Or at the Pierre Hotel with Lainie Kazan and Gregory Hines and Bette Midler because I was Lainie's assistant, dressed in black velvet, holding Lainie's purse.  Later in my 30's, I remember watching the Macy's fireworks from the rooftop of a friends' Jersey loft, surrounded by friends and lonely at the same time, freezing in the night. I remember my childhood, being babysat by my beloved grandmother, triscuits and cream cheese while we counted down along with the television. 

But I don't remember where I was last year.

So that's the way 2014 began: in a daze.  I worked. I toured. I wrote. I was stuck. By February, I was still in a daze and decided to do something about it and confront some huge dark cloudy shadowy things that I'd been dragging alongside of me, using them to cover me up like a blanket at times, making excuses for years, standing (depending upon my mood) defiantly in front of them, hiding behind them, sometimes denying their existence, sometimes trying to stomp them out by force, sometimes letting them just lay on top of me so I could sleep in the dark.  So for a week last winter, I stood directly in front of these monsters, called them by name, decided they looked a bit less scary and maybe looked a bit like myself at age 7, like a favorite photograph: a floppy hat with blonde braids at the lake, a pink misfitting bikini, my long gangly legs and arms akimbo, crooked teeth, freckled cheeks. Awkward and beautiful.  In February, at a high ropes course in Memphis just down the street from where I'd made a record a few years before with the late-great Sid Selvidge, I walked out over a 50 foot drop on a single wire, repeating silently the Lord's Prayer over and over like a mantra to keep my legs steady so I wouldn't slip off the rope until the paralyzing and terrifying fear of heights gave way to a calm trust and the shaking and tears slid away and morphed into a giddiness I'd never felt until I was skipping across that tightrope.  I came home from Memphis the day I turned 46, a hard turn, no longer in my 'early 40's', like a pivot northward, and yet, felt younger than I had in years, and after February, something shifted and everything started to change. An ease... Music poured out. I did more yoga. I laughed more. I made more friends. And in the very last few hours of summer, I fell in love for the first time in a very long time. Maybe for the first real time ever.  And so next year, when looking back on how 2014 ended, I'll remember where I was on New Year's Eve. I know this to be true.

Back to those intentions.

I'd like to be better at making time to exercise when touring. I'd like to make time to write every single day, not just think it's a good idea and then not do it myself. I'd like to write letters, not just texts. I'd like to finish more books than I start. I'd like to save more money than I spend. I'd like to be the best friend I can be. I intend to listen more and talk less. I intend to sleep longer. I intend to Allow. Rather than Resist. I know this sounds a bit New Agey but I was a fist pumping angry atheist a few years ago, and then cardinals started appearing, and then I lost my voice for a month, and then I went to learn to meditate with some Buddhists, and then my inner voice split in two during a 3 hour sit and I'm fairly sure I heard the voice of Truth, and then I stopped drinking and then I stopped lying and then I stopped all of it and stood still. And then when I'd stopped looking, the thing I was searching for found me.

Happy New Year, indeed.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Badassery #101






I'm in the final days of my Pledgemusic.com campaign and it's nail-biting time.  I've raised 79% of what I need to raise. I have 3 days.  So I'm bugging the shit out of everyone I know. I'm not asking for much. I'm asking for everyone who likes my music to just pre-order an autographed copy of the record for $25 or pre-order a digital copy for $10. You'll get the record digitally by December 23rd and the hard copy way earlier than the release date (March 3).  I need a few more people to help out in order to meet my goal.  I hate these things, but in the age of If You're Over 25 Don't Come Looking For A Record Deal, we need to do things differently.  So here's what I've posted on Facebook:

In case you're wavering...I wrote songs for this record during a really clear and sober period of my life, looking back on a not-so-clear-and-sober period of my life. I looked at the messes I've made, the messes I was in the process of cleaning up and I wrote about it. It's the most clear eyed piece of work I've done. This is me, waving the flag, saying, this is the best I've done. It's the best I can do. For now. I had some help. Great writers like Beth Nielsen Chapman, Ryan Culwell, Ben Glover, Kate Klim and Neilson Hubbard helped me get rid of the fat of some of the poetic bullshit, where I was holding the truth at arms length with froof, and I just said what it was was that needed to be said until I bled on the page. Then I sang it until I bled on the microphone. It was gross. It was sweaty. It wasn't pretty. And now that it's done it's gorgeously real and if I get hit by a bus and this is the last record I make, I'll die satisfied. Ish. (Not really. And I shouldn't have written that. And I'll be looking both ways when I cross the street today) (this photo is by Stacie Huckeba, my favorite photographer and writer, and one of my circle of women-I-would-take-a-bullet-for, who used this photo in a kickass blog she wrote for the Huffington Post. Because Stacie is not afraid to speak the truth and she inspires me on a daily basis).

And I mean it. Stacie is a badass. I'm doing my best to just follow in her footsteps. Anyway, if you're so inclined, here's my link. Please pre-order. I've got only a few hours to raise $25,000. I'd love your help.

p.s. I didn't love this photo when I first saw it. It freaked me out. I thought I looked fat. Honestly. Then Stacie asked permission to post it to the entire Universe with her blog about being Awesome. How could I say no? So I did my best Lena "I'm a badass" Dunham impression and said yes. And figured, I'll pretend I'm ok with it and maybe I'll just become ok with it. And you know what happened? I got ok with it. I love this photo now. I love it in the way I love Lena Dunham. And I'm currently writing a book that's kind of a memoirish jumble of stories, tall and small tales. Some true. And I may even call it Flawed and make this the jacket cover. Cause I'm inspired by Stacie and Lena. And if I act like a badass, even if I don't always feel like one, maybe I'll just become one...isn't that how this whole thing works? 

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

The Grand Ole Opry

I'm about to name drop, but it's not for the usual purpose of name-dropping. It's a gratitude post. Or at least that's my intention. Here we go....

So last night Mary Gauthier invited me and my friend Jamey to watch her from backstage at the Opry. I've been a few times to see the Grand Ole Opry at the Ryman, but I've never seen it at Opryland, which seats like 5,000 people. Last night Mary Gauthier AND Kathy Mattea were on. I was a bit starstruck at what was on the walls as we passed by photos of Johnny and June, Chet, Loretta, we walked past Little Jimmy's dressing room. Jamey had been there and knew people, could tell me names of country artists in photos that I didn't recognize. He knew some folks in the band, he told me a bit of the history of the show, the place. There's sweet tea on tap backstage at the Opry, which gave me one of those "I'm so glad I moved south" moments. Kathy was in her dressing room with her band, just eating a hot dog, being all normal as if it was no big deal - just another day at The Opry. Mary was dressed in a sparkly black jacket. The Whites were onstage singing in perfect harmony. The house was sold out. We went around front to watch Mary's set from the back of the orchestra level. I wanted to see this from the front, to see the jumbotron, to see the crowd. I watched Mary, the first 'out' performer to play on the Grand Ole Opry, wave at the front row which, she told me later, had a few hand-holding gay and lesbian couples. Kathy joined her on her second number to sing. And I watched these two women stand on that circle of wood from the original opry, the circle of wood that Johnny Cash stood on, that Hank Williams stood on, that so many stood on, and I saw the two women who held my hand literally and figurative for the past 5 years, who were gentle guides on the path of Where I Needed To Get To In Order To See What I Needed To See To Become Who I Could Finally Start Becoming, both in my career, in my music, in my art, in my spirit, but mostly in my soul. And I grabbed my friend's hand and I almost started to cry right there, filled with an enormous sense of gratitude and Amazing Grace. I may never have my chance to sing on that stage and that's ok with me. I got to see two women who I admire greatly who were there when I needed female mentors in this male-dominated business who are my friends.

We go what we go through to get where we are.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Rules of Engagement

What is entertaining people on a mass level is no longer genuinely popular culture - but a pale eviceration, a pathetic dilution of a rich cultural tradition...It seems sometimes as if we have all been convinced that we owe it to ourselves, we must be entertained by whatever entertainment is most readily at hand...And yet I have seen clearly, I have witnessed that there are deep pockets of culture which are resistant to homogenization, there are still polyglot elements in our melting-pot land...To appreciate [this] you have to be prepared to make a commitment of your own.  What is involved is a kind of leap of faith on the listener's part, a willingness to extend his or her own horizons and break out of the passive restraints that a technologically evolving society has imposed upon us.  
What is involved is engagement.
(from the introduction to Lost Highway: Journeys and Arrivals of American Musicians by Peter Guralnick)

I'll start with a confession.  

Last night was a beautiful cool mid July night in Nashville. On any given night there are more than a handful of choices for outstanding live music, ranging from free honky tonk on Lower Broadway to pricey stadium shows at The Bridgestone Arena.  I have no excuse if I whine and say "I don't have anything to do tonight" because at the very least I could just take a quick drive over to my neighborhood haunt, the haunt of most East Nashville musicians I know, The Family Wash, and for literally dollars in a tip jar I can see some of the best songwriters and bands around while sitting at the bar.  Last night I was feeling rather lazy. And I got a text from my friend, a drummer from Austin, who happened to be in town playing a free show along the riverside with Hayes Carll, one of my favorite songwriters and rock&roll&country dudes.  My drummer friend Mike even offered to leave a VIP pass for me so that I could hang backstage. The only hassle would be finding parking downtown and walking to the riverside. Not much of a hassle to be honest. But at 9pm, I was home and feeling tired from a day in the studio and the last episode of Season 1 of "Breaking Bad" on Netflix was calling my name and I texted Mike some lame excuse, like I didn't want to go alone. He texted back the name of a mutual friend who was backstage with him at the time. Hayes would be going on in 20 minutes. I was basically in my pajamas. It would have been so easy to just lie on that couch. But something nagged at me, some inner voice said "Tomorrow you'll be really pissed off you didn't go" and I got dressed really quickly and drove downtown. Parking cost me $20. I walked to the riverfront park, got there just in time to meet up with the mutual friend and sit on the banks that overlooked the Cumberland River and watch my friend Mike play a great set with Hayes.  And I realized that was only the 2nd time I'd heard Hayes play a full set live. I have his records and I think I've seen him play a lot, but the truth is I haven't because everytime he comes through town I think, "Oh I've seen him. I'll catch him next time." But the truth is I haven't. And the truth is I like his music a lot and I always feel better after watching live music. It inspires me. I get ideas for songs of my own or for banter or I'm just really happy to be making a living playing live music and have friends that do the same thing.  I feel more a part of the community. My life is enriched by getting my ass off the couch to see live music. I forget this when the Netflix pull is strong on a lazy night. 

I played the Woody Guthrie Folk Festival last weekend in Okemah, OK. Quite literally a one-horse town.  They just opened up the first real coffee shop in Okemah last weekend.  It's a free festival in Woody's hometown and by free I mean not only for the audience, I mean no one who plays the festival gets paid a dime in performance fees.  Everyone from Arlo Guthrie to me plays for free (our travel expenses are paid for and we are able to make a bit of money by selling our CDs). Which creates a unique magic for this festival. I play some magic festivals where the boundaries between audience and artist disappear at night around the campfires. But this one has a special kind of community where there are no stars there are no divas there are no emerging artists. Everyone is there for the same purpose: to share music and to share the spirit of Woody Guthrie.  I loved every single minute of this weekend.  Many of the performers are already friends of mine but a new camaraderie was formed in the late night jamming in the parking lot of the Days Inn, while playing our songs and having a legend like David Amram play whistle solos along with us in between his stories of his days trolling the country with Kerouac or playing music with Monk.  83 years old and the man could outjam the 19 year olds. This was engagement that was easy. This was a commitment to an artistic life that made me feel part of a whole.  My Nashville neighbor Tim Easton, himself a Guthrie accolyte, took me to Woody's homestead, just a sunken-brick outline of a once-house.  He played "This Land is Your Land" on my guitar while I gathered a handful of red dirt in my hand that I rubbed all over my 1942 Gibson, dusting my hair with the leftovers.  Tim has a song that I heard for the first time at Woodyfest and it's too late right now for me to text him to ask him the lyric I need and I can't find it on Wikipedia, but the chorus inspires people to "Participate" rather than sit on the sidelines and complain.  He's been tweeting this week as early voting starts soon in our town here. We musicians can be a lazy lot not voting in local elections, running around the world on tour trying to take over audiences in far flung places while ignoring our own districts right next door.

I guess what got me thinking about all this was a conversation I recently had with my good friend Neale about his House Concert. He and his wife have one of my favorite House Concerts on the East Coast and I booked a night there for the Fall and Neale told me that his audience was dwindling.  He said, "Numbers are down, way down. I don't know why" and then named a prominent folk artist who'd recently played there to a 3/4 full house. It was depressing.  And I've been thinking, as have every single one of my musician friends, how do we GROW our audience. But maybe the question is not about growth but about MAINTENANCE. How do we keep the ones who've been with us since the beginning ENGAGED? Because I know that ever time I've played a town to a very light audience, I'll get 20 Facebook/Tweet/Emails from fans who will ask when I'm coming to their town, that town that I just played the night before. And it would be rude for me to respond, "Where were you? Don't you read my Email Newsletter I sent you telling you I was coming?" And sometimes, these are the same loyal fans who will swear that of all the musicians they know from the scene they'd put money on so and so 'making it'. But then when so and so comes through town, that loyal fan might be Netflixing it away thinking, "Eh, I'll catch them next time."  Well: what if there IS NO NEXT TIME? 

So this is a plea to all of us, me included, the me that would have sat on her ass and watched TV rather than get up off my duff and go out and see Hayes Carll last night.  This is a plea for engagement.  This is a plea for artist and audience to know that we can't do it without your commitment to engage just as you can't be a part of our music without our commitment to making it for you.  This is plea that when your favorite travelling songwriter comes to your town to play a House Concert or a Unitarian Church Concert Series or the local bar or the ticketed venue in town that you make it a point to go see them.  And this is a plea to all of us troubadours to not be lazy and take for granted those people that buy tickets to come spend the night with us. This is plea that we all stay in active engagement. Let the Katy Perry's and U2's and Taylor Swifts have their mass markets.  Those of us who play for 20-200 people have a unique life - we get to know you by name and you get to know more than just our name. 

See, I saw Hayes Carll last night. And something that made me get up off my ass and go was that about 6 months ago Hayes Carll (who I'd never met before and we don't hang in the same circles and although I really like his music and think he's really cool, I don't know him at all) tweeted about my song "The Sea & The Shore" and then his wife tweeted about it.  And Hayes Carll has about 26,000 more twitter followers than I do. And that meant something to me. It meant that by the next day, I had a few more followers based on Hayes saying he liked something I wrote.  He didn't have to do that. But he did and that was cool. I have done that too - when I like something someone has done, I want others to know about it. But I really appreciated that little gesture from Hayes.  So my getting off my ass was mostly because I like the dude's music but it was also a bit of a thank you gesture to him. He was getting paid regardless if I came or not because it was a free show for the audience, but I thought of that House Concert Host who said audiences are dwindling and I didn't want the conversation to end with me saying "Eh - I'll see him next time."  Because it's THIS time that matters. 

These are the Rules of Engagement. Participate. Live. In Person. If you like an artist, go to their show when they come through town. 

And if you're near Sudbury, MA on Friday September 19th, I'll be at the Fox Run House Concert.  I'd love it if you could make a reservation and join me at the home of Neale Eckstein & Laurie Laba. They don't get any financial benefit from opening their home to me and to the 70 people they can fit in their living room. They do it because they love music. Because they are engaged.


Sunday, July 6, 2014

Independence Day

July 5th, Nashville, TN. 

I'm gonna admit something. I didn't watch any fireworks last night. I had a really good day and then as the sun was lowering in the sky, I wanted to go on a long run along the river with my dog. When that was done, I spent some time with a friend who needed a friend, and then I went home and made a choice to do what I wanted to do rather than to do what I thought the day expected. After a hefty social week of being out every night either playing music or listening to it, I stayed home, cooked for myself, kept the doors open to hear the neighborhood pops and cracks and sizzles, and watched a movie with my frightened dog by my side. And not once during the night did I feel lonely or really alone. I didn't feel any resentment of my choice, didn't feel the tug of FOMO ('fear of missing out'), didn't feel that old whine of "oh, I wish I had a boyfriend or a partner or at least someone to kiss...". I just felt like I'd made a choice to do what I wanted. Which was to spend the night not out, not watching fireworks, despite Nashville's standing as the country's 2nd best display (I've seen it. It's amazing. It kind of kicks Macy's NYC ass. Bless their hearts).

Truth: I was tired. 2nd Truth: Last time I watched the fireworks was with my friends as we all drank beers by the river and I didn't want even the possibility of feeling left out and abandoning my course of What Is Working For Me. I felt really really good last night. And even as the distant thunder of fireworks reverberated in my home and Flo shivered against my leg, I felt even more satisfied that I was in my home, on my couch, not having to talk to anyone, just quiet. Content. Not isolated. And it struck me that there's a difference between being alone and being lonely and that the difference could be a choice. A few years back, I wrote a blog on July 4th where I was in a totally different space. Less choice. More lonely. I read that blog today and I remembered that girl. That girl was lost. That girl was stuck. That girl lost her ability to fight, didn't have anywhere to run to fly anymore, and so that girl's feet got stuck in Freeze. A very very long Freeze. An arctic freeze of a life filled with unconscious and conscious bad choices and non-choices. Today, from where I am, I can read that blog and see the cracks just starting to spread out on the landscape, knowing a full-fledged earthquake is about to erupt for that girl. It would take years. But it came. But today, a day after July 4th, I can say with pure honesty I am grateful for that eruption and I'm grateful to not be standing on fissures anymore. Or, at least when I do find I'm walking on eggshells these days, I figure it out much more quickly and I jump the fuck off that ground. Or ask for help flying.


This was the last sentence of that 2009 blog called "Make Lonely Your Friend": 
 

...and maybe that's the impact of Independence Day for me this year. 
Independence. 
Finally. 
Not a celebration though. 
A melancholy awareness of the loss of something for the gain of the unknown and a blind faith that the leap will make sense on another far away July 4th. 

That girl had no idea that in 2014, THIS girl would be making sense of it all. Not so far away, in fact. Only a few years...

So if you read MAKE LONELY YOUR FRIEND from 2009, don't feel sorry for that girl. Feel really glad knowing she got through that shit and made it to the other side. At least for today.