All my hiding places are taken.

I have hiding places. Don't you?

Hide and seek is the most annoying children's game ever invented. A whiney, usually quite shrill child's voice calls out numbers while other equally shrill and giggling children search for little spots to wait in until they can all just start running around like maniacs, before at least one of them probably falls down, skins their knee and cries. The children left standing continue on their path toward getting hurt, either by getting slapped on the back to be tagged "it," or by running smack face forward into the "safe" they somehow didn't see coming.

I don't know. I've either tripped and skinned my knee, or somebody's pushed me down, and either way I'm totally annoyed.

I once read a magazine article interviewing Demi Moore, and she recounted how she liked to hide in her closet and listen to old records when she was feeling badly. Today, I'm pretty sure when she said "closet" she was referring to some ginormous room she calls "the walk in," but when I originally read the article I didn't really think of how much more stuff and space Demi Moore probably has then I do, and I decided I might copy her. I threw some pillows and a candle and some headphones and a flashlight and a book into my not-walk-in closet in my not-mansion sized one bedroom apartment in Hollywood's Little Armenia, just down the street from the Jumbo's Clown room, and prepared for some alone time. After about ten minutes, I felt pretty stupid. And hot.

I realize now, I was just looking for a hiding spot.  This wasn't an ideal spot of course, and I think I would have rather skinned my knee then have told anybody I knew at the time of the silly idea I had to get some personal space in a two foot corner of my bedroom (on top of my boots and under my pajamas), but it did turn out to be the beginning of the search for the perfect solitary oasis. Thus I had begun my quest for the ideal space, just outside of all other spaces, that I could call my own. The space for me, by me.

I never went back to a closet, or to any other physically stationary place really, but found myself safe and alone in a variety of outer-moving and inner-still locals. Yoga, the gym, a walk, poetry, tarot cards, meditation, prayer, blogs and guitar have all taken turns at being that safe space.  

Tonight I have tried to revisit one or two of these places, and it seems that these kinds of spaces, unlike closets or tables or boxes or beds or swings or slides, can sometimes be quite difficult to locate. I suppose the transitory, easy-to-loose-track of, movable nature of these locations make for excellent hiding places when you eventually do find them, but finding them to begin with can be quite the challenge.

All this to say what I don't want to say.

My fingers hurt. My breath is uneasy. My knack is rusty and my melodies are uncooperative  My rhythm is shaky, my picking is lazy. My confidence is wavering and my heart is sore.

My favorite hiding place is alluding me. My guitar won't speak to me. Perhaps because I've been gone so long? What is the length of a guitar's grudge?  Are its feelings measured by stings or frets? Ah-ha! I see. My guitar is fretting, and so am I. We need to hide and sing and be safe and alone together. 

My guitar needs a hiding place from me. 

And I need to rub my skinned knees.

I'm blogged out. 

Song coming soon. 

Promises, promises.

-Xoxo

                                                                            -  Xoxo

Fault Lines

friday's child is full of woe

gaining perspective
is loosing sight
of stories thread loosely together
unevenly knit
and bound only by wit
they fall apart -
float away like a feather.

faltering  present participle of fal·ter (Verb)

Verb Start to lose strength or momentum: "her smile faltered"; "his faltering career". Speak or move in a hesitant or unsteady manner. humor me another one and i'll taunt you just in fun for the jester is strongest when detached for the longest and clowns forever dance around when memory is lost  and recollection of anger never found mis·step   /misˈstep/ Noun A clumsy or badly judged step: "one misstep could be fatal". A mistake or blunder. Synonyms false step - faux pas - mistake - error - gaffe - trip kindly enjoy this photo with me and picture quaintness as bare legged knees and 60s hair teased and girls of sixteen and let bottles drop  and bottoms plop and be silly and daring -  not sad and uncaring and live in an instant, carefree. I find myself tonight at bloggers doorstep, peering out and peeking in.  The writers instinct, if faint, is still recognizable. It sits within me like a beacon summoning me Home. Home to the depths of whoever this person is that I am. Home, not to who I have been, or who I hope to become,  but Home to who I am.  These masks I wear are falling to the floor one by one, and under every single face, is this seething unrelenting anger that is born of...what? That is born of the disappointment that I have been wrong. I have been wrong? Could it be that simple?  I haven't had a sip of alcohol in 8 days. I haven't indulged in any mood altering substances or lit a cigarette.  I am, it seems, exploring. I am exploring... sobriety. Feelings. Self indulgence of another kind.  I am indulging in the great "share." I am sharing, with you, myself. For. Some. Reason. The desire to be seen, known, observed, recognized is pretty normal I'd say. For those of us who grew up missing that key element, a father's expressed love, this need for recognition and just plain being noticed, for anything, can be obsessive. So, I walk this line. I want to desperately partake in this grand information, exhibitionistic, anything goes and anything can show society we live in, and yet I do know that I don't always know how much is too much. One of the most interesting things about not drinking for...gasp, a week... is that I have discovered that while alcohol may make me say or do some pretty embarrassing things, and may make me a little more interested in you at a party the I probably should be (or otherwise would be), one of the more interesting things I have discovered is that NOT drinking causes me to get too personal, be too talkative, and say and do some pretty embarrassing things. Case in point: This week we attended a very nice, very special musical soiree held at the downtown loft of a spanish composer. The wonderful band, Spanish Brass Luur Metals, was making some truly beautiful noise. It was a  Wednesday. We loved it. We bought the CD. Everyone that night, except me, was drinking wine or champagne.  This Wednesday drinking soiree is how we roll around here, and if you just take a second to think about that, you may be able to understand, at least in part, the reason I may have developed a problem. I mean, it was a Wednesday. In January. People are supposed to be cleansing January, aren't they?  At any rate, I remember bumping into a girl at the bathroom door. She was coming out, I was going in. She simply said, "Oh, I hope you haven't been waiting long." I then responded to her very simple statement with a three minute comedy improv about how i hadn't, how i had just walked up, what must she have been doing in there to think i was waiting so long, and that when I went in there, I hoped I might have as good a time as herself. Or something like that. When I closed the door, a thought flashed through my head, "Oh dear, I must be feeling a little tipsy." Then I remembered. Sober as the day is long.  Ug. What could be so wrong with me that I say such things to a perfect stranger..with NO GOOD EXCUSE for saying them?? I then thought, "Time to chill out here with some wine." Then I remembered...again. Sigh.  This little example is probably a cute diversion created to distract you, and myself, mostly, from the truly upsetting part of what is happening inside of me. The anger. The anger!!! Argh!!!! I imagine any posts to follow, if I don't pull this entire exercise in public futility offline, will be about that. Because it seems, most things in my life are either about that anger, or at the least, intensely affected by it.  Oh dear. The clown really is he saddest person in the room. Well, in this case, obviously, also the sexiest.  Till next time,  Sayonara, Suckers.