Guess who went to Bryant Park after work today.
Guess who just missed the rain to listen to Meg Hutchinson perform.
Guess who stayed afterward to participate in a discussion with Meg. With three other fans.
Guess who was shocked that only three people stuck around.
Guess who described her first ever gig at a dive bar at Thursday dart-nights.
Guess who sat a foot away from Meg while she discussed her songwriting process.
Guess who asked Meg where her melodies come in her songwriting process.
Guess who heard Meg say that the music comes early on with the lyrics.
Guess who told Meg, with hand gestures and everything, that she couldn't imagine separating the lyrics from her music, because they're so well-meshed.
Guess whom Meg thanked and told that was a good thing to know.
Guess who asked Meg when she knew that songwriting was something she'd be passionate about. 
Guess who described how she inherited her grandmother's guitar and wrote a song for a junior-high talent show and after performing left the stage in tears having realized that songwriting would be her career.
Guess who talked about the importance of choosing your record company and teammates carefully, because this is your career; this is your life.
Guess who asked Meg if she has whole songs she's discarded or thrown away.
Guess what Meg said. Guess who said she has a song junkyard of discarded songs, and she'd revisit pieces of old songs and sometimes create new songs from them. Guess who said only about a third of her songs don't make it to the junkyard.
Guess who said her writing all starts with capturing images, like a photographer, just getting out and seeing the world, working through the challenge of describing it. Guess who advised the songwriters of the group to write what's true and honest and creative and not to hold back. 
We were introduced to Meg as two songwriters, a music therapist, and an observer/appreciator. By the end of the discussion, guess whom Meg guessed as the music therapist. Hee.
Guess who was a mini-crush on the coordinator of the Wednesday New Song Series at Bryant Park. All because it was starting to rain again, and he had to help load the van, and he came around to say goodbye to the four of us and Meg, and I turned my head to look at him and wave, because he was kind of passing behind me, and he placed his hand on my back and walked away. Then we got married.
Guess who had an amazing time picking Meg's brain.
Guess who wishes she had more time to talk with her.
Guess who's still on a high from that experience.
Guess who's going to show up at Bryant Park after work next Wednesday. Because she needs to see her husband.

There's a folk group called The Wailin' Jennys whose sound I quite like. Very simple, flowing melodies and strong harmonies. I really like their lyrics, too. I've only heard one of their songs all the way through, and it's on a CD I got for free when Meg Hutchinson performed at The Living Room a couple of months ago. Not all of the lines apply to me, but I definitely connect to the song's voice, much in the same way I did with Meg's "Coming Up." I don't know the rule about the number of personal anthems one can have, but the theme of my life right now seems consistent at least, which is probably why this song appeals to me.

The Things That You Know

It's been a long time since you saw your home
Even those you call the closest
Have slipped away somehow
Feels like a lifetime you've been on the road
With so many miles behind you
You'd think you'd have left this world by now

You've seen more than they could ever know
No matter what they say
You've earned the right to be so bold
But this life it takes its toll on you
Every face around you looks so tired and so old

And you have not seen everything
You have not seen everything

But there are things that you know
Things that you know
From where you've had to go
Where you've had to go
Maybe soon you'll find a place
To call your own
To call your home

You've walked a good mile in your brother's shoes
'Til your legs could walk no further
And your tired soles would burn
You know there's peace somewhere around the bend
It's been a long time coming
And you're ready for your turn

And you have not seen everything
You have not seen everything

But there are things that you know
Things that you know
From where you've had to go
Where you've had to go
Maybe soon you'll find a place
To call your own
To call your home

Last night I had a dream about Diva Cups. They didn't make an extended appearance, just long enough for me to remember this morning at work and to go "heh" at the thought. Thanks a LOT, naturalliving community! It probably also doesn't help that it's also that time of the month for me. 

The last time I was at BYU I participated in a clarinet choir. For the concert at the end of the year, we played an arrangement of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody," and it was very, very fun to play. I mean, imagine 14 clarinets sounding like Freddy Mercury and those guitar riffs. It totally rocked. So, that managed to make its way into my dreams last night, too. My dreams are so wonky lately. Of course I don't remember them vividly, but little flashes here and there.

Diva Cups and Queen: I'm sure my subconscious found a way to connect those ideas. Thunderbolts and lightning. Very, very frightening.

The weather today was warmer than Jacksonville and Austin. Pretty crazy. Last time I checked my latitude was considerably further north than those other places.

Insight: I never thought being able to look down to shave my armpits would be something I'd take for granted. My neck is still a little stiff, and when I've showered these past few days, I realized I'm going to sing hymns of gratitude when my neck is better and I am able to crane my view for a closer shave. The little things, you know?

I've been thinking about folk music. I like it a lot. I've been looking up various artists and where they tour. Many of them skip right over NYC. They go to Vancouver and Charlotte and New Hampshire and Austin and Montana and even LOGAN, UTAH. I'm going to focus my musical interests for a while; I want to get to know more artists in this genre. I want to find them in little nooks of rural America writing of humanity and purer ways of life.

Acoustic guitars, maybe drums
Melody, rhythm
Words that pierce
Piercing
Straight up
No fluff
Just passion
Poignance
Reaching (to) me like nothing else could.

The baby was actually quite cute and would have been so, so endearing in another setting. Sure, to disturb is to unsettle or to upset. But this baby wasn't playing with fire in the aisle or trying to start a baby gang war or reciting Hillary Clinton's concession speech. This baby was squirmy and squealy and if her noises were in tempo with and key of the music, it would have been fine. Maybe the annoyed lady meant to tell the mother her baby was disruptive. Or distracting.

Here is the dichotomy with "Mormon Night" at Carnegie Hall. Families with babies attending cultural events. Someone was bound not to be able to find a babysitter, so that someone sat with her child in her lap, and this child could not keep quiet during the entire playing of Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring. Mother picked up her child and left after annoyed lady confronted her about being "disturbing."

There is not a single bad seat in that Carnegie Hall. (Except if you're near a loud and wiggly baby.) That means you can hear every single note, no matter where you sit. Props to the acoustics people. Bravi. Woo! But that also means you can hear every single bad note. You can hear when a section is slightly off beat, you can hear the slightest anything. BYU's chamber orchestra did a fabulous job, and I enjoyed the experience, so I was able to ignore most of the blips and whatever else erroneous bounced off those perfectly contoured walls into my ears. My ears and mind have been so deprived of classical music, they couldn't help but soak up everything. When they performed Appalachian Spring, it occurred to me that I own a recording of that piece, and THAT is what should have been playing while we drove through Shenandoah National Park. I mean Kenny G is okay, but I must say a very distant second in terms of appropriate driving music. Sorry. 

***
Yesterday, in the middle of the day, my neck started hurting. I mean, really hurting. I can hardly turn my head without feeling a twinge of pain. Turning it to the right is what hurts the worst. And, if I sit a certain way the pain shoots down to my sacrum. It's a generalized pain, I think, starting at the base of my neck and going between the shoulder blades. It kind of seems like whiplash, and I feel a little better this morning than I did yesterday, so we'll see how I feel tomorrow before making a doctor's appointment. Whiplash is serious enough, I mean, there's definite muscle spasming going on, but what if it's something else? What if something I don't know about or scary is going on? What if my spine is dissolving and I'm turning into a Filipino writing snake? How will I be able to take pictures? Will I have to buy new clothes? Also, I don't know if I can unhinge my jaw like that. Now that is disturbing.

Meg Hutchinson sent me an email the other day (read: I received the monthly newsletter), and part of it was actually a message from her:

And the end of June will find me travelling the midwest and sharing shows with the very talented Rose Cousins and Rose Polenzani. That week will mark my first visit to The Ark in Ann Arbor, and a headline show at Uncommon Ground in Chicago that will include programming about green initiatives in the area. So I encourage you to come early for the show and hear about local growers, a topic that is close to my heart.

I knew we were friends for a reason.

In other news, I'm getting ready to head to Carnegie Hall to watch the BYU Chamber Orchestra perform. My very first time in the Carnegie Hall. How do you get there? What's that? One more time? That's right, practice, practice, practice!

Oh, I have an Etsy page (also see sidebar). I've starting selling prints of some photos I've taken. If there's one in particular you want (from flickr), email me, specify the photo, I'll list it, and good ol' Etsy will take care of the rest. I'm still toying with prices, so you might see some fluctuation here and there.

Also, I want to try to earn a little extra money for moving.

So, while I was at the counter at the DMV waiting for my test yesterday, the woman behind the counter asked me, "English or Chinese?" In my clearest nondistinguishing American accent, I said, "English" without even looking up. I was signing some forms at the time. Interesting assumption, eh? Once an older Asian man approached me in Times Square a few years ago and started speaking Chinese to me. I said to him, "Sorry, no Chinese." Do I really look Chinese? If so, then why do the filipino people I meet always get my nationality correct? The DMV woman meant well, but it would have been a little more proper if she asked me if I would like an English test. A lot gets misunderstood in this world, people get offended because of so many assumptions. If I spoke a different language, I would have let her know. Chinese isn't even my native language. And I took French in high school. But, what if - what if - I had said instead, "Wha? Wha you say? Me speakah no Engrish" followed by a sequence of ching-chongs that would have offended the actual Chinese speakers in the room? Would have that made me a better person? No. Would I have laughed like the hypocrite I can sometimes be? Probably. So I guess my initial response was more appropriate.

***I'm going to copy and paste the beginning of yesterday's story here, for your convenience.***

My mom joined the church when we lived in Guam. This was my first conscious exposure to hymns. I was in kindergarten or 1st grade. I had been to Catholic mass a few times, but I don't recall much of the music there. My reading was good for my grade level, but I hadn't been exposed to much outside of Sesame Street. So when I opened one of those old brown hymn books for the very first time, I had no idea what kind of treat I was in for. 

We met in an old doublewide trailer. The living room/kitchen area was the chapel, and the other half of the building were bedrooms converted (ha!) into classrooms. It was Guam, so it was tropic. It probably wasn't very comfortable. I remember sitting off to the side of the chapel with my family our first Sunday. Singing hymns instantly became my favorite part of the sacrament meeting service. The pianist plunked away on that long-used, scratched-up piano, and everyone was singing along, together. It was just SO cool how those words and syllables went to notes on a staff and all the holy melodies I had experienced up to that point were lovely and catchy, and I wanted to have a hymnbook of my very own, so that I could learn the words. I didn't know how to read music back then, but boy, were my ears ever-so poised to catch and memorize every single note of those tunes.

One Sunday in particular, I was sitting at the back of the chapel, which bothered me, because  I liked being able to watch the chorister. I think my mom was pregnant with Frank - she might have been at home, and my dad probably had to help up front. I ended up sitting next to a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a full beard. He had a strong brow, and he seemed nice but quiet.

It came time to sing the hymn for preparing the sacrament. We sang "I Stand All Amazed." What I heard from the man sitting next to me I could not believe. He had the richest, most sonorous tenor voice I had ever heard. I looked up at him and his eyebrows were lifted and expressive as he sang the refrain, "Oh it is wonderful that he should care for me enough to die for me!" And he sang the ends of the phrases with a slight lilt then clipped it off with a huff of breath. It was impeccable. This was around the time when advertisements for Pavarotti's greatest hits were playing on television. All the arias from all his operas, and even a few bonus tracks. And this man at church - with the dark beard and hair, and the hefty build, and the expressive eyebrows, and THAT VOICE - I was so confused. Wasn't Pavarotti in Italy? Wasn't he Catholic? What if this was Pavarotti sitting right beside me? And why had no one else in the congregation noticed?

I'm sure I was convinced every time I saw a Pavarotti commercial that it was the same guy from church. I would compare their features every time I saw Church Guy. Church Guy's hair was dark, but it wasn't as dark. And Church Guy's face was differently shaped. And Church Guy's name was not Luciano Pavarotti. That probably should have been the big selling point, but who can really contain a 6-year-old's imagination? What I did know was that I wanted to sit next to Church Guy every Sunday, so that I could hear him sing. What I wanted was for us to sing "I Stand All Amazed" whenever I did sit by him, because I wanted to feel the thrill of a live concert the first time I heard him.

This past Sunday, we sang "I Stand All Amazed" for the sacrament hymn. The memory as a 6-year-old revisited my conscious and took me completely by surprise. I heard Church Guy's voice echo from the recesses of my mind. Sitting next to me was a little boy, maybe 8 years old. He had dark hair, neatly combed, and a cute face that will develop into a very handsome face. He wore a dark, pin-striped suit and black shoes and tan socks that weren't pulled up but bunched down toward his ankles.  

We were sitting smack dab in the middle of the chapel. The hymnal covers are green now, and the boy was holding a hymnal turned to the correct page in his lap, his head down and focused, following and singing the words as the melody progressed. This child's voice was sweet. And innocent. And earnest. And sometimes sang a word or two too soon. It struck me how truly beautiful that was. I stopped singing for a few seconds so that I could hear him. How lucky was I to sit next to such a wonder, an inspiration, this beautiful soul? It took a lot of effort to keep tears from streaming down my cheeks, I was so incredibly grateful. I guess I have a new Church Guy now.

Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me. 

I started writing a little account about a childhood memory while at the DMV waiting for the results for the written test for my learner's permit. Yes, I let my Florida's driver's license expire, then I didn't do anything about it for over two years, so I got a non-driver's ID card, then finally I've gotten around to the whole teenager's process and I can't wait to drive my mom's souped-up station wagon with the wood veneer paneling. The written test was really easy. I've signed up for a driver's education course, and I've signed for a road test. In about six weeks, I'm going to be a legal driver in the state of New York, whereas I was driving illegally in New York and Florida. Please don't tell.

I'll finish the rest of this account tomorrow.

***
My mom joined the church when we lived in Guam. This was my first conscious exposure to hymns. I was in kindergarten or 1st grade. I had been to Catholic mass a few times, but I don't recall much of the music there. My reading was good for my grade level, but I hadn't been exposed to much outside of Sesame Street. So when I opened one of those old brown hymn books for the very first time, I had no idea what kind of treat I was in for. 

We met in an old doublewide trailer. The living room/kitchen area was the chapel, and the other half of the building were bedrooms converted (ha!) into classrooms. It was Guam, so it was tropic. It probably wasn't very comfortable. I remember sitting off to the side of the chapel with my family our first Sunday. Singing hymns instantly became my favorite part of the sacrament meeting service. The pianist plunked away on that long-used, scratched-up piano, and everyone was singing along, together. It was just SO cool how those words and syllables went to notes on a staff and all the holy melodies I had experienced up to that point were lovely and catchy, and I wanted to have a hymnbook of my very own, so that I could learn the words. I didn't know how to read music back then, but boy, were my ears ever-so poised to catch and memorize every single note of those tunes.

One Sunday in particular, I was sitting at the back of the chapel, which bothered me, because  I liked being able to watch the chorister. I think my mom was pregnant with Frank - she might have been at home, and my dad probably had to help up front. I ended up sitting next to a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a full beard. He had a strong brow, and he seemed nice but quiet.

5/7, Wed - Heather Armstrong will be in town for a book signing. (Her latest newsletter is out, by the way.)
5/17, Sat - Healthy Kidney 10K. I signed up to run this. Subject to change.
5/18, Sun - Meg Hutchinson will be performing on WFUV 90.7FM. See if you can catch it online.
5/22, Thurs - The day yours truly was born. SYTYCD premiere. Indiana Jones 4 release.
5/23-5/26, Fri-Mon - Road trip to NC to visit old friend who used to live here.
5/29-5/30, Thurs-Fri - National Spelling Bee.
6/18, Wed - Meg Hutchinson performs at the Bryant Park Concert Series.
6/18-6/19, Wed-Thurs - Emmylou Harris performs at Town Hall.
6/22, Sun - Yael Naim performs at Central Park Summerstage.

It feels like it's barely spring here, but let the summer begin.

That photo is linked to the site I got it from. (Austin City Limits) Trying to remember to give due credit and not break all the fun copyright laws.

I listen to other stuff, too. I always fall back on this girl. I have planned write-ups on why I think "Heavenly Day" is the perfectly structured song; the instrumentality of "Nobody's Crying"; the pure rawness of "Every Little Bit" and "Sweet Lorraine." I've mentioned before that my degree of fanhood has never elevated to obsession, but in this case, I have to make an exception. I told a friend whenever I've recommended Patty to someone else, and he/she isn't as enthusiastic about her, I get a little offended; a little bit of myself holds a grudge, and a little bit of that someone else is dead to me. Of course I open my mind and appreciate other artists and different types of music. Some people are completely closed off to country, but there really is some good country out there. Some people detest rap, and granted, while that takes a while longer to sort through, you can find some decent stuff there, too. Patty herself interviewed that some of her songs have even fallen by the wayside, but since I'm a fan, if Patty were a genre all unto herself, I'd have my favorites, for sure, but I have definitely picked something from each of my non-favorites that I really like. Sure, some songs aren't as brilliant, but I would submit that they're all good. Probably everyone's least favorite album of her is Flaming Red. "Mary" is on that album - it's genius. Here's another song, "Goodbye" I especially connect with:

Occurred to me the other day / You've been gone now a couple years / Well I guess it takes a while / For someone to really disappear / I remember where I was / when the word came about you / it was a day much like today / the sky was bright and wide and blue / 

(chorus) And I wonder where you are / and if the pain ends when you die / And I wonder if there was / some better way to say goodbye

Today my heart is big and sore / it's trying to push right through my skin / I won't see you anymore / I guess it's finally sinking in / 'Cause you can't make somebody see / with the simple words you say / all their beauty from within / sometimes they just look away 

Chorus

When I hear this song, I think of all the people who I'm no longer in touch with. People I miss. People who were close to me. Patty doesn't personally know May Anderton, but she knows that May Anderton is not the only one who's experienced this kind of loss. And Patty put together a simple, powerful lyric and a simple, powerful melody and all of sudden May has found a friend in Patty Griffin, or at least in her music.

Okay, enough of that. I've listened to Meg Hutchinson about 10 times. But I mentioned she reminds me of a few other artists. So, it's time to break out Damien Rice's O, Dar Williams's Mortal City, and Gillian Welch's Soul Journey. I might dig up Ryan Adams's Heartbreaker or Love Is Hell, but then that reminds me of Jeff Buckley, then Rufus Wainwright. Then for some reason, I think of old Feist or Sarah Slean and I think of Sarah Slean at the piano, and that reminds me of Tori Amos and that takes me back to Sarah McLachlan. And don't even get me started on classical music. Oh, man. Looks like it might get a little overwhelming, but if it does, what's really so wrong with having too much good music to listen to?

Because, ladies and gentlemen, I received my grades. A-minus on the final, overall grade for the class: A. I guess I was more anxious about the class to be over with than the actual grade. I think I've said that about a thousand times.

***
Becky asked me to entertain her just now. The last time I did that I ended up doing the running man and that one dance where you grab your ankle and put your other hand behind your head then you kick your knee back and forth while still holding onto your ankle and hopping on the other foot and bringing your elbow and the opposite knee together and of course that makes perfect sense so quit looking so confused. This time? This time, I performed an interpretive dance of "Making Pies." Boy, I can sure charade rolling out a pie crust. But get this: I was holding a bowl of pasta while doing this dance. I've gotta hit the road with this act.

***
I've been listening to quite a bit of Meg Hutchinson. I kept trying to think who she reminds me of. I thought of Patty Griffin. Then Damien Rice. Then Dar Williams. And Gillian Welch. Then I checked out her MySpace and read her inspirations and who she sounds like. Then it all made sense. 

***
At the farmers' market I stopped by one of the booths that sold greens. A girl was behind a table holding a video camera. She held it down and looked down onto the monitor. She was very obviously filming. I know what a girl filming unassuming bystanders looks like. I've found myself in her position many, many times recently. I took a few steps forward and happened to be in the camera's path. The girl didn't look up. I looked right into the lens and couldn't help but smile. I totally knew what she was doing. I looked at the girl's face and saw she was smiling at my smiling. I continued on, wondering how her video might end up.

Beautiful day at the farmers' market. I ran down to Union Square. Picked up some potatoes ($1), basil and mint plants ($2 each!), apples ($3) and a beautiful jar of honey ($5 for five pounds). I almost picked up a bell pepper plant. The old lady selling them? So, SO cute.

This week's recipe is another stew. I needed to use the rest of the cabbage. Onions, cabbage, potatoes, chick peas, cayenne, coriander, turmeric, tomatoes, salt, lemon juice. I had never cooked with coriander nor turmeric. These are my newest friends, to go along with cumin. Cayenne and I are definitely old friends.

I need to go to sleep. I've really enjoyed my Saturday. Thank my rabbits for letting me cuddle with them.

You know what that's for. Well, this past week was commencement at BYU; maybe that's the hubbub, bub.

Today I decided to take a survey of how many people I am taller than. Of course I counted children, because you know a six-foot 8-year-old would totally count all the adults taller than him. Today, I was taller than 10 people. I saw only one this morning. Child, about 5 years old. Then I saw five more on the subway during lunch. Two babies in strollers, three toddlers. Then I saw an Orthodox Jewish family with four children on my way back from lunch, near Broadway and Cortlandt, around 2pm. I love short people.

Let me explain lunch. I went to Union Square. My plan was to buy some flip flops. They need to be cute. And comfortable. Those are some pretty tough criteria. Anyway. The farmers' market was up, so I walked through. I picked up a slice of zucchini bread for $1. Then I went into the store, which happens to be my favorite sporting goods store here in the city. I looked at the flip flops, and I almost got a pair, but then I let myself look around, and I almost picked up a new shirt and a pair of culottes, which I absolutely did not need. But boy, they were hellacute. So I walked out of the store with empty hands and half a slice of zucchini bread in my jacket pocket. I love zucchini bread.

The little sprouts have extended their stems even more and were leaning pretty severely toward the window to soak up some sun. When I got home, I turned around the planter, and now the sprouts are standly nearly straight up. I love phototropism.

Heading off to the Living Room. Will I love Meg Hutchinson?

my apartment is having a 90s party friday night. while downloading some really fun and nostalgic songs, i found a cover of the "rainbow connection." of course, kermit the frog's version will always be dearest to my heart, but i have a feeling i'll also like sarah mclachlan's take.


speaking of muppets, here's a quick episode of what i saw on the subway: a wig. it wasn't a ridiculous wig; it was an unassumingly obvious wig. that is, the guy had no idea how much his wig really looked like a wig. it had perfect, tight curls, but it would have been convincing if no there weren't the slightest gap between the guy's scalp and the wig's lining. plus, there was just no way that could have been his real hair. the guy had big eyes and glasses, and his quiet and unaware absurdity just added to the effect. muppet. like one of the blue extras with a brown, curly wig. i know you've seen him before.

Well, I don't have a lot of time right now. Becky and I are headed to the Apple Store in SoHo to see Counting Crows. They have a new album out. Plus Adam Duritz is the epitome of cool. Sure I'll be drooling all over the Mac products, but nothing can destroy OS 10, right?

Also, Jenny arrives tonight. In about four hours, if LaGuardia doesn't misbehave. Woo-hoo!