A Rather Distressing Compulsion

I think I have a virus. Or a brain fever. How about a virus that is causing a brain fever? I can’t stop writing songs. It is becoming a rather distressing compulsion. Like that great musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where everyone sang their feelings because they were compelled by a demon of song. Urkk. I can’t stop with the song ideas. Maybe they are actually poems but I don’t think so cause I just spent the last hour working out the chord progression for Dragon Young Dragon, a blues lament in E major. Jeepers.

I’d share many more feelings on the subject but I want to go work on another song idea – this one inspired by the line “Every day is an ordinary day, until suddenly it isn’t.”  So I guess is going to be song about love at first sight since after the lament of Dragon Young Dragon I am determined to write something peppy. Yes you heard me, peppy.

Note to Self

When MacGuyvering eyeglasses back together with black masking tape, ensure that you do not spend 15 minutes trying to attach the left arm to the right side of the glasses.  "But Carolynne, surely you realize that is not black masking tape in the photo?" Yes, yes my friends I do.  That is regular masking tape and it appears in this photo of the repaired spectacles because the black masking tape gave out completely as I tried to maneuver the glasses into position in order to take this wonderful photo to share with you all.

So here is my wonderful photo to accompany a story that is representative of my month so far. I will now leave you to go stir the pot of beans on the stove which is representative of my attempt to loose 20 pounds between now and the Canadian Tenors concert 72 days from now where, if I succeed my Mom will pick up the tab for the tickets. Taken together, the cheaply repaired glasses, beans and desire to get someone else to pay for my Canadian Tenors habit, these things are representative of my attempts to save up enough money to finance the filming of my award winning short film script, The Lobby.

Current funds assembled to date total 100 dollars and the refund on 11 empty liquor bottles recently discovered under the sink - 5 Absolut vodka, 2 Bombay Sapphire gin and 4 wine bottles(2 red, 2 white), for those of you who enjoy excessive detail I will post the wine brand names upon request - which have been there since I decided that booze was too expensive sometime last June. Oh, and of course the tea light holder full of nickels which are no longer accepted by Vancouver parking meters.

After the bean stirring I should return a phonecall, but it is too late already because glasses repair took 7.5 times longer than budgeted. Instead I'll be practicing the guitar till bedtime which is representative of ...um, my desire to practice the guitar until bedtime.

Sleep well. Don't forget to vote for Georgia Murray on Cover Me Canada and like all her vids on YouTube many times and like them as often as the button will let you hit it. Which is representative of my wanting the dreams of a terrific artist and lovely person to come true. Won't you sleep better knowing you had a little part in that?

Another Saturday Night

Now that I've checked up on the recent posts of all 82 of my Facebook friends...I know, hardly an epic number, bu I have this weird thing about accepting people that I actually know or like or have met on more than a single occasion. Call me crazy.

Just in the event that you might be interested on what I might be up to on a Saturday night, I am here to tell you. Other than checking everybody's latest on facebook, I have also been working on new songs on the guitar. Waltzing Matilda (don't ask), Pachbel's Canon (because at some point it must be learned, may as well be now) and Asturias (which my sometime substitute guitar teacher calls the "Stairway to Heaven" of classical guitar).

So I said "I'm back" but am I really?

I was so in the mood to blog earlier tonight. Lots of exercise (workout #90) and post Canadian Tenors PBS special endorphins going crazy. And so proud. So proud of my boy Fraser Walters hosting down in the Seattle studio. So of course I have no right to take any credit for his success other than the fact I did keep the Asst. Conductor on the Magic Flute from strangling him. So I guess I'm allowed to be a bit proud.

Strangely I then read one of my blog posts from long ago about playing the guitar "two hands dancing" I have to admit. The writing was brilliant and now I'm kinda in awe of my earlier self and completely feeling that the current self can't possibly be capable of such eloquence. Hmm. That's a bit hinky-poo when you are jealous of yourself as a writer, don't you think?

Eeek. As if I didn't have enough ISSUES. Nice to be back though. I took a bit of a detour into writing what I'm supposed to instead of what I feel. It as okay I guess. Truth to tell it all flows better if i do this and that at the same time. Wrote some good shit for my day job today. Hey if the Dean comes back with zero comments on 1500 words, it is a fine day of writing my friends.

My little corner of the sky

You know the kind of day that I’m talking about. The kind of day when, from the moment your little toes hit the laminate in the early a.m. nothing quite fits. Like you are a complete stranger waking up in a body and life that can’t possibly really be yours? Can it? Really?

You stare at the clothes you’ve selected to wear and don’t remember buying them or when you last wore them. Your body seems to be so incredibly plastic that from one moment to the next a roll of flesh shifts 3 inches up and your shoes don’t fit and the exact same pair of pants that was, just yesterday, tight on the thighs and loose on the waist, is now tight on the waist and loose on the thighs?

A voice is speaking - apparently issuing from your throat, your body, but you are hearing it through some weird echo chamber. What did you just say? Why are you telling that story that is stupid. You are being boring and offensesive. This person you are talking to is just wishing you’d shut up and walk away. Jeepers YOU wish you’d just shut up and walk away. Seriously did every word out of you mouth today not sound completely contrived and wrong? The words from your fingers were great, even good, as was the music you coaxed from the guitar. In person though, like a movie shot out of focus and out of synch, what the frack? – who am I ?

Happens sometimes, days like this. Usually after a day where I’ve caught a glimpse of my little corner of the sky – I feel brilliant. I shimmer in the light – gorgeous. Then an awkward view of the Buddha belly in the mirror, a stretch that results in popping noises so loud your office worker, from behind her headphones, looks startled.

My little corner of the sky. For you Glee geeks that is from the Broadway Musical “Pippin” the lyric goes something like this. “Rivers belong where they can ramble. Eagles belong where they can fly. I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free. Gotta find my corner of the sky.”

That’s what I’m gonna go work on right now. I am a writer of story, a spinner of tales. With that talent I am going to build my own castle, slay my own dragons, rescue one (or six) prince(s)and bring in a bumper crop, then a nice late night glass of brandy on a turret top and a long deep gaze into the stars above before the prince(s) calls me into the warmth and embrace of bed and love and dreams.

The Space Between

It is Tuesday. Which means it is Guitar Day, one of my two favorite days of the week. But it is the in between time. Usually I kick a lot of creative writing into this space between the day job and the guitar lesson, but today I’m feeling bloggy. I keep checking the time every 5 minutes like a kid waiting for the last bell to ring before summer vacation. I really need my guitar class tonight. Given that I am prone to such things guitar is turning into a true obsession. I played for hours each day this past weekend and as I type this the ache in my fingers confirms that we are tipping over into madness. Last night I played until my fingers cramped. Think I might need to dig out the extra strength Ibuprofen before class.

I am in love with guitar. Last night I was really, really upset about something late at night, too late to call anyone who loves me on the phone so I played as I cried and then my tears dried and I played some more. I love it because it is so hard and so beautiful because music makes sense and no sense all at the same time. Too much guitar though, I’d already played 2 hours that day. See, I just checked the time again – it is 7 minutes after the last time I looked.

Okay back from Ibuprofen break and a wee peek at prices of high-end Flamenco Guitars. Yikes! How bout an Archangel Blanca whose price is not listed but the next couple down the shelf are in the 10Gs range. I’ve been coveting a 3G Larrivee hitherto. Well, since at the moment I can only play part of one Flamenco piece I guess we likely won’t have to worry about that for a while. Still I have played a friends Flamenco guitar in the past and liked the lighter action and bright sound, also slightly smaller for my hands.

Wow what a geek. I am blogging about guitars. When did I turn into a teenaged boy? Yippee, I get to pack up now since I want to be at the store early to check out some Flamenco sheet music.

Things that I am thinking.

Historically Easter has never been my favorite holiday. Historically, massive amounts of time in very depressing church services. Historically, ham and scalloped potatoes for dinner, neither on my list of favorite foods. Historically, massive deadlines and crazy overtime writing up proposals. Historically, given my trials and tribulations with my weight since puberty very skimpy on the chocolate egg side of things. And dressing in bright prints sunny colors – that has been me when? Oh, yah. When playing a character on stage. Usually one with not much going on between the ears.

I am a fan of the hot crossed bun though, yes I am.

Strangely this was one of my best ever. Much writing. Much reading. Much going to the gym. Crazy good guitar. Great family time. No depressing church services and struggle with the whole resurrection thing. Do I believe in it? Yes. I guess I really do. More fool I, the scientist in me says.

Funny though, how I haven’t seen the family more or less since Christmas and yet no one commented on my weight loss which is not minor. I did get one nice hair comment. While I recognize I have a long way to go, buff wise, it did bother me a bit. No matter. The Omen has been refereeing 80 games of B-ball this year. He is looking trimmer and fitter and happier than I’ve seen him in many a long year. And Mouse is as thin and fit as she was at 18 – gorgeous. Mom too looking fit and while rightly having a hard time following the cacophony of conversation. Hey peeps, think I have a commanding voice? I come by it honestly, let me tell you.

Weird and fun talking good Scotch with my oldest nephew. He’s not tried my current fav – Oban. He was also profoundly skeptical about my assertion that anything aged over 15-16 years is pure marketing. It was not until I invoked a higher power – our Genius Cousin – that he began to consider my case might have merit.

I am thinking many more things, but chief among them is my day of writing tomorrow. I am really looking forward to it. Oh, jeepers, need to remember to read that script for Hoosie too. Okay its looking like a full pot of coffee day tomorrow, better cut the mix with some decaf.

This was a profoundly pedestrian post. I did plan on sharing a bunch more thoughts but then got bored with myself and decided to wander off and read my "Your Brain on Music" book. Which is about music and neuroscience. Cool huh? I also watched Elvis Costello's "Spectacle" TV show 'cause Bono and The Edge were on. And you are going to either groan or lol but who did I spot in the studio audience but Remigio Pereira Canadian Tenor and one of my personal guitar gods. Well, I laughed, not sure why it's funny but it is.

Things I am Reading

I am re-reading "The Geography of Bliss" by Eric Wiener for book club - it is my pick and i have to lead the discussion so therefore I feel obligated to re-read and remind myself why I am subjecting the E-litteratii to it. Interesting every single time any of us goes to spell the name of our book club the - E-litre-atti it gets a new treatment.

I am reading "This is your Brian on Music" by Daniel J. Levitin - given to me to read by my guitar teacher, surely one of the Nephilim - that's your word for the day, so look it up! For his genius and his patience. Still ever and always the highlight of my week the time I spend with him, and not in a creepy "I have a crush on him" kinda way, not that I don't or couldn't or whatever. The music is the thing people. And if you know me at all you know that a man with mastery of words, music or movement pretty much has my pure and unadulterated hero worship. Also men who are good at fishing and take out the garbage and recycling without being asked. But I digress. Because i can and because it is what I do and because it is Tuesday. Because of guitar the happiest day of the week next to Friday. I really should go to bed.

I am also reading "Anathem" by Neal Stephenson and dipping into "Writing the TV Drama Series" by Pamela Douglas. And finishing up the very racy "Venus and Adonis" by Bill Shakespeare.

Now are you wondering why I never married and never answer my phone? Didn't think so.

Sight Reading Music

Did i mention that I hate it and that my Maestro is off my bus for making me do it? not really. He is actually a patient Angel. But sight reading is to playing the guitar as walking by the angry dog is to getting to the doughnut shop. It makes me feel stupid, incompetent and incapable. And i really don't need any extra help feeling those three things.

Not to mention the first song I opened the book to was in 3/2 time. I been reading music since I was 6 years old, nobody ever asked me to play nothing in 3/2 time!!! My metronome just doesn't do that fraction. And hey, isn't there a moratorium on having to do fractions? Like people over 35 just don't have'ta do 'em anymore? If not there bloody well should be.

Hallelujah and Me - Via Leonard Cohen

What is the deal with this song? First of all, how could I have been Canadian for my entire life and not have been aware of this song until I heard the Canadian Tenors version of the song not quite a year ago. Then it starts to get weird.

I announce to my guitar teacher that, “I must learn this song.” And HE’D never heard I before. And he is a real deal composer and serious been around the block guitar player. That was last August. So we’ve been working on the song on and off ever since.

Last guitar lesson, he wants to get serious about working on the song. I have the somewhat predictable Fminor block witch means nothing at all to you who’ve not attempted mastery of the guitar. It isn’t’ the easiest song for a beginner suffice it to say.

Weirdly, though his inspiration to push on the song came from KD Lang’s performance of the piece at the Olympic Games Opening Ceremony. The last major composing project my teacher worked on was with someone who had produced more than half of KD Lang’s recordings. So that gave him a push, not to mention that I had been torturing the piece for six month in lessons.

Even weirder. I was feeling melancholy watching the 2010 Olympic Games Opening Ceremonies as I was just beginning to realize that the Canadian Tenors, had most likely performed the non-televised pre-show. So I’m sitting on my couch playing “Hallelujah” and suddenly KD Lang arises on top a big white drum and starts givin’ er.

It was strange. And quite frankly, unpleasant. Nothing against KD’s performance which was as dig down deep and heartfelt as it comes. But I wasn’t my boys version and, truth to tell, it wasn’t my version. I don’t mean that to be prideful. Especially since I discover that Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah is one of the most covered songs. Reason for that has nothing to do with Leonard Cohen’s celeb. Sorry Leonard. It has to do with the brilliance of the song as a piece of music and poetry.

It’s a great song, no doubt. But why is so suddenly mine? And why does it seem to spring up on me everywhere? That I don’t know. It appears in the movie The Watchman and tonight, as I was channel surfing in the movie St. Ralph. Which really hit me in the head and heart hard as I’d been practicing the blessed thing all day.

Seriously I have played and practiced this song nearly every day for months. I can't go to sleep at night till I've heard it.

So what is it with me and this song?

The blog with no title

The snow has turned to rain. I can hear it on the skylight.

As I type, the fingertips of my left hand are reminding me how much I’ve been practicing my new Christmas tune. My brain is reminding me how much I suck at it and I better be prepared to amuse my guitar teacher tomorrow, cause amaze him with my musical talent, probably not so much.

Funny isn’t it? In about seven minutes I turned a barely started crocheted scarf into a drawstring bag for my video camera. Really. I timed it. And yet mastering the first eight bars of a song I ALREADY KNOW on the guitar is like… Fine. We all know that of all my multitude of gifts, a knack for melody, not so much. Ironic to many since I actually have the vocal capacity to stun millions, but memory for melody? Pitch? Sigh. I can actually tell I’m off key, but the ability to do something about it?

Often when I’m practicing the guitar I feel like there are two people present. The meat suit, trying to move the fingers and hit the notes and a ghostly ethereal self that loses patience with the plodding flesh and decamps for God knows where. Where the angels are singing perhaps. Lucky me. I do know what that sounds like.

Interesting tonight. There is not a thing on television or written in a book that is more interesting and consuming than what I am thinking right now. Good. That is as it should be. I am going to go away now and kick some story butt. Because. I can.

But seriously I could use to be well kissed somewhere around now.

Just a thought or two before sleep.

 This girl is going to bed early. The subconscious needs to process a rather full day, week, month…yah, year.

I’m a bit stuck with my feature film outline.  I know what happens on page 45 and 60 but am drawing a blank on how to get everyone there. So I do what I do when I’m stuck. Any creative thing I can think of that might walk me sideways into a solution.  So the Canadian Tenors are giving me “What Child is This?” my all time favorite carol, and I am going to turn them off shortly and pick up the guitar and try and figure it out.

My guitar teacher is back. Oh, how I missed him.  I shook his hand and told him so too.  He composed the music for the Sci-Fi Fantasy mini-series “Alice” airing this week already on Showtime. So he took a bit of a break from teaching my slow-to-learn magnificence and made some cash-o-la. Now he is back, I did miss him.  I proclaimed him of Angel blood in previous blog and seeing him again and playing music with him, I stand by my earlier assertion.  Huh. I think he was a bit surprised at being happy to see me too.  But you know, I am a bit of an acquired taste, but once you acquire me…

My lullaby is playing now, Hallelujah which really is my cue to shut down, turn off and pick up the guitar.  So I will kiss you all good night and tackle my story problem tomorrow. Damned Romantic Comedy. I got tricked into writing it and now look at me, asking everyone I know how to recognize True Love. I’m starting to think it really is true, what Dara Marks says about the connection of writer to theme.  It is a question or thought seen very personally thru the lens of the writer.  Which would be me.  Who doesn’t really believe in Romantic Love other than as a sort of temporary glandular condition. Sigh. Okay. Tomorrow I promise to spend my blog time composing the ideal man. Jeepers. I could hardly type that sentence and if you could see my face you would be laughing at the sneer.

Did I already say G’night and G’bless? O well, I guess I have now. Until tomorrow.

Random thoughts from life as an Artiste

Random thoughts from life as an Artiste.

I sucked the big one at guitar lesson today. Despite the highs and lows of the last 2 weeks I practiced every day. Every single day. And it was like I took 15 steps back! I SUCKED. The Maestro was as lovely as ever but I could sense his frustration with me. Part of my core skill set, the ability to sense and gauge the level of a man’s frustration. Well, in my defense the entire day was an exercise in trying to focus. When things happen to me I need a lot of alone time to process, and didn’t get that so the fact that my brain went to the Dragon Nebula and back every hour or so…I did actually manage to crank out some product and speak in full sentences to my co-workers upon topics on which they have keen interest.

I got a one line email from Sir Lancelot. Quite frankly surprised I got even that given all the thoughts that we each respectively need to think. About business kids. The business of being creative. About where the lines need to be. About the fact I can make him laugh at will and the fact that he can stay with me for hours. For hours people. How many young men of my experience can do that? Count ‘em on one hand that’s for sure. Yikes.

Two Hands Dancing

I’m very fascinated by hands lately. My hands in particular. My fingers spinning out words that are my Voice in the universe. That kind of big picture existential crap but also just how wonderful they are in and of themselves. The fascination partly stems from the boxer’s fracture to the 3rd metacarpal (now mostly healed) that I incurred this spring. Partly, too, I just spent 40 blissful minutes at guitar practice grooving on the recently discovered mind-body connection that playing guitar is really just my two hands, dancing. Why that is so powerful to me is at least two fold (maybe even more by rant's end); that it is through the brilliance of my mind expressed through the skill of my fingers I have found my Voice in this world as a writer, and I have always loved to dance above all things. Those of you who are only recently acquainted with me may find that surprising. But my sisters are nodding - they know. The story of me as a dancer is long and perhaps at some point deserves to be told, but not really into long regurgitations of the past today. I will say this, more than love more than youth, more than money, children, career or fame, the loss and erosion of my physical ability to dance is the single greatest tragedy of my life. Time will tell of course, but it could be that discovering the guitar could be that life's greatest renaissance.

My father always complimented my hands. He thought they were my single most beautiful feature. And the thing that a little girl’s Dad values about her is a weighty and mythic thing indeed. If you just look at them you will likely shake your head and perhaps even think – “They look pretty ordinary to me”. Because it is true – in repose they are nice, but not mythic not special. The fingers are not particularly long or delicate, the palms square, the index fingers a bit too bent. But, there is just something about the way they are attached to the rest of me – how they move – their strength and lightness of being that is some how singular. I could just be making this all up, but I have proof of a higher sort. Dame Margot Fontaine once adjudicated my ballet exam and it was the single phrase she uttered in my direction “Lovely arms”. She should know.

All this to say that daily practice of the guitar has brought the joy of dance back into my life. Daily guitar practice too has taught me some new things about writing that, while I may have acknowledged them intellectually hitherto, are now seeping in down to the bone. Keep at it. Each perfect chord is preceded by hundreds of failures. Trust, be gentle with yourself, keep pushing forward. While you can, will and must judge your writing by the standards of others, keep the faith. Never be so despairing of your own ineptitude or lack of discipline that you stop. Five minutes here, ten minutes there, a good joke included in an email – copied and saved for later Above all, remember that just as you have your favorite music and singers and writers, that everyone else does too. Don’t fret if someone you value is lukewarm in their praise, there are others, total strangers even who will hear your writer’s voice as if angels were singing.

Virgina Wolfe used to despair after reading Marcel Proust that she would never be as good a writer, so perhaps she should cease the effort. She found a perfection in his prose that gave her both joy and pain. I’ve wandered down that mental path a time or two after reading Oscar Wilde – oh, I think – I’ll never be that good, so is it worth the effort? God knows I’ll never play guitar like Segovia, or Jesse Cook, or Charo or even my own real life examples, Candice, Remigio and David the V. But I will play like Carolynne. I will write like Carolynne and who am I or you or anyone to say that I won’t be someone else’s Proust or Segovia or Oscar Wilde?