“It’s a recording present…and it has a ukulele on it!”

And look at that–isn’t it so adorable? I am one very lucky girl.

And WE DID IT!

We recorded FOUR SONGS in just under TWO DAYS. And, I must say, I am so excited about these tracks. I keep listening to them. In fact, I went to the gym tonight (yes, I’m the girl who goes to the gym on a Friday night. Romantic, I know)–but, I was in the weight room and listening to this one part of my song that breaks down into a rap. And there’s this rolling snare drum that just makes me SO EXCITED (that’s why I used caps, guys, cause caps are EXCITING!), I cannot help but dance when I hear it. So, I am standing there with one weight in my hand while the rest of me is sort of dancing, when one of the trainers walks up to me.

“What are you listening to that’s making you dance?” he asks.

And for a second, I can’t even hear him, my music is blasting so loud through my earphones. I see that he’s not going to stop asking me whatever it is he’s asking, so I regrettably stop the music and listen to his question.

And am instantly embarrassed and evasive.

“Oh…” I say, scrambling to think of something–ANYTHING!–other than: “Myself. I am listening to myself and it’s making me dance. And, oh yeah. I don’t go on dates on Friday nights–I go to the gym. At least you’re here because you’re getting paid to be here; I cannot say the same about myself…”

Right, so I don’t want to say that, so I say, “Oh…it’s nobody you would know…” and just kind of hope he goes away.

But he keeps standing right in front of me, staring, muscles bulging through his polo shirt, looking like he’s ready to talk to me about whatever it is that’s making me dance —even if it takes all night. Or at least until ten, when the Y closes.

“What kind of answer is that?!” he says, “Come on, what are you listening to?!”

“Uh…myself? I am listening to myself…” I finally admit. “I didn’t want to tell you that I was dancing to my music. That’s kind of embarrassing to be caught doing. I mean, I never thought anyone would ever ask me what was making me dance…”

And then that led to a whole conversation about me being a musician and then another guy came over and, having talked to me at my parents’ Y last time I was in town, asked me if I’ve cut some weight. Cut some weight. Not lost it. Huge body building men have their own language, guys. So I admitted that I might have. “But not on purpose–I’ve just been so busy lately, that I keep forgetting to eat.”

Which, once these guys got over the shock and incredulity of anyone EVER forgetting to eat, of all things, led to us talking about what’s happened since youtube happened to me.

And then I came home and played the tracks for my parents and one of their dogs. Strider seemed to enjoy it. Well, he slept through it, but he seemed to enjoy whenever I scratched his ears–and my tracks were playing when I was doing it–so there’s that. My parents listened to it in a kind of reverie, smiling or moving a little or closing their eyes (but unlike Strider, I am pretty sure they didn’t fall asleep).

My nephew and brother are geniuses in the studio. Their help is immeasurable and I could not do this without them.

Like I said, I am one lucky girl.

But, instead, I am writing.

Because I am feeling some things right now, and I thought I’d write them down. See if I can’t breathe a little bit easier because of it; the way it’s always been since I was a little girl and would write out my feelings until the feelings didn’t feel so big and overwhelming anymore.

I used to be able to see the moon from my window, growing up.

The moon and the treetops. I would stare at that patch of sky for so long some nights. I am missing the moon tonight. I am missing my piano. I am missing a person, too. Not anyone in particular, strangely enough; there is nobody to miss that way. He is gone. Every he that has ever been here is gone. Not that there have been many. But, for me, one has always been enough, anyway.

I think I will sneak down to the laundry room soon; play some music. Practice and write. Last night, my first attempt at this failed miserably when I ended up way too close to a guy with alcohol on his breath. He kept asking me questions and questions and questions. I think he was drunk; I know I was scared. I didn’t like it. So I left and went back into my apartment. And then I was annoyed because all I wanted to do was play music in peace and, instead, I ended up playing 20 questions with a man who does not practice the art of subtlety.

Tonight, I met a guy at this pre-meeting for a fashion designer charity event I am performing at next week. “Where do you like to go when you go out?” he asked me. And I realized something: I didn’t really have anything to say, other than open mics. And studios. And my laundry room. 

But I do go places all the time. I go explore the city. I jump on the subway and see where it will take me. I look for bookshops. Thrift stores. Patches of Central Park I have yet to see. I hear there’s a part with sailboats; I’d like to see that. I just don’t know where the coolest clubs are, I guess. I still feel ridiculous at bars. I never know what drink to order; the music is too loud to speak over; and unless I am playing, I wonder how long is an appropriate amount of time to spend there before I can leave.

But I do love this city. Just today, I was walking through Soho and the little shops all in a row thrilled me. So did the perfect cup of hot chocolate I quietly sipped in the corner of a cafe.

I just sometimes miss the moon.

And I really miss my piano.

And him. No, I don’t miss him. I just sometimes miss…somebody…I guess I don’t know him. And that’s okay. Most of the time, anyway, that’s perfectly okay with me. But then there are nights like this. When I start out missing the moon and all my 88 keys and then it goes to missing a person, too. All those things I am not seeing and feeling right now jump on the bandwagon together,  I guess, and what a bandwagon it is.

What a bandwagon it is.

But the part of life where I am singing a private little concert for some designers and publicists in a sun-lit room with the Hudson at my back?

That part is pretty sweet.

Makes the bandwagon look a little ridiculous, I guess, after all.

The sound man snapped at me while sound checking. Confession: whenever someone yells at me, I instantly feel a). five years old again, b). deeply hurt, and also c). kind of mad. But, I simply thanked him for his work and smiled.

Like this, I guess.

One guy came up to me and told me that I look “much taller!”

“Taller than…what?” I asked. “Than on facebook,” he said, “And thinner, too,” he added.

Which doesn’t say much for my pictures on facebook, I guess.

There is not much else I’d rather be doing than singing my songs for people. And every time I get to do this, I am reminded of this fact once again.

I also sometimes get the irrational fear that, now that people are actually noticing, What if I never write another song again?! Sort of like the other day when I was hand washing my delicates (which is an even more embarrassing word than just plain underwear, I think; and don’t even get me started on panties!), and the socks, in particular were taking a very long time to dry (I guess we say delicates because socks aren’t considered underwear, right?). I literally entertained the thought that my socks may just never ever dry. Like, AT ALL.

But guess what? My socks are now dry. Therefore, since that irrational fear did not materialize, I can also trust that I will continue to write songs.

Yes, I will write songs while wearing dry socks and life will be good.

Because, really, does it get any better than that?

Hubbub.

Song.

On itunes.

People I have never met before buying it and using wonderfully expressive language to tell me that, in so many, words: they like it.

They effing like it.

Can I tell you something? In the spring of this year, I packed one polka dotted suitcase, a canvas tote bag that has now sat on the subway floors more times than I care to think about, and a guitar. I said good-bye to my parents and the dogs and got on the Chinatown bus headed to NYC with tears in my eyes. And then on my face. And then on my shirt. I was reading my copy of The Grief Club and I was thinking how just about everything in life seems to point to this one consuming lesson: LET GO. 

Because you just lose it anyway.

And I guess it’s easier to willingly let something go, than to have it pried from your white-knuckled fingers, huh?

I remember thinking, This is all wrong. I shouldn’t be moving to NYC by myself. He should be with me. And forgive me if I don’t mention exactly who he is right now. But the truth is that in one day–one cataclysmic day–he had left. My dream job (touring with the broadway show, A Chorus Line) had ended, and my house was no longer a home. I felt a deep sense of dysphoria. Actually, let me put it bluntly; crudely, even (cause it was raw, what I felt): I felt like everything I loved had turned to shit. 

But, what do you do? You keep being you. You make things and breathe and make jokes and find life interesting and practice kindness and forgive just as often as you need forgiveness, yourself (which is an awful lot, let’s be real); you appreciate the people who are still here and you learn to live without the people who have gone away; you dream, because god knows that if you stop dreaming, you become a robot and I’ve never heard of a robot moving anyone to tears or falling in love (there was that one robot who could read and that other robot who could kill–but still, we’re more than readers of other stories; more than killers of life); you find inspiration everywhere you are, darnit. EVERYWHERE. And if you haven’t found it, then you look harder, because it’s there–it has to be–because YOU’RE there. And you, we, every last one of us, can be–should be!–inspiring.

And you cry.

You let yourself cry as often as you need to; the pillow is well acquainted with your tears and some days you don’t even bother with mascara because it’s just gonna leave a little trail down your face, anyway.

But you also laugh.

You make fun of the mundane until there is a bit of the sublime in it, now that you’re laughing so hard; you realize that every bit of life matters and that, yes, that’s transcendent. The knowledge that every moment builds something that we call LIFE–and that life is all we have. Life and each other. And the God who gave us both.

You realize all this; it builds a reservoir in your heart. You pull from it when you see other people getting the things you dream of. The men who stay. The broadway shows. The charmed existence that really only looks that way from where you’re standing, anyway. But, like I said, that reservoir makes you realize something powerful: you’re on a journey and the story isn’t over. You don’t drive from Maine to Florida and stop off in Delaware for a spell, look around, only to complain about how Florida doesn’t have alligators, after all. You realize that, it’s okay, there’s no alligators yet–because your journey isn’t over. YET. Florida is still coming. Gators or bust!

So, all this to say, this is one heck of a journey. ALL OF IT. The grief and the joy–they each make the other that much more poignant and significant, I guess. And I have to say that I am grateful that I didn’t stop off in my grief and stay there forever, complaining that Florida has no gators, after all, if I can stretch that metaphor just a little bit further.

I am glad I kept on this journey; I have no idea where it will take me, but I never had, anyway. I thought I did, but life was all like, NOPE. So, nothing much has changed. I am on a journey. There are many bends in the road.

And tonight, I did a little dance in my living room while listening to ‘ain’t my friend.’ I danced in the very same leggings I wore in a certain video that has been making its rounds lately, if you wanna know the truth.

Not that I planned it that way, mind you; but what I have found is that sometimes life turns out better than we’d planned. Way better, actually.

Would you like to know what, exactly, I was ‘taking in’ while I was playing and singing on the tv this morning? Why the heck did I write such a long song with so many words?! Those were my thoughts at the onset of the song. If felt like the song was impossibly long. A veritable marathon of music. Whoever thought ALL THOSE VERSES (two) and ALL THOSE CHORUSES (three) and a WHOLE FLIPPIN BRIDGE (one) was a good idea for just one song, anyway? Really, who wrote this crap?

Seriously. And now you know. Sometimes I feel afraid and sometimes I am not magical in my thinking and sometimes performing on tv feels like oh god oh god oh god oh god–help me not to mess this up! But then I get into the second verse and I start to enjoy it. And my new ukulele is singing along with me. And it didn’t hurt that the Super Cute Vampire From Twilight (does he go by any other name, really?) that was interviewed right before me said, “You sound really great.”

Vampires give the best compliments.

And now I can hear the sound of the rain against the window to my right. It’s falling and falling endlessly; like the universe lives generously; like the rain is a gift that will not run out. Reminding me that I, too, can live generously. That whatever is is that God has put in me will not soon run out, either.

And oh! I took a cab to get to FOX studios this morning. If you know my sense of direction and how it is comparable to the amount of times I’ve performed MC Hammer’s Can’t Touch This (um, zero), then, you’d understand. Probably a good idea to, you know, actually get to the studio, was the thinking that prompted getting a cab.

But I had to pay with a card, because I generally have no cash (so far we’ve learned that a). I generally do not perform Can’t Touch This and b). I generally have no cash. Moving on, class, excellent lesson today!).

So, I had to call the service that takes your card information, effectively allowing one to pay their fare. Anyway, the lady on the phone asked me for the reservation number–I asked the cabbie, and repeated what he told me. Then she asked me the name. “Name?” she said, just like that.

And this was a tough one.

I glanced at the name in front of me on the ID thingy that makes you realize this driver is legit and all that. Knowing I would probably butcher the pronunciation, I decided to just spell the whole darn thing.

“K-W-A-H-I-P-E-S-T-I,” I spoke into the phone.

“First name?” she asked me.

“I-T-L-A-N-A-R-I,” I said, nice and loud.

At which point the cabbie looked back at me and said rather urgently, “Hey! That’s MY name.”

Um, obvi, I thought.

“Sorry–I spelled it, cause I wasn’t sure I’d say it properly,” I explained, thinking he was upset about that.

“No–I mean,” he said, “Why are you giving MY NAME for the credit card?”

And then it dawned on me. And I started cracking up. “Hahahahahahahaha!,” I said. “I am so sorry–I thought that’s what the lady wanted–YOUR name.”

“No. She wants YOUR name!” he clarified.

And then he started laughing, too. And amid our laughter I managed to ask him two things: “Did you think we were related, when you first heard me spell your last name?” And also: “You didn’t want to pay for my cab fare today?”

We both laughed long and hard over that one. Which was a nice moment, actually.

And–funniest one liner I heard from a stranger yesterday, while he was walking off the subway car. He brushed past me and quietly said under his breath, “I tweeted your video.”

Hilarious.

And interesting that that sentence would have made absolutely no sense five years ago.

It’s funny, when I wrote this song over the summer, I never imagined so many people would hear it, let alone like it. It was just the way I was feeling at the time.

For me, putting my feelings into words and melodies is like a little bit of redemption NOW. A way of saying, This hurts so much, but maybe it’s worth it–cause look. Here’s a song, now, and that’s directly related to what I was feeling. Couldn’t have one without the other.

It doesn’t necessarily make it easier while you’re in it–but pain can produce good things. Worthwhile things. So what I’ve learned is not to run from your pain, but to sit there. Listen to it. And then use it to make things. Just my two cents.

Ain’t my friend:

Chorus: Baby, you ain’t my friend, and I ain’t your last call, nor can I let my heart wonder how you feel about me at all. Cause you got all your fans, people who are on call, but I ain’t one of them, nor can I let myself pretend…
Oh-oh-oh…baby, you ain’t my friend
Oh-oh-oh

See, I don’t really really wanna just be your friend; we’re either gonna play this game or let the game end. I mean, sure, I’ll be polite and wave as I walk by, but it hurts way too much to act like we’re still fly after everything that happened, that happened between us; you’re so good at pretending while I just make a fuss; now, I ain’t saying that it’s now or it’s never gonna be, I’m just saying that this friendship feels impossible to me. And maybe someday it’ll be just fine between us, but that day ain’t today, and maybe there’s some truth to the way they always say that, baby, you’re from mars, and maybe I’m from, I’m from, I’m from Venus.

Chorus

It’s not like you were wrong when you decided that I didn’t belong next to you, it’s just hard to stand here with you, when I’m not really with you, do you know what I mean? Don’t think I’m trying to be mean–no! I think you’re just great! Too great, in fact, that’s why I take a step back; it’s just a matter of survival as I walk through this new trial, don’t take it personally, cause I’m just trying to live free, to take a deep breath now and feel what I feel. As I keep walking, watch me walking, no I won’t stop. Though you ain’t here–stop with all the fear, I tell myself again and again just as long as you say that you are my friend, so…

Bridge: Hey hey hey, a baby (bay bay bay); you live your life now and I’ll be busy living mine; Hey hey hey, a baby (bay bay bay); I already got quite enough friends now, thank you, yeah, I’ll be fine, fine, fine….

Chorus.

Chords: chorus/rap: C,G,Amin,F,G (with an occasional extra F and G thrown in for good measure; I trust you to figure out when)

Bridge: Amin, C, Amin, F, G

(yes, the chords are simple…have I mentioned I haven’t playing the ukulele for that long…?)

And there you go.

Peace!

Because right now, there are always things to do, it seems. I need to write this person back. Or text that person. Or call her. Or record a song. Or practice my music. Or listen to a message. Or get artwork together for an itunes release. Or send a post card. Or do laundry. Or brush my teeth. Or get on the train back to NYC. Or meet with someone. Or eat a sandwich.

But, tonight, I sat and talked with my parents about the recent occurrences, and I was just so happy for them, if that makes any sense at all. I have not yet had a kid, but I have heard that being a parent is to have your heart walk around outside of your body. What I mean to say is, the connection goes deep. And, they’ve seen me through some sad times. And then some more sad times, after that. We’ve sat on that couch many a night when I was crying and asking them to please tell me something that is good; tell me that there is a plan for my life that involves dreams coming true. Or love. Or, hey–how bout plain old health insurance, for starters?

But, I just watched them tonight. Their faces were so animated, talking to me. They were actually laughing out loud when I played for them the finished track of Ain’t My Friend tonight. Well, my pop was joyously laughing, anyway. My mom was concentrating very hard and looking irritated at my pop every time he adjusted the volume. Like, if you touched a knob–altered the atmosphere even the tiniest amounts–this whole thing might just vanish as fast as it first appeared.

And it might.

But, in the meantime, I am happy to sing my songs for people. And really really happy to watch my parents’ eyes light up over something good happening in my life. Not that it’s the first good thing. No, far from it! There are so many good things that have already happened to me–and many of them share my last name; while some don’t, but our closeness makes it feel like they do, anyway.

But tonight it was good to see my parents so happy.

And I am just gonna sit in this feeling for a while, if you don’t mind.

Who knows!? Maybe health insurance is next.

Sometimes I do.

Which is when I steal away.
I close my mouth, swallow my apologies,
and play music.

I did this tonight.
It helps so much.

I recorded a cover. I have the whole thing down now. AFter I messed it up while performing at a cabaret in NYC a couple weeks ago. Oh well, you really can’t take yourself too seriously. Especially when you’re covering something by Dr. Dre and Eminem, I guess.

It’s funny, it took me a full two days, I think, just to memorize the FIRST LINE, “I told the world one day I would pay it back, say it on tape and lay it, record it, so that one day I could play it back…”

That line just kept alluding me. I could not wrap my brain around it, and it would not stick in my memory. Then it became my weird little mantra I said over and over in my head until it finally made a kind of rhythmic sense to me. Then, the rest came pretty easy after that.

Anyway, the song:

I was thinking about some decisions I’ve made lately; mostly about who I want to get close to.

And then I thought about a friend I have. A dear and beautiful friend with whom I recently shared a conversation. “You know you’re better than that, right?” I said, after listening to this friend tell me some sad things that some sad people have been saying and doing to my friend. “And you know it’s better to be alone, standing on your own two able feet, than to be side-by-side with people who hurt us more than they don’t?”

But it’s not easy to choose a new kind of aloneness instead of the familiarity of someone–anyone. I realize this. But sometimes it’s when we’re alone that we can make the necessary room for something truly great to fill our lives and our hearts–even if it’s just knowing that we, each of us, are enough.

Darling, you’re better than that; sing, you’re better than him
Sing this song with me now, then take a bow.

Baby, you’re pretty enough, and you know, words, they’re just fluff–
Don’t let him blind you with a poem, when you’re a story you don’t owe him.

So be wild.
So be free.
So be like the moon, so high above it all.
Untouchable by those who cannot see
That you are listening to some kind of higher call.

Darling, you are stronger than you think.
Your heart is broken, raw, and pink.
Your vulnerability makes this busy world stop and blink.

And your tears, they keep watering the earth.
They are pieces of your worth.
Don’t let them wash the feet of those who taste like dirt.

Well, yes.

And one of these self-evident truths (which is basically a really fancy way to say DUH! Oh, those founding fathers were sassy, no doubt) is my love of color. As I said, it makes me happy. And so, one of my favorite things to do after I’ve put my clothes away (or, you know, most of my clothes) is to look in my closet and see this.

All those colors lined up in a row like some kind of hippie army or something.

Isn’t it exciting?

NO?

That’s fine. I suppose there are some people who, oddly enough, find closets un-exciting. Whatever.

Something else that’s exciting (to me, anyway), is that I found a couple of missing socks and so have two more matching pairs than I had previously. Gosh, when that happens, it’s like encouragement. Like there is a Great Plan for my life, after all, and it will all make sense, eventually. I wonder if the person who first said It’ll all come out in the wash was referring to finding his long-lost socks.

I wrote a song tonight. That’s what generally happens when I try to clean. I start out so good, all focused and stuff, putting away a tutu here and a jumper there, when suddenly I see my ukulele and I’m all MUST WRITE SONG! and the strewn about jumpers and tutus are completely forgotten for the next while.

But I did get a good amount of organization done. I mean, I found two lost socks, people. That kind of boon doesn’t generally happen for the lazy or faint of heart.

And the closet. Now I get to see it all pretty and colorful like that.

Nice.