California Dreaming

Jnauary 26th-27th, 2018:

My first Greyhound adventure in eight years (I usually tour by train, plane or friends' cars nowadays), Day 1:

I am already tired AF, but not losing sight of how lucky I am to get to do this work. How excited was I to get on my first bus for a tour, about 14 years ago? To go hundreds of miles and not even break even?! So freaking excited.

These days I do better than breaking even, but my body gets more and more used to its comforts. What was that I was trying to harness again? Ahh, yes: rookie excitement!

Tonight I'll sleep about 4 hours before I get on a bus again. On Sunday, I'll cheat and fly home. Two more hours 'til my dinner stop in Eugene where I can eat at a respectable senior citizen hour like the old curmudgeon that I'm swiftly becoming. Four more hours until I hit Grants Pass, a foreign country to me. Missing my son already. But I get to sing tonight. That's what this is all for: sharing and connecting through art. Let's do this.

***

I was mistaken in thinking that my stop in Eugene would be long enough for me to venture away from the station and procure food. I am bad at remembering to pack snacks for myself; I always have been. I rushed to find my motel when I arrived in Grant's Pass, hurriedly applied my makeup and changed clothes in my room, and then set off in search of the venue so that I could order a pre-show dinner.

I found one meal on the menu that I could eat with my dietary restrictions, and that was only if I broke the rules. But keeping pescatarian is more important to me than avoidng the gluten that I am supposed to stay away from, so I chose the greasy basket of fried fish and chips. It was a heavier meal than I would normally eat before a performance, but I needed protein. I also had some time to let my stomach settle before I performed, as I had an opening act: Dawna Crocker, who was a real rocker. She tied a scarf to her mic stand during sound check, a la Steven Tyler. She played bluesy pop/rock numbers and got the audience singing and clapping. Her stellar performance, plus the review I had gotten in the local weekly paper, the Rogue Valley Messenger, had my stomach beginning to knot up, and prevented me from finishing the food I had been waiting for all day. This is what they wrote about me:

"Amy Bleu’s vocals, which range from a controlled scream to a mesmerizing lullaby, are hauntingly beautiful, and her lyrics poetically express anguish and joy with poignancy, depth, and pathos.”

I played my rowdiest blues and punk-influenced songs about sex, a jazzy ditty about burlesque dancing, some funny folk tunes about misplacing marijuana and drunk dialing an ex. I had much more to say, so much "anguish and joy" to share, but it would have to wait for a more amenable audience: the patrons of tonight's tavern needed sex and comedy in order for me to tear their interest away from the pool tables.

When my second set was over, I collected my pay for the show from the bartender on duty. After that, I hopped into an Uber to hurry back to my room as I knew I would have to get an early start the next day. The driver had SYML on his radio, who was crooning a haunting version of that old song, "Mr. Sandman", only in minor chords. Exhausted now, I silently prayed to this god of dream dust to turn on his magic beams as soon as I got into bed.

Day 2: I woke up at four AM and walked to the bus stop in the dark. Luckily it was only about a block and a half away from the motel I had stayed at. The bus was supposed to arrive at 4:40 AM.

I waited nervously as I stood on a side street about a half a mile away from the highway, in the cold dark, with a light rain falling on me. Minutes passed, as did the occasional car. I was sure they were all being driven by kidnappers - only they didn't kidnap kids: they were only after weird ladies nearing middle age.

Twenty-five minutes later, I called the greyhound customer service phone number. I explained the situation and why I was getting increasingly more nervous with every passing minute. The tracker wasn't working for the bus on the app, nor was it working on their website, and I had no idea how much longer I'd have to wait alone, in the dark.

The guy on the other end of the line asked me, "OK, ma'am, what is your departure date?"

"Um... Today??"

He found the bus and it was 25 more minutes away. I found a gas station that was open all night and I waited inside where it felt safer but I could still see traffic.

The bus finally arrived, fifty minutes late. I put my guitar between my legs and held my purse on my lap, the straps of both items tightly wrapped around my wrists, and fell asleep on the bus with one eye open.

I woke up again and I was in Northern California. It was as green as Southern Oregon, but now with the occasional palm tree sprucing up the landscape. I made it. No more riding buses!

I dreamed a couple of nights ago that a booking agent for a club cancelled everything she had booked for that venue, including my friend's and my show. Last night, I got a message from her, saying that she was no longer working at that club and didn't know if the shows were still on! (Fortunately I was able to confirm with the bar today that we were both still on.) Last night, I dreamed that a photographer sent me a picture of another model, saying that he wanted me to meet her. Later, after I woke up for the second time today, the same photographer sent me a message which included a picture of model he wanted me to shoot with.

Now I'm sitting in a room at a motel where, 5 1/2 years ago, I ordered a pizza and had planned to eat half of it before my show, and to save the remainder for breakfast the following day. I had been feeling unusually tired, and I returned to the room right after the show and promptly scarfed down the rest of the pizza and then wondered what was wrong with me. I knew that something had changed in me. It turned out that I was pregnant with my son. And only by a few weeks!

Now I can't help but wonder: what will I dream about here in Sacramento this time, and which parts will come true?

Your Scent

Your scent
& the beat of your heart
Both resounding from your chest
The fiercest nibbles
You bite into mine
Our long lady legs intertwined
I taste your skin, silky and sweet
And I’m spun
I stop worrying that you’ll run
And
Just breathe
You in again
You set out to enchant
My affections forever
and you’ve won.

New Poem

My girlfriend and I both love bagels. As we were jokingly comparing each other to the different kinds of bagels we like yesterday, we suddenly had the idea to write poems for each other based on this idea. My favorite kind is the everything bagel, but I once had a chocolate chip bagel that blew my mind. Lauren favors the cinnamon raisin variety. I was surprised that I wound up creating a piece so sincere, one that didn't turn out cheesy, so here it is:

Everything Lauren

She has everything
I desire
Smooth, round hips
And lips like chocolate chips
Her skin like cinnamon
And I can't help but give in
She is small but she nourishes me
Wholly
Her sense of humor is salty
But she softens it
With a layer of sweetness
Every day I marvel at her
Completeness
And vow to keep exploring
Everything Lauren.

Tour Magic

9/1/19: I prefer the dry heat of the desert of Central Washington, not far from where I was born (in Eastern WA), to the humidity of Hawaii, where I grew up. My tour-mates and I are at our last stop on our summer tour: an RV resort in the Tri-Cities. Rachel Chuganey and I performed at the Tumbleweed Music Festival yesterday, and today is our first day off together, along with her husband and my son. Everyone set out to relax today, but predictably, I quickly started working on a project: a new tune.

It was an involuntary reflex, picking up my pen and journal, and then my guitar. Sometimes I don't know which instrument to choose first when I'm working out a new song, but my ukulele busted a string at the festival yesterday, and my auto-harp is sleeping at home, back in Portland, next to my bass. My guitar is the only available tool, but it will do just fine.

It had been thirteen months since I had written a song. I will chalk up the break in my dry spell to several contributing factors:

I have been working on a novel for a couple of years. I hope to finish it this year. It's been an intoxicating adventure, writing a novel, or having one write me, which is often how it feels. I fear that writing prose might be usurping my ability to write new songs, which at least at this point is more my bread and butter. Or to be more accurate, it's a bigger slice of the pie that reflects how I make up different ways to bring home the bacon.

Another reason to blame for this creative drought could be that I haven't been in a relationship for quite some time. It's been so long since I have had a muse, but I think I might've stumbled upon a spry one recently.

My phone is currently broken, making it more of a challenge to waste time on Facebook. So I know that that plays a part. As does this final contributor: I work all the time on booking shows for myself, the other artists I represent through my booking label, plus I work most days in an office, doing social work. I am also the mother of an active six-year-old. So it comes as no surprise that on the first day in a while that there isn't any work on the agenda and my child is fully engrossed in Minecraft, a song has begun to whisper its lyrics to me; and yet it feels purely like magic.

We have experienced other forms of magic along the way: the alchemy of new friendships formed at our Portland and Seattle shows; the blessings of free food in green rooms and unlimited drinks in cider houses and breweries; the good fortune of having a friend to eat with in Salem, and family who could provide child care for my son; the conjuring of fans, old and new, at our Hood River and Tri-Cities shows. Plus I dined on the succulent arms of a seared Octopus (so stop calling me vegan!) and found a wild dance party at a lesbian bar in Seattle. Portland, supposedly the Lesbian capitol of the country, fails to deliver such delights.

Now I am watching my son and my friends swim as the sun begins to set in Richland and sipping chardonnay. When I get home tomorrow, I'll see the woman who inspired me to write, and she'll come baring a dairy- and gluten-free meal that we can share. Life is pretty sweet.

The Walking Wounded

Jack Knife, Portland, 8/26/18

"I was stuck here in the ground / Like a passion fruit til someone found me / Appetizing / Like candy."

I came here to break up with myself.

I am drinking tequila mixed with ginger ale and passion fruit juice. Vice device is the name of the drink. Seemed somehow to fit my current mood.

The quote is from a song I wrote called a long time ago, called "Candy". I still enjoy playing it, even though I hate remembering the time period that it's from. I purposefully wrote the line that way, to reflect a passive stance: I couldn't help it that I was always approached by vultures and vampires. I was just a girl stuck in the world, rooted and blooming, waiting to be plucked like a juicy fruit.

That's one of the aspects of myself that I want a divorce from.

So why did I come here, to this dimly lit lounge, to do the deed? Well, there is a story here, and like many stories, it has three acts.

Part 1: "Well, the shark has pretty teeth, dear / And he keeps them pearly white."

Every time I passed Jack Knife, which is in my neighborhood, I thought I should come here. It looked sexy and reminded me of a speakeasy somehow. It also always made me hear the song "Mack the Knife" in my head, because it almost rhymes.

The first time I came here was on a Tinder date. It was a first date with a man I'll call Rodney.

Rodney was about my age and even more gorgeous than his pictures on Tinder. He was tall, dark and handsome, and from some foreign country that I found exotic at the time. In other words, I thought he was just my type.

We were here at Jack Knife for two hours. The first hour flew by, and was rife with pleasantly innocuous getting-to-know-you type questions. When he was about to excuse himself to go to the restroom, he leaned in for a kiss first, one that I was happy to accept. I texted half of my social circle while he was away from our table, to let them know that I was having a remarkable first date. "I love him!" I gushed to my friend, her husband, my ex-brother-in-law, and my attorney. (I'm just kidding. About the last two.)

When Rodney returned to the table, he asked me if I have any children. "Yes, one," I told him. He informed me that he has four children.

"Wow, that's great! Big family!" I raved.

"Yeah, it would be," he complained, "if my ex didn't make me pay child support!" He went on to explain that he was working two jobs and never got to see his kids. "I told her, 'Hey, either I can spend time with them, or I can work all the time and pay child support!'"

"Oh, I see," I responded, and then dove back into my drink.

Somehow he rapidly switched gears and asked me if I wouldn't mind letting him kiss my toes some time. It's not really my thing, but it also doesn't bother me, so I said "sure."

Rodney then asked me how I felt about rim jobs. I decided then to call it a night. Call me old-fashioned, but I just don't consider that first date talk.

Part 2:

Next, I came to Jack Knife on a second date with Jim, a local writer. I'd seen him around, heard things about him. His reputation proceeded him - but in a good way. I knew that he was tall, lanky, grungy, and kept busy with multiple creative projects - and multiple relationships. In other words, it sounded like he was just my type.

Our first date had been promising, as I had learned more about his polyamorous nature, and listened to him assert that he didn't like to go all the way on the first date. I appreciated that we shared the same values. However, I was eager to throw myself at him on our second date!

We had good drinks, food and conversation, until Jim slipped and mentioned an incident in his past that involved some domestic violence. To be fair, he did explain that there was violence coming from both parties in the relationship, but he was the only one who got caught, and subsequently, he went through a batterer's intervention program. As much as I appreciated his honesty, I had to end it there. Historically I've had a thing for abusers, and I have to protect myself, and my child, at all costs.

Part 3:

"Now my life is sweet like cinnamon / Like a fucking dream I'm living in / Baby, love me 'cos I'm playing on the radio."

My pen ran out of ink. What kind of a writer doesn't bring extra pens to a writing session?

I walked up to the bar to borrow a pen. Fuck this place, I thought: Lana del Rey is playing on their radio.

I love Lana but her music is inextricably tied to several memories of the love of my life. We spent many nights talking, dancing and listening to Lana all night.

The love of my life is tall, with long hair, glasses, and an encyclopedic memory regarding music, art, history ... in other words, he's just my type. We have been off and on and on and off for a long time.

After my date with Jim, I had begun to suspect that Jack Knife was cursed for me. Every time I brought someone I liked here, we never went out again.

But when I started dating my ex again, I thought for sure that our love could withstand a visit to Jack Knife.

My ex is sober so he drank ginger ale and ate French fries while I sipped on whiskey. Unexpectedly, he told me that he'd met someone else and that they were really hitting it off. He said that he wanted to keep seeing me, too, but somehow I sensed that he was moving away from me. The next time I saw him, he broke up with me. I had already started crying in my whiskey about it that night at my unlucky haunt.

Denouement:

I also like to date women, but I have never brought a woman to Jack Knife before. Until now.

Now that I'm done with my Vice Device, I'm imbibing my regular poison, whiskey, again. So that brings us up to speed. Somehow I thought that maybe it was myself that I really needed to break up with.

But I started thinking about some things that I've read, and some things that my therapist has told me. Integration, not abandonment, seems to be the only way to heal the wounded parts of ourselves.

So there is this woman inside of me who is drawn to anyone who will pay her attention. She is especially fond of people whose affection you really have to work for. Also partial to punishment, she feels that these things equal love.

She is impulsive, emotional, trusting, vulnerable and sweet.

Some men and women want to tame her. The real me is wild and free, but this girl inside of me thinks that it's love if someone wants to control her. That is how she was shown love for most of her life.

I don't think that I can help her by breaking up with her.

I am stronger now than that girl who I sometimes catch glimpses of in the mirror. Maybe if I hold her and show her compassion, she will grow up, too. Why should I kick her to the curb? Isn't she the kind the person that I've always had an affinity for: the walking wounded? I think that instead of dumping her, I could love her.

In fact, I think that she is just my type.

Splendor (Paris Part 3)

This is how I spent my last day in Paris: woke up late, ate leftovers for breakfast. Scurried over to the Palais Royal, where I had my photo shoot, right near the Louvre. After a fun and inspired shoot which took place mostly in the rain, I scampered into a nearby cafe to warm up with an Irish coffee, and have a late lunch. There were only outdoor tables available so I shivered over my salmon, eating quickly, but still enjoyed the opportunity for people watching. From there it was just a few hundred feet to the Louvre, and I had planned to go in, but the line was too long, so I wandered outside and snapped a few pics, before taking the metro train to the Eiffel Tower. I viewed that quickly in the rain as well, and then ducked into a souvenir shop to procure a couple of t-shirts that had been requested by friends back home. Then I headed back to the hotel to empty my backpack and fill it back up with my laptop.

There is a cafe around the corner from my hotel room that I had been eyeing, and so I made a plan to have dinner and drinks there while I work on the novel that I'm writing. In the cafe, I enjoyed my purchases and snapped a couple of more pictures for posterity. The writing didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped, but I got some done. I have been writing some difficult scenes for one of my leads, and, although I love her, she is the one who most resembles me, and so she must go through some hardships, in order for me to work through mine. It isn't easy to write about, but I know that it is what I must do, in order to heal.

Suddenly I remembered another French word: ennui. It means a restlessness that comes from despair. Do I need to force myself to face the darkness and write it all out, while I'm on vacation? I asked myself. Perhaps not. I unplugged and adjourned to my room, for chocolate, television, R&R. For my last night in Paris, I give myself these gifts: relaxation, indulgence, and confidence in myself that I will make more time to tame this beast later, back in the real world. For now, I will enjoy the remaining glass of the wine that I procured here, and raise a toast to all of the beauty that I've taken in. I remember now that I shouldn't feel ennui: I should feel only gratitude for all of the splendor that I have taken in over these last few days.

Glass Half Full (Paris Part 2)

I woke up this morning shortly after 9 AM and had the sense that it truly was about 9 AM. Mission to get on Paris time completed! What shall I do today? I wondered. The day was wide open, since I am not shooting until tomorrow.

To have a day completely free of plans is a sweet luxury for me.

I looked up directions to the Pere Lachaise cemetary, and made plans for some shopping at Forum de Halles, a mall in the first district. I threw my journal in my backpack and headed off to write and drink coffee at a little cafe in the neighborhood where I'm staying, before beginning my metro train journey. I decided against lugging my laptop around town.

My French is definitely improving: I was able to order a shot of espresso without using any English! I would still say that I don't know it, speak it or understand it; I merely employ it from time to time, like magic.

After visiting the cemetery, I sat at Le Pere Lachaise Bar, across the street, ruminating on what I had just experienced. It was a stately cemetery with ornate headstones and monuments. It took me nearly an hour to find Jim Morrison's grave, but it was worth the hike. Gathered around it with a dozen other people, I thought about how cool it would be to be a poet who had an affect on so many people.

After my long walk in the cemetery I decided that I had earned some fries and a drink. The bartender didn't speak much English, but, through many gestures and a few words, I showed him how to make a bloody Mary. The drink is marvelous, and life is good.

Snails and wine for one, but my glass is still half full, I thought to myself later, after shopping for hours, while I sat and had a snack at L'Escargot Montorgueil. I never feel sad about being single: I feel sad when there is love and then suddenly it's gone. But after a day of shopping, exploring, sightseeing, and indulging in delicious foods, I am not feeling sad. I have walked six to seven miles each day that I have been here so far. Imagine if I had had some boyfriend or girlfriend trailing along, complaining about their feet and holding me back! Snails are delicious whether shared, or devoured by one person, and there's a little wine and a laptop waiting for me back at the hotel, novel waiting to be written, and that is precisely why I came here, besides the photo shoot, and, oh yeah, the vacation.