Here I am

The woman at the ticket counter in Syracuse this morning noticed that my pass is almost expired. I’m sitting in Syracuse, still, waiting on another bus from up North to get here. Oh, actually it seems like they just arrived, and we’re headed east now. Boston-bound.

I sang Breathe Child last night as the last song of the last show of this big adventure. I introduced the song as something I’d written for myself. And, standing alone on the stage with that beautiful grand piano that I attempted to play, in front of the poinsettas all set for Christmas, with the snow falling down outside, and a little girl hanging on my every word… well, I sang my heart out, one more time. And, now it’s time to go home. I actually felt myself tear up. I’ve made one girl cry at almost every show… and last night, it was me. It was for me.

I had an absolutely amazing time in Kalamazoo, too, even though I didn’t end up performing. It was more a re-integration stop, to get used to winter and get acclimated to Eastern Standard Time. I reconnected with the one person I actually remember from the year we lived there, Ms. Heather Crull. We went out and heard music both nights I was there. I especially enjoyed the Brothers Kalamazov. And, she also introduced me to geo-caching. For those of you with GPS units out there, you have to check it out!

I had a brief moment of panic as we trudged out into the snow-covered woods, sun setting, to find a toy in a box in a tree… who is this girl? I thought. How well do you really know her? What are you really going to do in the woods? ☺ But, lucky for me, she is actually just fun and quirky, and we ended up finding the little hidden treasure. Funny little game. Good excuse to trudge out into the woods in the winter!

I decided to rent a car from Kalamazoo to Syracuse. I found a decent deal online, and it cut my travel time down from 21 hours (via greyhound) to about 9 hours of driving – including a 4 hour stretch through Canada.







I got a bright yellow ridiculous looking sporty two-door car that I would NEVER drive. But, it amused me, and it had cruise control. I had burned CDs at Heather’s house to sing along to, and, also used the opportunity to catch up with my mom, who I hadn’t talked to since leaving the Grand Canyon… it was a new level of freedom, as my friend Sarah pointed out. My own wheels!

There was a ferocious snowstorm in Syracuse the morning after I arrived. But, lucky for me, this meant that my hostess got a snow day! So, Tina and her partner, Melissa and I hung out with their precocious and brilliant 3-year-old, Amelia.



Later we baby-sat for two girls from the school, Isabel and Abagail. I haven’t spent much time with kids on this trip. And, not at all since Memphis… so, this was a huge treat for me! We played pick up sticks and Carabou and made cookies for the bake sale at my show that night. I also passed out on the couch for about 20 minutes at one point when they all went upstairs to the playroom.

This bus is packed full of people just like the buses in the south. But, the average age of the rider has dropped to 20, and the average skin tone has lightened several hues. Funny how the bus in the south is for poor black people… and the equivalent economic class in the north is college students. Of course these are generalizations, but having lived on the bus for the last 2 months, I feel that is a mostly accurate observation.

I am completely obsessed with Edie Carey these days… this morning, I woke up with her song, Chemistry, in my head. “Of all the stories I tell myself, please let this one be true” she croons. I have no idea what story I was telling myself, but that line seemed so painful and real when I woke up…

I highly encourage you to check out her music, if you’re not familiar with it already. She has another particularly beautiful and poignant song called Red Shoes on her myspace page. She also recently won a songwriting competition through Paste magazine that will give her some great opportunities… It makes me so hopeful about my own future! It can happen, it can happen. Even for little, independent songwriters like me who start out in Boston. ☺

You have a funny way of measuring success, my friend Beth said to me the other night. Hmm. I guess I do. I’ve been so mournful about this all ending, that I’ve forgotten to realize… I did it. Surrounded by these beautiful trees covered with snow, it’s starting to sink in. I made it all the way out west, delayed the onset of winter, for a few weeks, by hiding out in the southwest… and I sustained myself on music and the generosity of my friends for 8 straight weeks.


Feels like I left yesterday… And, then, all these little moments pop up in my head.

My cousin and her skiddish dog I tried to befriend in North Carolina. Teresa and her son James, and Kim Jones, who I found on facebook, just in time to visit with me in Memphis. The subway in Philadelphia, and the woman wearing a burka that really threw me off guard. New York, and Amalie’s alley-like hallway.

The unexpected trip to Chicago, and the open mic competition. Reconnecting with Jesse, my sister’s friend from high school. Getting to see my sister in Oregon, and find out she still salsa dances! The Mall of America, and magic glasses. The spiciest Mexican food I’ve EVER had in Bozeman, MT. My crazy roommate in Bozeman that woke me up 5 minutes before my bus left. My introduction to nasal cleaning kits by Chris’ crazy neighbor.

The Grand Canyon. The awesome turn out at my god mother’s house, which ended up being the most successful night for me on the road! New Mexico, Dallas. The “inclement weather” (read: rain) that closed the amusement park on the Santa Monica pier. The memory of that sign still makes me giggle to myself. Losing my voice. The beautiful night sky with the Venus and Jupiter in alignment with the moon. Late nights, losing sleep to buses and good conversations. Too much wine. And, so many good friends.

So, many opportunities to be heard… Too, too many nights to remember them all. Flooding in.

Oh, perfect song. Emmylou Harris just came on… She’s singing Deeper Well to me.

That’s what I set out to do – dive deeper. “Looking for the water from a deeper well.”

I was ready for the love, I was ready for the money, ready for the blood, and ready for the honey. Ready for the women, ready for the bell. Looking for the water from a deeper well. Found some love, found some money. Found that love would drip from the honey. Found I had a thirst that I could not quell. Looking for the water from a deeper well.

I guess I can’t really tell the end of this story. It doesn’t end… not here. This is just the beginning. A thirst I can not quell.

So, I’ll just have to say until we meet again... I hope your holidays are happy. Take good care of yourselves, and let it radiate out into everyone you hold close and then to those who you keep further away. Sing your heart out when noone’s listening. And, sometimes when they are. And, make sure you let things get really, really quiet sometimes you can hear yourself. Be attentive when you hear that voice calling. And, don’t hide away from what it says. Just go for it. Every time.

Blessings to you all as we let go of 2008… and peaceful wishes for new beginnings in 2009.

Much love to all of you who have been with me throughout this trip. I’ve felt your presence even when you weren’t in mine.

Jess

PS... Cornelius has found a new use for my suitcase for a while.

Kalamazoo

I came here for a reason...

So, here I am. On my 2nd to last bus ride. Listening to Don Henley…


Forgiveness, forgiveness. Even if, even if, you don’t love me anymore.


What a grueling schedule I made for myself here at the end. I sang at the open mic at the renowned Bluebird Café in Nashville. 52 people signed up to sing between 6-9PM.

Apparently, there are so many people that sign up every week and don’t get to sing, that they’ve instituted a system of “second chance” slips. If you don’t get to sing the first time you go there, you’re guaranteed a spot the next time you come back.
Well, the “second chances” totaled 26 people! So, we were told we only got to sing 1 song each, and the host said she thought we’d get through 35-40. She called all the names the way she drew them out of the hat, and, I was #39!

I drank a diet coke… and split fried chicken and French fries with Katie. Yuck. But, so tasty.

There’s something about diet coke that does not blend well with anxiety. My stomach was a wreck… so I played this game with myself where I tried to focus the energy from my core toward my hands – which were frozen solid for some reason. Blood not circulating, I guess.

I sat there, trying to figure out what I was going to sing. What I was going to take away from this experience… coming so far to maybe be able to sing one song. Trying to enjoy the talent in the room, and to tolerate those whose lyrics were kind of embarrassing, or whose vocals were excessively dramatic.

The highlight of the other performers, in my opinion, was an 11-year-old girl who goes by the name Suite Caroline. She was a second chancer… up from St. Petersburg, Florida, and throwing around bar chords like she was just born with the coordination and strength to play them. Her lyrics were totally age appropriate, too, which I appreciate. She was singing about this girl in her class who stole all her friends.

She did introduce the song by saying it was “a diversion from her typical style.” I nearly fell out of my chair when that came out of her mouth. Diversion from your typical style, huh? How much have you performed at the ripe age of 11, anyway? But, she really was just that good, so she could get away with it…

It feels good to write again. I didn’t know if I would because I’m pretty delirious. For some reason, I just could not fall asleep last night. I finally succumbed at around 12:00 or 12:30. Which is really unfortunate because I had to get up at 3:30 to catch a cab to the greyhound station. And, then the freaking bus to was packed, and by that point I was awake anyway… so, I didn’t really drift off all the way.

I loved my cab driver this morning… though he told me I was brave for walking outside at that time of morning. I was walking out of Katie’s complex, and toward the main road.


Oh – wow! I just saw snow! I haven’t seen that, yet.

Anyway, I thought to myself… hmm. There is no one awake. The only thing to be afraid of is the ducks in the pond, the dark sky and the warm gusts of wind… And, we worked it out. But, thanks for your concern. It’s really sweet, noone’s looked out for my safety in a while.

He then let me ride in the front seat, told me tasteful jokes at 4AM in his thick southern drawl, and walked me into the bus station because the bums standing in the front of the station were particularly aggressive, I guess. I liked him instantly.
Ooh, I think I remember his joke. ☺

He says to me… Forrest Gump was trying to get into heaven. He rolls up to the pearly gates, and apparently the Archangel Gabriel is standing there issuing a test to get into heaven. There are just so many people dying to get in, that they’ve instituted this exam. (wah wah wah. But there’s more…)

Gabriel says, there are three questions Forrest has to answer. 1) What are the 2 T’s of the week? 2) How many seconds are there in a year? And, 3) What is God’s first name?

Forrest decides he needs to take some time and think it over. So, he sits down to ponder. The next day, he goes back to the gate, ready. So Gabriel says, “ok Forrest what are the 2 T’s of the week?” And, Forrest answers, “well, that one’s easy… Today and Tomorrow”. Gabriel says “no, Forrest, it’s Tuesday and Thursday! But, I’ll let that one slide, you can continue with the test.”

Gabriel asks, “How many seconds are there in a year?” And, Forrest replies that he really struggled with that one, but the way he sees it, there are 12. Gabriel stares back in awe, “12 seconds, Forrest?” And, Forrest replies, “Yes. The second of January, the second of February, the second of March…” Ok, ok. Stop there. I’ll accept that.

Now, for the final question, what is God’s first name? “Well, that was easy,” replies Forrest, “Andy.” “What?! How do you figure?” Demands Gabriel. And, Forrest says, “Well, we always sang in church, Andy (and He) walks with me, Andy talks with me, Andy tells me I am...” Gabriel opens the gate… “Run Forrest, Run!”

Hee hee.



Wow… looking out the window, I realize this part of the country makes me unbelievably lonely. Even the trees are silent.

When I was 15, my mom remarried, and moved my brother and I to Kalamazoo, MI with her new husband. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the weekend before Thanksgiving, 1993. We had just finished the fall theater production - Rails, Trails, and Old Folk Tails - at White Station High School in which I played guitar in public for the first time. I would have a recurring dream about that stage for the next 10 years… in which I walked out onto it to perform, and they were in the middle of a show, and I just had to jump in!

The marriage and Kalamazoo were just a blip on our family’s roadmap. We lasted about a year here, and then moved on to Massachusetts where I graduated high school and went to college. But, this journey has brought me a new perspective on that uprooting… and, the subsequent moves that occurred every year until I was 26.

As unsettling as all that was, I was reminded while traveling these last 2 months that I know people all over this vast country that will open their homes and kitchens and laundry facilities to me. That will host people in their homes to hear my music, that will listen to me moan and thrash about over my uncertainties in going home. That will give me wine and tea. That will sustain me.

I must be the luckiest girl alive. So many homes to call my own. At least for a night. At least for a visit.

And, I met all these people because of my willingness to travel and try new things, to be open to people, to making friends, to learning something from every stranger I come into contact with, to being uprooted time and time again… and that all started when I was 15 and dragged kicking and screaming away from all I knew.

I wouldn’t have become who I am without that experience.

And, as lonely as it might be, at times, to be a gypsy… well. I couldn’t have it any other way.

The bathroom mirror has not budged, and the woman who lives there can tell the truth from the stuff that they stay. She looks me in the eye. Said, do you prefer the easy way? No. Well, ok then, don’t cry.


Lots of questions still unanswered. But, if I’d answered all my questions out here, I’d have nothing left to write about, now would I?

Albums still to come, I guess…

Peace from Indiana, on the road to Kalamazoo.

Jess

Beauty is the hook

It’s been so long since I’ve written.

I must admit at this point of the journey, I’m pretty worn out. I’m sitting in my friend’s Sarah and Ragan’s living room. Still in my pjs at 10:30.

The last few shows have been amazing. Las Vegas was hosted by my godmother, Jeanne. Great turnout.



I received the most interesting of advice, that night. “The point of music is to tell the truth. Beauty is just the hook." Hmm. That sounds like a song lyric to me, no?

Then there was Yuma, AZ. I actually got a write up in the local paper, and everyone who turned out was there because of the article. A major shout out to my host, Eileen, for setting up that gig and getting me my first press of the trip! ☺

Then, it was on to Los Angeles, for a show, Thanksgiving, and visit with Andrea.





Once I landed in Los Angeles, and the show was done, I realized how completely exhausted I was. Like bone-numbing exhaustion where you wake up in the morning, but still feel like you’re under water and just can’t emerge, and as much as I resisted the notion, staying in the same place for a week was just what the doctor ordered. I could have slept all week.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, our friends Sarah and Ragan picked up me and Andrea to drive to New Mexico together. Fascinating experience, driving by car. ☺

We arrived on Sunday afternoon after sleeping over that night in Gallup, and then drove back to Albuquerque that night to have dinner and hang out at the token lesbian bar for karaoke.

But, then my vacation was over. Yesterday, I gave a lunchtime show to Sarah’s classmates at the New Mexico School for the Healing Arts.



And, have a show tonight, at Ragan’s bar, the Pink Adobe. It's good to have connections!

But, mostly my thoughts are not of music these days. Performing has become a job. A job that I love more than any other job I’ve EVER had. A job that has been calling to me for years. But, now that the novelty of performance has worn off and the music seems to be running itself, my thoughts and emotions run to other queries.



Someone once told my sister that the way she handles life is to plow right through the middle of things. There’s no pussyfooting or sidestepping. She lives in the heart of intensity and marches straight through the center of whatever lands in her path.

I would assert that this runs in the family. And, I find myself in the middle of a lot these days.

The problem with walking through the middle of things is that, as brutally honest as it might be, and as much as I cherish brutal honesty, sometimes you get stuck in it, like tar – and the truth of the situation gets lost in the details of living it.

You have to beware of the poppy field affect. Don’t fall asleep. Stay alert, keep moving toward the emerald castle, and always be aware of the man behind the curtain.



This is, of course, easier said than done at many junctures. Damn poppies are so intoxicating at times.

I think my poppies right now are people, and, as much as I have loved the visits with those who know me best… I’ve found myself lured by the promises of those who want to help. If things don’t work out in Boston, they say, you can come back here. I’ll help you find a job. I’ll hook you up. You can take the guest house, the spare room, the library.

And, for a minute, it sounds so possible.

I can see myself, my life, in their eyes, in their hopes, in their love for me.

But, I did not leave my life, the familiarity of my partnership, the security of a well-paying job – to be defined by the hopes and dreams and love others have for me.

No, I came out here to find myself, alone.

About two weeks ago, I hit a wall and the pieces began to crumble around me as I realized that I really did not want to go home… the me I found out here on my own, worn out from show after show, a little dehydrated from too much drinking, a little strung out from too much processing… that’s the me I’ve been missing. That’s the me that was suffocating and so, so quiet at home. The me that lives bigger than life. The me that walks, bold and naïve as it may be at times, straight through the god damned center of things.

And, now I find myself headed east, trying to extract meaning from late night talks with friends, glasses of wine, laughter and tears, bus rides and achy shoulders, lack of privacy, and a heart full of determination…

And the questions arise in the midst of it all:

Who will I be when I return?

How is it that I will maintain this level of aliveness?

How exactly do I expect to fit back into my day to day life with all I’ve seen and done? With all I’ve felt? With the connections I’ve rekindled and set on fire again?

Back, home.

Back home.

Back.

Home.

My friend, Sarah, gave me a turtle carved out of wood for my altar back home. A turtle, the longtime totem animal of another dear friend… she owned it for so long, wandering around the country, as she did, her home carried with her in her car and her heart. Now, I see in many ways that she has lain it down, and the turtle has crept into my life, now. Or, I have into its…

I'm reminded of something that happened several days after leaving Boston, I texted my former boss to say that I felt like a caged bird, set free. And, he wrote back, fly girl, fly. And, then asked, did you remember to pack the landing gear?

Those words haunt me now.

Free as I am.

Bigger than life.

Roaming around.

A little tired and worn from the travel, but full of a vigor I thought was dead in me… at my ripe age of 31. Come to find I’ve just only begun. And, not only did I “forget” to pack the landing gear… I realize now that I did it intentionally.

Perhaps I will just hover around my home, perch and fly off again, as needed.
Though, I don’t like the idea of half-investing in something. It doesn’t suit me.

Amidst the fear and anxiety, though, I do find so much excitement, at the same time, knowing that there is another album in the works. I intend to engulf myself in that project during the cold winter months that face me.

Of course, there is the competition in Chicago in January, as well. And, the holidays.
Plenty to keep me awake.

Ah, the future… always taunting me. The future is one big poppy field, isn't it? No place to live.



For now, I’ll do my best to enjoy the last few weeks. The last sweet moments with the ones I love all over the country. The last sweet moments (or hours and hours, as the case may be) alone on my bus.

And, I will find my home, or it will find me – as I am – when my return.

Peace to all of you who've sent me your love and concern at not writing more often! I love knowing you're out there thinking of me. Keeps me from completely flying into orbit. ☺

Love,
Jess

Grand Canyon

I have no words...

Going home

Going home. Novels could be written on the topic.

My mother keeps no food in the house, the furniture is all askew in anticipation of the concert, the carpets haven’t been vacuumed, papers are stacked all over my brother’s desk, the dog bed on my mom’s bedroom floor is as large as her bed, dog fur and dust are everywhere, my brother’s whiskers litter the bathroom sink, there is an aching emptiness in the spacious Frank Lloyd Wright architecture of the living room and den.

I believe this is heaven to noone else but me.



My brother and Kylan (the dog he’s sitting) pick me up at the Paso Robles transportation center on Tuesday evening. And, we fall fluidly into a conversation and cruise by the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for a dish I have been craving: whole wheat pasta, broccoli, sun dried tomatoes and chicken. Yum.

One thing I’ve grown quite weary of is the limitations of my diet… As I told my mother, it is foul to look at a vending machine, and think “lunch.” I’m so hungry all the time! I’ve dropped about 7 pounds since I left 4 weeks ago. Amazing to think… considering the crap I’ve been putting in my body. It’s a new fad diet: greyhound bus terminal eating! Sure to induce starvation...

At home I rarely cook, and you have to twist my arm to clean, do dishes, sweep. But, here, there’s so clearly a need for it and it requires so little effort to make a difference, that I fall into like it’s old hat. And, I don’t resent it. Wipe, wipe. Rinse, rinse. Cook, cook. Analyze, analyze. Sing, sing. A busy little bee, happy to be home. To be needed. I fill an empty space here that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the world.

My thoughts turn frequently, now, to the concept of home, and to the specifics of my future. However, I find myself mostly unwilling or unable to plan - a strange state, indeed, for me the queen of over-planning. Everyone has embraced me with open arms, and there are so many possibilities for creating a new home. Places I could just stop moving, and be cared for. But, I don’t seem to want that from anyone. I would prefer to get on my greyhound, thank you very much. This trip feels like home. Watching this beautiful, empty country unfold before me. So much space. Who knew there was so much space out here?

My mom and I have always had this deal, that no matter where she was or what was going on, that if I needed it, she’d come get me.

When I made the decision to leave Berklee, and Andrea, and Boston… I thought I’d hit one of those walls. The “come get me” walls. Lost, lonely, determined, and undeniably a bit manic, I wanted to be rescued. I remember talking to my mom at work the day I burst into tears during my performance review… because I was just that unhappy despite what a good job I was doing. I called her, and told her that I was finally considering her offer to come and collapse in the mother-in-law house in her back yard. I don’t know that I’ve ever noticed her stop breathing. I guess she never expected me to actually take her up on it… Not since I was 20, anyway. And, we were both at a stand still. I didn’t yet know what was in store for me. I just knew it couldn’t go on like it was.

So, I dove down and found the willingness to do whatever it took to not give up on myself. And set off to see what I could find, and to land, finally, on my mother’s doorstep.

It’s hard to be 31 years old, and admit that I still need my mom… but, hey, what can I say? She and I have been through a lot together. And, despite our differences in experience since I left home… there is no denying, I am my mother’s daughter. In all the glory and all the shame that implies. These are my roots.

Despite the stress-induced, disheveled state of affairs when I arrived, my mother is in fact an amazing host. We all sprung into action on Wednesday afternoon, and turned the cavernous living room into a proper concert venue with chairs clustered around tiny tables with fall-themed place settings. Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning – inside and out. Then decorating, shopping, laying out the snacks and wine. It was beautiful. And, even perfect that Sophie, my mom’s dog – ate the first tray of cheese, and we had to get another one! You see, it just can’t be any other way…



I was so excited about the show after not having been able to sing for more than a week. I was pacing around the house like a mad woman, and, called Andrea to babble to while my nerves got the best of me… Andy, who was preparing to leave for an adventure of her own in Denver this weekend was happy to oblige my babble.

And, finally they came. The guests. The audience. Moving toward the kitchen, we made small talk until it was time for Paul and I to set up the camera, and then get started.

I sung my heart out for over an hour, and could have kept going had I not made a set list, and stuck to it. I made good money, sold CDs to about 1/3 of the audience. Some of whom had already bought them before, and were buying a 2nd copy for their friends/family. This, this, this, I thought… this is what I came out here to do. And, if feels SO good to do it right.



Once we closed up the night and shuffled everyone out… my mom, brother and I sat around chatting about it all, with a bottle of wine, cheese, crackers, and salami. I listened to them, waiting for the parts that rang true: how I’ve changed, what I could do better, what it means to be a professional, what a good job I’d done that night, how people had responded to me, and where I’m headed from here.

My brother told me that he remembered shows in Boston when he felt compelled to jump on stage and yell, “That’s my sister! What have you done to her?” I nearly died when he said that… it’s good to be protected. It’s good to be heard.

And my mother, proud as she could be – and so happy for me that I’ve found what I needed to find about my music, about myself, about my place in the world. Willing to support me in whatever way she can figure out to do so.

Home.

Driving through this alien planet of a landscape, today, I’m headed for Las Vegas where I will sing a show tomorrow night at my godmother’s house, before meeting up again with my brother and mother for a family vacation at the Grand Canyon… ☺



I have the undeniable feeling, amidst the exhaustion of travel, and the mal-nourishment of greyhound bus terminal food, aware of the annoyingly frizzy pile of hair on my head, and with the serious discussions of my next moves and the future still ringing in my ears… that everything is exactly, exactly, exactly how it is supposed to be. Beyond all doubt and speculation, I am going to be just fine.

Leaving home by choice, and venturing out to meet these travels of mine…

I am just fine.

Leaving Oregon

I’ve been sleeping most of the day. I wake up now and then to glimpse the incredibly beautiful scenery of southern Oregon and northern California. There won’t be much more daylight, now. And, I’m grateful for my familiarity with the keyboard, so I can look out the window as I type these words.



I’m having a love affair with my life right now. I share so much with you all. And, I love that you are out there reading and soaking this in with me. It is always makes experiences more real to me when I can share them with someone. And, yet, there are so many little things I see that I can not capture, that I can not explain, that I can not hold onto even long enough to relate back. So many little things that are just for me. Like little secrets of the sweetest variety.

Joni is singing to me as I pull into Redding, CA. “I remember the time that you told me love is touching souls. Surely you touched mine cause part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time. “

They tell me we have a half hour here, and I don’t feel like moving.

There is a huge part of my heart that beats for Portland, Oregon. I moved out there via greyhound right out of college with the intention to salsa dance with my sister… it seemed as good a plan as any. I worked and lived there for just about 2½ years until Andrea and I decided to flee the rain and relocate in the desert. That was a complicated time. And, being back in Portland on my own – I felt all the weight of what I’d left there. And, all the beauty. So many things I did for the first time. So much history…

Sigh.

Janis is jamming now… and it’s like an ode to this fair city, “I need you to come on, come on, come on and take it! Take another little piece of my heart now baby. Break it! Break another little piece of my heart. Come on now, have it! Have another little piece of my heart… you know you got it!!! Waaaahh!!!”

Despite the heartbreak of this place, my roots are still strong here.

Walking up to Jennifer’s house, I remembered my last visit to Portland, when we’d eaten dinner with our mutual friend, Amy, across the street. So, walking down the block, I looked in the window of Amy’s house, saw blond hair, and decided to knock there first. Turns out the blond hair did not belong to Jennifer at all.
But, Amy and Veejay invited me in to eat, anyway, and we called Jennifer and Zoe over, too. They quickly added three extra places to the table. And, we all sat down to homemade falafal. That’s just how things work in Portland. Or, at least, that’s how things work at Amy’s house. And, Amy’s house is only an option to visit in Portland.

The show ended up being a hang out fest with several of my favorite people ever. I did manage to squeak out 3 songs… with the little bit of voice I had. (I’m happy to report I’m finally getting better, and can almost speak normally again for the first time, today). But, mostly, we sat and talked and laughed. And, Jennifer’s brilliant daughter, Zoe, recited the Jabberwocky for us. ☺ And, later, when her dad arrived to pick her up, he shared several songs with us, too.



For the first time, I found myself disinterested in leaving. The gypsy that I am had come to roost like a hen on a familiar nest. I felt like the children’s story “Are you my mother?” But, instead, “Are you my city?”

Is this my home?

I guess I can’t really answer that, yet. There are travels and concerts ahead of me, still. And, now that I have my voice back, I’m eager to get to them. But, there is a definite grief in leaving that hasn’t been there before. But, I should know better than to hold onto things. That’s when they turn sour… just soak it up, and let it run its course…

This trip fed my mind and heart.

My host, Gina, is like family to me, and this is one of the first visits I’ve had with someone who knows me really well, who I feel completely at home around, and who can talk as much (actually, probably more) than I can. When the two of us get going, we can analyze and reminisce until the cows come home. And, wow did we… and then some.

Friendship, love, marriage, patterns, happiness, speaking your mind, no matter the consequence. What it would mean to live life doing only what you truly want to do, even when it upsets other people. Relationships that have ended sourly, new beginnings that spin sweetly, things that could have been, and things that never should have, dog people vs. cat people, dinner recipes, the importance of bath time, your ideal day and how to make it happen, being a gypsy vs. the commitment to a routine and long term goals, the joy of dancing, and of course music, music, music, music…

It has begun to occur to me that I was sorely mistaken in the first blog I wrote. The whole bit about having options, about choosing music. And, even when I wrote it, there was a chill that went down my spine and I thought, I’m not sure I really mean this…
I talked to my mom in the bus station in Chicago, and said to her, that I think I just didn’t understand that statement when I heard it originally. I don’t think it was intended to mean that real musicians are otherwise stupid people who can’t get work anywhere else. My mom said that would make it a “default,” something you fall back on because you’re not good at anything else.

Not having an option is different. It’s like you wake up and all you want to do is speak your truth, and the way it pours out of you is through music.

Not having an option means knowing that you could give up everything familiar, everything stable - in a moment’s notice, and live in substandard conditions – to be able to do the one thing that makes you feel like you have a purpose.

Not having an option means that you would do whatever it takes. It’s dizzying at first, but as I’ve opened to this new idea of not having an option… I see that I feel much more balanced now. Much more whole. Much more clear and alive. More sure. More at home with who I’m becoming…

So much is unraveling in me… I look forward to the stay with my dear friend, Kristin who has always believed in me and my music. And, then to arriving at my mom’s house where I can rally with her intellect and come up with a bit of a budget and plan for how to sustain this… feed this… let this grow.

Sitting here in Redding, CA, waiting for the bus to move again, I am drained (from having stayed up all night to salsa dance with Gina and my sister, and then going to the 24-hour hotcake house, and running on about 2 hours of sleep) and content.

Judy reminds me that this is not how the rest of my life will be. It’s easy to be happy here… running about from experience to experience. Being held by people that love me so much. I said to Andrea, it’s like “it takes a village to raise a Jessica.” And, I’ve sought out each piece of my village on this trip one by one, and been nourished by them each in their own way. The pieces of my heart that they touched at one time coming to the surface and getting some light again. I feel like I’m putting me back together again. I do have to recognize that it can’t always be like this. I can no more hold onto this trip than I can hold onto any day, any person, any thought, any emotion, and action.

To truly live, I have to let this float over me and run its course, and let it go.

Oh god. Breathe me by Sia just piped in… Be my friend. Hold me. Wrap me up, unfold me. I am small and needy. Warm me up. And, breathe me.

Gotta listen.

Love to you all.

Bozeman & Seattle

So, the bus ride from Minneapolis to Bozeman was supposed to be 20 hours, and turned into 22.5. Which to the average reader may not really seem like that big of a deal. But, it’s amazing how much of a difference those 2.5 hours of sleep can make in the middle of the night. We arrived in Billings, MT completely on schedule at 12:30AM. I was exhausted, and sitting up on a bench in the station, bent in half and fell asleep with my head on my own lap. We were only supposed to be there for a 1-hour layover, but just as I was drifting off, I heard some people talking about a delay in the route due to a late bus that was headed west and meeting up with us.

I thought they must be talking about someone else, so I just let it float through my awareness, and fell asleep anyway. I woke up just over an hour later, and had the momentary panicked thought that I’d missed my bus. But, no such luck. That 2-hour delay was meant for me, and the woman stretched out asleep on the floor under my bench seemed to be on to something…
Yes, my second middle of the night 3-hour layover in a greyhound station (recall the first just a week or so ago in Atlanta with the blaring CNN). Just when I thought I had this greyhound thing down pat! I guess there’s always more to learn.

I came to with a splitting headache, presumably caused by the position I was folded into and sleeping in for the last hour, so I tried adjusting my body and contorting around the metal arm rests to get more comfortable. But, let’s just face it, there is really no comfortable way to sleep on a metal bench in a greyhound station. Eventually, I gave in and joined the woman on the floor. But, just as I got situated, my phone rang… What the hell? It was my wife calling at… um, 5:30AM EST. I guess that’s as good a time as any.

Turns out she’d had a few drinks at her Halloween parté… and the combination of liquor and the wee hours of the morning are a perfect recipe for romance. ☺ Yes, my wife drunk dialed me. But, hey… I was actually awake, and she kept me company until I could get on the westbound bus to Bozeman.

I arrived at the (closed) greyhound terminal in Bozeman at about 6AM, and called the cab number that the hostel managers had emailed me. The town was pitch black, and so was the hostel when I arrived. The cabbie offered to have me drive around with him if I couldn’t get in! Luckily, the front door was open. I let myself in, and found the directions for late night check-in on the wall. Basically, stick a $20 bill in one of the provided envelopes, put it under the office door, and find a bed upstairs.

Ok… I can handle this.

I dragged my (44 lb) bag up the narrow staircase – and past the two private rooms. Oh, man, wish I could spring for that… but, instead found the open door to a bunk bed room, and a strange man half awake on one of the bottom bunks. Great. Home sweet home.

I unintentionally woke up my new roommate, who kept swearing, apologized for waking me up, and then thanked me for turning on a light because his eyesight was bad (I’d turned on my cell phone to text Andy and let her know I’d arrived). I felt the need to introduce myself… and promptly forgot his name. He then asked me to set an alarm – and I obliged. Although when I told him that the time he asked me to set it was only 1 hour away, he decided to just get up. He seemed like he really wanted to chat, so I let him know I was going to sleep…

Surreal.

That’s my word for that interaction… the whole time I’m thinking, is this really happening? Am I really here? Am I going to sleep in this room with a strange, swearing man? Why is he asking me to set an alarm in the middle of the night? Why is he still talking?

Regardless, there’s a kind of exhaustion that seems to attack your body and smoosh your eyes closed, and I succumbed to it without much fuss.

About 4 hours later, I woke up and puttered around, feeling half broken and starving but too discombobulated to get myself out the door and find food. Eventually, I made my way into the little downtown, and ate what turned out to be the spiciest Mexican food I’ve ever eaten in my life. I totally loved the staff- who spoke to me in gringo Spanish. And, the food really did a cleaning act on my sinuses, so I was pleased. Plus, I got respect from the Mexican woman for actually eating it all! She said she didn’t think I would be able to… ☺

The show went alright. I’m not traveling with any equipment, due to the nature of the shows, and the nature of my travel… And, it turned out that the Leaf and Bean does not have guitar cables, and they even had to search around to dig out a mic! Oops… My throat was still kinda sore from my cold, so I decided to use the mic anyway, and just play my guitar acoustically.

2 hours, and $25 later, my voice was pretty much shot…

I got back to the hostel, and set my cell phone back for daylight savings time before going to sleep. I intended to wake up and walk the mile or so to the bus station to catch the 4:05AM to Seattle. However, at 3:48, roommate man (whose name turns out to be Jimmy) wakes me up, “Hey Man, aren’t you catching a 4:00 bus?” Ugh! It turns out that my cell phone knew that it was daylight savings time and set itself back another hour – so no alarm for me!!

I scrambled down from the top bunk while Jimmy played and sang along to a Wilco tune for me (um??) and then offered to help get my stuff downstairs. I called the cab driver, and he rushed over – and called the other cab driver in town who was already at the station to tell them to hold the bus for me!

Jimmy jumped in the cab with me – I guess he figured he was already awake, so he’d just come along for the ride… And, while in the cab, asked the cab driver if he had a CD player, and could he play a CD? The cabbie was a little taken aback… “I guess so,” he says. And, what does Jimmy hand him, but my CD, of course. “Put on track 3,” he says… And, here we are zooming through the sleeping streets of Bozeman, MT at 4AM, listening to The Grey and trying to catch a bus.
Again, with the surreal.

Jimmy, if you’re reading this, I hope you take this in stride! You are quite a character, and I’m extremely grateful you were there to wake me up and weren’t a scary man sharing a room with this exhausted gypsy girl. Oh, and thank you for the cracker-stuffed mushrooms. That was all I ate that night!!

Since I’d overslept almost an hour, I wasn’t that tired once I got on the bus. And, how lucky for me. The stretch of highway from Bozeman to Butte and was the most painfully beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life. Thick with fog – it seemed to me like something straight out of The Lord of the Rings. Totally mystical. I actually cried. Sometimes beauty just hurts like that.

I watched the sun come up slowly over Western Montana, then drove through the forests and mountains of Idaho and into the other-planet looking world of Eastern Washington state. I took like a million pictures before I fell asleep sometime after Spokane. So, I had to make you a slideshow…



By the time I got to Seattle, I had no voice left. I mean, I sound like I have a an electronic speaking device and have to push a button to talk. It’s gross. I guess it finally caught up with me: 2 hours of singing on a newly recovered sore throat and congested sinuses… not good. It just took the rest of the juice out of me. Bummer…

I rested all day on Monday, while my host, Chris, went to jury duty. I drank copious amounts of liquid, and even tried the nasal cleaning kit I was given by Chris’ somewhat crazy, though well-intentioned neighbor (who talked to us for ½ an hour on Sunday night about all the things I should do to get my voice back in time for the show)!

Alas, my voice did not really recover. And, when show time rolled around, I had to switch to Plan B… I sang a song, then played a track off my CD, then sang, then played a track. Lather, rinse, repeat. It was kind of a listening party to advertise my CD. But, the audience ended up being super awesome and supportive… they even said this was an especially intimate set because I was essentially whispering through my songs, and they had to strain to hear me.

And, all in all, I’d definitely count this night as a success. Seattle, I heart you. ☺

I got to spend the whole day today with the lovely and poetic, Emily McCaffrey (who some of you know as my old back-up singer, Emily Weiss) and her kind and generous partner, Aron. They made me eggs with cream cheese and lox, pumped me full of tea, juice, and vitamins. That we chased with an awesome conversation about gender-queer identity! And what better way to follow that up than with tasty cupcakes and a quick visit to the Puget Sound?

Emily and Aron

I’m on the bus tonight to Portland, and I can’t believe the whole freaking country is out there voting and watching election coverage, and I can’t watch the whole drama unfold! I’ve asked several people to send me updates on the election. I’m so nervous! I can’t wait to hear that Obama has won… ☺ Hope you all voted today!!!

This is a quick bus ride… I’ll be in Portland in about 3 hours. I have my first ever female bus driver. And, I’ve been in a lot of places! I didn’t think they existed…

Much love, big open skies, and wet, slippery things for sore throats,

Jess