
photo credit: Marc Marnie
One of my clients talks to me about the art of "Freestyling." This is what he seeks to achieve in playing piano. My term for this would be "improvisation," but I like his word. It feels like skiing, like free-falling, like letting go.
I realise that my recent posts have alluded to this idea. And bordered continually also on the notion of OBSESSION.
Clearly, to create, one must be a bit obsessed? An idea, a musical phrase, a lyric, a theme repeats and repeats until you pay attention. And then continues, to make sure it is not forgotten.
We are in March now. My moods are manic mad hatters at ungodly earthquake hours. I wake, shook, longing to phone someone, wishing I had the clarity to understand why I have been so continually rattled. Sometimes, joy and discovery feel like panic, overwhelm, and overload.
First, I am breaking ground and flying down a hill. Next, I am in a back seat, clutching a grip for dear life as my back feels every bump and pothole, going over 75 miles per hour.
My fears and technicolor dreams are mixed in the same bag, but it is not like popcorn and Raisinets. It is more like hot sauce and ice cream. The fire is melting.
Now that I have attempted to define a current existential state.. let me freestyle a blog. Let me fill it with weird moments of happiness. Let me pepper it with needle-pricking sheer moments of terror. What last week was like..
Flying is wonderful when the Captain tells everyone to sit down, and expect turbulence. And then it never happens. You see the clouds in various forms, slithering, dissolving, lounging in puffy clumps. It is still. You realize people are now more silent than ever because everyone is on a cell phone. The flight attendant gives you graham cracker snacks you will not eat, but you don't want to say no, so you take them and save them for your neighbor.
You have that moment of happiness to be home. Your cat sitter hoovered. Henry is exactly Henry.
Piling in the laundry, you think of your mother, and you suddenly lose your breath. Kaiser Permanente phoned to remind you that you need a mammogram and you suddenly feel a burst of terror. You look in the mirror and your eyelids are swollen and red. You feel so tired you cannot sleep. You are not hungry. You feel like you could forget the entire weekend
You wonder, who could I talk to right now? And what could I even say? Is my mother "failing?" Has she been abandoned in many ways? What can I do now?
The noise of the construction next door feels oddly comforting. Some people are making something. Shouldn't you get out to the studio?
You sit down and grab your guitar. You write something you don't understand. You record it on your phone, as though you found a beautiful shell on a city beach.
People contact you about their sessions. You feel a complete dread. Not making enough money. Not really helping anyone.
You catch the gardener who comes once a week using a pesticide sprayer and have a complete panic inside yourself. Please don't do that. Please you say. The bees. the butterflies. Please. You suddenly want to cry.
You keep it together.
You vote. You hear the Supreme Court has no problem with Trump running for President. You are in the car listening to NPR. You are behaving badly swearing at Steve Inskeep for even including Trump as a rational candidate. You correct yourself, taking stock. What if no one really cares? What if he wins? What if you are being hysterical and just plain over-reacting? You can only preach to the choir. Everyone who disagrees with you will take you apart like a well cooked roast beef with a giant serving fork. Easy now. Be careful.
You are making lists endlessly.
Musicians to support and check out: John McDuffie. Jason Luckett. Amilia K Spicer. Sarah Kramer. Those guys at Cantor's on Tuesday nights. Ted Kamp. Want to record with him someday. Of course, Chris Price. Your fellow F name friends Fernando and Fuzzbee and Feer. Terry Paul Raymond. Chad Watson.. Pam Loe. Oh there are lists of places. You think of Jason Berk. You remember Maureen Davis. You think of Amanda Mosher. And then Heather Lomax. All these places and people. Bobbo Byrnes. Your dear friend James Houlahan. You are feeling weird happiness.
You think of what you do and how does it relate to anyone, anyone? You panic again. You want to hide behind the Facebook curtain. How do I look? Should I ever perform again? Should I just hide in my work, in my studio? You are tired and you are wired.
You'd like to drink endless gin and tonics. You would like to sit in front of a fire.
You'd like to sleep for 12 hours.
You'd like to wake up and find out climate change has gone away.
Completely different people are running for President.
You got invited to play in someone's band. You got invited to perform with your very favorite artists, Your mother is going to be ok. You are loved.
Lily Gladstone is going to win an Oscar.
There will be a ceasefire.
Someday we won't have to think about Putin any more.
Children are not going to suffer. We will save the whales, the polar bears, the elephants, the Amazon.
I will make meaningful songs that lift people up and keep them company.
I will never need a face lift.
I will find a home for my music.
Suddenly, with that thought, I feel the weird happiness again.
The winning-the-lottery kind.
It feels like getting extra daylight back.
It feels like unexpected birthday wishes, or fruit left at the front door.
It feels like driving into Palm Springs,
Listening to music in a car with my best friend, not having to talk.
A combination of relief and the revelation of surrender.
Is the ending to this blog going to be a sad one?
No, I don't think so.
I want to hope Spring can never be far away from ecstasy, even if my whacky wee self distorts it all, at odd hours.
I keep wanting to believe in the Good, the Better, the happy ending.
It is the best part of me, I think. And of all of us.
I wish you tulips and oranges.
And avocados when they come.
Your California Dreaming girl, Feef.
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