happy Tuesday, everyone

That last post is going to be a hard act to follow.

Thanks to all of you for your kind comments and compliments! Also, go Mom for the job interview!

I am thinking it may have been successful. Here's why. Mom had been thinking of stopping by me and Dave's place yesterday, but decided to change plans and come this evening instead. But there was a phrase she used on the phone that didn't really click in my brain until after we'd hung up. She said "I'll come by tomorrow after work."
After work? That means there is a work for visiting to be after, no? :D

The apartment is once again, I regret to inform, a mess. Neither me nor Dave were ever especially neat housekeepers the other times we've dwelled together, in college or after. Dave for his part has had a long stay at chez Paula (how I refer to his mom's place) to get un-used to having to do all his own cleaning. As for me, living with Dad I had come to share his, let us say, casual attitude regarding a moderate level of grunge, grime and general disorganization. Being the woman of the house, however, means I feel a deep-seated yearning in my bones to make cleaning happen. Eventually. Sometimes I sit around watching cartoons at night thinking to myself, "Y'know, if laziness wasn't gluing me to my chair, it would be really keen to just sweep and mop the kitchen floor for a bit..." But then instead I go make myself some tea and assuage my conscience by just sweeping up the area around the cat food dishes with my hands, or some such thing.

We have been doing some rearranging. Well, mostly it's been my idea, but Dave is mostly happy to help and doesn't mind so much if I sit around and mutter about shelving and boxen and whatnot. Slowly, a few pieces of furniture at a time, or a room at a time, I will make the apartment easier to clean, at least, if not actually swanky. Paula found us a combination shelf set / entertainment center that somebody at her work was throwing away, so we were able to move the TV area onto the south wall of that little nook off the living room. The only downside is it's no longer possible to watch TV while sitting at the computer desk. Now if I can only think of something cool to do with the living room...

I even got some of my own stuff out of boxen and onto shelves, stuff that had been boxed up since before me and Dad moved out of Elgin! In a way it's disappointing to look at my shelves and realize most of the books I now have to put on display are my second or third-string literary preferences. Simply those books I bought on a whim and never bothered to read, that other people loaned or gave to me and I haven't gotten around to reading yet, or that I got for a class and don't expect to want again. I'm sure there is a larger amount of books I really like, or at least used to like, elsewhere around. Maybe I can do some book rotating this week.

In summation, it's an extremely weird feeling to have an apartment I can think of as "my place." It's more than not having a satisfactory collection of books to shelve, though that's part of it. Now I'm thinking of getting my own posters, my own rugs and throw pillows. My own (non-broken) vaccuum cleaner and blender!

Ach, I must stop with the posting and get to work. The pest control guy has been here spraying for fruit flies and I must go sign his work order to prove that yes, he was here and yes, he did spray for fruit flies. And there are many fewer than the last time he was here, so his efforts are not in vain.

I will post again soon! Hugs!

don't forget

My attempt to condense a lifetime's worth of good fatherly advice into song form. (Bad fatherly advice, like flatulence, I consider returned to dust along with the body.) The meter's pretty sketchy, though if I actually sang it I think the pace of the music would let me get away with the over-long and off-meter lines. The images are clunkier than they would have been if I hadn't been struggling to pack every verse with references to patented "Daddy lectures" about life, the universe, and everything. There are a ton I had to leave out for considerations of space, like "the most important quality in someone you want to date is that they think you're wonderful" and "always have backups" and "in a fight that involves physical violence, there are no winners, only people who lost less." And the ones in here are of course stripped of their accompanying anecdotes.

Still, I think, it'll pass muster, even with all the swears. (All two of 'em.) Yes, the four verses reference the four suits in a deck of cards. Dunno why that was the one of Dad's many hobbies that ended up providing structure to the song. Probably the limits of my own knowledge; maybe if I were more familiar with all the parts of a pistol and their functions I would have made literary play off that instead.

Dad started saying "don't forget" back during the divorce, when "I love you" would have been uncomfortable or situationally problematic to say, for example, on the phone. The phrase stuck around, and it was how he and we would usually end conversations or visits.
"P.S. - Don't forget..." were also the last words of his suicide note.

Hence the title.


don't forget

the diamond shows its face to you
and turned around it still shines true
c'mon, try one and two and three
first you see you, then you'll see me
can't see can't fight can't breathe can't fight can't walk can't fight
damn straight that's right
every level has its rules
the only ones who learn are fools

who know every gun's always loaded
they're careful their target is sure
never touch the trigger till their sights are on target
for what must no longer endure

don't forget that some rules change
and others always stay the same
no one can tell the difference but you
don't forget what's true

some clubs will batter down the door
and some you like to dress up for
step back before you hit the joint
breathe deep and say, "what is the point?"
think twice before you raise your hand
and when you ride, ride for the brand
you signed up for it--see it through
even if no one knows but you

you're only as strong as you're loyal
your fists answer both to your mind
a heart poured out like burning oil
is power no stranger can bind

don't forget the worst defeats
come from the ones you thought were sweet
they always try to tell you how you should
don't forget what's good

a golden cup can hide a drink
more bitter than you'd like to think
fill yourself up and do be clear
whether you hold love, rage or fear
learn to play to your weaknesses
what kind of game d'you think this is?
the power to heal and to forgive
is in your heart, long as you live

and after your living is done with
you'll bear your love into the dark
and hope what you learned to have fun with
will answer that you made your mark

don't forget the world's alive
no fathom is too deep to dive
the chalice of God's mercy it is always full
don't forget what's beautiful

they'll say your father was a sword
whose last years were dismayed and bored
a wheel-and-dealer just gone south
gone postal living hand to mouth
that's bullshit, kid--I stayed for you
past when my days should have been through
so let them whisper on the phone
"died in a bathtub, all alone--"

it's in the cards for everyone that someday
we'll move into the ground
forgive me, Love--I only know the one way
to lay this burden down

don't forget, don't forget, don't forget, don't forget
don't forget I love you
don't forget I love you
don't forget I love you

instead of the song I was working on, here's this one

I was crossing Kinzie street yesterday afternoon when the first lines of this song came to me. Now, this is a blues tune, that I've written comic or satiric words to on many an occasion. Either it's a really easy tune to write for, or it's so firmly grooved into my unconscious mind that it's just one of my songmaker's 'default' settings. Let's say this here one is in honor of NeoCon, since that's the crowd it refers to.

I sat down on a stoop a few blocks later after I got the third verse--they came in in a different order than I ended up putting them, and at that point I knew it had to be written down right then or I'd lose something of it. A bum (more well-off than a homeless guy, not as sharply calculating as the beggars who have regular street corners) came up and asked me for a cigarette. I gave him one, but without stopping my scribbles because I really wanted to get the song written down while it was fresh. He said something like "well, maybe we'll meet again one day" before wandering off. And I realized he'd wanted a longer conversation, which I had neatly avoided through song. Yay song!


"convention in town" 6-9-08

oh, if I were a pickpocket
I'd love to work this crowd
they're innocent and indolent
from out of town and loud
take cash and credit cards
and brown bag lunches - I'm not proud
oh, if I were a pickpocket
I'd love to work this crowd

oh, if I were a murderer
I couldn't stand the smell
cologne and sweat and confidence
that I'm bound straight to hell
with every pair of eyes I see
I'd wonder, can they tell
oh, if I were a murderer
I couldn't stand the smell

oh, if I were a rapist
then these dames would turn me on
their hair and clothes and faces
all just look spray-painted on
they take a half-step back
and look relieved when I am gone
oh, if I were a rapist
then these dames would turn me on

but I work right across the street
where all these people come to eat
it makes the business bittersweet
I punched out - I'm already beat
I've got to fight my way through them
to get back home again.

New Every Morning

Hi everybody.
I finally got around to creating this here blog thing. If I can balance my love of writing words down against the fiendishly limited webtime I have had lately, hopefully I can post something "new every morning." That would be awesome!

For now, I can give everyone a sneak peek preview of the lyrics to the next song I'm going to write. Usually I have no idea whether, or when, I'll get a new song, but this is kind of an unusual circumstance. As most of you know.

It's my theory that a song comes in through a hole in your heart. When something happens in your life that shakes you up inside or tears away a part of you, it leaves a wound in your spirit. Whether it's the death of a family member or a minor misunderstanding, those wounds need to be healed. I believe that creative works of all kinds, but music especially, can carry with them the power to heal such wounds, or at least cleanse away poisons like despair or bitterness that can come along with them. So when I go through a major, life-changing event like my father's passing, I know I'm going to have to write a song about it. For the health of my soul, even if for no other reason, and oh, there are plenty.

The actual writing of the song, of course, depends on how the pieces of it come together in my brain, which I don't care to rush any faster than it wants to go. So here's what I have so far. It's going to come in near the end of the song which will be called "Don't Forget":

It's in the cards for everyone that someday
We'll move into the ground
Forgive me, Love - I only know the one way
To lay this burden down