Here is one of my poems, which was originally published in Flatmancrooked's Slim Volume of Contemporary Poetics:
Akimbo
by Amy Bleu
I don’t like what you stand for
But I like the way you stand there
Arms akimbo
Dominating
Every space you inhabit
Confident enough to conquer
Every creature
Who extends a tender arm
Tentative as a tendril
In the vain hope
Of reaching
You.
Friday, September 13, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Miss Fireball
I'm on a bus headed east, from the coast back to Portland. I've made my cup of coffee last from Astoria all the way to Cannon Beach, where the bus is currently pulling in so the driver can let a few people off. Yesterday I left Sebastien at home with my husband and a bunch of milk, and the first thing I decided to do when I got to Astoria was drink as much coffee as I wanted. I asked the girl who ran the the hotel/hostel if she could recommend a good coffee place.
"Well," she started, her big green eyes lighting up, "the coffee at 14th Street Coffee makes my heart sing!" She gave me directions and then finished checking me in. She handed me two keys on a ring. One, she said, was for the front door of the hotel. "I like to lock the door at about seven, to keep the crazies out, because that's important to me," she said in a cheerful voice. With her wide-eyed sincerity, she reminded me of a red-haired Zooey Deschanel. I took the keys, dropped off my bags in my room, and then headed out to find this coffee place she had touted. As I passed the front desk again I heard her telling another guest, in her bubbly voice, "Yeah, I'm almost finished with my funeral services degree and then I'm totally going to be embalming people." I ended up coming and going all day, and, every time I passed this lady, she flashed me a huge smile, but I kept envisioning her working on corpses.
I got a cafe au lait at 14th Street and the girl was right: it was damn fine coffee. I spilled a little bit on my dress. I hadn't brought another dress, just some boring clothes to wear home on the bus. I had thought, I'm not bringing the kid! I don't need to bring anything extra! Oh well. This was a great excuse to go shopping. I wandered into a place called Lola's and found a nice, maroon dress that wasn't very expensive. I took it back to the hotel so I could change and then practice my songs.
Even though I had a private room, it was a shared bathroom kind of situation. I took a break from practicing guitar and headed to the nearest bathroom. The door was closed but it said vacant on it, so I turned the knob. First I saw a pregnancy test on the floor, then a woman sitting on the floor, and then I saw the man sitting on the floor behind her, just for a second before he slammed the door shut. I couldn't believe my bad timing!
I decided to head out to the Fort George Brewery to work on my set list and have a beer. I had been to Astoria twice before, as a tourist, and I always like to go this brewery. Then at about seven, I walked over to the venue I was going to perform at. The owner was there and he was the person who had booked me as well, so I was glad to get to meet him and thank him in person. His wife was working there, too, and they really took care of me, giving me a large meal and copious amounts of booze. I started my first set with a beer, then started in on a pina colada during my second set. The crowd was great. They were mostly middle aged so I modified my set list on the fly in the hope of keeping them entertained. Bump up Fleetwood Mac, scratch Lady Gaga, add Johnny Cash. They seemed to dig it. I played some originals too. I guess it was the booze but I was feeling overly honest. Whenever I started telling a story between songs I'd think, Why am I sharing this? I played "Wear You Well", and then said, "Last year when I got pregnant I was playing songs like that one on the road, songs that were kinda racy, and I thought, 'Well, I'll have to stop singing some of these songs because I'm gonna be a mom.'" The crowd laughed. I went on. "Then I realized I was still gonna be a person, I'm still a woman." The audience applauded this, and one table of guys started saying things like, "And you're sexy, too!" Uh-oh, steer clear of those guys after the show.
I went up to the bar after my last set, intending to have one more drink. The owner was pouring for the guys at the table I was avoiding. It was a yellow liquor that didn't look familiar to me. I asked the bartender what it was. "Moonshine," he said, and then he poured a fourth shot and passed it to me. "Alright!" I said at first. "I've never tried this stuff!" But then I began to get nervous.
Another guy who worked there, Steve, was sitting at the bar with the owner's wife. He said to me, "It's good stuff!"
I admitted I was kind of scared. "I have seen this stuff really mess people up."
"Don't be scared," Steve said. "You'll be fine, I promise. Just do it!"
I threw it back. It was surprisingly sweet. Steve told me how he'd invented a drink at this bar, called the Fuck You Steve. "It's moonshine and tequila. I told the boss to mix them together and drink it, so he does it and then he goes, 'Fuck you, Steve, that's really good!'" We all laughed at this.
I told Steve, "I can't drink tequila. I did it once and it made me black out. Before that I just felt like I was high, not drunk."
The owner came back after serving the table full of men. "Well, half your songs sounded like they were about getting high! You must actually drink a lot of tequila," he teased. "What'll you have now?" he asked me.
I looked around the bar and noticed that they had fireball. I asked for a little bit of that. He poured me a shot in a tumbler glass. We stood there extolling the greatness of fireball whiskey. Then the owner stopped talking and asked the table full of guys, "Do I have something on my face? Why do you keep looking over here?"
"No, man," one of them responded, "we weren't looking at you, we were just looking at the fireball."
Steve leaned over to me and said, "I don't think they were talking about your drink." Maybe I am a fireball, I thought, but not in any way that they'll ever know.
I waited a while, let the creepers drive off first before leaving. Then I said goodnight to all the staff and grabbed my instruments, teetered back to the hotel in my heels. I unlocked the front door to the hotel. Some guy was asking me for help getting in, but at first I didn't realize that he was talking to me, as he'd addressed me as ma'am. My name isn't ma'am: it's Miss Fireball to you.
"Well," she started, her big green eyes lighting up, "the coffee at 14th Street Coffee makes my heart sing!" She gave me directions and then finished checking me in. She handed me two keys on a ring. One, she said, was for the front door of the hotel. "I like to lock the door at about seven, to keep the crazies out, because that's important to me," she said in a cheerful voice. With her wide-eyed sincerity, she reminded me of a red-haired Zooey Deschanel. I took the keys, dropped off my bags in my room, and then headed out to find this coffee place she had touted. As I passed the front desk again I heard her telling another guest, in her bubbly voice, "Yeah, I'm almost finished with my funeral services degree and then I'm totally going to be embalming people." I ended up coming and going all day, and, every time I passed this lady, she flashed me a huge smile, but I kept envisioning her working on corpses.
I got a cafe au lait at 14th Street and the girl was right: it was damn fine coffee. I spilled a little bit on my dress. I hadn't brought another dress, just some boring clothes to wear home on the bus. I had thought, I'm not bringing the kid! I don't need to bring anything extra! Oh well. This was a great excuse to go shopping. I wandered into a place called Lola's and found a nice, maroon dress that wasn't very expensive. I took it back to the hotel so I could change and then practice my songs.
Even though I had a private room, it was a shared bathroom kind of situation. I took a break from practicing guitar and headed to the nearest bathroom. The door was closed but it said vacant on it, so I turned the knob. First I saw a pregnancy test on the floor, then a woman sitting on the floor, and then I saw the man sitting on the floor behind her, just for a second before he slammed the door shut. I couldn't believe my bad timing!
I decided to head out to the Fort George Brewery to work on my set list and have a beer. I had been to Astoria twice before, as a tourist, and I always like to go this brewery. Then at about seven, I walked over to the venue I was going to perform at. The owner was there and he was the person who had booked me as well, so I was glad to get to meet him and thank him in person. His wife was working there, too, and they really took care of me, giving me a large meal and copious amounts of booze. I started my first set with a beer, then started in on a pina colada during my second set. The crowd was great. They were mostly middle aged so I modified my set list on the fly in the hope of keeping them entertained. Bump up Fleetwood Mac, scratch Lady Gaga, add Johnny Cash. They seemed to dig it. I played some originals too. I guess it was the booze but I was feeling overly honest. Whenever I started telling a story between songs I'd think, Why am I sharing this? I played "Wear You Well", and then said, "Last year when I got pregnant I was playing songs like that one on the road, songs that were kinda racy, and I thought, 'Well, I'll have to stop singing some of these songs because I'm gonna be a mom.'" The crowd laughed. I went on. "Then I realized I was still gonna be a person, I'm still a woman." The audience applauded this, and one table of guys started saying things like, "And you're sexy, too!" Uh-oh, steer clear of those guys after the show.
I went up to the bar after my last set, intending to have one more drink. The owner was pouring for the guys at the table I was avoiding. It was a yellow liquor that didn't look familiar to me. I asked the bartender what it was. "Moonshine," he said, and then he poured a fourth shot and passed it to me. "Alright!" I said at first. "I've never tried this stuff!" But then I began to get nervous.
Another guy who worked there, Steve, was sitting at the bar with the owner's wife. He said to me, "It's good stuff!"
I admitted I was kind of scared. "I have seen this stuff really mess people up."
"Don't be scared," Steve said. "You'll be fine, I promise. Just do it!"
I threw it back. It was surprisingly sweet. Steve told me how he'd invented a drink at this bar, called the Fuck You Steve. "It's moonshine and tequila. I told the boss to mix them together and drink it, so he does it and then he goes, 'Fuck you, Steve, that's really good!'" We all laughed at this.
I told Steve, "I can't drink tequila. I did it once and it made me black out. Before that I just felt like I was high, not drunk."
The owner came back after serving the table full of men. "Well, half your songs sounded like they were about getting high! You must actually drink a lot of tequila," he teased. "What'll you have now?" he asked me.
I looked around the bar and noticed that they had fireball. I asked for a little bit of that. He poured me a shot in a tumbler glass. We stood there extolling the greatness of fireball whiskey. Then the owner stopped talking and asked the table full of guys, "Do I have something on my face? Why do you keep looking over here?"
"No, man," one of them responded, "we weren't looking at you, we were just looking at the fireball."
Steve leaned over to me and said, "I don't think they were talking about your drink." Maybe I am a fireball, I thought, but not in any way that they'll ever know.
I waited a while, let the creepers drive off first before leaving. Then I said goodnight to all the staff and grabbed my instruments, teetered back to the hotel in my heels. I unlocked the front door to the hotel. Some guy was asking me for help getting in, but at first I didn't realize that he was talking to me, as he'd addressed me as ma'am. My name isn't ma'am: it's Miss Fireball to you.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Words Are Free
I woke up at 4:50 in the morning in preparation for my train ride back to Portland. I had been sleeping in a log cabin out in the woods of Leavenworth for two nights. On the first night I slept in one room while the managers and several other guests occupied the other rooms. But on the second night, everyone – including the managers – went back to their homes, so I had the entire house to myself. I had performed at the Icicle Brewery on my first night in town, and had a great show. I played everything from angry break up songs to Christmas music and the crowd seemed to love it all. My second night in town was a night off, so I spent the day roaming around downtown in the snow, and spent the night in the cabin, where I savored the solitude.
On the morning that I left town, a shuttle arrived at 5:30 to take me to the train stop. The train arrived on time, at 6:08. I had packed sensibly this time, so I climbed aboard with just a large purse and my guitar. At first I had some difficulty locating an empty seat, but then a young man offered me a seat by the window next to his seat. At first we both stayed in our respective worlds: I listened to Julie Doiron while reading a novel written by Nick Cave; he read the People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn and listened to something I couldn't hear in his large headphones. We went through the longest railway tunnel in America, called the Cascade Tunnel. It was dark when we entered it but the sun had come out before we made it through. I was disappointed to have missed the sunrise, rarely getting to see those occur. My seat-mate gazed out the window and exclaimed, “Oh my god, I have literally never been in the mountains before! This is so beautiful that I seriously want to cry right now.” I smiled at him, and then focused my attention on the view outside my window. The ground and the trees were all sprinkled with a beautiful white snow, and there was a morning mist in the air. “You're probably used to this by now,” he added.
“No,” I said quietly, genuinely in awe of my surroundings, “I'm really not.”
He told me he was born in Florida but grew up in Chicago and had never lived anywhere else. A few days ago he had been invited to live with a friend in Seattle, so he bought a ticket and packed his bags, lusting after an adventure. We got to talking about the Midwest. I told him about how the first train ride I took in my adult life was from Chicago to Ottumwa, IA, for some friends' wedding. I had loved watching the sunset across the flat lands. Then we talked about music. He said he was mainly a piano player, but he dabbled in many other instruments. We both thought it was a good idea not to limit oneself to one instrument or musical style. He told me he loved listening to hip hop and punk the most but he was best at playing jazz. He asked me for the names of some of my favorite artists so I threw out John Vanderslice, Destroyer, and Kristin Hersh. He said he was a Throwing Muses fan, too. He recommended Atmosphere and the Punch Brothers. We switched gears and began talking about philosophy. He told me why he favored Nietzsche; I explained why I preferred Sartre. Then I found out this guy I was chatting with was twenty-two, and felt my mind being slightly blown: I wished I had been so smart at that age.
We started talking about language, covering everything from accents to slang. I told him I loved learning about the etymologies of words. He lit up, and said, “You know what I love about words? You can go to the mall and see a really cool pair of sneakers and wish you had them. But if you can't afford them, you can't get them. With words, on the other hand, if you hear someone say something that you like, all you have to do is take their words and use them, and it's OK: they're free.” This was my favorite part of our discussion. He reminded me that words are free. Maybe that's one of the reasons I love to write.
We both got off the train in Seattle. He was home now and I had to switch trains. After I boarded the next train, I found my seat, which was by a window again. This time I sat alone, and tried to divide my attention between the view of the great Northwest covered in a diaphanous fog, and all the words in my head that I wanted to write down.
On the morning that I left town, a shuttle arrived at 5:30 to take me to the train stop. The train arrived on time, at 6:08. I had packed sensibly this time, so I climbed aboard with just a large purse and my guitar. At first I had some difficulty locating an empty seat, but then a young man offered me a seat by the window next to his seat. At first we both stayed in our respective worlds: I listened to Julie Doiron while reading a novel written by Nick Cave; he read the People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn and listened to something I couldn't hear in his large headphones. We went through the longest railway tunnel in America, called the Cascade Tunnel. It was dark when we entered it but the sun had come out before we made it through. I was disappointed to have missed the sunrise, rarely getting to see those occur. My seat-mate gazed out the window and exclaimed, “Oh my god, I have literally never been in the mountains before! This is so beautiful that I seriously want to cry right now.” I smiled at him, and then focused my attention on the view outside my window. The ground and the trees were all sprinkled with a beautiful white snow, and there was a morning mist in the air. “You're probably used to this by now,” he added.
“No,” I said quietly, genuinely in awe of my surroundings, “I'm really not.”
He told me he was born in Florida but grew up in Chicago and had never lived anywhere else. A few days ago he had been invited to live with a friend in Seattle, so he bought a ticket and packed his bags, lusting after an adventure. We got to talking about the Midwest. I told him about how the first train ride I took in my adult life was from Chicago to Ottumwa, IA, for some friends' wedding. I had loved watching the sunset across the flat lands. Then we talked about music. He said he was mainly a piano player, but he dabbled in many other instruments. We both thought it was a good idea not to limit oneself to one instrument or musical style. He told me he loved listening to hip hop and punk the most but he was best at playing jazz. He asked me for the names of some of my favorite artists so I threw out John Vanderslice, Destroyer, and Kristin Hersh. He said he was a Throwing Muses fan, too. He recommended Atmosphere and the Punch Brothers. We switched gears and began talking about philosophy. He told me why he favored Nietzsche; I explained why I preferred Sartre. Then I found out this guy I was chatting with was twenty-two, and felt my mind being slightly blown: I wished I had been so smart at that age.
We started talking about language, covering everything from accents to slang. I told him I loved learning about the etymologies of words. He lit up, and said, “You know what I love about words? You can go to the mall and see a really cool pair of sneakers and wish you had them. But if you can't afford them, you can't get them. With words, on the other hand, if you hear someone say something that you like, all you have to do is take their words and use them, and it's OK: they're free.” This was my favorite part of our discussion. He reminded me that words are free. Maybe that's one of the reasons I love to write.
We both got off the train in Seattle. He was home now and I had to switch trains. After I boarded the next train, I found my seat, which was by a window again. This time I sat alone, and tried to divide my attention between the view of the great Northwest covered in a diaphanous fog, and all the words in my head that I wanted to write down.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Week 22: Richard the Peanut Farmer
I met Richard the peanut farmer as I was getting ready to board a ferry from the Bainbridge Island to Seattle. He saw me struggling with my four bags and asked if he could help carry some of them on board. He had the kind of open, smiling eyes that a person can't help but trust. I handed him a couple of bags and we got in line.
We exchanged names, and then he told me he had been visiting his cousin on the island while his wife was in business meetings in Seattle. They were from NM. I told him how beautiful I thought it was there. Richard said that he was a semi-retired farmer, still growing a bit of crops and also playing the real estate game, but mostly traveling around and visiting his grand-kids. "That's how I stay young," he explained. He said he has three grand-kids and two more on the way.
After we got on board he offered to buy me some food and a drink, so I took him up on it. We took our snacks up to the sundeck to see the view. The view as we approached downtown Seattle was spectacular. Richard asked me if I'd paid for my ticket and I said "of course." He said that they only charge for the trip to Bainbridge and not the trip back. I looked at the ticket I'd bought from a machine and indeed it said it was good for a trip from Seattle to Bainbridge and not the other way around, but as that had been the only option that was the one I chose, not knowing the return trip was free. Richard said he'd be making the trip again in a couple days and kindly offered to buy my ticket from me, so I took him up on it.
Richard, a seemingly happily married 60 year old man, was friendly without being flirtatious. We talked about things that can go wrong when one is traveling, and he told me about a time when his daughter was going to school in France and he found out that she'd taken the wrong bus and gotten lost. I told him about a time when something similar happened to me, when I was going to school in London. I remember calling my mom, who also lived there, but neither of us could pin point where I was so it would have been futile for her to drive around looking for me. She suggested I find another bus and ask the driver which route to take home, which I did. I told Richard how my mom was forever worried after that that I'd be lost one day and call her up from across the world.
After we arrived in Seattle, Richard helped me carry my bags again until we reached First Ave, where we then headed our separate ways. "Well, I wish you success in your career, a long, happy life, and -- for your mom's sake -- safety!" he exclaimed with his big, friendly grin. I returned his sentiment: "I wish you a lovely retirement, and more healthy grand-babies!"
"Thanks," he replied, and turned to leave. Then he turned back and added, "Oh, and I hope your ship comes in!"
We exchanged names, and then he told me he had been visiting his cousin on the island while his wife was in business meetings in Seattle. They were from NM. I told him how beautiful I thought it was there. Richard said that he was a semi-retired farmer, still growing a bit of crops and also playing the real estate game, but mostly traveling around and visiting his grand-kids. "That's how I stay young," he explained. He said he has three grand-kids and two more on the way.
After we got on board he offered to buy me some food and a drink, so I took him up on it. We took our snacks up to the sundeck to see the view. The view as we approached downtown Seattle was spectacular. Richard asked me if I'd paid for my ticket and I said "of course." He said that they only charge for the trip to Bainbridge and not the trip back. I looked at the ticket I'd bought from a machine and indeed it said it was good for a trip from Seattle to Bainbridge and not the other way around, but as that had been the only option that was the one I chose, not knowing the return trip was free. Richard said he'd be making the trip again in a couple days and kindly offered to buy my ticket from me, so I took him up on it.
Richard, a seemingly happily married 60 year old man, was friendly without being flirtatious. We talked about things that can go wrong when one is traveling, and he told me about a time when his daughter was going to school in France and he found out that she'd taken the wrong bus and gotten lost. I told him about a time when something similar happened to me, when I was going to school in London. I remember calling my mom, who also lived there, but neither of us could pin point where I was so it would have been futile for her to drive around looking for me. She suggested I find another bus and ask the driver which route to take home, which I did. I told Richard how my mom was forever worried after that that I'd be lost one day and call her up from across the world.
After we arrived in Seattle, Richard helped me carry my bags again until we reached First Ave, where we then headed our separate ways. "Well, I wish you success in your career, a long, happy life, and -- for your mom's sake -- safety!" he exclaimed with his big, friendly grin. I returned his sentiment: "I wish you a lovely retirement, and more healthy grand-babies!"
"Thanks," he replied, and turned to leave. Then he turned back and added, "Oh, and I hope your ship comes in!"
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Weeks 18 + 19th (Highlights)
There is too much to say about my recent visit to the Bay Area. Here are my top five highlights:
On my first night, in Oakland, I played for the second time at a lovely cafe called the Actual Cafe. It was touted as a Ukulele Love-in, and it lived up to its name. It was hosted by a lady that I'm so glad I got to meet and share the stage with, Ms. Tippy Canoe. She started off the show with a ukulele lesson, then led everyone in a jam after my set. It was so much fun! After the show she shared a brownie with me and gave me a ride back to my hotel.
In Sacramento a couple days ago I tried Afghani food for the firs time. It was amazing!
This was the first tour that I brought the auto-harp out for, so I was really happy to not have to miss playing it. All six of the shows I played in the area went really well (what are the odds?).
I stayed in and got to explore five neighborhoods: Temescal (in Oakland and bordering Berkeley), downtown Sacramento, Sunnyvale, and Golden Gate Park and North Beach in SF. I especially liked getting to experienced more of North Beach, a neighborhood where I have stayed before. It's an Italian neighborhood, home to Golden Boy Pizza, the best pizza ever, and many other places that were popular haunts of the Beat poets. I took a whole Beat tour there, starting at Golden Boy, then going to the Beat Museum, followed by City Lights Books, a Beat-centric bookstore, and ending at Vesuvio, a bar that the Beats reportedly drank at often.
Finally, the best of all for me was having my "weekend" (two days off in a row) with one of my close friends, Kim, and her awesome boyfriend Jake. They came to see my show in SF, which made it even more special. Then on the weekend, Kim took me all over SF: we went bar-hopping in the Mission, hung out in Dolores Park, and ate fresh fish down at the Fisherman's Wharf and toured the penny arcade museum there. Jake took us all to see the new Batman movie, which was very entertaining. Thanks Kim & Jake! See you guys next time!
On my first night, in Oakland, I played for the second time at a lovely cafe called the Actual Cafe. It was touted as a Ukulele Love-in, and it lived up to its name. It was hosted by a lady that I'm so glad I got to meet and share the stage with, Ms. Tippy Canoe. She started off the show with a ukulele lesson, then led everyone in a jam after my set. It was so much fun! After the show she shared a brownie with me and gave me a ride back to my hotel.
In Sacramento a couple days ago I tried Afghani food for the firs time. It was amazing!
This was the first tour that I brought the auto-harp out for, so I was really happy to not have to miss playing it. All six of the shows I played in the area went really well (what are the odds?).
I stayed in and got to explore five neighborhoods: Temescal (in Oakland and bordering Berkeley), downtown Sacramento, Sunnyvale, and Golden Gate Park and North Beach in SF. I especially liked getting to experienced more of North Beach, a neighborhood where I have stayed before. It's an Italian neighborhood, home to Golden Boy Pizza, the best pizza ever, and many other places that were popular haunts of the Beat poets. I took a whole Beat tour there, starting at Golden Boy, then going to the Beat Museum, followed by City Lights Books, a Beat-centric bookstore, and ending at Vesuvio, a bar that the Beats reportedly drank at often.
Finally, the best of all for me was having my "weekend" (two days off in a row) with one of my close friends, Kim, and her awesome boyfriend Jake. They came to see my show in SF, which made it even more special. Then on the weekend, Kim took me all over SF: we went bar-hopping in the Mission, hung out in Dolores Park, and ate fresh fish down at the Fisherman's Wharf and toured the penny arcade museum there. Jake took us all to see the new Batman movie, which was very entertaining. Thanks Kim & Jake! See you guys next time!
Monday, July 9, 2012
Week 16: Redefining Success
Written on 7/5/2012 in Kennewick, WA
This morning I woke up in a spacious, empty house in Kennewick. Every room was pristine. The owners, who were veritable strangers to me, were trying to sell it and didn't live in it anymore so the house was essentially a model. I had a pretty good sleep in one of the bedrooms, enjoyed the cable T.V. in the living room and coffee and breakfast in the kitchen the next day. I also enjoyed the view of Pasco from their backyard patio. I had also planned to enjoy a bath but I hadn't thought it all through before I filled the bathtub up with cold water. Oh well, no problem, I decided: a cold bath was better than no bath. Sure, I could have filled up pots in the kitchen with water and boiled them, but I was feeling kind of slow after drinking the night before in the winery I'd been playing at. The cold water sort of felt good for the hangover.
I had been sleeping in Richland, one of the other Tri-Cities, in an RV parked in front of another stranger's house, just the night before. I found it quite nice even though it did not have working lights or plumbing. I had access to the stranger's house for the bathroom, kitchen, and for finding company. My host's mother was visiting, and she had a two-year-old daughter, so there was no shortage of company. I loved hanging out with all of them, and, when I stayed in the immaculate squat last night, I missed all their voices and found it almost too quiet. But both places were lovely to stay at, really. One of the hosts I met on Facebook and the other on CouchSurfing.org.
Now I am at a farmers market in Kennewick where I have just finished my second and last set of music, and am waiting for my next host to drive me to her farm in Benton City. She, her husband, and their three kids live out there and have dogs, chickens and cows! I can't wait to meet them all. They have a spare room in their basement so I won't have to sleep in a barn or anything. Success!
I often think about the small ways that my definition of success has changed recently. I make a little money playing music, not much more than the cost of my expenses, but enough to get me from town to town, with food in my belly. It helps to eat at the venue whenever possible, and to do all your drinking there, too. If I am at a hotel I always eat the continental breakfast now, whereas I used to be more discriminating*. Sometimes I eat my free breakfast a hotel, dinner that is part of my payment at a venue, and all I'm left paying for is lunch or a snack. Sometimes, on a night off, I'll order a big lunch and save half of it for dinner, and I take a perverse sort of pleasure in doing so, feeling successful. I'll order a $5 foot-long sandwich at Subway and think: It only cost me $5 to be alive today! Success!
I think about staying in motels more often, like I used to, but I know that staying in the homes of generous, willing strangers is another way to stretch my cash. If I earn $150 playing in a winery and then I don't have spend $50 to $100 on a hotel because I can sleep in an empty house or RV, or on someone's couch or in their spare room, that is another success. But it also sounds odd when I kick around these achievements in my head. I remember in my not-so-distant other life, when I was a social worker, if a client had told me they'd only spent $5 on food to nourish themselves for the whole day, or that their temporary housing plan was to couch-surf or squat somewhere, I might have questioned how truly happy she was. How strange. I can say that I am truly happy living this way. But I don't forget that I have other options, safe havens to run back to, and some people don't. I know that more than anything else, more than being successful, I am lucky.
*Not that there is anything wrong with a continental breakfast, especially when one is a lapsed vegan.
I had been sleeping in Richland, one of the other Tri-Cities, in an RV parked in front of another stranger's house, just the night before. I found it quite nice even though it did not have working lights or plumbing. I had access to the stranger's house for the bathroom, kitchen, and for finding company. My host's mother was visiting, and she had a two-year-old daughter, so there was no shortage of company. I loved hanging out with all of them, and, when I stayed in the immaculate squat last night, I missed all their voices and found it almost too quiet. But both places were lovely to stay at, really. One of the hosts I met on Facebook and the other on CouchSurfing.org.
Now I am at a farmers market in Kennewick where I have just finished my second and last set of music, and am waiting for my next host to drive me to her farm in Benton City. She, her husband, and their three kids live out there and have dogs, chickens and cows! I can't wait to meet them all. They have a spare room in their basement so I won't have to sleep in a barn or anything. Success!
I often think about the small ways that my definition of success has changed recently. I make a little money playing music, not much more than the cost of my expenses, but enough to get me from town to town, with food in my belly. It helps to eat at the venue whenever possible, and to do all your drinking there, too. If I am at a hotel I always eat the continental breakfast now, whereas I used to be more discriminating*. Sometimes I eat my free breakfast a hotel, dinner that is part of my payment at a venue, and all I'm left paying for is lunch or a snack. Sometimes, on a night off, I'll order a big lunch and save half of it for dinner, and I take a perverse sort of pleasure in doing so, feeling successful. I'll order a $5 foot-long sandwich at Subway and think: It only cost me $5 to be alive today! Success!
I think about staying in motels more often, like I used to, but I know that staying in the homes of generous, willing strangers is another way to stretch my cash. If I earn $150 playing in a winery and then I don't have spend $50 to $100 on a hotel because I can sleep in an empty house or RV, or on someone's couch or in their spare room, that is another success. But it also sounds odd when I kick around these achievements in my head. I remember in my not-so-distant other life, when I was a social worker, if a client had told me they'd only spent $5 on food to nourish themselves for the whole day, or that their temporary housing plan was to couch-surf or squat somewhere, I might have questioned how truly happy she was. How strange. I can say that I am truly happy living this way. But I don't forget that I have other options, safe havens to run back to, and some people don't. I know that more than anything else, more than being successful, I am lucky.
*Not that there is anything wrong with a continental breakfast, especially when one is a lapsed vegan.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Week 11
When I tell people that I am a full time musician living on the road, they ask me questions that lead me assume that they think I live a very glamorous lifestyle. I have had my share of great times so far, and I am very lucky to be able to do what I want to do for a living, so I am not here to complain. But, after having just spent three weeks alone touring the Southwest, I have had some time lately to contemplate the less glamorous aspects of my day-to-day existence. I have decided to recount them here.
Even if you are a working transient with money in your pocket, you are a transient nonetheless. I move from the hostel to a friend-of-a-friend's couch to my old friend's spare room to a cheap motel. On the average, in these last few weeks, I have moved about every two days. In Vegas I had cheap motels, but I had to move twice in order to receive the best deals. I pack and unpack. I constantly feel as if I'm coming and going at the same time.
I spend more time in laundromats than I would care to. I sit, wait, move the clothes from the washer to the dryer, sit, wait, fluff and fold. It's not always a party.
Speaking of parties... during my first couple days in Vegas, I drank copious amounts of alcohol, smoked cigarettes, gambled and hung out by the pool. But the drinks by the pool aren't cheap, and drinking and smoking all day is no way to prepare for a show. I remembered that the best way to maintain my energy and funds is to save my drinking for when I was at my shows so that I could collect my free drinks. After those first two days, I went back to my old routine of drinking too much coffee and walking around town all day, and then going to bed at a sensible hour without too many drinks in me.
Relaxing has always been a bit of a challenge for me, but now I find it even harder to do. I am constantly on my phone, confirming a show, looking for my next one. Sometimes I wish I could just chill but no one else is going to find me my next gig or make sure that the venues all have sound equipment and that everyone there knows I'm coming to play. But since this is the best job I've ever had, I really do not mind spending a great deal of my time looking for the work and making the contacts.
I feel compelled now to mention a few of the upsides to living this type of lifestyle:
- If you like people, this may be the job for you. You will get to meet so many people, and -- if you couch-surf as I have just started to do -- you will get to know some people that you might not have met otherwise.
- Free drinks, free food, free coffee, and sometimes free lodging. The more nights you play, the less you have to pay for.
- Waking up in different cities.
- And lastly, I love that I'm never really sure what day is it. I wonder if it is Friday on Monday, or Monday on Friday. Every day feels like a Saturday.
Even if you are a working transient with money in your pocket, you are a transient nonetheless. I move from the hostel to a friend-of-a-friend's couch to my old friend's spare room to a cheap motel. On the average, in these last few weeks, I have moved about every two days. In Vegas I had cheap motels, but I had to move twice in order to receive the best deals. I pack and unpack. I constantly feel as if I'm coming and going at the same time.
I spend more time in laundromats than I would care to. I sit, wait, move the clothes from the washer to the dryer, sit, wait, fluff and fold. It's not always a party.
Speaking of parties... during my first couple days in Vegas, I drank copious amounts of alcohol, smoked cigarettes, gambled and hung out by the pool. But the drinks by the pool aren't cheap, and drinking and smoking all day is no way to prepare for a show. I remembered that the best way to maintain my energy and funds is to save my drinking for when I was at my shows so that I could collect my free drinks. After those first two days, I went back to my old routine of drinking too much coffee and walking around town all day, and then going to bed at a sensible hour without too many drinks in me.
Relaxing has always been a bit of a challenge for me, but now I find it even harder to do. I am constantly on my phone, confirming a show, looking for my next one. Sometimes I wish I could just chill but no one else is going to find me my next gig or make sure that the venues all have sound equipment and that everyone there knows I'm coming to play. But since this is the best job I've ever had, I really do not mind spending a great deal of my time looking for the work and making the contacts.
I feel compelled now to mention a few of the upsides to living this type of lifestyle:
- If you like people, this may be the job for you. You will get to meet so many people, and -- if you couch-surf as I have just started to do -- you will get to know some people that you might not have met otherwise.
- Free drinks, free food, free coffee, and sometimes free lodging. The more nights you play, the less you have to pay for.
- Waking up in different cities.
- And lastly, I love that I'm never really sure what day is it. I wonder if it is Friday on Monday, or Monday on Friday. Every day feels like a Saturday.
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