The little mac that could

Once I was offered a job at the Mac Store. They were opening up their first St. Louis location, I was pissed about something or another at the job I had at the time, and applied. Unfortunately, it was as a 3rd key gig. Not enough to pay the rent. But sometimes I think about it, like now as the Conficker virus threatens and PC folks are scrambling for protection.

While I don't keep up now like I should, at one time I was quite the Apple weenie. Mac magazines littered the living room along with Billboard, Rolling Stone, Performing Songwriter, Frets (RIP) and Gourmet. I salivated over all the new machines, software upgrades, clock chippers and icon makers. If there was a way to push a mac further and faster, I knew it. Extension conflicts? Clean up? Done and done. At home or at work, from Performas, to Duo-docked Power Books, to iMacs to a G3 Wallstreet Power Book, to a warhorse Sawtooth G4, my macs were stable, fast and reliable.

Then it got too easy. OSX came along, processors, hard drives and external drives grew, and life got simpler. The intuitive use of Apple, became even more so. Plug and play, indeed. I didn't have to be a weenie, I didn't even have to keep up to be happy. My G5 iMac came to me two years old and it's still got room to grow. It's an accounting office, a recording studio, a publishing house, a communications center, a photo studio and a movie house. What more could a girl want? Oh, yeah. That.

Folk in St. Louis: It's a big ol' Martin love-fest

The last two weekends in St. Louis have been a folk fan's banquet and a big ol' Martin guitar love-fest t'boot. March 21st brought John Gorka and Susan Werner to the Sheldon Concert Hall. I've been a fan of John's since hearing him on the Legacy compilation CD way back in 1989. He, Cliff Eberhardt, Pierce Pettis and Bill Morrissey restored my faith in "folk" or "singer/songwriter" music that year. His lyrics were sad and a bit wry, with deceptively simple melodies woven through the mood. Susan first came to my attention through a little concert series put on by Jill Stratton at Washington University in the mid '90's. I was instantly attracted to her wit, (or as she puts it, "smart mouth", amazing musicianship and vocal range, and common experience (raised Catholic, played guitar in church, had to run away from it, yet still strangely drawn). Double bills are never long enough, especially at the acoustically perfect Sheldon. With such a growing catalog to choose from, there'd be no way to cover them all. But John managed to sneak in "Angel With Your Hair" and Susan did "Movie Of My Life" so it was all good by me. And as a special treat, we got to see them play together at the end of each other's sets. It was fun and joyful for them as well as for the audience.

While Michael Peter Smith from Chicago is part of an older school of folk, with comtemporaries like the late Steve Goodman and John Prine, his brand of sometimes funny, sometimes sadly haunting acoustic music fits right in with Gorka and Werner. His songs have been covered by Steve Goodman, Jimmy Buffett, Suzy Boggus, Trout Fishing In America and the Clancy Brothers among others. Michael played March 28th at The Focal Point. Armed with his trusty D-35, (that was EQ'd to perfection!) he did not disappoint. Fan favorites like "Sister Clarissa", "Panther In Michigan", "Famous In France" and my favorite, "Zippy", kept the audience singing, crying and laughing from start to finish.

So next time you hear about how horrible the ticket prices are for the "big" concerts, how far away you have to sit, how much you have to pay for parking, how people talked through the whole show... Support the smaller tours instead. Up close, personal, gratifying and worth every penny. Leaves you enough change to have dinner out and buy a CD, too. They'll even sign it for ya, just ask.

The Weed

I am a weed
Unwanted in prim gardens
Left for dead
Then blooming unexpectedly
In poor soil
Where someone stops to wonder
At quiet beauty
That few others ever see

I am a flower
Hiding on the forest floor
Peeking out
To bask in the pale sunlight
Of early spring
Pick me and I'll perish
Before your eyes
Have time to remember me

I am a wildflower
Fragile and ephemeral
Stubborn as a weed
Growing in a sidewalk crack
Allow me space
To spread my roots and tendrils
Uninterrupted
And I will bloom just for you

House of stone

In a park, by a lake, near a waterfall, in the woods, sits a house. What is left of a house. A house of stone. Grass carpets the living room and bed rooms, honeysuckle sprouts where breakfast was served. Understory trees stand cooking dinner in the kitchen for the birds and squirrels. Though modest by today's standards, it was quite the country home in the days of history past. Life was simpler; life was hard, but not without reward. Imagine cooling off on a summer's day in the shade of your very own bluff, splashing in a waterfall that's walking distance from your back door. Cooling milk and butter in the well by the side porch, picking berries from the woods for cobbler in July, living a life dictated by the seasons. Days in the stone house were numbered. Progress hastened its demise. Still, when I see its remains, it is alive. Alive with memories of someone else's mind.

For the birds

Birds are a tremendous joy in my life. I could stand at my kitchen sink, staring out the window at the feeders for hours. They fascinate me. Flight. Imagine it. In dreams I have flown like a bird; swooping, diving, circling, climbing, wheeling away with the night. Even though it is just their way of life, sometimes they look so elated, like they are having so much fun. And if flight was not enough, there is song. In the morning they greet the day with seemingly endless verse; at night they sing down the sun. If only all my movements and communication were marked by such effortless beauty. If only I could be a bird.

What was the Foxfire Resort?

Somewhere on a blacktop farm road, around or between Prairie Creek, Little Flock and Rogers, Arkansas, sits Foxfire. As we sped past, I looked, but it was not enough. I needed to turn back and see more. Crumbling before our very eyes, the old red-barn style resort still spoke with a certain charm. A peek in the windows showed dust and disrepair of a recent variety. Someone made a go of it there until at least the early 1990's if the old "Natural State" poster is any indication.


An outbuilding housed a laundry, but there were no washers or derelict driers to be found. It was also supposedly the entrance to the pool, which quite oddly disappeared without a trace as well. The main building was still hung with signage telling guests where to check in and where the bathrooms and shower rooms were. Pieces and parts littered the grounds. A rusting refrigerator motor here, broken windows there, siding and overgrowth everywhere.

A newer house, seemingly occupied, set back behind the old buildings, so we did not want to trespass too aggressively. Still, I wished I'd seen if they were home. Did they own it? Who used to own it? When did it open? When did it close? Where on earth did the pool go? What were their plans for it now? After regretting the questions left unsaid, my imagination still ran with what could have been at the Foxfire Resort. Vacationing families, weekend adventurers, road weary drivers, lovers meeting secretly in mid-week. All now forgotten but the dust and ghosts. Someone must remember it. If you do, let me know.

Sweet peace

For three perfect days, I awoke to the sounds of the lake. Wind rustling through the still bare willows and oaks, water lapping against the dock, ducks, geese and songbirds getting ready for spring; it was what my soul needed. The unusually temperate weather allowed for porch sitting, both early and late. There is nothing like playing guitar and sipping late morning coffee on the deck while the work-a-day world spins haplessly around you. The rest of the day can wait. Time is still, the air is fresh; moments lost in thought are a treasure. For three perfect days there was sweet peace.

Just want to bang on the drum all day

Work was a four letter word today, and not one of the good ones, either. Just did not want to be there. Had other things on my mind. Anyplace would have been better. Okay, not anyplace, but pretty darn close. So I fired off an email to a friend two cubes down that said simply, "I don't wanna work, I just want to bang on the drum all day." She replied, "If you only knew how many times a day that song pops into my mind!" So I got coffee, I went to the bathroom, I walked around with paper in my hand so I'd look like I was going somewhere for a reason, I hid in a different friend's cube talking about driving, rock 'n' roll biographies and suicide for a while, I went and got some water, I cruised the fax machines looking for incoming, and I thought about Todd Rundgren.

Back in the record daze, I went to a convention and ended up meeting Todd and getting to sit around and talk for a good while. It didn't hurt that I fell into both the Todd-is-god school of production and the Beatles freak legion. He was gracious, intelligent and the epitome of geek-cool, even before there was such a thing. We gabbed about apple computers, over-stacked acoustic guitars and vocals, the echo chambers below the Capitol building, the Beatles and the Phil Spector wall-of-sound among other things. It was memorable, indeed.

And then I returned to my windowless, doorless, lifeless cubicle. No wonder I just want to bang on the drum all day.

Birches

Every time I see a birch tree, I think about the Bill Morrissey song, "Birches". Hopelessly romantic, I would seek to burn them and dance in the light as well. But even before Bill's song entered my world, I was enchanted by birches. They were few and far between where I grew up, so whenever I spotted their white bark, I was always drawn. Delicate layers, pale and peeling like lace, birches seemed to be the bride of trees. As a child, I would gently peel the bark, trying to preserve a note sized section. Writing on birch bark transported me to ancient times; I was elite, a Russian princess or maybe a chosen Ojibway hiding the scrolls. Now I am content to gaze in fascination, freezing moments in photos and memories. Still, hopelessly romantic.

Something changed

80% of the time, lyrics came first. Always. I started making up songs before I could even play a note. It's what kids do. I just never grew out of it. But even when I began playing guitar, lyrics nearly always came first. Poems set to music. Occasionally a whole package would present itself, notes and words seemingly already married. Very rarely would a melody enter my head without a lyric attached.

Past tense. Something strange happened last June. On the night of the full moon, everything changed. I didn't know it then. It was chalked up as one of those rare occasions when a melody alone demanded attention, most likely precipitated by the phase of the moon. Until it happened again. Driving, humming, humming what? And again. Surely, it's something I've heard before that I am unwittingly plagiarizing. So I play it for my husband, a couple of friends. They can't place it either. So it continued. Creativity as I know it was turned on its head.

What could make everything change? Change nearly in an instant, over night, with only the full moon to blame? Was there actually an evolution so gradual that I just didn't notice everything slowly turning upside down? No. Something happened. An odd magic, a twist of reality, something drastic yet natural, something beyond definition. Something.

Sleep

Sleep. It seems that there is never enough time for the quantity of it which I desire. And I desire a lot. Please don't wake me, let me hibernate. Quilts and afghans pulled above my head, warm and dreaming, stretch, sigh, curl up again, repeat. Today was rare. Somehow the luxury of an afternoon nap became a reality. Once asleep, guilt over tasks left behind is forgotten. Plans for dinner are irrelevant. Control is gone. Such a gift, to be able to let go; to dream even as the sun shines on the scurrying world. The week will be there waiting for me when I return, greedy of time, always pressing for more. But for now, it has to wait. Don't spoil the afterglow. Stretch, curl up again, repeat. Sigh. Sleep.

Selfish

"I'm so hard to handle, I'm selfish and I'm sad ....
....I wish I had a river I could skate away on"

Joni Mitchell has a way of bringing to light what most would hide and accepting it, if not being proud in the process. From her heart to her sleeve to her paintings and songs, that unabashed honesty flows. We are who we are.

I recognize my selfish streak, my hard to handle tendencies, my stubbornness. Reigning it in can be a chore when the mood strikes at an inopportune time. My father used to tease me in his best Garbo, "She vants to be alone!" when I'd withdraw. Sometimes it made me giggle; sometimes I would just brood. Sometimes I still brood. It's part of who I am, not the whole, but a part. Might as well put it out there on my sleeve, in honesty.

April come she will

Morning birdsong is beginning. Robins are flocking. Buds are swelling. The calendar still says it's winter, but signs point to spring.

There is no control over the seasons. They will ebb and flow at their own pace, teasing us with a few warm days, only to freeze the world again by Thursday. I can lament winter's passing and our paltry one and a half snows all I want, but it is to no avail. Spring has the blessed freedom to do as she pleases.

So I give in, seed catalogs scattered on the floor, as I sit cross-legged, sipping tea and pouring over blueberries, basil, heirloom tomatoes and beets. I long to work the soil. Sun on my back, fragrant earth beneath my knees, tiny green shoots growing into salads and pesto, ice cream and pies. It won't be long. I know winter will come again, perhaps next week, but spring is immanent. She'll come what may.

Valentine's Day

Love can be forever; it can last infinitely. Or not. Ask anyone who has ever been in love. In other words, ask anyone. Rare is the individual who has never been in love.

Nothing non-alcoholic, nothing legal, can impair judgment as much as falling in love. Under the influence, you can convince yourself of anything. It's dangerous. It's exhilarating. Hormones, endorphins, serotonin, adrenalin. You're a superhero, a psychic, a goddess, a god; you're unstoppable, invincible and immortal. You believe in infinite love.

Perhaps that is why few marriages stand the test of time. When love changes, and it will, people are just not ready. They refuse to accept it. They continue to seek the rush until the chase leaves them crushed. Admittedly, some things were never meant to be, but others?

Infinite love does exist. It takes a good portion of leeway, continual attempts at understanding, repeated forgiveness, sympathy, empathy, patience and humor, but it's there. Sometimes.

Somewhere In Illinois

The world smells like a wet screen door
1978 in Illinois
Woven with patches, white paint peeling
Where the cats have clawed

Rain stopped just after nightfall
Still dripping from bare trees
The sycamore groans, gravel crunches
It’s almost like going home

Then you come to me on the full moon
As clouds skirt the starless sky
Bringing me nothing that I’ve asked for
But everything I desire

And I’m back on that sad old porch
Familiar as my minds own eye
The screen door creaks, you’re there again
With me one more time

Just barely time to say goodbye
As the rain comes back to fall
The moon disappears, and you with it
Somewhere in Illinois.

.

"Death is there to keep us honest......"

"......and constantly remind us we are free." DF "Ghosts"

Cemeteries are a reoccurring theme for me. Odd, I suppose, for someone who wants to be cremated. But these were the playgrounds of my youth. Lush and green, lakes with swans and ducks to feed, paths to walk, trees to sit under. Years later, my imagination wandered through endless moonlit graveyards, full of unrequited romance and Hitchcockian terror. Now as I ramble through the quiet stones, my thoughts still linger over unknown stories, broken angels and the ghosts of days left behind. I can't help but be drawn in.

After the last snow, I took these photos in a graveyard not far from my house. Dan Fogelberg's "Ghosts" provide the soundtrack.

I candod beade

I candod beade ad I wand my bandkie......

Having a cold sucks. My lips are chapped, my nose is raw, there aren't enough Puffs Plus with Aloe Lotion in the world, let alone my house. Someone needs to bring me a pillow and some nice hot tea, cover me with a home made afghan or quilt, rub my back and read to me. Nothing I have to do is getting done; no energy to change guitar strings or play, no voice to sing, and the bathroom is not getting cleaned today, either. Soon as I lower my head, the cough will begin, so I fight to stay upright until the dextromethoriphan kicks in, only then will I rest. Of course, a little whiskey might improve the process. The Dextro-Daniels medicinal cocktail. Afterall, what is Nyquil? That's really livin' on the edge, huh? Makes me feel like a rebel without a schnoz. Appearently, my breathing isn't all that suffers when I have a cold. Yep, this sucks.

Shields up!

I name things. Or rather, things I own tend to name themselves. Every vehicle I’ve had has emerged with a unique name. My new truck is no different.

The dealer nearly gave this thing away. They are so desperate to make a sale in this economy. After finding out how much the Chevy Volt technology was going to cost next year, (as much for a small car as I paid for my small house!), I decided to pull the trigger, coz The Grape wasn’t getting’ any younger. I'd keep my beloved old truck and run it into the ground but still get a new 2008, while the gettin' was good. I wheeled and dealed and walked out a winner.

As part of a package, I had to take the truck back up to the dealership and have the Crystal Fusion windshield stuff put on. I was describing it to my husband, “It makes water sheet and rocks and stuff bounce off your windshield without chipping or cracking it.” He laughed, “It’s a force field?” I laughed, “Yeah, but I couldn’t afford the transporter upgrade.” We could not help ourselves. “Shields up!” “Does it have photon torpedo headlights?” Laughter was leaving us breathless. “Where is warp speed button?” “Oh, no! Klingons and Romulans aren’t covered in the warranty!” "Open all hailing frequencies." “Hello, On-Star? This is the Starship Equinox…..”

And so the new truck was named.

Down came the snow

Snow Down

Finally, the snow came down.
Wave after wave of powder,
A swirling mist covering the night.
Cloud filtered moonlight
Reflects eerily upon every hill.
Each tree becomes a study
In black and white.
The morning will bring the plows,
The traffic and the grey.
Until then,
A pristine world lies in wait.

Not my cat

Cats do not like wasabi. Other than being a foregone conclusion, why on earth would I know this? Because the not-my-cats are still on the prowl.

Don't get me wrong. I love cats. Growing up on the farm, we had between three and thirteen cats at any given time. Not only were they pets; (Dove, Rikki, Reesie, Bangor, Dutch, Magneto and Piper to name a few) they roamed the acreage and kept the mice down in the barn. It was their job. Out in the country, that's how it was. Even here in the city, I'd have at least one now, were it not for my husband's aversion to the idea. But then there are the not-my-cats. They are beautiful. One is some kind of Himalayan or Long Haired Persian or Siamese, the other two are fluffy and dark. But they are a hazard.

Our bird feeders hang over a shade garden, next to some Korean Spice and Spirea bushes. Loose neighborhood cats think of this as their all-you-can-pounce buffet. In the spring, a large black fluffy feline (yes, the one in the picture) quite literally flew through the air and snatched a cardinal off of the feeder. I have no idea where it came from or went to after, as he streamed horizontally across my field of vision like a low flying plane. Super Cat! He and his friends also decided that the flower bed along the back of the house (that the drier vent just happens to keep toasty warm on cold winter days) was their new litter box. N-n-n-n-no. So we sprinkled wasabi powder on the soil. The not-my-cats get it on their paws and fur, then lick....... They stay out of the flower bed now. Yes, they do.

If I ever manage to win over my husband' s objections, perhaps I will get a nice fluffy kitty and name her Wasabi. The poetic justice would be far too succulent to pass by.