Melissa Ruth: Journal

J and I arrived home again yesterday happy and exhausted. We just made the trek to Greenville, California (about 80 miles NE of the Paradise fire) to play the annual Blackhawk Solar Cookoff and visit Johnny's amazing family.

The Solar Cookoff hits right as people are coming down off of High Sierra which is, from what I've heard, an amazing festival. (Really, what kind of summer festival isn't amazing though?) After High Sierra many out-of-town folks make the 8 hour drive to Eugene for the Oregon Country Fair. The locals though, they stay for the Cookoff and the Cookoff, well, the Cookoff is something else. It's special and amazing and magical and friendly and charming. It is "the festival without fences". It's a reunion, a gathering, a party! A woman I met said that at the Solar Cookoff, there are angels everywhere.

Even though the sky was full of smoke, Friday night was fabulous. J and I opened the Cookoff to a wonderful audience of listeners and dancers swathed in tye-dye and sandals. After our set we caught up with many of Johnny's friends and family and then we all headed out to Chester to sit-in with the the Avant Gardeners. This Quincy band is no-shit legendary in the area; when the Gardeners play, people go.

Johnny's brother Jimmy is the drummer for the Gardeners (and plays on my album Underwater and Other Places!) Anyway, I haven't played my flute in ages and was tickled when the Gardeners asked me to play flute with them that night. The bar was packed and noisy and drunk, dancing and laughing. The band was crammed into the back corner, wailing. We sat-in during their last set where I got to play some psychadelic, airy, trilly, flutter tonguing kind of shit and Johnny, of course, ripped on guitar. My god he's a great player. We went home that night completely stoned on good fortune.

Saturday was a late get up. We headed straight to the Cookoff where we saw the Avant Gardeners thrill the crowd and draw an encore, almost unheard of at a festival like this. No-shit legendary, I'm telling you. It was bands, falafel, beer and family all day until heading to the Taylorsville Grange Hall and the bouncing floor for Rick Estrin and the Nightcats. Amazing!!

Sunday morning was a greasy breakfast followed by goodbyes and goodlucks. We arrived home yesterday evening and made a delicious salad from our garden. The air was warm and friendly and Oregon skies were cooling. I think that it's only supposed to be 83 degrees today.

I know that soon I will be back at the front of my classroom, showing someone how to finger a G on the saxophone. Soon I will be singing Oh Susanna with kindergarten kids, playing recorder demonstrations and eating my lunch hunched over my computer ordering reeds. I know that for me this is the flip side of music; trying to convince someone else that music is worth learning, music is worth loving. How do I harness all of this? The excitment and the energy? How do I imbue this in others?

Maybe Al Gore knows. He seems to know a lot about harnessing alternative energy.

Oh and my peas have finally shrivled and browned. I will pull them today and plant new ones.





The Gardener's website. Please go listen and freak out to the amazingness now:

http://www.myspace.com/avantgardeners

Moving Day
Current mood: thoughtful


It's moving day in Oregon. We saw UHaul trailers out in all their glory today as we drove through Eugene neighborhoods on our way to help our friends move. Today was a good day to move; the sun hung in the sky fully and the wind tickled spirits with invisible fingers. A few tips on moving that I have picked up along the way:

-bedsheets make excellent packing boxes, just put everything in the center of a sheet and tie corners together. (You can then attach it to a stick and start walking if you don't have a UHaul.)

- Don't organize, just pack. If you sit down at any point on moving day to go through papers or old birthday cards or unpaid bills you'll become suicidal. Don't do it. Pack and stack, that's my motto.

-Don't move and clean on the same day. This is nearly impossible and the strain on a relationship from doing these two things in one day is listed as a leading cause of divorce.

-Try not to get sentimental. Again, pack and stack, pack and stack. Once the truck is loaded, then shed a few tears.

-Sleep when you're dead: rest is for the weak-hearted. Get it done.



A few things to be sad about when seeing these friends go:

Tarantelle, Op.6 - Camille Saint-Saens for Flute and Clarinet in A:

Dan and I never learned it.


Sushi:

Lisa and I never made it.



*sigh*



ok. hand me that box.

Ooh, I forgot to tell you. Something exciting happened last week. Something small in the grand scheme. Something big in the small scheme that is my life.
While spending some time in Portland I got to visit Queen Bee Creations. I made a point of doing this because A- it is where my handbag lives and B- this shop is the love-child of one of my very favorite singer-songwriters Rebecca Pearcy. We went in and oohed and aahed over all of the beautiful things. Now, believe it or not I am a pretty shy person, but after awhile in the shop (and after purchasing a Queen Bee wallet "Velocity")


I managed mustered up the courage to ask the cute gal behind the desk if Rebecca was available. She was! When Rebecca came out I nervously and excitedly introduced myself to her and told her how much her music inspired me over the years and how awesome I think that her shop is. (and it really is awesome.) And then I reached into my own sad canvas handbag and gave her a copy of my own CD. She was gracious about accepting it and I sure do hope that it makes it into her CD player one day.
I know it may sound silly but Rebecca's album Constellation changed the way that I understood music. And somehow, therefore, life. The album came into my life at the right time and I damn near wore a hole in that thing by listening to it so much. How do you thank someone for making art that is so true to your experience that you can't really imagine your life without that art in it? I gave Rebecca my art. It was humbling and inspiring.

Queen Bee Creations web home: http://www.queenbee-creations.com/ Rebecca's wonderful album Constellation. (She also has another called Sea Deep, Sky High.)

PS- sorry the images won't load onto my site :(

On patriarchy and other thoughts:
A few months ago J bought us tickets so go see Ani. I was, of course, excited since it has been a few years since I last saw her. Her performance was, as always, captivating. (Although her audience has definitely gotten more obnoxious over the years. I'm a freak. I'm a bigger freak. No I am. No I am. I LOVE YOU ANI!!!!) Anyway, Ani's opening act was amazing; Judy Grahn & Animal Prufrock. Animal was, well, an animal and just straight-up (queer-up?) fantastic. Judy, embarrassingly enough for me, is a brilliant poet who, up until that night I'd never heard of. Her art generally deals with the patriarchy, queer issues, and the woman's experience living in this country under an oppressive system. It got me to thinking: Why is patriarchy a four-letter word that only "those feminists" use to describe the world we live in? Is it not accurate? I think the truth of the matter is that it is all too accurate. Uncomfortably accurate. Disturbingly accurate. Perhaps part of the problem around here (and by here I mean right here in our own backyards) is that we do not empower ourselves to use language to describe something accurately. We are entirely comfortable using language to diminish someone or something. We allow language to become a tool of the idle hand to stereotype, mislead, and label. If we used language to describe something with truth and accuracy, if we would do that we could understand it and if we could understand it we can change it, improve it, revolutionize it.
we don't say everything that we could so that we can say later oh, you misunderstood
I don't believe in a matriarchy. I want to. I want to believe in it entirely because I feel like we are owed a matriarchy to make up for this warring torrent of male power. However, there must be a balance of power. Matriarchies do exist. Look at the average family in this country. Who REALLY calls the shots behind the scenes? The problem with the patriarchy is that the female role's importance is diminished. The nesting, the caring, the taking of responsibility, the child-rearing, all of these traditionally female roles are under-valued in this patriarchal system. Women's work is under-payed. Women's work is under-appreciated. There is no balance.
Today while jogging through my lovely little town I heard someone blowing their nose: a honking, resonant sound. I love this sound; not only this sound but every sound that reminds me that we are all the same underneath all of our apparent differences.
My dad's new favorite magazine is Ms. While my dad was staying at our house dog and garden sitting for a few weeks while we were on tour he read Ms. Magazine cover to cover. (If you've ever done this, you know that it's not an easy task.) Upon our return my dad (a faithful Time Magazine reader) to me: wow, I had no idea about (fill in the blank)-Abortion issues, sex-industry workers, women in Bluegrass. The man had done his research and was blown away and very bothered by the fact that NONE of this was covered in any other news periodical that he has read. When I was recently converted to Ms, Bitch and other feminist periodicals, I had the same reaction. Most people would attest to having had the same reaction as well. My dad did not simply to react to the news articles dealing with women's issues but rather he begged the questions: Where is the representation? Where is the balance of power? Who said that this isn't a patriarchy?
Some food for thought and a little offensive humor on the side:
Why can't all good men and women call themselves feminists out of respect for those who fought for this?
(All italicized quotations by Ani Difranco from songs “Anticipate” and “Grand Canyon” respectively.)


George Carlin: Pro-Life is Anti-Woman
The purpose for the inclusion of this video is to illuminate art that makes you think. George Carlin’s humor is known to be outrageous, even shocking. Yet his art gives us pause to think and reflect. And laugh our asses off in the meanwhile.

*IMPORTANT Please note: the following link contains a clip that is R-rated. The language and content found herein is strong and will be considered very offensive to some. If you are under 18, please step away from your mouse. If you are over 18, please use you wise discretion.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=MrXvDXVhqfU

Two weeks on the road and it's home sweet home.

In the interim my peas have grown tall and proud, my sunflowers are boasting, my carrots are no longer afraid to sprout.

Our journey took us from the depths of welcoming California and to the heights of lovely Oregon. From the city to the country, from the home to the bar, from I-5 am/pm north of Sac to the bewery in La Jolla, everywhere it was the same; people talking: community. People talking: cooperative. People talking: commune.

Alone in my garden I think: next year I need to turn more earth here, I need to mulch better there, I need to compost deeper. Alone in my backyard I think: I need to hang these clothes higher, I need to string another line, I need to move my container plants to the sun. Alone in my kitchen I think: I need to figure my greywater system, I need to sprout more beans, I need to cook more goulash.

When I was 17 years old I read the last 150 pages of 1984 in one sitting. Aside from feeling immenent fear, the thing that stuck out to me then as it does now was the proles. Winston believed, for a time in the novel, that the hope for humanity lay with them, that they, the "disregarded masses" could rise up and change forever the course of the human race. But it was not to be. The proles were so busy making ends meet that they could not even consider informing themselves let alone revolution.

Hmmm....

My dear friend Squid says: "Melissa, you should call this tour your Reunion Tour. Not because you're getting the band back together (man) but because you are reuniting with all your old friends." God bless friends. From my vegan, bike-warrior former roommate to the wonderful new-found San Diego artists that hosted us for a few evenings, I have felt so embraced and empowered that I can't help but to believe that this is the revolution: people for art, people for information, people for sharing. It is contagious and it is real. Reunion, absolution, cooperation, community.

If you are poor, what is it that gets you tossed in jail these days aside from the regular old felonies? Perpetuating propoganda? Creating a tangible stir? Making art? Johnny just rode up on the bike that we rescued from a dumpster. This will be our newfound pennysaver/earthsaver. One bike, two wheels, a couple of bleeding hearts. Or is it a couple of broke-ass teachers and musicians.... Money makes me laugh. And cry.

In LA they call it smog. In Oregon they call it pollen. Everyone knows though, that it's in the air. Revolution is in the fucking air. Pea by pea, note by note, final notice by final notice, people are ready for a change. Not the kind that we can market, either. The kind that we can feel and taste and breathe.

In the meanwhile, however, apparently there is this new thing called Tivo and this great show called the Daily Show. Have you seen it yet? That shit is funny.

LA. Whoa. And Other Observations.
Hot hot sticky hot hot.
Apparently the land around the Hollywood sign has been sold and they are now getting ready to put up houses. Big controversy.
A sign alerts us: "For a limited time only, Breast Augmentation, $2999.99!"
A woman is texting and putting on mascara and driving 80mph.
The Church of Scientology Celebrity Center. (It really says that on the sign!)
Our car's air conditioning only works when we're driving over 50. LA has terrible traffic and we rarely drove over 50. LA also has 100 degree weather. Who knew that human beings can actually melt in these conditions? Gee whiz.
I now believe in the power of San Diego. It really is la jolla. Really.
A pint of beer can cost $8.00. Probably more if you don't have boobs.
There is no such thing as "within walking distance."
Vons supermarket has never appealled to me in the way it did in LA: it was air conditioned. We stayed there for half an hour, wandering around with our loaf of bread and bottle of tequila.
Nothing in this world replaces a warm smile.
There are some very wonderful people in LA- they're just hard to find. When you do find them, however, you gotta hold on tight and thank them a lot for being them.
BIG LOVE TO YOU WONDERFUL, BRAVE AND CRAZY LA PEOPLE!

Yesterday on our way to work, Johnny and I were almost in a serious car accident. It was the closest I'd ever come. Construction, construction, all the time, construction on our I-5 commute; I guess we'd become immune to the signs. Cruising at full speed, NPR depressing us with the latest from around the world, coffee in hand, all of a sudden it was lane ending, orange barrels wedging us into the right lane, into the double tractor trailer. Johnny chose to run into the barrels, the ones pushing us into the other lane, stopping just short of the flashing sign. We destroyed our tires and ripped off our driver's side mirror. Once the smoke had cleared (literally) we crossed the road to take a look at the damages. A woman about my age had been driving behind the semi-truck and had pulled over to see if we were alright. She was so incredibly sweet. And we, thankfully, are no more fucked up than we were before the accident.

Having lived here in Oregon now for about two years I have realized something: most people that I have met have lived in Oregon for their whole lives. Some of them have even lived in the same town for their whole lives. Not only do I find this to be magical and mystical in many ways, I also find it curious. Granted, I have mostly only met people from Portland, Lane County and Douglas County so I don't have the broadest perspective on this one. But the idea of Oregon Pride is one that seems to take on the most basic form here: people are born and raised here and do not intend to ever leave. I know that I am generalizing but this so far has been my observation.

All things considered, I have led a privileged life. I was born into a family of hardworking people who come from hardworking stock. I come from generations of cultural and religious exiles, on both sides, some from Russia, some from Poland. I have a close family, now more so than ever. I have privilege that comes with being white, I have privilege that comes with being in a hetero union, I have privilege that comes with being working middle class. They are unfair advantages. And this is part of why I chose the professions I did; teaching and music making; a teacher to beg of her pupils a little consideration on these topics of injustice and a musician to give voice to folks that have but a small one. That's where I am right now: goddamn lucky.

In the last 10 years I have lived in trailer parks, dark apartments, cold basements, hip upstairs digs, houses with yards, my folks place. I have couch-hopped, bed-hopped, and bar-hopped my way through many locations and relocations. I changed partners, changed goals, changed beliefs, changed my name. I have been a daughter, an aunt, a wife, and a tax-paying non-citizen. I work and I swear and I drink and I tell the truth. How then, if I am not the same person as I once was, if I don't live in the same place as I once did, and I ended up in a situation that I never dreamed of, can I confidently introduce myself to strangers? I mean, where is my Oregon home? My roots?

Thursday morning outside of Eugene, OR a little red Subaru almost wrecked while driving in the southbound lane of the I-5. This little red Subaru has driven far and wide in search of a home, never motionless, never directionless, just somehow never settled. Sometimes it seems that everyone's little red Subaru vears off-course from time to time. Sometimes they are going too fast. Sometimes they are going too slow. Sometimes the driver misses a sign. Sometimes they even wreck. And what of the Subaru that's parked in the farmer's field in Oregon, growing wildflowers? I guess for her too, sometimes the rain falls and sometimes the sun shines.

A few scenes of holiday nostalgia to mark the first of June:
My sister and I used to go to the same college, for better or for worse, and we used to travel together every Thanksgiving to go visit our family. After Thanksgiving #1: my mother sat my sister and I down to say that the next time we came home we had better not go out hootinanny-ing the night before. We agreed. Thanksgiving #2: my mother sat us both down to say that if we were going to be hootinanny-ing and carrying on, we better not come home next time without having slept. Thanksgiving #3: M and I are in her rig. We are up 3 hours of sleep. We roll into Garberville, the Shell station. We load up on road necessities: light roast, Hot Tamales, and (this was when I was off-the-wagon) beef jerky. We climb back into the rig. We have already driven a good 2 hours through the winding Redwoods, Highway 101 South without major post Friday-night incident. We are feeling great, spirits are running high, we had new men to discuss, new jobs, new apartments. We are downin' the light roast, we are poppin' the Tamales, we are listenin' to The Charlie Daniels Band, we are drivin' 80. We'd be at our folks' in no time! 10 minutes later we are pulled over at the side of the road, sick as dogs. Truckers keep honking at us and making obscene gestures. Was it the Peach Schnapps, I keep wondering. Of course it was the Peach Schnapps my sister tells me as I grudgingly crawl back into her car. Thanksgiving #4: M and I pull into the Sacremento airport at 1:45am, sober. I beg her to let us sleep in her car. I say: we can put the cover over the rig. No one will even know we're here. please. She says no. We catch the last bus to the terminal. The driver is not sober. We talk about sleeping on the lawn under the bushes. We decide to go into the terminal instead. M falls asleep immediately. I don't. I can't. I won't; there are too many men here. 2 o'clock, 3 o'clock 4 o'clock, 5.... I nudge M with my foot. Get up, I tell, her, let's go to our gate. She does and once we arrive she falls asleep in line. I go and buy a San Francisco Chronicle and sit on the nearby benches. I watch as one business man after another fills in the line around my sleeping sister, her head resting peacefully on a plastic bag. The men are wearing high-dollar suits with cuffs and drinking high-dollar espresso. Our boarding call comes. My sister is greeted with polished shoes and bad secretary jokes. I don't know if she has ever forgiven me....
Christmas Eve, 2004:
M and I are in a local bar. We watch her friend eat a hamburger. The community band comes in, drunk, to "cheer us all up". I recognize one of the musicians. I can't figure out who is more pathetic, he or I. We say hello and avert our eyes.
Christmas Day Eve, 2004:
I am in my drafty little apartment reading Harry Potter. My roommate and all of our neighbors are gone, the buildings are dark and quiet. I get a hankering for some chocolate so I decide to drive to town. It's Christmas, afterall, I'm gonna treat myself. The only place open is the local video store. I count out my change and buy a movie-theatre sized box of Junior Mints. I climb back into my rig and the rain starts pounding. As I am driving I barely make out a downcast silhouette on the side of the road. I pull over to find a hungry and wet man holding a sign. I tell this man that all I have is chocolate and that he is welcome to it if he would like it. He grunts and nods so I pour out as much candy into his cupped hands as will fit. I pop the car into gear and start rolling up my window. Suddenly the soaked man looks up and grins: "Junior Mints. Cool."

The most bold peas in my garden are about 12 inches high now, their tiny green tantacles winging toward the sky (or anything else that looks lovely enough to cling to.) I have the best of intentions each day to dig another strip of my clay soil, turn it, mix in compost and make a patch for my sunflowers. good intentions, right?

Our little green house gets very very warm in the summer. We have no shade on our south facing front side and no AC- which is good since we're not really down with AC anyway. I would like to plant sunflowers outside of the big front windows to provide a cool green cover to the glass.

I visited the Redwood trees last week with a number of my older students. We were on our annual band trip and I arranged to have a park ranger take us on a nature hike.

There are no words. As someone who values language to the point of artistry it humbles me to say that the are no words to describe the awe and sheer joy that the Redwood forest inspires. I feel that I have lived and died in those trees and yet each time, the joy! Each time, the awe! Each time I am humbled, oh so humbled.

Monday morning back home in Oregon; back to work. Monday afternoon, in the garden, the little green peas grow and grow they will until the end of their little lives. Forever they cling to whatever they can as they reach skyward, all 12 brave inches of them. My sunflowers wait in their little paper package for my intentions to bare fruit. My little green house sits atop the little green lawn, absorbing the warm midday sun. Oh May Mondays in Oregon.

And to the south? The quiet giants stand. They too reach toward heaven, but unlike my peas, the Redwoods are almost there.

Everyone is so fucking Zen these days except for me. Is it the coffee? Is it my job? Is it the bills, the housework, the snowstorms in April?

My mum is my best friend. I call her often but never on blue days. I usually call on grey days since most days seem to be grey anymore. We talk about the war and the election and about teaching and nursing and about our flowers and veggies and her chickens and my dog and her husband and mine. I often ask how she does it. not how she is a good kind person, or how she manages to keep an insanely clean house and beautiful garden, or how she can work 60 hour weeks at age 50, or how she can make such a mean split-pea soup. I often ask her how she manages to pull herself out of bed each morning.

My mum: "hope springs eternal."

One of my very favorite songwriters Anais Mitchell* in her most recent online journal entry includes a poem entitled Single Days. She writes: "I miss my single days. I painted my face in parking lots and public bathrooms. I wore my clothes like feathers. I swung like a dagger in a sheath. I liked liquor then, and I danced crazy, and for the sake of a man I could shout all night over the music about things I didn't care for or understand." Of late this type of nostalgia is something that weights heavily on me from time to time. In my single days I was carefree and restless, I was constantly and anxiously searching for something that, in the end, found me. In my single days I let my inner bitch roam free and she felt her way through night after night of nothing particularly profound. Now I wear her on my sleeve, in the broad daylight for everyone to see. I think that I'm learning how not to be.

The older I become, the less people I trust. The older I become, the more I want to trust. With my whole heart I want to let somebody in. But once they are in, then it's my whole heart that gets left out. Each morning I lie awake and look out this damn window and think about what I can do to make this world a better place. Call me a radical. Someone recently told me that I don't love unconditionally. I suppose that despite my best and most brazen attempts to do good, somewhere out there someone somewhere thinks that I am boldly and brazenly doing bad. And so most days are grey. Call me sensitive.

Bob Dylan: "Half of the people can be part right all of the time,
Some of the people can be all right part of the time.
I think Abraham Lincoln said that.
"I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours,"
I said that."

Somedays I think that I would prefer to be in someone's dream than to be a part of someone's reality.

"Court not carpet" one of my younger students says in following suit with his sports-minded father. This is a boy who constantly and adamantly voices his distaste for music: "court not carpet." Thursday morning in a classroom discussion about Impressionism and what art and music have in common this boy to his class: "Art is music that you can see. Music is art that you can hear."

Maybe hope does spring eternal; if you wander through the desert long enough, a small trickle of water contains the entire universe.





*Anais Mitchell is readable here: www.anaismitchell.com

i used to have a friend named noah. i am sure that he is still my friend although i haven't seen him or talked to him in years. we grew up together in wild country, western canada. my family and i left that place when i was almost 17 and after graduating high school i moved around a bit until finally tucking myself safely into the redwood curtain- northern california.

one day noah called me: "hey mel, i'm in willow creek. i have seven friends with me. don't you live around here?" noah arrived late that afternoon. he arrived with his seven friends just as my first heartbreak was walking out the door for the 100th time. they shook hands and smiled at each other.

the eight visitors were skinny, vegetarian types. the girls all tucked their legs up under themselves when they sat. the boys all wore corduroy and scruffy beards. they were kind and silly and young. the girls acted shy. the boys acted sensitive. they were all a little bashful and very polite. i was preparing for my senior recital at that time and the more these people spoke, the less i could understand them. they were travelling yet entirely at home. they were studying to be lawyers and doctors and politcial scientists and reporters and poets. the more they enticed my senses, the less i could feel; i was blinded and deafened by poulenc and debussy, poulenc's flute sonata and debussy's syrinx. i needed to practice. so i told them that i had to go and i left them in my little apartment. even before the door closed the could hear pasta sauce simmering, i could smell onions on the stovetop, i could taste wine in my coffee mugs.

that evening they cooked and they drank and they smoked and they talked. they dirtied every glass and every countertop and every fork and every knife and every spoon. they made nests on the living room floor with their sleeping bags and Guatemalan blankets and their brown leather sandles cluttered the doorway. and in those sandles they walked the beaches under the stars. and in those blankets they made love in the forests under the redwood trees. and through their smoke they prayed.

i stayed out late practicing.

in the morning they were gone. my kitchen was spotless. the sleeping bag strewn floor was vacant. even the smell of youth no longer lingered. it was just me again. me and poulenc and bach and debussy. me and the sixteenth note runs that ended on the low C-sharp and held and held and held. me to me: "don't let it sag, don't let it fall, keep your chin up, keep your lips relaxed, you need to control it, you're in control, don't bend, don't think, control, control." all morning. all afternoon.

i needed some air. i needed some food. i needed to find my heartbreak to invite him over again now that my visitors were gone. i would tell him that i was sorry. i would tell him that we weren't done talking.... i wheeled my bike to the door and i opened it. there was buddha. he was sitting on my doorstep atop a handwritten poem, handwritten on an old paper plate. it was blue ink. it was noah's writing.

i don't know where the tears came from. i don't know when they stopped.

today noah's poem lives in one of my unpacked boxes that lives in my garage. today buddha sits watching me type.

Reflections on Spring from my window in Oregon:

Spring, not spring, spring, not spring....
twiddling my thumbs, anxious, not anxious, anxious, not anxious....
My house is a ridiculous mess, my cd has been in long-term, post-creative overflow, procrastination limbo, i haven't seen my husband in a week, the weather is sunny, rainy, sunny, rainy....

Of late I've been sifting through love letters in my mind; those i have recieved that live on in fond memory, and those that i have sent that live on in unwelcomed infamy. They are but a tiny and tender morsel, a delicate affirmation of being alive.

Not much disguises me anymore. No shred of fabric can hide my decaying attitude. Each morning I stand before my closet, robed and unwilling to clamber into the day’s armour, usually a variation on the theme of the black pant-suit.

The cherry trees are in bloom. They are pink and blushing. They are ripe with curiosity. They are whole in their unapologetic, unabashed beauty.

Each day the newspaper arrives in the form of the radio. She appears in black and white, devoid of color, full of sorrow. recession, no recession, recession, no recession....

The clouds burst forth, the sparrows sing, there is beauty in everything.

My hair keeps getting shorter and shorter. My to-do list keeps getting longer and longer. The smoke empties my mind. The wine fills my heart.

Hopeful are the 6 strings of my guitar, they want to ring. Hopeful are the 2 buds of my tulips, they want to bloom. Hopeful are the 4 legs of my dog, they want to play. Hopeful are the 10 fingers of my hands, the 2 eyes of my face, the 1 mind of my 1 body. They want to create. I, then, am hopeful too.

The parents of the 6 children across the street are on meth; their skin is grey and their eyes are hungry. The 6 children across the street are often left alone. They are mean, too mean to coddle. They are young, too young to ignore. I tell the children hello. I tell the parents nothing.

The wind tickles at the branches of my neighbor's butterfly bush. It laughs.
Fresh snow caps the craggy mountain tops. They cry.
Two squirrels chase each other.
Two clouds cover the sun.
The blossoms are at the height of their season.
The blossoms are at the height of their season.

Spring: Every love letter unfolds in the hand of the intended, the divine. Every love letter holds court in the heart of the beholder. Every love letter has a concluding sentiment, a final lusting push towards the infinite. Every love letter is warm to the touch. Every love letter is raw in the day light. This is every love letter ever written.
Not Spring: That is, if the letter is even written at all.

From my window, this is springtime in Oregon.

the peas are in.

there is a neighborhood cat who shits in my garden and digs up my peas. i can never catch this cat in the act because i work and he doesn't. what is the solution to a problem that i am never around to experience firsthand?

i like cats just fine but i really hate this one. there are two cats that live around my house: the big black and white one with an attitude and the long-haired grey one with an attitude. i don't know which one shits in my garden and eats my peas but it really could be either one. or both! i like cats just fine but now that i think about it i actually hate these two cats. especially the black and white one. he's got that kitty-king thing going for him. like if he were a person he would be really haute-couture and dress in designer clothes and drink cosmos and fly coach just for the experience. and i would be in the back of the plane, air-sick with an MGD (because that's all that they would have left), next to the old guy that snores. the kitty-king would laugh and tilt his head back and swallow every last pink drop while i would sit, eating my kosher meal of canned peas and unidentifiable kosher mush and listen to his laughter.

as a cat though, he's much like any other: constantly on the prowl, licking himself in the middle of the street, honery, quick when he wants to be, slow when you want him to be quick. He's an ugly cat with a pretty cat personality. he's a look-at-me kind of cat. and when i am not looking he is angry. that's when he launches his attack. that's when he makes his mark so that i have to look, even when he's nowhere to be seen. he's like an artist, the kind of artist that fears, more than anything, an anonymous death. this kitty-king doesn't let me be in peace. he wants me ever-vigil of my vine, he wants me ever-looking for him in his kingdom, stalking his feathered prey, eying my raised veggie bed. my presence is a burr to him yet totally neccessary to his happiness, this is the kitty-king.

the sun wants to shine today. the peas want it to shine too. i can hear the planes flying above my house, landing at the near-by airport. i am on the ground, overlooking my garden. waiting. watching. i want the fruit, he wants the soil.

i think he's gonna get what he wants. he is, afterall, a king and i have an early flight monday morning.

avishai cohen.

oh yes.

i heard him a few years ago at a dinner party. brilliant. my date said we would go to the city to see him play. yoshi's, mr. cohen was playing at yoshi's. perfect. but shit happens, brilliant musicians wait for no woman, we never ended up going. and then my date and i stopped seeing each other. and then i forgot about both of them. (i regret forgetting about only one of them....)

every available morning that J and I have alone we make a huge pot of coffee, toast up some english muffins, set the table with veggies and cream cheese, and enjoy each other's company. Often our breakfast guest is (via our CD player) Charles Mingus or Bill Evans. Sometimes, if we remember, we invite Click and Clack, but usually our guest is of the jazz persuasion. today was no different. only this time it was someone i'd forgotten about as opposed to someone i always remember to invite: avishai! thank god! J is a wonderful human with fabulous taste in music. how could he have known that avishai was the one man that i'd forgotten to remember? and that i regreted it yet? perfect.

breakfast at melissa's will never be the same.

i am utterly amused and confused but the multitude of muscians who do not value music education.

as a musician some of my earliest and fondest memories are of me and my 'music for young children' classmates holding hands and singing. our teacher and my best friends mom Lois, was an inspired and inspiring human being who taught me the fundamentals of music from: "this is a g" to: "stop playing when others are talking. it's rude and annoying." valuable life lessons, wouldn't you agree? valuable life lessons that some of these, my lovely musical co-conspirators, could have found truth in... even through today, wouldn't you agree?

The bios brazenly boast "i quit music school so i could play music."

oh i am aware of the greats- the satchmos, the guthries, the basies- those that did not attend music school. they live on, the greats live on from one generation to the next, their brilliance eminent through the speakers of the turntables of time, for crying out loud. but i can't believe that they would take to snubbing music education the way some young "up and coming" musicians, even those vying for a little greatness themselves, do.

yeah, i know that i'm righteous. while there are enitre tides of radiant musical beauty and truthfulfulness out here, i still find myself mired in a sea of hypocracy, of jealousy, of inability, of preteniousness, of priviledge: i'm righteously pissed off.


i teach low-income kids. i teach a lot of them every single day. i teach them music. i teach them music as though each one will one day be a great. i encourage them as though each one of them is a great today, even as a 15 year old, even as a 9 year old, a 5 year old. It is my belief that in order to achieve greatness you must believe in yourself and then you must work for it. this is how i teach. this is what i teach. not everybody does it this way. not everybody needs to but for me, this works. and i tell my little ones to sing with their whole heart. and i tell my little ones to listen with both ears. and i tell my little ones to play to someone in the room, even if it's someone that is not here now. and they do. but they don't do it if they don't work at it.

i used to call myself a hippie. i grew up in a place where hippies were everywhere- peace lovers and music makers. god bless hippies. but i don't think that i am a hippie anymore. oh i still subscribe to the ol' hippie paradigm of love and peace, happiness, goodwill and equality. but it seems that those of us who truly believe these things and sing these things and teach these things are no match for those that wear the right hippie clothes and drink the right organic juice and buy the right free-range motha the right free-trade beer. they say "love" but they do not do "love". they talk "social justice" but they do not do "social justice." i am not a hippie, they are the hippies now. and if i were a hippie, i would be a bad hippie because i don't like them. and hippies are supposed to like everyone and they are not supposed to get angry. but like i said, i am pissed off... righteously.

i listened to a new-age hippie, i'll call this person Blue Sky, a time ago at a show that i played at. i was on the bill too so i stayed to listen. after my set i walked offstage knowing that it was a school night and that i had work yet to be done for tomorrow. i felt square with my hard-earned dinner sitting on the table, sandwiched between grading papers and lesson plan books, unpaid bills and guitar picks. but this is how i make my way in life. so i listened. i heard songs about hard liquor and hard folks and hard times, about cigarettes and coffee and music and dusty bar room floors, about going without, about travelling long, about death. and after all was said and done Blue Sky left the stage and then yelled at mom. in front of everyone. in a kindergarten, tie-my-shoe-NOW! kind of way.

there must be some kinda way outta here....

Blue Sky, i'm pretty sure is not into music education, it least i detected nothing of it from reading the bio. but perhaps if Blue Sky had been taught about rude and annoying actions, or taught that we must listen with both ears, or taught that we must work hard, perhaps i wouldn't feel obligated to tell that story. perhaps Blue Sky's record sales would be better. or maybe, just maybe, rather than talking understanding, Blue Sky would be doing understanding, living understanding, teaching understanding... through music.

a truly musical education.

the city has always been a distant third for me. it comes in behind life and art.

oh how i love cigarettes and wine, the sensation of drowning in warm and silent hues- garbled tongues- indistinct color, free of form and texture. oh how i love the smell of a new spring; a spring of purple crocuses and yellow daffodils; a spring of new hope and intentions and unrealized fortitudes. how i love the feel of cement under my heels; the clip-clop of direction; the trip-trap of success. mmm the grey of the city. the brown of the horizon. the orange of the sun. setting.

i like my fingers when they are painted, plucking the strings, holding the charcoal, quivering on the pen. i like my toes when they are tapping.

i have an old Joni album. on it she sings of men and foreign places, grand pianos and champange. she was in her twenties and gorgeous like a night rain- persistant yet utterly unobtrusive. she's the kind of talent that you lay your head down to, the kind to keep you awake at night.

and i ask: she wrote all of this for nothing? for the sake of being human? insubordinate, we slight her verse. unconscionable, we twist her poem. we become this listless night, we become this shapeless day. the wine. the champagne. the cigarettes, smoking.

i was once in france too. i was in the city with a man. i was on a train. i watched the countryside blooming, i watched the oceanside dying, i watched the tides washing in and out. and on them boats with a million faces waving at the hallowed shores and the breakers far from land. a million faces vying, a million faces trying for the clip-clop of determination, the trip-trip of destination, trip-trap of success.

...rent me a grand piano and put flowers 'round my room.

the city: a distant third behind life and art. a distant third behind life and art. behind life and art, the city.

how delicate the petals, how weathered the vine.

i am an old lady. and not the cute kind, either. i'm the kind that wears ill-fitting clothes, hearing aids and a surly scowl.

don't get me wrong; i don't dislike anybody truly. i appreciate the young, the open-minded, the spirited, the creative. i am entertained by the antics of the foul-mouthed, the egotistical, the selfish. i am moved by the inspired, the gifted and the self-motivated. i am humbled by those that serve: the artists, the activists, the revolutionaries.

i suppose that, more than anything, i am old because i am displaced. i am confused about the disappearance of that which was once familiar. i want to know what happened to the 8 ounce coffee cups. i want to know what happened to the hardcover books. where are the vivid imaginations, the people that say "thank you", the polyester pant suits that people used to wear for years and years because nothing was disposable then, everything had value then, everything had purpose then. what happened to purpose, then?

curly haired women and straight haired men have always made children. and they will forever more. but at what point does no identity become one's identity, a sense of worthlessness become home? for as hard as i may try, my clothes will always fit me old. for as much as i may try, my hair will always curl up when it's slicked down, frizz out when it's turned in, it will become purple on its own volition because it too fits me old. my mouth turns down in the corners. my mouth is old.

i wear a dress and it bunches, i strangle myself in fishnets, my platform boots make me wander, my sneakers make me trip. my button down blouses make me itchy, my collared jackets make me nervous, my turtle necked sweaters make me small and my patterened pants give me hives. hang a tie around my neck and fancy me up in blue jeans. call me sir and don't ask why.

i am a grouchy old woman, deaf and confused, lost in a sea of young, boasting bodies, that are awake and humming a tune i just cannot hear.

Here it is, the first of December.

If someone had told me 10 years ago that yes, there really are places that don't get snow- and you will one day be living in one of them, well, I would have been estatic. Winters where I grew up in exceptionally rural British Columbia were a five-month affair. Not the kind of five-month affair that leaves lipstick on your collar or runs in your stockings. Oh no. This is the kind of five-month affair that leaves you estranged and homeless and owing alimony until you're 80. This is the kind of five-month affair that leaves you heartbroken and regected, eating beans from a can. And yet after having lived in a snow-less climate for almost ten years, all I am is a home-sick Canadian lusting after a little tinned pinto.

It seems these days I've been seeing a few of my students going through tough times. Drugs, jail, hospitals, boyfriends.... It makes me recall all those hours I spent alone as a teenager, smoking, walking, headed somewhere, anywhere along the lonesome highway that wound through the forever forests of Western Canada. My students remind me of when I was invincible- truly unbreakable- all the while breaking slowly into someone that was slow to recover herself again. They recall in me a time when things were black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. Nowadays everthing just looks blue. And grey. I guess this is being an adult. and these recollections help me to understand compassion more intimately.

Sometimes I feel like I am living underwater. The world around me feels persistantly temperate. This is a place without a shock of vivid color, without a vibrant five-month melodrama, without winding highways that lead nowhere. Everything here is placid and calm. Underwater the light is filtered and waifish, weak and dull, refusing to penetrate. The surface it transparent yet infinitely distant. There is no wind, no seasons, no flowers, no fire.

And it never snows.