A little over a year ago, pregnant, I joined our church choir with the caveat that I might have to quit at any time due to my potential for complications and bed rest.
Memory – Stirred by Song – #captureyourgrief 2015
Dancing to the music of poetry
I am not sure where I am but I am in Massachusetts in an old mill, converted to gathering space. There is a bar. There are people, talking. And there is music here. Jazz. Poetry.
I am feeling the warmth of all of the above, including the low hum of one plastic cup of chardonnay. I am missing the words to this poem: they are playing the "da-daa da-daa" baseline of "Billie Jean," and it makes me smile.
I see Robert Pinsky talking with some bearded man I don't know. Really. And I think, "how different to be a poet." A rock star would not have this breathing room. He is alone now in the crowd, Mr. Pinsky, that is: the man with the beard is laughing with a woman now. I wonder if the Poet Laureate is alone out of respect or his fans' introversion. I suppose both.
There are drums now and woodwinds to charm a snake. I move my hips — Mom used to call them "snake hips" — and think, "this is the closest I will ever get to Java Joes," and I'm ok with that. This man is singing in bright exotic jazz tones about "the word."
I think of God.
The instruments have stopped, but the music continues with the buzz of conversation to soften it. My ears will ring when I leave here, filling the silence in the streetlight lit streets. The weight of words in my limbs.
the feeling that I’m feeling is overwhelming…
Eight days ago I pulled an all-nighter in a desperate attempt to wrap volume 2, issue 1 of Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue in time to get copies up here in time for the intended release party. I managed, but in the fog of sleep deprivation.
In the days that followed, I pushed to get confirmed RSVPs for the Makepeace Brothers backyard concert that I had planned for last night.
Two days ago I shot off an overwhelmed email off to the guys to relay the sad condition of the “confirmed” list. I knew there was no way we could make it work as originally planned. Fortunately, the band reassured me that it’d work out.
And it did.
Though not quite what any of us had planned, the concert last night was excellent and SO much fun. Because of the threat of rain, we moved inside; turned out we could have stayed outside — the rain hit hard all around us, but none hit our house. Still, inside worked out well, though it was hot. More than half of the guests were people I had never met before, which was cool, but disappointing that more of my friends couldn’t make it. Overall, any “issues” (including my social awkwardness and naivete) were few and surmountable. For me, it was definitely worth the stress, exhaustion and general sense of being overwhelmed beforehand. I would be happy to do it again.
The Makepeace Brothers LRC 8/7/08And yet…
Even with “Lovely” and “Things Gonna Wait” still playing in my head, I still — or rather, again — feel overwhelmed. This time with poison, with anger, with the question of a cliche: why do we hurt the ones we love?
Despite the fair number of people who attended (including a handful who went out of their reasonable way to come), several others who said they would try to did not show. And one person who gave a definite “yes” did not follow through. That person is like family; maybe that’s why I was so easily blown off. Regardless, it hurt. And though I know I should drop it and move on, I am not ready to let go of this anger. I would not and have not ever done this to this person. But this is not the first time I have been disappointed by this “best friend.” So I’m wondering why I keep putting myself in the vulnerable position where I allow this to happen again and again. All I can come up with is that I love this person with whom I have shared some of my happiest moments. I guess the joy is worth the hurt.
Still, my expectations remain (apparently) high, though part of me is resigned to the expectation of disappointment. I have learned I cannot count on this person — unless it’s a life or death situation. I have learned expect to be the last to know and to expect her to be the last to show. I don’t expect my calls to be returned, not the first or fifth.
But I believe in soulmates, and that we may have more than one. I believe she is one of mine.
One thing I don’t know is if she feels the same about that.
Regardless, to quote Jason out of context, “the way it unfolds is yet to be told.”
I’m searching for peace in this…
Ethos Organic Boiled Peanuts
Ok, so I feel like my last post was a cop-out. Really I just wanted to post the link to the bag thing. Sorry about that.
The past couple weeks I’ve been slammed, both at work & at home. We’ve been trying to wrap the August issue of Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue by TOMORROW so that I can have copies in hand for the release party/back yard concert I’m holding on the 7th.
I’m feeling doubtful that it’s going to happen. Again, I feel like I’m doing more than my share of pushing to wrap this. I know a lot of our staff has had a lot of crap to deal with lately, but for Pete’s sake, would it kill a person to drop an occasional email, even if it’s to just say “no” or “ain’t gonna happen” outright?!?
Stephan, if you’re reading this, let me know who you have to take over layout next issue. The only thing I want to do with the next one is the cover. (I’m working on getting someone else to do the internal art.)
So that’s been stressing me out a bit.
Then there’s the concert. Yeah. I must have been nuts when I decided to do that. That’s stressing me out a bit as well. Not the actual hosting, mind you. I really don’t care what people think about our place, so I’m not stressing over cleaning or home improvements, etc. (though the plan IS to finally have the deck stained before people get here). What’s stressing me about the concert is the fact that I haven’t gotten a single confirmed “Yes.” And I was hoping for about 50. AGHHHH!
That stuff aside, our littler munchkin officially turned two over the weekend. Fortunately, at two he doesn’t expect much: cupcakes with sprinkles in Bob the Builder liners were exciting enough, and his favorite gift came from a yard sale.
No wonder I’ve been having weird dreams.
Take last night for instance. Let’s start with the fact that I went to bed later than I probably should have, coupled with the fact that I actually did some reading before I tried to go to sleep. I finally turned off my light to crash, but my dear husband was snoring up a storm. Eventually he shifted and I drifted off to sleep.
I don’t remember what the dream was about, but I do remember a business card and the man it belonged to. It was weird. In the dream, I met this guy and we were both like, “Don’t I know you? You look SO familiar!” Then we figured out that we had gone to the same college and had met at registration. He looked kinda like a young Bob Marley, but wore a cool Hawaiian type shirt in light blue cotton. His name was Jamie. And he was a part-time student, full-time business owner. His business: “Ethos Organic Boiled Peanuts,” which he sold here in South Carolina.
The dream and that “don’t I know you?” factor felt so real that I want to track down this mysterious man with the chocolate skin and demeanor just as sweet to tell everyone in the market for boiled peanuts to buy from him.
Weird, huh?
A few years ago, I had another similar dream experience. That time I woke up with a specific name in my head, a full name that I immediately looked up when I woke. The search turned up a veteran who died in the Gulf Conflict. It was eerie.
Anyhow, yeah.
I must say…
I am so happy to hear Mr. Mraz changed the lyrics for “I’m yours” in the “We Sing” EP: they now say “God-intended right” instead of “God forsaken.”
🙂