Crashes

(Neutral Milk Hotel lyrics penned on the crashed cessna in Bull McCabe's beer garden-nice!)

Yeah, it's been a long, long, long time, Ms. Blog Page, since we've encountered one another. I've missed and loved you in strange and mysterious ways while we've been apart! All the while exploring sections and scores of me that I haven't been aware existed in a decade! In truth, I did want to come back to this page with a BANG (thanks, tv, and Bare Naked Ladies) but I'm feeling somewhat melancholic as I approach this first-in-a-long-time post. Let's just kick it into gear, shall we? Foremost, last night I witnessed one of the most engaging hours of my life I'm likely to witness, as Kristin Hersh was interviewed, read from her newly published memoir, and performed four acoustic songs on a Barnes & Noble stage at Union Square. I can't begin to entertain the notion that I could recap this experience in any shape or form, so I'm just going to leave it at...it was perfection dressed in a tulle of utter brilliance accessorized in a beaded broach of grace haloed in a mist of elegance that doesn't grace stages much anymore these days, what with the music industry having gone sour. And the art industry. And the writing one. Kristin Hersh remains this raw rare pearl. I had goosebumps the entire hour. Part of that relates to my health issues, but who gives a (you know what) about that considering all of the things I've seen and done since the death of my previous relationship and the fact of my future. Anyway, pretty sure most of the goosebumps came from that feeling I get when something reaches down my throat, grabs a hold of my heart, and squeezes it so tightly that my breathing becomes shallow and my pulse thuds through my chest. She was impeccable in her delivery of response to questions asked by such a dumb journalist. I was embarrassed for the journalist...literally, the woman asked Kristin, "So what did your diary look like? I mean, did you dot your "i"'s with hearts?" (wtf, shoot me now?)...and Kristin responded, "Well my handwriting's so bad it actually looks like a heart monitor..." stirring laughter in the crowd. Of course, Kristin has this ability, with her husky beautiful throaty voice, her eloquence, and wit, to win over anyone in her midst. And Kristin sang "Gazebo Tree", "Flooding", "Your Dirty Answer", and "Your Ghost". All sounding as if she just rose from the sea, a mystical musical creature to save lives. Those who choose to be a part of her, that is.*I must move on. Life has been awkward. I've met and loved twenty or thirty people on varying levels of love. I've stopped dreaming altogether. I never dream, now. I was on this astral travel kick...now, I just sleep. I panic; I think in stream of consciousness. I'm still seeing The Therapist named Ingrid. I literally worship the streets of New York City. When I'm walking now, by myself, or with someone even, and I know which direction is which, and I know that my home is not far from there, I am shooting silent prayers from my hip, reminding whomever is in charge of my destiny (be it me or that entity) that I'm not ungrateful for this, for this chance at a new life and a new me and the old me combined with the new me to become a solid presence. I owe a bunch of stuff to a lot of people and since this isn't a Thank You speech, I won't go into it just yet, who those people are. But I will, in time. Life got good around May then sunk then rose then fluttered then flipped backwards then soared then trenched then rocked then hurt then begged me to slow down...then begged me to speed up...then kissed my lips, bruised my flesh, ate my dignity and swallowed me down. I'm not sure where I'm at tonight, as I type, inspired by beauty, failed by love, filled with hope and lured by tomorrow. All I really know is that I wanted this blog page to stay MINE. It started MINE. It IS MINE. The old parts can stay and hang out, as long as they can get along with the new parts. Kristin (me) as a spirit looking for what her spirit entails. Is it wisdom? Poetry? Art? Music? Something as simple as a nice coffee table or books or thrills or setbacks or lows or highs? We'll see. Anyway, I'm back.