Sep 16 2013

Music Monday: Patti Smith

2d946c9aI had the indescribable pleasure of seeing Patti Smith perform this past week at a cool event called Station to Station – a traveling art installation featuring concerts, art and artisans choo-chooing its way from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

Unlike my usual m.o., I actually came to Patti through her look first, her writing second and her music third. It seems I’ve always unconsciously knocked off her iconic androgynous style – flat chested, no hips, her tomboy look always worked for me. Still does. I wear many different things, but I am most myself in a pair of Chucks and jeans. That’s what I wear when I want to be free. Or invisible. Or invincible. I was a total nerd and stole a white oxford from Saint James and basically wore the black ribbon outfit pictured above (also the cover of her Horses album). Felt like a goofball and also, a million bucks.

A few years ago I read her quiet gem of a memoir, Just Kids. It’s about her friendship/love with Robert Mapplethorpe, and I must admit it shook me. These people were so extremely outside of my experience growing up – basically finding no other way to live than to completely mesh life and art, so that one bled into the other until they were indistinguishable and often deeply painful. I read it again with the ladies of my book club, the second time leaving me free to concentrate on her words and how she delicately strung them together like the beaded necklaces she and Robert used to wear. Her writing is so beautiful, tender, strong and honest – really just a way to describe her too.

She took the stage with her son, Jackson. (Don’t even get me started on the awesomeness of watching a mom and her boy make music together). She was soon joined by Gary Louris, Mark Mallman and a few other local musicians. She pretended not to know their names, but she did of course. They were utterly and obviously in her thrall – grown men, accomplished musicians, full-fledged rockers just happy and jazzed to be on stage with her. It’s not often, in this society, that a woman of that age gets to command that much respect and adoration. It was inspiring to say the least.

She is simply bad ass. But she’s also delicate and her voice sounds unexpectedly young and sweet. I think that she has lived so authentically her whole life, that she’s one of those people you can see into. She’s complex, she’s a thinker and a creator, but she’s very very clear about who she is and what she is. When you can see and feel someone with that immediacy, their art goes straight to your heart. There are no layers – no artifice – no attitude. Nothing to get in the way and distort the art. She very simply gave us the gift of herself without a lot of fanfare. And that is her power.

She dedicated this song to all of our “loves” and to her love, the late Fred Sonic Smith. Talk about a swooning moment. Top five, people.

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Sep 9 2013

Happy (belated) Birthday to Saint James

santiandmomIn the spirit of catching up one bite at a time, I just want to go back a couple weeks and wish my boy a happy 13th birthday. The birthday post is kind of a state of the union address, is it not?

Someday I might peruse back and read that the summer Saint James became a teenager, he would still get excited every time he saw the great blue heron in the pond near his school. I’d be happy to remember that he was, as ever, still into creatures and critters of every kind, spending time outdoors either kicking a ball or neck craned towards the ground, searching for something alive.

I would remember that he was crazy for soccer and approached every team he played on with an open heart and a willingness to give absolutely everything to his coach, his boys and the game. I might like to read that he felt the big wins and losses with equal intensity, and that he fought back tears like a champ. But I saw them.

I might chuckle at our obsession with the suspenseful, slightly inappropriate, tween show, Pretty Little Liars, and the sneaky, winking face he use to make to tantalize me to watch with him. Only dipping in for every 3rd to 4th episode, I got a detailed play-by-play of what I missed – more words that I normally heard out of Saint James, he had an earnest interest in keeping me caught up. It was our thing – and he laughed at me when I screamed. That show is some scary shit.

When I read back, I’ll know that as of age 13, his hand was still smaller than mine when we pressed them together. We both think the tips of his fingers will reach mine by Christmas. We’ll see.

I might be reminded that a couple days after his birthday, on my birthday, we were a tumble of bodies and blankets at Music and Movies at the bandshell when my people started agitating to put our “plan” into effect. And by “our plan” I mean “their plan.” They had decided August 23rd, my birthday, was when we would take a dark night swim. The heat wave had given way to a cool breeze and fatigue and gravity would have made it all too easy to try to talk them out of it. But since it’s generally better to choose YES, we went.

The lake was quiet and still and there was a huge, waning harvest moon hanging in the sky. Everyone stayed within the buoys except for Saint James and me. We ventured out together, as we do, silent except for the occasional look at the city! look at the moon! We swam and swam, easy strokes and pounding hearts, the water and the night sky the same impossible black, thrilling at the tiny lights on shore and the unthinkable depths below.

And then I heard it. Otters, mom? Otters. Saint James’ favorite animal for many years, otters swim on their backs and hold hands. Ya, let’s do otters. We flipped onto our backs and held hands in the dark. He’s a thin boy, Saint James, and floating doesn’t come easy. Fill your lungs buddy.

We floated in silence for no more than a minute, but it was a minute that held wrapped tightly within it thirteen years of my heart’s longings and loves for this kid. It was a minute where I was fully able to feel my blessing in real time, as opposed to in retrospect. It was a minute that will stay with me always.

Thank you for otters, Saint James. And happy birthday, kid.


Sep 5 2013

Tiny Floating

tinyfloatingI love lakes. I just do. So many people prefer oceans, or (egads) swimming pools, but to me nothing beats a cool, deep lake. I like that the water is sweet. I like that it holds mysteries. I like that lakes are alive, yet contain nothing that can actually eat me. Lakes are safe, but they are dark – and something about that floats my boat.

August had me returning to the lake every day. Multiple times a day. After a summer spent at the pool, I’m over its artificial blue waters and right angles – the chlorine, the bodies. Something about the late summer light makes me yearn for nature and its wild edges. I crave the inky black water and the cloud streaked sky. Morning, noon and best of all, night, the lake is different and completely gorgeous each time.

I’ve always been one to swim out way far – searching for the middle – possibly the area where I go tiny dancing. On vacation I would eye a distant rock island for days until one day I made a break for it with Saint James. We don’t swim fast, we don’t swim freestyle. A simple, head out of the water breast stroke allows us to talk and go for days. He’s always been my deep swim companion and we’d turn, panting and proud, to see our people, impossibly small and worriedly standing with hands on hips on the shore.

This August, through the heatwave, the middle of Lake Harriet became my parlor of sorts and I brought anyone who was game. Dash, Supergirl, book club ladies. I wanted to share the MIDDLE, because the middle is better than the edges.

It occurs to me that what draws me back again and again is the same exact feeling that I get from crunching my way out onto the white expanse in the wintertime. It’s found territory – a place where your body isn’t necessarily supposed to be. I love being where I’m not supposed to be.

Floating on my back, with planes flying overhead or the moon hanging like a swinging bulb, the water lapping at my temples – this is the physical sensation of summer that I am choosing for myself this year. This is what I will think about when the snow flies and the lake is frozen to land. I will imagine those waters holding my body afloat, limbs splayed and eyelids heavy, a sacred offering to the sun.


Sep 2 2013

Music Monday: Mumford and Sons

As far as the banjo revolution goes, I’d consider myself a moderate fan. It’s not my go-to music, but I enjoy it out in the sun, with a beer in my hand or alone in my kitchen while I cook. For a while anyway.

I have always liked Mumford and Sons, but man, they blew up so quick and huge that it’s hard not to want to escape them from time to time. That’s why this self-mocking video for ‘Hopeless Wanderer’ is such a brilliant move. The Mumford boys do not appear – instead you get Jason Bateman, Jason Sudeikis, Ed Helmes and Will Forte, hamming it up in gnarly beards and dusty amish-wear.

It’s great and just enough to make me want to hang in there with Mumford. Any band with a sense of humor about themselves and a clue about where they fit in the world is alright by me.

Happy Labor Day and enjoy.

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Sep 1 2013

Crappy Family Time

treeshotDoes crappy family time still count as quality family time? I sure hope so, because as of late, I feel like we’ve concocted more than our fair share of it. Maybe you know what I’m talking about. It’s when you really want to do something fun as a family and it feels doomed at the word GO. At least one person is being a pill, at least two people are fighting with each other, at least one person is crying or whining, at least one person has sunscreen in her eye, at least one parent is yelling about gratitude and at least one Croc is missing.

People don’t talk about crappy family time because mainly, you want to forget all about it. It’s pathetically easy to believe that other families don’t experience crappy family time – that your own family is the only family comprised of malcontents, drama queens and feeble brats who act like riding a bike around the chain of lakes is a cruel and unusual punishment. For my own sanity, I have to believe we all have crappy family time sometimes, and if I’m wrong, well then, you must be feeling really great about yourselves right about now.

By no means do I mean to imply that I am a blameless observer of crappy family time – some of my least proud parenting moments have happened within the framework of fun and togetherness. This is how it tends to go: I will play Julie McCoy, spawn an idea, quickly research a bit on line and announce it to the brood only to be met with resistance or worse yet, complete apathy. I will soldier on and run around making preparations, while I alternately bark orders for readiness and rattle off enticing reasons said outing will be just! so! terrific! Except that in lieu of smiling eager beavers, I get a pack of surly rabbits who refuse to come easily. And inevitably, I lose my cool and before we have even left the house, I have yelled at everyone and am left asking myself a simple yet crushing question: why bother?

Really, I’d like to know. Why bother?

Because sometimes, you finally shove off, pulling a black cloud behind you like it’s tethered to everyone’s bike seat and someone (I’m not naming names) will start in on the whining from the get go and others will bike ahead and you will spend a good 20 minutes fuming and pondering the question, and then you will find a way to dig really really deep and say something funny, something encouraging and a couple tethers on that cloud will snap, and your shoulders will relax and you’ll keep going, steadily pedaling your way into the light.

The truth is, crappy family time usually turns itself around. Notwithstanding all the annoyance and grief, if you push through, it eventually dissipates, sometimes in imperceptible increments, sometimes all at once. The moods lift, the complaints soften and you get into a groove so that by the time you’re rolling back home you feel happy, tired and like, maybe, you accomplished something. Together.

That’s why we bother.


Aug 26 2013

Music Monday: “Ready to Start” with Arcade Fire

shoesHere we go again, only this particular morning, with the dew point hanging heavily around the point of drenched while simply breathing, it feels unusually cruel to be sending my small people back to school. But I’ll do it anyway because I have no choice. If anyone had bothered to ask my opinion on the matter, I would take another week of lingering on beaches in the late summer sun. We would visit art museums and food trucks. We would have communal reading time. We would water color at the rose garden. We would rest.

Instead, just like every other summer, I am returning them to their teachers tanned and windblown, covered in mosquito bites and scrapes, ill-coiffed, ill-tempered and ill-shod. Actually, that’s not true – thanks to Zappos, we managed to get new shoes. So, at least there’s that.

It always seems to turn out the same. We play hard all summer long and the night before school starts, we stay out too late because the evening air is always perfection and the last night of freedom simply can’t be curtailed, and then in the morning I’m frantically pulling old uniforms out of drawers hoping something fits someone, while I throw together really random school lunches and we screech into the parking lot in the nick of time and I deposit them in their classrooms, breathless and dazed. I hug them too long and walk out feeling bereft because my companions are suddenly gone and I didn’t get a chance to idle with them as I dreamt I would during those April snows.

Actually, I exaggerate. My kids are fine and usually quite ready to return. Bright eyed and chipper, ready to roll. The fact that our rest and relaxation is supposed to happen during some elusive, non-existent week that hovers like a mirage at the end of August’s calendar page simply means one thing: we don’t roll that way.

Maybe someday I’ll figure it out.

In the meantime, happy back-to-school to everyone. Enjoy a little Arcade Fire.


Aug 25 2013

How to Eat an Elephant

skyOne bite at a time. Or so they say.

This poor neglected blog is feeling like an elephant lately. Every time I have the shimmer to write something down, it just feels unwieldy. So much time has gone by, too many things have happened. I just haven’t had time this summer, between the swims and drives and music and family and friends, to write about any of it. Or, more truthfully, I didn’t make time. I’ve been feeling like I don’t need this blog like I used to and so I grapple with what that means for peevish mama the blog as well as peevish mama the person.

For whatever reason, whether it be older kids, busier schedule, actual paying freelance writing, richer friendships or the instant gratification of sharing on instagram, I don’t have the yen to vent as much on these pages. And without the peevishness, what is there? Am I losing my edge? Shit, man, too much good stuff, too much nice and this is just another boring mommy blog that’ll make ya barf. Make me barf. I’m not necessarily feeling less peevish, but I’m generally feeling as if, maybe, good thoughts will give way to good words which in turn give way to good living. And if I had to sum up the very thing I’m after these days, it’s exactly that: good living.

Sometimes you just have to live without writing about it because that’s what feels right.

Also, as the kids get older I feel like I need to tread more carefully with respect to what I write about. They are people now. Real people. One of them is even a teenager as of four days ago, and with that I feel like he deserves some modicum of privacy. My peeps don’t need me publicly working out all that there is to work out as we wade into these very cool and interesting but potentially fraught and intense years. The stakes are higher now. The stuff we’re dealing with isn’t as simple as potty training, snacks and fiendishly stubborn toddlers. Now we deal in character and morality, life’s dreams and matters of the heart. All good, but it’s bigger – not something I can just toss off like I used to.

So how’s that for a whole steaming load of excuses? Pretty good, eh?

Last night, I got a bit of shizz for being such a blogger bum from my friends Lady Tabouli and Sporty Spice. But, ever the supporters of my words, they gently prodded me to pick up the thread and get back to it. I may not need this blog like I used to, but I love this blog as much as I ever have – simply because it turned me into a writer and is the place where I have chosen to stash many of our family memories over the last four-ish(!)  years. And honestly, enough of you have given enough of a damn to come back to roost from time to time, and that, my friends, makes it very very worth it.

So.

I’ll start.

One bite at a time.


Jul 3 2013

Man Down

santiLast week Saint James got dropped off from soccer camp and surprised the living daylights out of me by basically crumpling in the front door, clutching his ankle. Shit. The tears he had been saving up, rolled down his flushed cheeks as he growled the story to me. Basically: a big uncoordinated kid took him down. Bad. Within fifteen minutes we were on our way to the ortho urgent care, visions of a permanently bum ankle swimming in my head.

I’d like to say I had this puppy in perspective from the get go. It’s just an ankle – a swollen, bruised, gnarly looking ankle, but merely an appendage nevertheless. Lately, it seems there’s no end to the grapevine of heartbreaking stories and I knew better than to get overly upset over an ankle. It wasn’t his head. It wasn’t his kidney. I wasn’t the cells in his blood. It would be fine.

But to say that I had perspective, is not to say that I was happy about it.  As someone with a pretty shitty knee injury from her youth, I know what a thing like this can do to a sporty young head. And it’s the middle of soccer season. And most importantly of all, it’s SUMMER. A summer for which we waited a long time, and put up with a lot of snow and rain and gray. A summer that played big time hard to get. A summer that is finally, FINALLY giving us a little love. My heart squeezed when I thought about the games and bike adventures and boy wanderings he’d be missing out on. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Who knew, then, that a severe sprain and a possible fracture, crutches and two weeks in a boot would yield a silver lining? I would have expected this last week to be nothing but complaining and angst, but it has actually been quite nice. Turns out, taking one kid out of the rotation during the busiest time of the year makes a big difference. Things get a little quieter, a little easier and lo and behold, there have been more than a few times I find our entire family in the backyard, just lounging and talking, gathered around the boot like it’s a warm fire, a  powerful relic.

The injury made us slow down to keep pace with our guy on crutches and I’ve been touched to see how willing everyone was to do it. Of course, I’m going to dote and hover and cluck – I’m the mama. But I didn’t particularly expect the girls to dote and hover and cluck. They’ve been flying around the house, fetching him icepacks and drinks and pillows like little Florence Nightingales. Every time Saint James scoots down the stairs on his bottom, Devil Baby is there to carry his crutches. She holds them in perfect position for him to hop right into. They hang out with him in the basement, play couch catch, watch TV.

And the moody, monosyllabic big bruthuh is being nicer too. Whether it’s from a place of gratitude, humility or necessity, he’s being kinder to his sisters. He’s stuck and bored enough to engage with them – really talk and hang out. This could be temporary – who am I kidding, it’s totally temporary – but I’ll take it.

Normally, at this time in the summer I’d already be burnt out from the driving – fried to a crispy nugget from the schedules. But oddly, I feel really peaceful right now. I feel like I have a handle on things and we are really plugged into each other for a blink. The girls are still doing their things, but St. James is simply healing his ankle. Letting the alchemy of youth, time and magic knit all those little fibers back together.

On Wednesday we go back to the doctor to find out if he’s out of the boot and free to play or out for another 6-8 weeks because of a fracture. I know I’ve liked this little respite. I know I found a so-called silver lining, but let’s not be ridiculous. Let’s not mince words.

If St. James is out for the rest of the summer I will lose. my. shit.

Or maybe not. Fingers and ankles crossed.


May 29 2013

Sometimes I can’t even.

leafLater this morning I’ll be going to a funeral for the mother of one of Devil Baby’s classmates. A mother of a first grader and a third grader. Two little boys. This cancer seemed private in a school where help spreads like wildfire. Why didn’t I investigate? I didn’t know nearly enough about her and I didn’t help nearly enough, and the truth is I feel guilty and sad. There are other do-gooders whom I’ve come to rely upon to let me know when to send money, sign up for meals and show up to chaperone. Industrious and generous people who make it their business to make sure things get organized, but somehow I knew nothing of this and I can’t shake the feeling that the organizer should have been me.

There is a vast and sturdy net spread taut under those boys right now and for as long as they are in our community, but did she know that? I can’t help but think that would have been a comfort. To know that the moms will be paying attention and leaning in – to borrow the newest overused term floating about. Or maybe not. No one can take our place or begin to be the way we are. We may not be a perfect mother and on any given day it can feel like we’re not even a very good mother, but we are it and we are the only one that will do it just how we do it.

A mother is like a fingerprint – no two alike – and once those chicks match up to the mom, I think it’s very hard to imagine their life without her. And to be honest, I’m talking about the mother here, not the chicks. I think the chicks can and do carry on just fine in life with other mothers, fathers who become mothers and every other permutation this weird and unpredictable life can throw at them. But for the mother, for the mother it is crushingly unfair to take away her chance to be with her babies and help them grow. In her obituary she is quoted: Revel in the small things. Stop to smell your children’s heads.

You guys. It’s just so sad.

This morning I was making lunches and breakfasts simultaneously – normally something that I crabbily rush to get through – and I just kept thinking about her. This mundane task, so easily dismissed as a bother and a burden, revealed itself for what it is when we’re thinking about things the right way. It’s a blessing – to be alive and to have given life to little people who need us to do this for them for a few short years. It’s a meditation – to move our hands in the same way, day after day, for the purpose of nourishing another. It’s something to be mindful of and grateful for.

It’s not too late to help out. We can have this little boy over to play. I can organize meal drop offs. But she’s the one I keep thinking about. This woman I hardly knew, this mama who got dealt a really bad hand – the rawest of deals. She’s the one I wish I could have helped.


May 14 2013

Music Monday for Mamas

the5It’s been a good slew of days around here, right? The sun managed to muscle out a banshee wind by Sunday, revealing one of those picture perfect days when it’s cool in the shade but hot in the sun.

We took it really easy. The day basically revolved around some early morning soccer, a bushwhacking adventure with Foxy Brown and good food. Lunch was our easiest fave – salamis, cheeses, olives, other salty bits and a Crispin cider – we huddled in the sunroom and didn’t eat until nearly three o’clock; dinner was steak sandwiches with garlic aoli and peppers and onions cooked by Dash. These people of mine know the way to my heart. We hung out on our front stoop in the sun for a long time, snagging Lady Tabouli’s family in our sticky spiderweb for a beer. Mellow and sunny. Perfect and easy.

I hope all you mamas out there were able to relax and let yourselves be loved up on Mother’s Day. It’s a good one as far as holidays go. Good for everyone to stop and be allowed to say what’s in their hearts with paints and clay, beef and tryingveryhardnottofight. I like it a lot, even though Saint James raided his art folder from this past year and gifted me with some suspiciously familiar-looking albeit cool Andy Warhol-esque pineapple prints. It’s funny to me. Something about our American school system has ingrained into my kids that they must produce art for Mother’s Day – and so he did. It’s the thought that counts – even if there was very little thought at all.

Here’s a song I love by an artist whom I don’t love. What can I say, I think Kanye is preposterous, but his music is magic to me. And he loved his mama. So there’s that.

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May 13 2013

Get a Grip, Monkey Mind

treesAlways, always, always. Ten years of yoga hasn’t cured me of it. Four years of blogging hasn’t cured me of it. Circumventing bodies of water à pied et au bicyclette hasn’t cured me of it.

No matter how much I think and I think, I just can’t figure out the answers.

Why can’t I look at those plump little visiting waterfowl pit-stopping in Lake Harriet and not wonder how much fat could be rendered from them. (Cooks will understand).

Why can’t I simply write a post about how safe my city feels for my roaming kids without an attempted abduction in Linden Hills three days later?

Why can’t I figure out how to balance my summer so I don’t end up like this by the end of June?

Why can’t I bike by the archery field by Lake Calhoun without picturing, in full gory detail, sound included, an arrow whistling through the air and piercing me right through the neck?

Why does bad stuff happen to good people?

Why does being this particular age feel so messed up? Not necessarily in a bad way.

Why can’t I slow down time?

I’m going to say that about covers it, so as to avoid really freaking you out.


May 1 2013

And so it begins . . .

securedownloadMy boy has sipped from the delicious cup of freedom and there is no turning back. As you know, I’ve always loved the wandering. Go forth, ride like the wind, find your friends, explore. Come home tired, happy, dirty and smarter.

I feel lucky to live in a city that feels safe for our kids. There are sidewalks, bike paths, businesses and people out and about – lots and lots of people. There are also lakes and trees and parks and donut shops. Lenore Skenazy, a proponent of anti-helicopter parenting and free roaming kids writes about the “popsicle test” – if an 8 year old can walk to buy a popsicle by herself and finish it before getting home, then that city is probably thriving and therefor a safe place for children to inhabit and own. I think our little apple passes the popsicle test with flying colors.

Then there’s what I’m going to call the “eyes and ears” test. In the last couple weeks I’ve had at least three friends mention that they spotted Saint James out and about with his crew. There’s a loose but vast web of benevolent watchers who will recognize my kid and take note of where he is and what he’s up to. There are scores of mamas who will, I trust, report back to me if they see something I wouldn’t like.

When I spot one of my friends’ kids out in the wild, I make a point to wave or make the quickest of quick breezy contacts – just so they know I see them and just so they’ll see me. If they’re too far away, I take a beat to check them out – make sure all is well. Our kids seeing and being seen by adults they know has a double benefit: I will tell your mom if you’re not wearing your helmet. But also: I am here if you need me.

So I’m purportedly comfortable with the ever widening perimeter Saint James is claiming as his own. Why then, did I spend this past weekend in a state of suspended waiting and disbelief as the hours stacked up and he didn’t darken my doorway for food, drink or rest?

He’s roaming far and wide, and with him – always – goes a piece of my heart. I know he’s a good kid and he looks both ways before crossing the street. I also know that if there’s a short cut that doesn’t involve staying on the bike paths, he’s going to take it. I know that the boys really are playing sports for hours on end. But I also know that these day-long peregrinations may not be as wholesome at age 16.

My conversations with Dash are completely ridiculous.

Me: Oh my gosh, he’s been gone since ten this morning!

Dash: Ya, it’s good.

Me: It IS good. Yes! So good. I love it. But it’s been hours!

Dash: uh huh.

Me: I mean, what is he eating? He’s going to be so exhausted! What are they doing? He left at the crack of dawn this morning!

Dash: You’re the one who’s always saying . . .

Me: IknowIknowIknow!!! It’s good! It’s so good, but it’s been HOURS!

Dash: . . .

Me: I mean, what on earth are those boys up to? It’s been hours!

Dash: . . .

Me: It’s so awesome. Ya. Don’t you think he should come home rest for a bit before practice?

And I’m leaving out the parts where Dash rolls his eyes and tells me I can’t have it both ways and that I started the whole wandering thing and I slam the door in a huff.

Yep, we’re still figuring this out. So for now the rules are that he has to tell us the plan and who’s involved. He has to text back within a reasonable period of time if we text him – we have yet to define what a reasonable period of time is because he’s been decent at getting back to us. He needs to text when there’s a change of location. I’m also thinking he’s going to have to come home for lunch or start using his own money for food otherwise he’ll be at Tin Fish feasting on fish tacos every damn day this summer.

And the most important rule of all: be a good kid. You never know who might be watching.


Apr 29 2013

Music Monday: Happy Birthday, Willie + Phosphorescent

securedownloadI love Willie Nelson and just the other day I mentioned to Dash that I am sorry I’ve never seen him in concert. His response: he’s not dead yet. True. But he’s 80 years old, so I guess if the opportunity arises, I will move mountains to be there.

In actuality, Willie Nelson has been on my mind because of a band called Phosphorescent that I just discovered in the last couple months. The singer songwriter, Matthew Houck, sounds like Willie Nelson to me. Nouveaux Willie. Neo-Willie. Turns out this band had an album back in 2009 called To Willie, so my notion was not far off.

I love this song. And I think you will too. It’s as easy as a warm spring Sunday – which was the kind of day we had here in Minneapolis on Willie’s birthday. But it’s laced with sadness. Really pretty.

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And some Willie too, of course. Renegade, stoner, poet, romancer – the man can convey more emotion in one bar of music than most people can in a whole catalogue of songs. Enjoy. YouTube Preview Image


Apr 7 2013

The Hearts of Artists

tumblr_m8matwCrgb1qgq7v2o1_500Mostly I hate the internet and it’s way of sucking you into pure nonsense – superficial, relentless chatter and information that takes you out of your life and leaves you mired in a loud, screechy limbo. One of my struggles with blogging is the notion that I’m simply adding to the chatter. I know it’s my way of corralling my wandering attention and focusing on the stuff of my life here and now, but there’s always that little voice – who cares?

Sometimes, however, the internet brings you beauty. Something pure, something cool, something you wouldn’t see without a computer. I was literally moved to tears at 9 am on a Sunday morning when I saw this video of Maria Abramović’s performance piece at the MOMA from 2010. She simply sits in a chair in a dramatic red dress and people line up to take turns staring into her eyes. Talk about intimate.

Watch what happens when her old lover and collaborator, Ulay, takes the chair. The story is that they had had a passionate love in the seventies which ran its course. They decided to start walking from the opposite ends of the Great Wall of China and meet in the middle for one final embrace. (Of course, right?) This is them meeting again after all these years.

It’s breathtaking. I’m DYING!!! And I’m so going to track down this documentary.

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Via Swissmiss


Apr 5 2013

Music Monday: Dawes

loudawesShame on me for not responding to Creeper Bud’s text while I was on spring break. She was offering me her two tickets to see Dawes perform at the Electric Fetus this past Tuesday at 6. It’s not that I don’t love Dawes and the Electric Fetus and Creeper Bud, for that matter. It’s just that 6 o’clock on a Tuesday seems dubious when you don’t have your calendar in front of you. As it turns out Creeper Bud left me the tickets anyway and as Tuesday unfolded, a little field trip before dinner seemed like the perfect thing. I’m a firm believer that when there’s a choice to do or not do, you just gotta do. And I proved myself right yet again.

Saint James was at tennis practice, so I took a very neutral Supergirl as my sidekick. She was unfamiliar with Dawes but she’s nothing if not game. Turns out she’s the perfect wingman. When we arrived 20 minutes before the show, the line was snaking around the block, so she yelled at me to let her out and go park. I parked a few streets away and ran to meet her – hustling past all manner of hipsters, girls in bright lipstick and tights and plaid clad folks to find her tucked into the line with her hood up – chill as a buddha.

Turns out the kind of people who make an extra effort to check out a Dawes show in a record store are an affable bunch who think nothing of letting a little kid worm her way to the front. Time and again, people would smile at her, let her through and look back at me to see if I wanted to follow. Who am I to say no? We ended up with a perfect spot front and center – so good that a blogger for the City Pages asked me to text her my iPhone pics. Check out my first published pics in Natalie Gallagher’s great interview here.

Dawes is such a good band – beautiful musicianship and lyrics that get you right in the gut. Watching and listening from five feet away is so intimate it’s almost awkward. Taylor Goldsmith doesn’t make it easy – he’s not showy, and peacocky and flamboyant – he’s humble, soulful and unbearably honest. He is extending a piece of his heart every time he opens his mouth and you feel like you need to accept it with some modicum of care. I found myself staring at his beat up buttercream confection of a guitar, wondering if it had a name, to keep myself from welling up.

My favorite thing was watching them through Supergirl’s eyes. She was leaning up against an amp, her head at Goldsmith’s chest level, still as a stone. The kid who always has one eye on my Instagram and one eye on iTunes and her hands busy doodling and her mouth going a mile a minute was quite literally frozen in her tracks. She got to feel the magic that is a live performance, where the love and energy is flying in both directions, where you feel something shift in your insides and walk away just a little bit different.

And if I played my cards right, she’ll be hooked for life. Stories Don’t End.

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