Farewell, Young Men

They endured four months of dusty, monotonous walks from the one-story adobe library, past the elementary school, police station and playground up the steps to the gazebo in the plaza. The sun hanging lower in the sky, the air crisper and nippier with each passing day. The Mountain, Wheeler Peak, always in the background, beckoning. The dark, wiry young men unpacked their cardboard guitar cases, attached their tuners and capos and strummed Brazilian and Hot Jazz chords. Unexpected music for this northern New Mexico town. Surprising songs for the start of winter.

They had stopped being friends weeks ago. Too many nights of close quarters, annoying habits and a lack of viable employment caused tensions to rise. But, they could not deny their musical chemistry. This is what carried them two-thousand miles, along hot hazy blue highways, in the hopes of finding fame and fortune. Taos is a harsh town. Quaint and quirky to the uninitiated, its underbelly of desperate spiritualism, relentless sunshine and massive joblessness belies the initial promise. They say that The Mountain" calls you in and The Mountain spits you out. It is no wonder that friendships crumble in this transitional place. The time had come for them to be spat out.

Their plan was to gather enough money to hop a Greyhound bus back to Florida,a complicated scheme that involved hitching a ride 3 hours to Albuquerque, traveling three days and being left off five hundred miles from home, but a few days before departure they met The Goddess. Nineteen year-old cheekbones that could cut glass sat high, just below her green glowing eyes. Wheat colored hair traveled down her thrift store sweater. They asked her to sing along and she did so, with gusto. The crowd couldn't wait for her to stop but to the young men, she sounded like a nightingale.

After they'd invited her back to the crash pad and shared some weed and day-old chili, she insisted they join her in a midnight swim at the hot springs. She insisted they remove all of their clothes, as she did. She insisted that sharing everything and everyone made for better friends. The young men did not argue. They became closer than they had ever been.

The next morning, The Goddess decided to drive them back to Florida. They could not refuse her offer.

And Then There Were The Ducks and Geese

So, there I was at the hot springs and mineral baths in Utah. Somehow, A blushing young man got my tent to stay up and I loaded all of my gear inside. I changed into my swimsuit and went down to the pools. Each one had a different temperature and combination of minerals. I swam and soaked and stood under waterfalls for hours. And then, an odd man wearing blue Crocs took them off and stood at one end of the largest pool and stared at me. After about 20 minutes, I swam over to him. He flirted with me and we talked about the smell of cow dung in the air. I pointed out the two white horses on a hillside that I had been watching all day. He told me he couldn't see them. He asked me to sleep with him. I declined. Then he looked me intently in the eyes and told me that it was important that I arrive someplace on a Saturday, close to 7 o'clock. 8pm would be too late. I had no idea what he meant. We shook hands underwater.

Later in the evening, (between 7 and 8 pm), I wandered down to the pond that was surrounded by a ragtag group of ducks and geese. Have I told you this before? Maybe I have, in 2010. All of the water fowl were unusual, in some way. Some had a broken wing, some were losing feathers. Another was missing a foot. When I walked towards them, they all formed a group and hoarded me towards a tree, across the way. I tried to move away from the birds and they came closer to me, forcing me back under. Then they returned to a marshy area, behind me. They went their separate ways, swimming or pecking or looking for food. Seeing as they were distracted, I got up to leave, again. The birds left their waters and marsh and came back to me, forming a semi-circle around me. I finally said "what do you want me to do?" I started searching the ground under the tree and found a bumpy place. I dug up the earth and found two railroad spikes, whose tops had been bent. The spikes looked a little like swan heads but when you put them together they formed a heart. After I had these in my hands, the geese and ducks let me leave.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of birds squawking. When I looked outside of my tent, I was surrounded by the same ducks and geese. I have no idea why. I fed them some crackers and bread crumbs.

I kept the railroad spikes for several months, until I had to move and couldn't bring them with me.

One of the Weirdest Things

One of the strangest things to ever happen to me occurred in a small town, somewhere off of Interstate 15 in Montana. I needed a pit stop and pulled into the parking lot of a gas station / mini mart. There were one or two other cars in the lot. However, when I walked inside, the place was completely deserted. I looked for an employee but after I called out "hello?" a few times with no response, I walked to the back of the store to find the restroom. When I was finished and walked outside, the store was very busy - three cashiers were ringing up several customers who were waiting in three separate lines. There were a couple of kids running down the candy bar aisle. A manager was writing on his clipboard. Outside, the parking lot was full. I bought a soda and a snack and went on my way.

But for years, I have been perplexed by this. How could a store go from deserted to bustling in just three or four minutes? It wasn't as if a tour bus had arrived and unloaded passengers.(and employees!) As I contemplated various scenarios for this, I came to an odd conclusion. I felt like I was a character in a video game who had arrived at an appointed destination a few minutes earlier than I was scheduled. And, the programmer designing the game realized his error and corrected it while I was in the ladies room.

Unlikely? Maybe.

Looking Up

Thirty-seven thousand feet up in the sky
Just a tiny pin prick to my naked eye
One-hundred forty people on their way
To start a new adventure on this day

And for a few brief hours they become
A living organism, closer to the sun
The air they breathe recirculates inside
This tubular tin can providing the ride

As I watch the bright white tail
Surfing the sky without a sail
I wonder who is sitting in the stiff-backed narrow seats
Drinking their free sodas and eating pretzel treats?

The Attention of Young Men

I have never been one to shy away from a younger man. When I was 29, I was in love with a 20-year-old. Used to tell people we met when he asked me to buy him some beer at the 7-11. (It was a joke). I couldn't help myself. There was an undeniable physical chemistry and an intellectual stimulation. While it didn't end well, that relationship was a surprise and showed me that love has no age limit.

After last night, I think the age limit has been reached.

My friend, Jenn, is the consummate mother. She raised two sons of her own and loves to nurture and feed. Nearly every night, she has house guests: her ex-boyfriend and his current squeeze, or a pal who lives 20 miles away and doesn't feel like driving home, and many nights, a young musician friend who doesn't have a car and needs a ride into work the next morning. Not only does Jenn have a spare bedroom and plenty of extra blankets, she always seems to have enough eggs, cheese, spinach and toast to make sure everybody has a tasty omelette the next morning. "Can I get you anything else?" "C'mon, just finish up this last bit of coffee!" Everyone feels special when they share a meal at Jenn's. And, she usually won't let you wash the dishes, either.

Last night, after attending an open-mic show in town, Jenn asked me if I wouldn't mind driving one of her grandson's friends, Dave, back to her place, as her VW camper was already full. Before we left, he and his buddies argued about the kind of liquor they should bring back to Jenn's. Vodka was high on the list, but in the end, beer, whiskey and tequila won out. I had forgotten how exciting alcohol was to young men. During the drive, Dave told me all about the adventures he and his friends had, while busking their way from Florida to Taos during the past 6 weeks. They played music and told fake fortunes in Southern towns like Savannah, Greenville S.C., and Asheville. They landed with friends of Jenn's in Philadelphia, PA and were "held hostage" by a woman who needed strong backs to move a house full of furniture. As they slowly made their way Westward, they met several older women, with extra cash, who were more than happy to buy them dinner and drinks. I didn't ask what they wanted in return. Perhaps, just the companionship of un-jaded youth, in the hopes of rekindling their own inspiration.

It seems to me when I was their age, guys wouldn't be caught dead with women in their 30's, let alone somebody a couple of decades older. I think there is a new attitude about aging these days. The love of Harold and Maude might not seem as bizarre.

When we arrived at Jenn's place (where Dave would be sleeping inside one of the 3 immobile VW campers in the yard), we started to discuss music and he pulled out his tiny guitar and strummed some Bossa Nova and I asked if he was a fan of Jobim. He had never heard of Antonio Carlos Jobim, who created the Bossa Nova sound and wrote many of its hits. Still, I was impressed he was a fan of the idiom, as well as Le Hot Jazz and Django Reinhardt. This was the music he played on the unfamiliar city streets, to earn his passage. He talked about meeting an older lady, a lawyer, in Asheville, who paid for dinner and broke his heart during the trip. I wasn't sure how to ease his pain. Luckily, at that moment, Jenn and the rest of the young men arrived.

Not only had they picked up the booze, they had acquired a couple of extra passengers along the way. Jenn and I were surrounded by five strapping young 22 year-old bucks. And they wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening with us! I hadn't planned on staying, but was coaxed by the chorus of "c'mon, Anne! It'll be fun!" We went inside and Jenn trotted straight to the fridge to see what fixin's she could make. I sat at the round kitchen table, with Dave to my left, his friend Eli next to him, Jenn's grandson Luke across from me and Taos' young blond god, Chris, to my right. Garrett, anther local musician, stayed in the living room with his guitar, immersed in the chords of a new song. Immediately, Chris and Eli wanted to know the other's astrological sign. I was a little stunned. These young guys knew not only their sun signs, but their moons, rising signs, aspects and Chinese astrology too! Eli discussed, at length, the physical characteristics of various zodiac signs. He had me pegged as a Cancer. I had to disappoint him and tell him I was a Capricorn. He redeemed himself by telling me that Capricorn and Cancer are direct opposites and very complimentary.

Soon, the guys discussed their ages. They were all born in 1991!! While I knew they were 22, somehow, the year of their birth hadn't crossed my mind and it occurred to me that I could easily be their mother. Suddenly, the canyon between our ages seemed to grow wider and I felt old. I had always suspected that parents felt their own age more keenly than the childless, as they watched their children grow and mature and suddenly I understood. After brown rice and collard greens, the conversation changed to cartoons and comedy. Not a single guy felt that Mel Brooks was funny. Nobody cracked a smile when I said "Not even Young Frankenstein?" I suddenly felt like an ancient Borscht Belt fan as I realized that humor is generational. While Buggs Bunny and The Road Runner were the fondest cartoons of my youth, they reminisced about Johnny Bravo and Cow and Chicken. I had run out of things to say.

They sure were adorable but my loins were not stirred. I wondered how so many middle-aged men found the companionship of 22-year-old women so appealing? I certainly understand physical attraction, but is it enough to sustain a relationship? The lyrics of Steely Dan's song, "Hey Nineteen" came to mind: Hey Nineteen / That's 'Reatha Franklin / She don't remember the Queen of Soul. I remembered dating my 20-year old and changing those lyrics to Hey Nineteen / That's Donald Fagen / He don't remember the Steely Dan. (thankfully, he was a willing student of jazz-rock fusion). As I watched these young bucks laugh about things I didn't understand, I started to feel very maternal towards this next generation. Even though they asked me to play music with them through the night, I felt it best to head home and ponder the next phase in my life.

Peace and Acceptance

I am working on practicing peace and acceptance.

I want to accept the way things are. The way they have turned out. Appreciate the blessings of the here and now and stop continually wondering why things haven't happened the way I wanted them to. Stop wondering why I was thrown for such a loop, backwards and forwards and sideways. Appreciate and accept the peace of the moment. I need to be at peace. It is the only answer.

Each morning as I awake, and before I go to sleep at night, I take time to be thankful for all the blessings of the day before. I remember to give thanks for the small things (my car, good health, enough to eat, the Internet, my renewed good relationship with my sisters, the beautiful weather, a roof over my head, etc.) I am working on having more faith in the Divine, and knowing that everything is happening at the right moment and I am in the exact correct place at the correct time. "All is unfolding as it should", is the phrase I keep repeating to myself.

It is a daily practice and I am not always successful. I am working on the wonderful concept of being loved, no matter what I do and what I think. Warts and all. I like that idea. So different from how I was raised. I give credit to my sisters for leading the way in this frame of thought. We have always been each others teachers, confidants and guides.

After a small car accident last week, one of my first thoughts was "I wish I would have had more fun and not been so anxious". I also had a conversation with a beautiful 70-year-old woman who told me this year she was finally able to let go of her own critical inner voice. She advised me to let go and have fun NOW, and not wait until I am 70. There is a lesson here and I am learning. Peace and acceptance. And joy. Can't forget the joy.

Out Dancing

Out on the mesa, across from the airport and next to the city dump sits a very popular brew pub. They were celebrating their one year anniversary with a free night of music and dancing and everybody I knew was headed there. As I walked into the enormous Quanset hut building, I almost panicked. None of my acquaintances had yet arrived. The place was packed with people. They were sitting at tables and the bar, leaning against the walls and clustered in groups of four and five between the tables, drinking micro brews and waiting for the band to start. So many bodies I found it hard to breathe. I slowly steered myself over to the far side of the building (which had been built using recycled materials) and found a lone, unclaimed bar stool near the stage. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth, not knowing how long I could last, if I would be able to stay to hear the music or if I would have to run out and gasp into a paper bag.

Almost immediately, a smartly-dressed woman in her '80's came up to me and said, in her Texas twang, "Isn't this something?" I told her I couldn't believe how crowded the place was and she said she was the mother-in-law of one of the owners. I complimented the recycled decor and she smiled. I found that focusing on one friendly face relieved my panic and as she walked away, I was able to enjoy myself more. With a clearer head, I surveyed the room and noticed quite a few parents with young children. The girls ran back and forth over the dance floor and the boys rough housed and threw each other around on the ground. Reminded me of a wedding reception. I figured once the band started, the parents would haul the kids home to bed.

The disco-funk-bluegrass (not kidding) local band started up and most of the crowd surged onto the large dance floor. a lot of folks were dancing solo, as was I, and I surveyed the crowd. Everybody was there. I spied the leader of the Tibetan Buddhist community, next to a Native American elder. Across from him were a bunch of tie-dyed aging hippies and dancing to my right, a teen-aged blonde girl and her companion, dressed like elves - complete with pointy hats. Directly in front of the guitar player, oblivious to everybody else, a limber lass in braids wearing professional dance shoes tested the strength of her hot pants and t-shirt by doing back bends and yoga postures in time to the music. Parents picked up their children and danced with them on their shoulders. My panic abandoned, I gave myself over to the music, closed my eyes and swiveled my hips and twirled. After a while, I noticed two young men had spied me and were now dancing, facing me. I smiled. They moved on and danced next to another woman. Some tripped-out dude was whipping his way through the crowd, bowing and stretching and I was afraid his manic movements might hurt somebody! He came over to me, looked me right in the eye and did his bowing routine. Then he turned around and moved across the dance floor to another woman. Communal dancing seemed to be the theme of the evening. Patchouli, the preferred scent. A refugee from 1986, in his black shirt, pants and big-shouldered, hot-pink sports coat shimmied his curly grey head on the side of the dance floor.

After an hour, the band took a break and the sweaty crowd poured outside to cool off in the night air. My shirt and skirt were drenched. I spied my friends over by the corner and we all shared some water. When the band resumed, I lasted about fifteen minutes and then, I knew I had danced enough. As I stood back on the sidelines watching the crowd, I wondered where else in this country could I ever see so many different types of people, of every age group and social strata, grooving to the same kind of music?

All I Need is the Air That I Breathe

This is the best photo taken of me in a long, long time. There's a reason for that.

Sure the haircut is great and I am so happy that somebody finally gave me bangs, again. Stylists have been telling me for years that my wavy locks and my "very strong part and cowlick" would make bangs impossible and they refused to cut them! Also, my eyebrows were darkened - I didn't ask for it but the beautician was bored and I said, "sure, what the heck."

But, the main reason I look so good is that I had just completed a session of oxygen therapy. I wish they had taken a photo of me when I walked in the door. My complexion was ghostly pale and I had giant circles under my eyes. I've made no secret, in this blog, that I suffer from depression and anxiety. Since I've moved to such a high elevation, 7,000 feet, my anxiety has worsened and I get bad panic attacks from time to time. I was in the throes of an attack this morning, when I decided to breathe in some 02 for a half an hour.

In my initial session with my latest doctor, he pondered my heart condition and weakened lungs (from the pulmonary embolism of 2011) and told me that recent research showed heart patients had a much greater risk of depression than those with healthy hearts. Doctors are beginning to wonder if a lack of oxygen is making life more difficult for us. This is my second oxygen session (still a bit expensive for me), and I can tell you that after the first session, my anxiety was much less for several days. But this morning was agony.

I have been exercising (going for hour-long morning walks) but clearly it isn't helping me, and I frequently have to take a short nap upon my return. Not enough air is getting into my lungs. I hope oxygen therapy won't be considered too experimental and that I'll be able to get a prescription for it so that I can continue to feel better!

My Friend, Marsha

I was a 42-year-old college sophomore when I met Marsha. I accepted a work-study front desk position at my university's modern art museum. Marsha had just begun her post as a security guard. At first, she was standoffish towards me, and I don't know if it was shyness or a barrier that people of different races find difficult to overcome. Luckily, it didn't last long. In a few weeks, Marsha and I found out that we had a lot to discuss. She was amazed at the amount of papers I wrote and books I read in school. I was in awe of her energy and tenacity. Not only did she have the full-time security job, Marsha also had her own catering business and occasionally cleaned apartments and worked, now-and-then checking ID badges at the local newspaper. A very active member of her church, after Hurricane Katrina hit, she volunteered to set up a shelter for displaced Louisianans in Greensboro, should any need a temporary home.

She grew up in Greensboro, North Carolina, and remembered when it was illegal for black people to set foot on my college campus. She was present for the famous sit-in at the Woolworth counter, that started the civil rights movement. When a black man, Barack Obama, ran for president, Marsha became one of his biggest supporters and volunteered to get out the vote and help the campaign. After he was elected, a shrine was erected in a spare room, and she became an obsessive collector, with over 17 thousand Obama-related items  crowding that room. She asked everybody she knew for newspaper clippings and memorabilia. She proudly attended his inauguration ceremony.

A flight attendant friend got her free airline tickets and Marsha traveled to US cities like Las Vegas and New York and even went to London, once. When I had my open-heart surgery, she called me several times and tried to fly to Seattle to see me, but plans fell through.

A petite woman with close-cropped hair, Marsha shared with me the tragic details of her only failed marriage, that ended after a few years. However, she had an on-again, off-again boyfriend whom she rarely discussed. She never admitted her age to me, but I knew she was at least 15 years older than I. I wished I had as much "get-up-and-go" as she did. Her cigarette habit was her downfall, and she knew she had to quit - tried many times - but she battled cancer a few years ago and beat it, at least for a while.

I was overwhelmed by the work required of me in school - sometimes I wanted to quit. During my senior year, I had 17 papers due in a matter of a eight weeks. Marsha was always encouraging and reminded me of how smart I was and always said "I KNOW you can do it, Anne!" I really needed to hear those words. We had a deep love for one another - in fact, she told people I was her daughter, and I was happy to say she was my mom. We looked nothing alike. Marsha, a small black woman and me, a Germanic-looking 5 foot 10 gal. But, we used to say "can't you see the family resemblance?" as we smiled. She found a new backpack for me, when mine broke, and I got her a lovely pocketbook when I went to Tucson, AZ, at a yard sale. After my college graduation, I had my sisters come to the museum to meet her, and she became fast friends with my good friend, Bo. She always asked about him and she frequently inquired about my mother, knowing that we were estranged.

One time, I went to a garage sale at Marsha's house. I'd never been there before and I nearly drove by, before realizing I had the correct address. While I was walking up, her friends said something snide about white ladies - they thought I was snubbing the sale due to race, when I almost passed it up. But, as soon as Marsha saw me, she loudly corrected her friends and told them I was special to her.

We held hands sometimes and she must have told me she loved me at least a hundred times. After I graduated and moved away, we kept up a telephone friendship and she always ended the call by saying, "I love you, Anne". In December of 2011, I took a cross-country trip from Pennsylvania through the South. I stopped in Greensboro and shocked Marsha by dropping into the museum to surprise her. The look on her face was priceless when she realized I had come to visit. She introduced me to all of the new staff and we had a lovely afternoon. I am so very glad I went to see her. I drove through town again, in 2012, but this time, I called Marsha to tell her I was coming. However, she told me she was too busy to see me. I was hurt and unsettled by this but, for some reason, I didn't think it was personal. Somehow I knew that she was feeling poorly.

I got a message that Marsha passed away last week. Funny, I had just looked at my phone today and realized I hadn't called her in a while. R.I.P., Marsha. I love you.

And Sometimes, Ya Suck.

When I say "Ya", I mean me.

Man, did I suck at the jazz jam the other day. I have been struggling for a while now, with anxiety and depression and fear and sadness and terror. And it was all I could do to show up at the jazz jam and sing. I've felt that way for a while now, since I've been in Taos. Sometimes I have to drive around for a half hour or so, before I muster up enough courage to walk in that door. Once I get behind the microphone, though, somehow I feel a lot calmer.

I am always grateful for the kindness of the musicians and the willingness of Gary, who runs the place, to find and print out lyrics to the tunes I don't know.

Here's the dirty secret that I suspect they all have figured out - I am really not a jazz singer. I like it, but I rarely listen to it. Even when I was studying scat singing, weekly, I didn't gravitate towards the greats (Ella, Sara, etc). My ear has always been drawn to R&B, funk, pop and blues. And, when I'm feeling down, it is really, really hard to get myself to listen to any kind of music, at all.

I have learned just how difficult it is for the musicians to change keys to accommodate singers. Hearing how they have to transpose in their heads, on the fly, has given me a new level of respect. But, I know most songs aren't written in keys that compliment my voice. I just didn't have the confidence to ask for different keys, this week. So, I sucked. A lot. Of course, I haven't been practicing and my voice is not very pliable. My anxiety made it difficult for me to concentrate on the music and when I tried to improvise or scat, well, you might have an idea of how it sounded.

But, I showed up.

Taos Sunday Nights

Colored lights strung along the adobe house twinkle. A smokey bonfire sputters and roars. 3 guitars strum 3 chords repeatedly. Hand drums and rattles find the beat. Hash and weed pass from hand to hand. Improvised melodies and random lyrics sputter into the microphone. I watch. I sing. I don't smoke. I reach for the soft grey and white cat with the little pink nose. He lets me hold him and I dig deep into his fur, getting rid of the winter coat. He purrs. He runs away and dashes up a tree. I walk to the makeshift table and spoon out some potato salad.

A wavy-haired Russian painter in a red bandanna spins and struts with the music. He invites us all to his gallery opening. The man tending the bonfire laughs out loud at an inside joke only he understands. I feel happy. Community, finally?

My Hiking Companion

While I don't currently have a dog of my own, I get to watch two sweetie pies twice a week, Leche, a cream-colored Chow, and the Boarder-Collie/Spaniel mix, Chile Pepper. They live at the main house but are outside a lot and if they see that I'm going for a walk, they happily trot along. While Chile prefers finding her own path and going in whatever direction her nose leads her, Leche is more likely to walk several paces ahead or beside of me, periodically stopping to check and see if I am still close by.

This morning I got up early and after breakfast and "Facebooking", decided on a walk across the road to explore the neighborhood. Plans were changed when two wet nosed faces smiled at me from the hillside and beaconed  me to join them across the property. I gave in to their wishes. Was thrilled to see water actually flowing down the stream alongside this land, as it has been running dry since I got here. I followed Chile Pepper's meandering trail for a while, until the sagebrush became too thick, then I looked for Leche, who was a good 20 yards ahead, and decided on her path. She lead me all the way to the back of the land, to the  barbed-wire fence that marks the neighbors' property. Then we headed through the Juniper trees and up the hill. Leche, usually a few feet away and always looking back for me. She was patient when I needed to sit down and take a break several times before making it up to the top but  once I got there, I was greeted by the Westward vista of miles of Mesa, dotted by ancient volcanoes. After another rest, I pulled my body onward and upward, but noticed Leche's panting tongue.

While climbing up requires mental determination, the decent demands concentration. I slipped on the dry, rocky ground many times before I noticed Leche ahead, looking at me. She wisely decided that trotting sideways down the hill was a better decision than heading straight down. She was, essentially, making her own switchback trail. I followed her lead. Every 5 or 10 steps, Leche turned around and looked  for me, before walking again. I trusted her sure footing and before too long, we were back on level ground. Once we got to the house, Leche turned and smiled in her doggy fashion and headed in the direction of her water dish, having completed her morning constitutional, now it was time for a nice nap.

Wooden Faces

I gave myself permission today to lie in bed from late afternoon until the  daylight faded into night.

For a while, I watched the clouds drift across the sky. After they merged into one mass, I stared at the wooden ceiling for hours, watching the overhead logs change from beige to brown to grey to black. I imagined faces in the logs, seeing the ruts from sawed off branches as eyes and the spaces between the logs as mouths. The lighting fixtures became pendulous noses. The expressions on the log people's faces alternated between hilarity and agony. My mind became restless and I tried to have a conversation with the Divine. I waited for answers. None came. I asked questions and shouted my desires to God. Don't know if anybody listened or understood. I allowed myself to feel as lonely and depressed as I wanted to feel. I prayed that an idea or inspiration would come into my head and point me in a direction. Nothing.

After blackness overtook me, I cried. I chastised myself for the tears and then tried to be at peace with them. So lost. I feel so lost and rudderless. How can I break through this time? Can I really make this place my home? The more I learn, the less likely it seems I'll be able to find a way to make a living in this town. They say folks who succeed, come here with either a shining talent or a skill to share.For a few weeks, I was able to be a shameless self-promoter and talk up my skills. However a couple of months later, I feel like I've lost my nerve and become tongue-tied when asked about myself.

I think about my maternal grandfather. I don't know a hell of a lot about him, but he always seemed to be drifting from place to place, and never finding a home. We got postcards from Seattle and San Antonio and other towns. I don't know what he did in those places or if he ever made friends. All he owned fit inside two brown suitcases and now and then, they would appear on our front door stoop, and he would ask mother for a place to stay for a while. When he lived with us, he took up residence in the kitchen. What did he think about, as he sat for hours with his coffee cup on top of the dishwasher and a lighted cigarette in his hand? He never said.  At most, he stayed for a few months before he saved up enough of his social security checks to be on the road again.  We saw him off at the bus station and wouldn't hear a word from him for a few years. He died from emphesyma in a Veterans hospital in Pennsylvania when he was in his early '70's, with my mother at his bedside.

I drift off to sleep.  I remember dreaming about a large amusement park and a transportation system that seemed to come from the future. Either I was a boy or I was watching a young man, who was my son, named Nicholas. Nicholas was descending from a moving sidewalk and standing in front of a clinic, where I (or he) had a doctor's appointment he was thinking of skipping. He (or I) did not want to be thought of as sick.

When I awake in the morning I watch the overhead tree branches with their nubby spots change back to brown. Their abstract faces greet me, still wearing the same expressions they held as yesterday's daylight faded. I look around my room and notice the clove of garlic and simple cross that a previous tenant placed above the doorway. No vampires allowed. Only inner demons.

In a Fallow Mood

I think I'm in one of my "fallow" periods - what I call a time of blankness and mental dullness. I feel like I'm waiting for a new inspiration or burst of energy or insight before I can move again. I am writing today's blog, just to keep in practice. Don't expect brilliance.

Time moves much slower, in this town. Time also crawls when one is not working or mentally engaged in a project. Right now, I feel like I could strap a saddle on an iceberg and take it for a brisk ride. Did that image make sense? I'm not sure. Perhaps I'm spending way too much time alone. Perhaps I am scared. I am, after all, in a new place and navigating my way with very limited resources.

Here's what I've been doing to keep busy: Have kept up my singing - going to the bi-weekly jazz jam sessions (but I didn't feel great about my voice or song choices last time) and interspersing that with the "hippie" free jam sessions on alternate weeks. I have started taking walks and hiking in the land behind my house - one of these days I'll make it all the way to the top of the hill in the distance. A couple of days ago, I attended a Shiva Lingum  (sp?) festival at the local ashram and learned a little about Ram Das, Krishna Das and that culture. I am pretty sure that half the town showed up for that festival - hey, free chai! I keep trying to start an Amy Tan book but keep stopping after the 10th page or so. I need a new book. I should join the library. I cook. I eat. I have drastically reduced my sugar intake for the time being. I think I am feeling better, because of it, but I'm not really sure. A very kind person has generously offered to give me a massage, every-other-week, for free. I have taken him up on his offer.

I have tried painting again. I have stopped. I colored my hair. It turned out better than the paintings. I still spend way too much time on the Internet - specifically, Facebook, but the constant re-tinkering of the program has grown tiresome. I have finally started to feel embarrassed by the amount of over-posting that I do. I know I post because I feel lonely and anxious and am desperate to connect with somebody. Perhaps it is the same thing with this blog.

I treated myself to a day at Ojo Caliente, the hot-springs-and-mineral-baths, about 40 miles away. I think it did me some good. A pesky wound on my ankle is finally healing. I've had it for nearly two months. And, the minerals in the water, combined with the sunshine improved my hair color.

I wonder if the "inspiration" I am waiting for, will ever arrive? I think I am waiting to become another person. Perhaps I need to be at peace with who I am.

Attention Former Employer

Hi there.

I know you've been reading my past blog posts lately and I know you're trying to keep a file, in case another former employee and I decide to sue you. You know we have a case. You see, I can tell what blog posts have been read, and recently, all of my posts pertaining to my tenure with you have been read.

Thing is, I want nothing more to do with you. Lets let bygones be bygones. What happened, happened. I was hired at a terrible time for your management team. I was not trained well.  I was treated to verbal abuse by several employees and was the subject of lies and accusations by other employees who felt threatened by me. Your workplace was unhealthy for me, both mentally and physically. In short, this place was a reminder of everything I hated about Central Pennsylvania - you don't even know you have tremendous problems because they are endemic in your culture.

I have moved on. I have said nothing on this blog that you can use against me - I never mentioned the company name nor the nature of your business. You will fail on your own, due to your own corporate greed and mismanagement.

Ta ta.

Hippie Peer Pressure

 I like New Mexico, so far. I like the hippies and the weather and the scenery. I like the open-mindedness and the free-thinking. But, sometimes what seems like free thinking is just "group think", from another perspective. In this case, the hippie-new age perspective. This is the kind of place where what you do to help the earth is never enough. Sure, you take your glass, plastics and aluminum cans to the recycling center, but why aren't you buying in bulk and using your own containers, in the first place? I try to use my own shopping bags at the grocery store, but "don't you know that hemp is better? It is such a renewable resource. You should really be using hemp bags, Anne".  You need to drink more water, but "it needs to be blessed and put into a separate glass container and prayed over, before you drink it." Because I can no longer eat wheat, I feel a bit of a kinship, but now I won't be cool enough until I stop all dairy (unless it is goat's milk) and avoid all sugars. Must learn to like Stevia. And, try to use coconut milk or soy and honey in my coffee. Ha - that is never going to happen! No honey in coffee - that is a deal-breaker.

What I eat, how I purchase, where I buy, and how I dispose of things are all ripe for judgement from the clucking hippie tongue. In this altitude and climate, what I drive is less a topic of discussion than it would be in a larger metropolis, where it is much easier to get around. The hippies have resigned themselves to 4x4 cars and trucks because so many of the roads are not paved and are rarely plowed in the winter.

I know I am judging them by calling them hippies. Maybe I should just call them "locals", since I am so outnumbered. Perhaps it is just the regional mind-set. Also, I am easily prone to guilt and feel some self-reproach because I am not as self-reliant as they seem to be. They have been really, really nice to me and I don't think I would be ostracized if I never, ever changed my ways to fit into their ideal.  Hippies are much more accepting and mellow (perhaps due to the pot they smoke) than the regimented, uptight conservative Pennsylvanians I encountered. I think I exist somewhere in between these two.

And Then, a Monster Walks Into the Room

And that monster's name is Raymond. I don't know his last name. Buy holy hell. He is the best damned piano player I have ever sung with. I have never heard so many ideas pour out of 10 fingers in my life. The chord voicings this monster came up with blew me away. Laughed myself silly with glee!

I read in the paper that a jazz jam was happening at a small music school on the south side of town. Wasn't hard to find and I got there a few minutes early. I met Gary, the owner, and we talked a little about my musical history. I told him that I felt my main weakness, as a singer and musician, was learning how to communicate with musicians, in their language. In short, I wanted help in leading my own combo. He seemed like a really nice guy - with the demeanor of a great teacher and real professional. He's a decent drummer and functional keyboard player. Turns out his main instrument is the saxophone (but I never got to hear him blow). We were joined by a trumpet player, bassist, flute player and another saxophonist, so Gary manned the trap set.. The flute and sax were played by women, too! We each took turns calling out tunes and picking the style (swing, Latin, etc.) It was clear, by the level of musicianship that this was a learning experience for most in the room. The majority of solos were high-school caliber.

That is, until the monster walked into the room. I think we had been at it for about an hour. We finished a tune and then I turned around and saw a bearded man at the piano. All he had to do was churn out 3 or 4 chords and I just knew I was in for a treat. It was like breathing to him. This guy has obviously been playing for the majority of his 50-odd years and has been a master for most of them. Once he joined in, the musicianship of everybody in the room elevated. Great solos from the flutist and bass player. It seemed like everybody had been holding back, until Raymond arrived. Or, maybe he just brought out the best in everybody. And, then I realized why I am not a great communicator with musicians. My piano player usually did it for me. With just one word or chord change or look in my eye, I knew what was going to happen. After not having sung with real professionals in quite a while, hearing the chord progressions and knowing when to jump in took some getting used to. I guess you can say that my "chops are a bit rusty". Happily, though, my voice is finally losing the rasp it has had for the past couple of years - probably because I now live in the New Mexicao desert and the mold is leaving my body. My breathing has improved, also. Nice to have full lung capacity again!

This jazz improv is twice a month and I hope, hope, hope that the MONSTER will be back!!!

Hoping to Avoid the Cultural Set-Up This Year

Band Rehearsal, Hippies and a Contact High

I don't lie about my age - I'm 52 years old right now. And today, the 15th day of my 52nd year, I apparently experienced my first "contact high", during band rehearsal, when the other musicians were passing around some weed. I have certainly been in the same room as pot smokers before but apparently whatever they were smoking this time around was potent stuff!

May I just say I hated the feeling? I felt disconnected from the music, I couldn't get my bearings and I was dizzy. Also, I couldn't take a deep breath due to the smell and the smoke. Maybe I was suffering from oxygen deprivation and wasn't high? Music is enough for me. Especially live music where I am a participant. I really don't understand why other people need something artificial inside of their bodies in order to feel connected to music (or anything else, for that matter). Perhaps I am just wired differently? I was always a "straight ass" - as they used to call me in high school. The only time I ever even considered getting high was when I was 17 and my boyfriend, Bruce, and I discussed eating some brownies laced with pot. We never did it, together. (Or that other thing, either). When I was growing up, I was far from cool. I was the choir and theater geek and the hardest stuff my friends and I ever touched was too much hot English Breakfast tea with lemon and sugar. Maybe some diet soda (Tab) and we had a blast! Lots of story-telling and laughter and music and creativity. That was our high.

Since I landed in Taos, from day 1, I have been seen, again, as a singer. THANK GOD! It has been a loooong time since a community of musicians has embraced me. Much of this is thanks to the beautiful angel, Lynn, who was my savior when I didn't have a place to stay. She took me in with open arms and introduced me to many of her friends, most of whom are musicians and artists and other outsiders. OK - I suppose you could call the majority of them "Hippies". The VW Microbus is the transportaion of choice. You can never be sure when everybody's had a bath. And, you quickly learn that they're living on the fringes of the community and with their own sense of time. Already I've learned that it is hard to pin down a time for rehearsal. Today, I arrived at the practice space at 11:30, and the last one to get there walked through the door at 4:00. But, I like these people. Many of them are good musicians and I've never sung with a harp and violin before. They are very good-natured and encouraging of each other. Very few egos. In fact, I am realizing that I have a bit of an ego, when it comes to music. I am much "tighter" than I realized. I like rehearsal to have structure and purpose. If I'm learning a song (for a future performance), I want it to have a defined melody, so I know where to put my harmonies. Is that too much to ask for?

But, I'm learning to let go a little, although we have a performance in 11 days and I'm a bit nervous of falling on my face. Hippies who smoke pot don't seem to have the same sense of urgency and perfection as me. I kind of want to grab one or two of them by the hair and shake them, though, to put them back on track, sometimes. But, they let me join their group and they invited me to perform at their show. I am trying to adopt one of their favorite phrases "It'll all work out, man, it's all good". They truly believe that. And the stakes are not that high, even if we do flub a couple of tunes. Just one roomful of people will ever know we goofed. Nowadays, though, there are cell phone cameras and You Tube to worry about....

Things "They" Say

How can this get even better? - That is the question that I have been told to ask myself, when abusive or awful things are happening that make me scared, or when I want things to improve in my life."They", (New Age Philosophers) say if you ask that question, then things WILL get better. "They" talk a lot about "intention" - have a focused "intention" for what you want, and it will happen. This is the advice I have been getting from a lot of my friends, family and acquaintances, when my Topsy turvey, unfocused life keeps getting pulled out from under me, right as I am starting to get my footing. They tell me that I must not have a clear intention. That I am not thinking positively enough. They tell me to focus on how things keep working out for me. Yes - my life is not as shitty or as unstable as it gets, but I keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep moving forward and yet, the rug keeps getting pulled out from under me, just when things seem to be working out!! I move on. I take another step forward. I say kind things to others. I say kind things to myself. I hold a vision in my mind for the ideal life I want. And then, BAM! Here we go again.

"They" say I am creating this, to teach myself lessons I need to learn. "They" say I am bringing the exact thing into my life at the perfect moment. I am able to believe this - and then another health crisis or something happens and I can only wonder, "why have I brought this into my life, now"??? Nobody has a perfect life. I have certainly seen this, as I make this journey of lifetimes. (It feels like for these past few years I have lived many lifetimes, since I've had so many bizarre experiences and have resided in 8 or 9 different places, all across the USA). By the way, in case you've been feeling down about your current home or apartment, don't fret. I have stayed in many, many different places this year and I can ensure you that Better Homes and Gardens and TV have sure sold us a lie - nobody has a showplace home and if they do, they are not dealing with what is really bothering them in their lives. Most perfect house I lived in belonged to a couple who were months away from divorcing.

"They" shake their heads and say that I do not have enough faith. I think "they" say all of these things because my life scares the shit out of them and deep down they think I must deserve all of this crap, because otherwise it wouldn't be happening to me. If that is the case, then why are "they" sympathetic about cancer patients? Why do they send money to help poor starving kids in Africa? Oh wait, "they" don't. "They" tell themselves stories about Karma and how everybody has been on Earth lots of times and how those kids have chosen to be stricken with their disease or live in squalor with repressive government regimes, because they were probably cruel to other people in a past life and now they need to learn a lesson.

Personally, I think "they" say all of these things, so they don't have to be kind and lift a finger to help other people in need.