Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Demi, again

I saw Demi Lovato live again, and she was just as fantastic as she's ever been--more-so now, though. I feel so blessed to go to her shows and feel like part of a party every time, feel like I'm jamming with her, and feel like I'm experiencing the music with her--note for note, lyric for lyric, emotion for emotion.

I love what it does for me.

Sunday, November 15, 2015

Nov. 1

This was the first November that the first day of the month didn't cross my mind, but it did later. Days later when I had the time to think. I didn't feel unsure or insecure or sad. I just felt like I was existing day-by-day, as always. And that at some point this day meant something, and now I'm not so sure.

I remembered a time when this anniversary did nothing but tear me apart. I remember the first year I had to stay away from everyone and find somewhere soft to hide. I remember when just the thought of it left me feeling as raw as a sore throat trying to swallow hard against a cold wind in the winter.

I see the trees have already lost most of their leaves, and I wonder if you would have liked it here? I wonder if I would have even ended up here if you were around. I wonder where I would be at all. Because I had to learn so much without you, and sometimes that's just how life is--unfair, unyielding and unmistakably hard. Sometimes I wonder that just as I count the days, I'm counting on too much from people who don't deserve it, because the one that should have been here isn't anymore.

But I guess that's not your fault, Mamma. I'm sorry for any time I have ever felt otherwise.


Edit: I know I haven't commented on blog posts since this month started. I've just been preoccupied. But I promise to catch up on my blog reading soon. I miss you all.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

Dilly Dallying Through Seattle

Hemming and hawing its way through the back of my mind was a story about a witch coven, or at the very least a bar nestled somewhere close-by and run by witches. The details of which I was keeping to myself in hopes that I could make one fiction story last to the end without jinxing it--just once, please.

In the midst of my thoughts about crystals, alchemy and witchcraft I was dealing with swarms of doubt not surrounded by my entirely fictitious concerns for the world of magic. This doubt was central to a recent loss in the family, and that I might have finally lost touch with a side of the family tethered to distant memories of my childhood that somehow made my childhood still feel rosy. It was a "distant" relative, even, who I lost, but he was very much my every summer for years. Now that he's gone, few remain that are tied to that part of my past or that I would rather remember. And as that circle shrinks smaller and smaller with time, I wonder what's really left for me all the way back at home. Am I better off so far away now? Is it horrible of me to even consider these things?

"Imagining that the show would feel like a bit much today, yeah?" was a message I received the next morning, before I was fully awake, from my friend Savannah. A few hours later I responded with the knowledge that while I am dealing with loss, I am better, and getting out of the apartment--one that had seen the stress and tears of the afternoon before--might be best. A few moments later, I got messages about angry girls and their bands, and I convinced myself to get ready for the event later into the evening donned in a comfy sweater and cat-eye makeup with gold glitter on my eyelids. Something feisty, something glamorous, something perfect for the night ahead.

It started with a decision to stop for food before heading inside the dive bar where three bands would play. We got potato salad--somewhat of a Germanic influence. I tried the veggie burger, Savannah tried the BLT. The place was off of Ballard and known as the "People's Pub." It was just us, two people at a bar not talking, and a large group of women chatting over what looked like several mystery shots and grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup. They were laughing and chuckling and we were staring at our watches in anticipation for the time to grow closer. We finished our food and walked two doors down to the little hole-in-the-wall bar that stamped us with the image of a drunk penguin on our wrists for admittance to the backroom.

If you've ever been to the Masquerade in Atlanta, it might be easy to picture the stage-size of Purgatory. This Seattle bar's stage wasn't much bigger, but the room had no chairs or tables to hinder the ability to stand and enjoy. (Unlike the Atlanta venue where the recycled tables and chairs are shoved in that room with the side-stage that they stick bands not talented enough yet to perform in Heaven or Hell.) The opening act in this Seattle bar was a smaller band with three guys who sounded an awful lot like a garage band version of Krill or Johnny Hobo or something else I can't quite place but I know I've heard before with less diversion from the guitar, bass and drum kit than the inspired--and trying to rock hard with lips pressed firmly against a microphone that had likely seen even more action earlier in the week. But right now it's a Wednesday evening, and no one cares where that mic has been or where they're going with hands balancing glasses of water and shots of whiskey to pass the time. And I had already consumed one whiskey sour by then--as had Savannah.

Next in line were the ones we had all appeared for: Powwers and Dilly Dally. Both of which are bands with female leads and feisty, raw lyrics and hardcore screams and pleads between verses. The music was reverberating off of the walls. At times it felt like you could feel the sound waves move through you same as if you were to lay face-up on a beach right at the tide and feel the water tickle its way up and down your legs and spine in a pattern that calmed and chilled you.

Savannah would disappear some throughout the night--sometimes with a fireball shot, sometimes with a new whiskey sour, sometimes with just more water and a beer. When her hands were free, she would grab mine and intertwine our fingers as she arrhythmical-y danced along. My dancing would gradually increase as the night and alcohol progressed from rhythmic (because I'm not tone deaf or rhythmically-challenged like her) head-bobbing to more swaying and moving like a puppet on loose strings. We weren't alone.

We both felt the buzz without the pain, and I remember feeling like an angry female listening to angry (and sometimes more angsty) females with my gold glitter eye-shadow and hurling a fireball or two with ease. I remember feeling stronger and less like I was brooding in an apartment upset about a lot of things that I couldn't control like family obligation, negligence and death. I remember thanking God to be there, to feel something else, and to feel like I was out and whole again.

This fire, this fire, this fire, desire
This fire, this fire, this fire, desire
This fire, this fire, this fire, desire
Desire, inside her
It's calling all my ladies


Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Uncle Grady

I've learned about a lot of hard things through experience. Least of my favorites: death.

RIP Uncle Grady
You aren't suffering anymore. 

Friday, October 23, 2015

This Week

Imagine your eyes are closed, but you can feel the coolness of the day pressing itself against your bedroom window in the morning. The sun is out somewhere, but it is hidden behind a blanket of clouds hanging high and grey. And I'm sitting on a bus very alone, with the rain hitting the window by my seat, leaving me with a chill for the rest of the week that follows me in and out of drowsiness. It still lingers with me to the weekend, even. This is my week. And I'm both eager and unwilling to let it go.