The sun came out, so I will be going over to Washington Square Park, to sing as it sets.

Conclusion: Whisperado is a better band than I thought, but the vocals are still mixed too freakin' muddily to make out the lyrics.

That said, they were in an open space, where, as Patrick pointed out when we chatted between sets, it was not ideal for a bass/guitar/full drum kit trio. On the other hand, Patrick's guitar rang with the bell-like clarity that I expect from his playing, and there were two (sometimes three, at one point four) little girls dancing to the music, and sprawling on the floor in front of the band, with that complete boneless grace that small children and cats have.

Milk chocolate with cinnamon and change acquired, I picked up the Whisperado CD, which I shall investigate at home. (I also got an organic Belgian dark chocolate with cinnamon, that isn't working for me. Hmph. Well, someone I know will probably enjoy it; if not, my coworkers will hoover it up if I leave it out.)

I talked with Jon as they were breaking down the equipment and hauling it off to wherever it goes. He asked me about my writing (of course I had my journal with me, and was writing notes in it), and I mentioned that some of what I was writing will go (if it fits) into one of the novels-in-progress.

"Did you know that Patrick is an editor?"

I forget, sometimes, that my worlds overlap in odd ways, and the data that I think is obvious is not always. I am the person who introduced Patrick to Lori, who introduced him to Jon back when she had a band in 2000 -- but Jon didn't know that, and didn't know that I've known Patrick for twenty-odd years. (Well, Jon now knows that last detail; the first was irrelevant to the conversation.)

Be that as it may, we discussed writing, blog-writing as opposed to novel-writing, briefly, before Jon went back to schlepping equipment, and I wandered over to my office to check email -- and now to post, before heading out to sunlight and song. It's a lovely day, and I should make the most of it, while my feet are feeling good.

Tags: music, new york city, paper soul, piano bars

Yesterday was somewhat inert and dillydallying. Today, of course, I have more energy, and it's raining, so going to the park for music will not work. Instead, I might do some puttering about the city, which could leave me at Chelsea Market, where Whisperado is playing sets during the afternoon. No, it's not exactly my style of music, but I keep thinking about Jon's bass playing, which I've always liked, and the elements that conspired against giving them a balanced hearing last time (foot pain, end of long work week, too loud for the space, inescapable gross movie in my line of vision) -- besides, if I go into the city where I plan to, I'll be three blocks away, and the store that has the Dolfin milk chocolate with cinnamon (which I've been craving since I got the dark with cinnamon -- also quite good, but not the creamy effect I'd wanted -- a few months ago) is in Chelsea Market. (Also, the question of how much distortion Patrick was actually using on his guitar might be answered in a new space, which will probably be the deciding factor for me.)

I suspect that somewhere along the way, I will wind up in a cafe or pub, writing, with a large mug of something coming to room temperature beside me, as that's something I've not done lately, and am feeling the lack of that sort of time to myself. I've been in places where I'm known and social; every so often, I have a need to be out, thinking and observing, in a place where I'm not expected to be social. I used to be able to sit in the back of Rose's Turn and write; I don't think that's happened in a couple of years. Which is all right: it's now a different sort of space for me, but I still need the space to watch the world go by, neither home nor work, and not talking space, either.

Yeah, that might be the right thing for me today. Responsibility, then writing.

Tags: music, new york city, paper soul

Getting a bit giddy with the cleaning, perhaps. I started with the goal of clearing my corner desk -- which, for the record, has lived in the middle of the living room since we moved, and for all but perhaps forty-five days of that time, has been too cluttered for me to actually use as a desk -- and have progressed to moving my computer table, rearranging bookshelves, and deciding that, since I've been writing by hand at my lap desk happily, that the poor corner desk has outlived its usefulness. I shall look for a narrow table that could become both a computer and writing table instead.

In working my way through clearing the corner desk and the shelves, though, I have found blank books. I think there's been one in every stack of papers I've sorted through, and the total of unused books is thirty. I'd taken five into the office this week, thinking that one would become my current journal book, and the rest would be given away, but all five went away, as none of them took fountain pen ink to my satisfaction. That's the trouble with notebooks: stores don't have samples of the paper available to test with wet- and dry-write fountain pens, so I never know whether one will work for me until I get it home and can test it. Harrumph.

(Data point for pen and paper geeks: many of the Japanese notebooks -- Maruman, Kokuyo, Oh Boy -- are fountain-pen friendly, with minimal show-through, and narrow rulings. Of course, if Clairefontaine would ever produce a narrow-ruled notebook, I'd buy nothing else -- I adore their smooth, bright white paper.)

So, sorting papers and filing... the decision to discard the corner desk (which I've never quite felt the same about since we dropped 1,500 CDs on it, and broke the drawer fixtures, which have since devoted their time to attempting to slice my thighs open) came after I concluded that I could discard the rubber stamps that a friend gave me, that I've never used. I'd kept them out of sentiment, but they were one of those awkward gifts, of the "I know you like this general sort of thing, but I've never been curious enough to find out more specifics" variety. "While you're discarding things that you don't use," a little voice murmured, "why not take one more step towards decluttering, and chuck the desk? It was good when you had a corner for it, but there isn't one here, and it's not that stable on its own. And you'll stop getting bruises and scratches on your thighs -- wouldn't that be nice?"

Meanwhile, Soren is cleaning, and music is playing, and we're talking about writing, and music, and cheerfully reminding each other to add things to our little books. His is "gratitudes," and mine is "brightnesses," but it doesn't really matter what we call them, does it?

One thing I've found over the past three days of noting things is that there are a lot of brightnesses that remind me of others. A song that Soren introduced me to will bring me to other songs, and to other people who took the time to share music with me, to musicians, to the recording industry, to hearing -- and it takes longer to type that list than it does to think of them.

Tags: domesticity, home life, paper soul, simple joys

I've changed colors on my journal. It's not quite what I half-planned, but today, it's a cool set of shades that are comparatively close to my ink colors (Omas Grey, Noodlers Cayenne, and Diamine Turquoise, with jaunts into Sheaffer Red and Parker Blue; oddly enough, the HTML colors I chose are closer to the shades of the Noodlers inks that I plan to switch to on 1 September, if memory serves; unfortunately, I put the box of ink bottles somewhere safe in the living room, and can't find it right now), which pleases me.

We did actually go out for a walk yesterday, over to the block party/birthday party for Matthew, one of the regulars at our local hang-out, arriving a little bit before the band went on. (I have this idle curiosity: what would it be like to be able and willing to arrange for a block party [permits, including the one for live music, food, drink] for one's birthday? If I could do that, would I ever think of it?) The band was fun, the food was good, the scenery was highly pleasing to the eye; Matthew, Vince and I cheerfully waved our canes at each other (Matthew broke his ankle a few months ago, Vince had his hips replaced) -- though I was the only one who knows how to twirl a cane like a baton (I also have the only adjustable cane, which helps) -- and the rest of the crowd, and it didn't rain.

Then we ambled home, stopping to say hello to Bunche, and watching Samantha, an illegally cute toddler, cheerfully waving a smoked chicken leg in the air, while conversing with her parents. Almost cute enough to make me reconsider the decision not to spawn.

Almost, I said. I think I would be too neurotic a parent, and far too inclined to commit acts of violence against anyone who hurt a child of mine emotionally or physically. Being a aunt is easier on my nerves.


While recoloring my LiveJournal, I decided to add text to the sidebar, and, after not finding the Atwood poem that I wanted -- it'll show up eventually -- I found an excerpt from a Keri Hulme poem. This was done by semi-random bibliomancy: I pulled out a couple of journal books, and looked at the epigrams and song lyrics that I placed in the front of each book. In the way the universe has of reminding me that I am an active participant in my life, not an innocent bystander cruelly beset by fate, the Hulme quote is at the beginning of remembering fire, a journal book from summer of 1997...

...which is when I began a relationship that, while leading me to here and now, and rewarding me with an intricate web of valuable relationships (hi, Racheline, and others), has also cost me dearly, in terms of love and money, and continues to affect my life. And it's wryly funny, because I googled for the other person this past week, and have learned that we, who thought we were soul mates, kindred spirits, back then, are in such separate worlds now that I'm not sure we would know how to talk with each other. We took each other in, then, became intrajects, were each, I think, taken in by the other in too many ways.

I still have that journal book open beside me. Do I want to dip into it, and read from the bright beginnings of the relationship, and see if I wrote about the shadows and the differences that took us away from each other? Hindsight has let me see, often enough, in my own words, what became clearer, and where the ruptures came, where words and actions failed to build bonds strong enough.

Perhaps later. I can read, and talk with Soren when he wakes up, about decisions, and prices paid, and the things that can't be said.

Tags: beauty, boundaries, breaking into the past, love chronicles, paper soul

this morning. Strong and dark and powerful.

The weekend has been productive in odd, cheering ways: I got replacement contacts on Friday (one of them had perished in a painful-to-look-at fashion); Saturday was home and in the neighborhood, including watching DVDs of videos by Chris Cunningham and Spike Jonze (so I have finally seen the Christopher Walken dancing video, as well as a truly strange Aphex Twin video); Sunday was full of music, from singing in Washington Square Park (which included pulling a song out of Joe's archives, and proving that I could sing it, in an improbably high key), to taking Lori to The Duplex...

...so I walked into The Duplex laughing with a tall gorgeous brunette; we hung with Chuck for a while; she left, and ten minutes later, a gorgeous petite redhead walks in and sits down on my other side. Some of the regulars are probably thinking "WTF?" and good for them. (It was also Kurt's last Sunday working there, and "Show Your Underwear Sunday," according to him. I didn't, because I was wearing a very boring and functional bra, rather than a pretty one. Chuck, for the record, was wearing long johns.)...

...and thence to Rose's Turn, where it turned out that Clare and Kenny were playing, rather than Dan and Bobby. Great fun had by all.

And when home, I've been writing, and reloading pens, and contemplating the world, and possible strangenesses this week. A certain amount of looking back at old journals (April through December of 2000, for the record), for various reasons.

One reason being a probable encounter with someone I got to know well in 2000, but haven't been in much contact with for a while; I got slightly wistful, but not sorrowful, or angry, or any strong -- and possibly behavior-modifying -- emotion. Which is good. If I run into this person, I'd just as soon not be full of old unresolved anger or grief.

So... puttering with the inside of my head. I went from that to writing, and putting on some music that I'd shared with this person (some I'd introduced them to, some I associate with them) -- which was good, because it's been a while since I deliberately put music on while I was writing, and that helps pull up memories and emotional states.

There's something behind this, that I've not quite got words for yet, about a recently-sensed distinction between allowing myself to remember and feel things, and wallowing/brooding/obsessing. I'm not sure what the dividing line is, or even how wide the line is (though some days I flip from one to the other far too easily). Letting things wash through and over me, rather than clinging to them, or tarbaby-fighting them.

Anyway, a new month, a new work week, and I am almost looking forward to the chaos in the office.

Almost.

Tags: boundaries, breaking into the past, paper soul, piano bars

Just for fun. Though you can't see it that clearly, the pen is a green Waterman Hemisphere (Racheline has the same model), and yes, I write as if I were left-handed, with the page tilted to the left, and my arm curved around it. No, I don't know why, though I assume it's because my two age-closest siblings are left-handed.

This means the second two most common comments from I receive while writing in public are: "My god! Your handwriting is tiny and beautiful!" and "Hey, you're right-handed!" The first comes in tones of amazement, the second in a tone that makes me want to ask, "Did I ever say I was left-handed?"

(The first two comments are: "What'cha writing?" and "What type of pen is that?")

Anyway... I've not been writing here much, in part because I'm tired. The office move is next Friday, and in between getting my own work done, I'm packing my desk, and some of my team's public files, and working with one of my bosses to pack his office. He, like me, is a firm believer in piles of paper everywhere; unlike me, though, he shoves some of his haphazardly into drawers, so we've been going through crumpled and torn stacks, trying to straighten them out. Fortunately, he's ruthless about discarding old versions of forms, so it's not too bad.

Not been writing much in my paper soul, either, though I hope to remedy that this weekend. Some socializing, a lot of exhausted daydreaming/staring into space. (And some mulling over topics: a rant about people who just know, in that irritatingly patronizing manner, that anyone who gets into s&m is doing so because of physical/emotional childhood trauma is forthcoming. Have I mentioned that I've read two books of Charles de Lint stories recently? And that while I like him, he often gets up my nose? And that if he describes one more character as having pre-Raphaelite hair, I'm going to stuff a Stevie Nicks wig down his throat until he's coughing up hairballs for weeks?)

(On the other hand, we'll just gloss over what I want to stuff down Spider Robinson's throat, won't we? Can we say that someone's getting a little bit tetchy over smug assumptions made by certain writers?)

(I think I'll read or reread some Gilbert Sorrentino. That will scour the taste of de Lint and Robinson out of my brain. That will do a lot of things.)


My sister dropped by the office earlier this week, with her spiffykeen digital camera, and its spiffykeek portable printer. So I now have more photos of Raven, and a great one of Melanie and Franklin -- in which I can clearly see why everyone tells me he's so good-looking. (I like the way he looks, but he's my favorite nephew; I tend not to think about him as "cute" or "handsome," but in this photo, he's quite dashing.)

Work. A job fair tonight, during which I will have to smile at people for several hours. I think I shall shave my head, and look for the dark lipstick, and the leather vest. And, since I'll be uptown on the 1/9 line, I shall stop by Rose's around 9, 9:30, and let the smile become genuine.

Tags: paper soul

Apartment cleaning (well, some), writing in my paper journal, drafting a letter which I may or may not send

Now, I am not always perfect at getting together with other people, but, damn it, if you say "I'm in town, and I want to see you," and I come up with a possible time and place to meet, at least do me the courtesy of saying yes or no. Don't just stop talking to me completely -- not if you want me to interact with you again.

to the person who seems to be appearing in my life just to see if she can get a reaction from me, a birthday party at Rodeo Bar (too pricy, given the quality of the food and drinks, though the size of the margaritas seem to compensate for the mediocre quality for most people).

The big project for me was taking my journals (about 120 books, now) and reshelving them in chronological order. There are several pressboard binders, from the early days, when I typed for a minimum of thirty minutes per night, which I should find and add to those three shelves, but the handwritten volumes are all there.

Later this month, perhaps, I'll go into each book, and make sure the start and end dates are on the first pages. Most of them have the start date, at least, but not always the end date, and that's useful in viewing the sequence, as well as the titles of the books and volumes.

For anyone who's curious about my paper soul, the overall title is Roadnotes; each cycle of journals -- sometimes a year, sometimes less -- has a title/epigram; each book has its own title/epigram. For example, the book that's currently traveling with me is Roadnotes, volume XVIII: What is the word that frees?: book 2, bring us a place/of quiet here. Most of the epigrams are song or poem quotes; each entry starts with an epigram (usually a line from whatever song is wandering through my head, though sometimes a deliberate choice based on my plans for the day).

[to be continued]

Tags: paper soul