Brilliant Shell

People ask “If you could do anything, anything at all, what would you do?” Now how loaded a question is that? One must have the means to do what they want. One must know what one wants. My knee-jerk response? Travel the world alone hopefully with enough cash to stay some place with a bed and a bath. First off I have child. I cannot abandon her. Dream gone. End of story. (I would have said with my family, husband and daughter but that is in dissolve.)
Second response: learn to play guitar better and sing but not alone, with help. Money? Third response: write with some formal instruction.
Fourth teach: anything art, music, English, to smile, to not take it so seriously - like I do (take it too seriously). To let it happen. Have fun, learn what you need. Learn a good trade that pays well; then do what you want in between. Don’t get married. Fight for what you believe in. Freedom, healthcare, mutual respect and love.
If I could do anything? It’s such a non question. When I think about doing anything I have to do, I shrink. I react like a child with no instructions even though I know how.
What do you want to do? Anything? It’s a silly question. I want to be odd like Warhol and change the face art. I want to say the truth without being punished. I want others to say the truth without being punished.
What’s a job? A piece of shit thing you do to make money to survive. Sometimes you luck into one you like. Some people are paid exorbitant amounts of money for the most obscenely menial task. Wage distribution in this world is worthy of chronic vomiting. That’s not hyperbole! A maid can take home more than a man who was worked 14 hours in a field picking cotton. She $25 an hour, he $25 a day. It’s fucking ridiculous. Money isn’t the wage it’s the game. I hate the game. Worse I hate the game of life itself. What’s it worth? Without being a teacher or a mentor or doing some form of helping another individual it’s pointless.
I hope I’m helping my daughter. I’ve taken’ a bit of a break lately. Not completely, but I’m not feeling like have much to give. What do you give when you have nothing? No one understands how I got here. One minute I’m attending PTA meetings, working fulltime and singing on the weekends. Nothing could be better. Of course I can’t forget the alcohol that contributes to it all. Life’s a party. Little things tear me down along the way. They strip me of my humanity. I become a shell. A brilliant shell. One that performs all the tasks required. One that knows what is right and wrong. One that knows how to advance oneself. One that knows how to encourage others. One that knows to say “you’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry” “Oh how silly of me your way is better” “I can’t imagine why I thought to do it that way.” “No, no you’re right.” Suddenly there’s no one there, just a stepford thing. A brilliant shell, because it knows how. It knows the way it’s done what to follow what to say. However, the person I was inside is dead and now I’m plotting my mortal death. I quit drinking. My energy is slipping. My old self who was clearly wrong has become fragile. I see a psychiatrist – meds galore. I see a therapist. People notice I’m needy and shy away. Some make fun of me. Some ignore me. Some come to my aid. (Thank you). Hollow eyed and struggling to do this on my own. I will either die or come back. I cannot say.

Connections & Dreams

While having lunch on Thursday, the discussion turned to Austin, TX. A co-worker’s son lives there and she was talking about what a neat town it is. I agreed and began thinking of one trip I had made to SXSW, an annual music conference in Austin. I had flight benefits with American Airlines and I flew standby to Dallas hoping to get on a flight to Austin. If you didn’t know about the events occurring in Austin you might have thought there was a large group of people going to funeral by the sea of black clad passengers waiting to board their flight. Music people always wear a lot of black, whether they are A&R, Press, Agents or actual musicians. I shivered for a moment at the thought of this flight full of music types. Don’t musicians and promoters typically die in plane crashes?
As the last passengers boarded the plane my name was called and I had scored a seat on the flight. The plane was a DC10, in fact it was one of the last DC10’s that was scheduled to retire the following month. Again a shiver ran through my spine. How far is Austin from Dallas anyway? A DC10 for a short hop of a flight. I white knuckled it and when it was time to land, I swear to God, we came out of the sky with a huge thud on the runway. Scared me to death!
I hooked up with some friends from Tucson playing at Liberty Lunch and secured ground travel for the trip back home. It was a VW bus. Slowest damn VW bus ever! I was stuck in a bus with 5 stinky musician guys talking about taking a dump and other lovely topics but I made it home.



















Flash back to reality.

I ‘m tucking my daughter into bed. I remember how an old roommate used to tuck me into bed and turn on Sarah Mclaughlin to sooth my desperately depressed heart and lull me to sleep. Very sweet.

Later I’m sitting watching LOST and there’s this whole VW bus scene. Weird! I was just thinking about an old VW bus today. The final scene, in chimes Sarah singing “In the Arms of an Angel” Ooh. more weirdness.

That night I had a very vivid dream. My mother wanted me to meet an artist. I invited one friend along to join me. I entered this tiny white house nestled between huge foothills mansions. Inside a little old black lady was smoking a cigar. My mom stood silently in the corner. Three little black girls were there too, about 12, 8 and 6 years old. They were smoking cigars too. The cigar smoke was thick and smelled like nothing I had ever smelled. It smelled like heaven.
My friend called me on the cell phone. I went outside to take the call.
The woman warned me not to go, but I was already out the door. I told my friend how to get to the house.
I noticed large pieces of cardboard painted in a primitive Mondrian style. My friend ran up to me, she was followed by 6 or 7 other women. I said I had only invited her and the house was really small and I didn’t think it was appropriate to bring anyone else. She began to berate the woman’s artwork and my clothing. It was all catty and high school-like. The other women laughed and beckoned my friend to follow them. They wanted to go out on the town.

I said “Whatever! You superficial freak!”

I went back inside and the lady sat in the kitchen arguing with the 12 year old about somethig in the bathroom. Then she smiled at me. I smiled and felt warm and perfectly content. The smell, the smell was amazing. I closed my eyes.

Then I woke up.