Day 1 - On My Knees

My dear friend Penny gave me some advice from her composition teacher at Berklee, which goes something like this: "You can either finish it or leave it incomplete."

So, I start this blog with an anonymous autobiographical confession. Blog therapy. From here on out, though, my posts will be about my process of setting free the singer/songwriter in me. Muah ha.

I told Penny about my newest state of mind since I have been back in Southern California. I've been living with my "aging and in-need" parents, who are actually kind of bailing me out of a difficult time on my own and who are also hijacking my lifestyle. Of course, I'm letting this all happen.

I told her that there was a night last week when I didn't think I was going to make it. It overwhelmed her because she had gone through a period in her life where she was suicidal. what I meant by not thinking I was going to make it, was just a feeling that I was going to be stuck. I'm depressed, that's for sure. I work it out with drama. I had this worry about a weapon in the other room and that I would feel so overstuffed and overloaded in my brain and body with my parents constant cooking and shoving of complaints and depression and toxic energy, and my escapes into Jamba Juices, Starbucks drinks and the library vending machine, that I would grab this "it" out of that room and point it somewhere.

I do have a very, very, very active imagination and I admit, I am addicted to drama. When I was 4, I used to lay on the couch while my parents were watching TV and imagine that Donny Osmond was my lover. I thought that he was with Marie and I would scream and reach towards the ceiling, "Donny, Donny, don't leave me-ee-ee-ee!" Oh, the drama. I'm also one of those people who contemplate getting up in the middle of a theatre and screaming to the audience and cast, "No, no, no! This is all bullshit!!!"

Things change. I know it. I see it. Last year at this time, I was living in LA mesmerized by hippy dances I had found and all the deep eye-gazing folk and their name for me as "The Goddess." The year before, I was living in Boston at the height of a cleanse and had accomplished losing 50 pounds - I looked great, my skin was clear and was in love with a yogi salesman. Today, I'm back in my home town, I've gained back all the weight I lost, I no longer have the need to be anyone's "Goddess" and I finally own my choice to focus on just myself right. I've a good friend who was resolved she'd be all alone and heart broken for the rest of her life and now she's with the guy she's probably going to marry. I've a friend who thought his path would be in one direction and now it is in a completely different direction. So this fear that I have, I know, will change. Perhaps even disappear.

Someone asked me that "what do you do?" question at a conference on Wednesday, and I answered, "These days, I mostly lurk behind windows and write."

So, I'm writing my first blog.

I've been a singer my whole life. When I was 3, I apparently danced and sang in front of our trailer and people passed by to give me money. All through my childhood into my college days, I would sing at family gatherings and gather up slips of money from my relatives. I'm unemployed and can't stand the jobs that are out there, so I think about what it would be like if I truly relied on my own resources. If I sat on the corner with my guitar and made 50 cents, I'd be making more than I do now.

When I was living in San Francisco a few months ago, I thought a lot about busking at the subway. For all the musicals and family gatherings and classrooms and churches I've sung at, for all the songs I've written in these past 6 years, I have never performed at an open mic. Maybe that's why I have these urges to do something bold - like stand up and cry out in the middle of a formal public gathering or grab a weapon and threaten life in the middle of the night.

I live in an apartment building and am aware that the neighbors hear me because I can definitely hear them, especially the guy that deliberately sings into the courtyard. He's been trying to talk to me that guy, noticing my guitar when I pass by, even singing "I can see you through the window". I shut the blinds tight and sing in the most contained way I can. Meanwhile, my dad sings karaoke to himself on his laptop late at night. He said that he would give me a loan if I wanted to do something about my music. I can't get over his belief in me.

My meditation teacher said to me recently, "it's the air you breathe."

I know that I am not alive as long as I keep to myself, as long as I keep hoarding my creativity and making excuses for not getting up on a stage and sharing my songs. I have the urge to jailbreak, to fuck the blinders and say what it is that I need to say, to just do my thing, my life, my breath.

One time, I was walking around in an art supply shop and an older little asian man said to me as I was passing by, "You. You sing. You a singer." It was the oddest thing - I hadn't even opened my mouth when I walked in.

Another time I met Sheila Chandra, my favorite world fusion artist and she went out and found me after a concert. She doesn't talk after her performances (apparently Sarah Brightman does the same), so she wrote on her little pad of paper, "Did you sing today?" She's never even heard me sing. We never exchanged numbers or anything, but I am convinced that I had met a sister in the journey.

I'm scared to death. What a thing to write. I know that as long as I give into the fear, I give into a kind of death. And perhaps it is the death of my ego that is really dying here.

But I'm scared of what, though, really? Of singing in front of people? Of people telling me that I suck? Of people kicking me out? Of getting tired of pounding the pavement. Of what? Of making a choice? Of opening my heart? Of singing what I really believe? Of people disagreeing with me or not getting it? Of people saying that I'm too fat? Of getting hurt? Of crying? Of being angry? Of being ugly? Of being poor? Of being starved? Of wanting this more and more and more?

My other meditation teacher said to me, "the only difference between the words scared and sacred is a letter switch."

"Don't give up," says Peter Gabriel.

Penny and I concluded that if there's anything I need to prepare for, it isn't getting perfect or waiting until I have all my tricks together, it's preparing myself for the brutal honesty of the audience. They will let you know if they like what they hear or not. And there's no formula that determines what will be cool or what will be liked. Penny says that I can only be my best self right now.

Penny suggested I start with one open mic a week. Next Wednesday, I'm attending a meetup.com group where they'll be discussing open mics - how to pick a venue, how to gather a following, etc. That's my first step.