Ratholm
11.5.22
Again with the Canyon Rats! A crazy scene when I went out to the wood pile and found three 5-gallon buckets of stickers I had carefully organized and placed on their sides so the water wouldn’t get in were EMPTY. Who would take them? Then I noticed a large tinker-toy-like assemblage on top of a nearby stack and realized the Wood Rats had taken them all and made a shelter. Oh shame, I didn’t get a photograph! before taking it all apart and whisking the buckets of sticks away in the square wheel cart for safe-keeping. It was quite spectacular. They must have been so happy to come upon a fine selection of sticks so conveniently left for them. Sorry guys! Off you go to the Woods.
I had to jump up and leave when Art started spreading Bondo on the music room floor. Oh dear, the smell! Sometimes I wish for a quiet, peaceful getaway. Quinn’s too-bright lights next door keep me awake nights. I have a hard enough time with the twitchy legs and all. There is so much light that I can make my way out to the parking lot and my van, tucked behind the big abandoned box truck, and attempt some sleeps there. Then I realize, Oh! I have a home!
I was mostly packed out anyway. Roofing House is buttoned up for the coming Rains. I brought my silk dress and Martin bass and books home for the winter. So here I am alone on a Saturday night, total peace and solitude in my tiny studio apartment with a private yard and a redwood tree. Except for, again, the bright freaking backdoor light of my nearest neighbors, which I have hidden behind a big ugly brown tarp hung from the trees.
We had heard that Huey White died in October, at 93 years old. Art called Al to touch base with him–his wife said Al had died in February! We had tried to take Al out to lunch last year but she wouldn’t let him go because Covid. Now he’s gone anyway. What a shame.
Can’t Won’t
June 2018
Back in April Harold offered me (us/possums) a gig at the Art House. Muffy said a hard No– she hates performing, doesn’t want to be seen, has many stories of hiding behind puppets and hoods and curtains, all the material we work on and never play. She made it clear! She hates it! Invites people to sit in so she can pass . . . Woe is me.
We played there before! When Scruffy was still here. Will Scarlett sat in. I think I have that photo nearby . . . on the Possum Family Singers blog. We played there as a duo! It was great! We worked so hard on these tunes, we have such great harmonies and presence! They say. But, no.
We played in the garden at the wedding of J&J (the other J&J) with Maaaat and Kurt. It was so lovely. I wore black, at a wedding!–still in mourning, but geez.
Myself, on the Other Hand, I thrive on Performance, the Stage, I love the Audience energy wafting back to me. If people are playing, listening, dancing, smiling with me, what the evs, it feeds me. I let the song sing itself. It’s ready, it wants to sing. And I want to shine, not wait my turn. I don’t do the jam thing, I don’t get it. It feels like a bad audition.
Something really hinky is going on in my sky, I just don’t know about people rn. I had an astrologer birthday-read my chart, she kept making ripples, ripples in the air with her fingers. Juno sits at the top of my chart, craving a partner for travel, an eye that sees all. The Mars and the Sun conjunct at the bottom, hidden, watching, from below. Fierce, inward, like how I like to garden in the dark, with the moon. Amazing! Kick ass! But I let these people define me.
I’m really CRAZY about my life right now. I want to do things. It’s really hard without my buffers, Steve, Rick, bandleaders who held up their end and pulled me in. My Actual Friends who supported me and joined in on camping trips and gigs and festivals, got gigs and showed up. I’m reeling under the weight of the nothing of it.
I used some detangler on my hair, it smells really gross, like being sprayed on at Macy’s. Think I’ll go wash it out.
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