Storytime

Yesterday, I walked into a cute little boutique clothing store. The owner greeted me and asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. She also informed me that she designed and repurposed everything in the store. Everything I laid my eyes on had it's own character, I could tell she was serious and had a passion for fashion and interior design.

"I am in need of pants - handmade, tailored pants." 

"Follow me."

She took me to the back, to where the dresses and bottoms were. I was amazed at how beautiful each piece was. She asked me if I knew my measurements...picked all that she knew would flatter me, and my body type. She was so helpful. We discussed our backgrounds and what we did, for a living. Just friendly conversation, as I tried on clothes in her tiny fitting room. I was the only patron in the store, so, she was very attentive - more than I normally would prefer...but she was so interesting to me. I love people who, it's clear, hone their craft and take pride in their work. Literally, everything fit me. It was as if it they were made just for me. I decided on 3 of the 6 pants I tried on. 

"I'll meet you in the front." 

I got myself together and walked to the front. She had placed my items in a box, that was also a carrying bag. The detailing in her presentation was noteworthy. I grabbed the 'box-bag' and thanked her for her help. "Of course!" I proceeded to walk out of the store, when she quickly stopped me.

"Oh, you haven't paid yet."
"I have to pay for these?"
"Well, um, yea. They aren't free."

____________________________________________

That's what ya'll bums sound like when you expect or even have the audacity to ask, an artist, like myself, to perform for free. Miss me with that bullshit. My art is my work. I do it for. a. living.
I've spent many years developing my craft...the very essence of my being. The same essence you crave, and desire to see perform, on a stage.

DON'T FUCKING PLAY ME.

Only I can volunteer myself to do something, without pay. Approaching me, with the assumption that I will, just because you asked - tells me, you have no respect for me, nor my art.

You'll forever get no. response. from. me. Come correct, or don't come at all. I'm not here for it.

This was a PSA. The story above, is obviously (or maybe not so obvious, to some of ya'll), not true.

Upward and onward.

Blackbird

Krystle Warren singing 'Blackbird'

Last night, I had a revelation, with a very close friend. This person always somehow manages to bring to me to a place, where I'm required to dig way deeper than I'm ever prepared to go. I always feel safe enough to do so. There is never any judgement. Never one ounce of dismissal of my thoughts and/or feelings, no matter what it takes for me to get there. I've a listening ear, that always considers, and respects how far my mind, heart and soul stretches. It really is incredible to know someone so cosmically, magical - to say the least.

I discovered how deeply affected I am, in how I was taught to suffer, by perpetuating those same behaviors, internally - it's an endless battle. The realization led me to one of my favorite YouTube videos of Krystle Warren, performing her version of Paul McCartney's Blackbird. He wrote it at the height of The Civil Rights movement. 

"...I liked to think of a blackbird as being a kind of symbol for a black woman."

I've seen Kyrstle Warren perform live, twice. This video is the closest to how it feels to be in a space with her. Feeling the warmth of her very soul; beautifully, captivating. I'd marry her, if she asked me. Anyway, I played this, on repeat, late last night. I sobbed and consoled myself - until I understood why I deserved such poetry, that melodically billowed out of a siren (her tone). Ms. Warren, you carried me through a very dark hour. 

I woke up (this afternoon) and wrote this:

When your child is crying, and your response is any of the following:

- What you cryin’ for?
- Would you like me to give you something to cry about?
- You betta’ not be crying, over there.
- There’s no reason to cry.
- Man up.

It’s dismissive. You’re telling them their tears are pointless, and how they feel doesn’t matter. And potentially, they will learn to carry that with them, wherever they go, sometimes, for the rest of their lives. They will disregard their own feelings, for the sake of others. In turn, they will unknowingly, surround themselves with people who disregard them, continuing the cycle of their own internal suffering, in thinking their own [hurt] feelings are disposable and irrelevant. They will carry guilt, shame, and feel inadequate about their own expressions, when denied love and understanding. THAT is emotional abuse. Silent as it may be - it’s abuse, just the same.

I speak from experience. 

Only now, at 36, am I learning that my feelings matter... and how allowing the constant dismissal of them, from myself and others, has shaped my life. It’s easier said than done, but I’m working on it. PTSD is not a joke. When all you know is how to suffer through, it takes nothing, to trigger you right back to the only thing you’ve ever known. I refuse to let it win, this time around.

Take care of yourselves.

M. 

Upward and onward.

Not The Average Bear

       

photo by Dusty St. Armand

It's always easier to remember, and know what I feel like - it's a constant. Lately, I've been feeling melancholy, sometimes, even hopeless. I allow myself to go through whatever my spirit is crying out for me to feel. It's difficult to be so be optimistic and a logic thinker, all at the same time. I, sometimes, want to apply logic to my feelings, and merely adjust them - as to not have to feel anything. Alas, feelings are needed and demand to be felt.

I remember when I stumbled into the music business, in 2002 (yea, that's how long it's been). I didn't have any thoughts or ideas on what I wanted, or expected - because it was never something I was seeking to do. I was always the girl who wanted to be on Broadway...or study criminal law. I never saw myself writing songs, or even producing music, for that matter. I was a trumpet player for 7 years - had dreams of becoming a great jazz trumpeter. Oh man, how brilliant would that have been? During those 7 years, I taught myself to play 5 other instruments, including the saxophone. Seriously, who was I? I look back at that and am always amazed at how dedicated and focused I was, at wanting to be skillful in everything I did.

In 2002, I was told and encouraged to begin writing and recording my own songs. I could already play the piano, so I figured, I'd give it a go. I won't lie, I was so shit at songwriting, but I was determined to practice and "get good". After awhile, writing on the piano just wasn't inspiring me...so the guitar, it was. I had never touched a stringed instrument in my life - that shit ain't easy. I had all these words in my head, but no way of translating them to music, because I didn't know how to properly play guitar. That's the thing with being a trained musician/vocalist (or anything, for that matter), you believe in the technique of learning, and acquiring the structured, and educational approach of learning a craft. I had to let that at all go, if I wanted to simply write a song. That was when I decided to just begin with writing my first guitar song, on one string.

After writing over 230 songs, successfully, playing one string, I moved on (wrote tons more songs) and progressed into a guitar player. Am I great at playing guitar? No. I still can't play it, not in the way someone is taught to play it - but I do it my own way. A way, in which, I've been told by other professional guitar players, is difficult for them to even grasp on to...it's in the way I play. For that reason, alone, I feel worthy enough to call myself a guitar player. I feel the same way about production. I got to a point in my career, when the producers I collaborated with missed the mark on meeting me, in the same place I felt a song needed to go. It wasn't until I began doing for myself, that I was truly creating all that was in my head (it's kaleidoscope in there). It was an amazing feeling, to have more control over what my music sounded like.

As I sit here now, listening to jazz (it heals me), I've been in hiding - producing, all on my lonesome, a project that, really is, bigger than I. I'm feeling overwhelmed. Feeling mentally and emotionally stressed. It sounds fucking amazing...and that scares me. The only person to hear the play by play, of the development of every song, is the only one I trust with it, at the moment. This album has become so sacred and therapeutic, I feel protective over it. That's never happened before. The depths of emotional bliss I'm experiencing making this; I want it all to myself. I feel amazing...and that scares me. There has been a shift in the way I feel about my music. These days, I create merely to be one with love. This album, has made me remember love and why doing things my way, is the only way.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself on a rooftop, in Brooklyn, with my friend Dusty. We had the most amazing time and the best conversation. He made me feel amazing. I remembered that feeling, well after we parted ways. A few days ago, he sent me one of the photos from our shoot. I still remembered what I felt like, that day, but in that moment, seeing an actual picture - I saw what I looked like. 

I am art.

Learning to love myself, and my choices to do so, unapologetically - a little more each day. I am worth it all - even on the days I question why I even bother. Upward and onward.

To believe, or not to believe - you better NOT question

**Possible trigger warning.**

It was either 3rd or 4th grade, I can't remember which. There was a book competition; who could read the most books over summer vacation. I was so excited. Being a fast reader, I knew I could win (or at least come in Top 10). That summer, R.L. Stine and I became one. I loved his books. I loved the cliffhangers at the end of every chapter. Reading 2-3 of his books in one day was too easy. Back then, no book reading at the dinner table. My mom, was lenient of that rule, because she knew how competitive I was (and still am). We had to log every book read, what time we started and when we'd finished. By the end of the summer, I'd read 56 books (most of which, were RL Stine's).

The first day of school, in my new class, my teacher got straight to listing each students book count. She choose to have us reveal (as she wrote each one on the marker board) from youngest to eldest...I was last. The first person on the board was a girl called Eva, "I read 18 books, this summer." She was so proud of herself. As we went down the line, each student revealed their number: "10." "16." "9." "21." I began to get nervous, the highest number, so far, was 23. As we came closer to my reveal, I panicked. "No one is going to believe I read 56 books! They'll think I'm a liar." I was embarrassed. I didn't want to be known as the liar, on the first day of school. I decided, it was safer, seeing that I was last, to come in one under, of the highest count. When my teacher got to me, I proudly stated, "I read 22 books, this summer." My teacher looked at me, confused. I had forgotten she already knew how many books I'd read, because we had to turn in our book count log, just as class began. She didn't say anything, as not to shame me, I suppose. The irony? I was a liar.

After lunch, when we got back to class, there was a note on my desk: "Please come see me, when silent reading begins." My heart sank. The one thing I always avoided, in school, was getting in trouble. I kept to myself and never spoke, unless I was spoken to. Being an introvert, I preferred it that way; never wanted to draw unnecessary attention to myself. Yet, here I was, about to be in the biggest trouble. When I approached my teacher's desk, she asked me why I didn't tell the class how many books I actually read. "I didn't think anyone would believe me." Her concerned response, "Why would you think we wouldn't believe you?"

There.

Right. There.

Your childhood, the things that happen during your childhood, mold you. Your childhood stays with you, long after you believe that chapter to be over. It lingers. It shows up in and out of your life, when you least expect it. Causing you to respond to situations and people, with muscle memory. It's instinctive. To this day, I still feel, in many situations of my life, when expressed, I am not believed.

When a grown man, tells 6 yr old: "...no one will believe you." All of that to keep her from exposing the sexual abuse she was enduring, from said grown man. I believed him. I'm only now discovering where my fear of not being believed comes from. That has changed. Fear or not, I'm using my voice, my life depends on it.

This year, I move forward, by letting go of it all. I will no longer carry or protect any man who has ever sexually abused or harassed me. Beginning with my Uncle Fredrick:

This man has sexually harassed me, EVERY time I've seen him, since I was 18 years old. In 2013, I found my 33 year old-self, hiding in a bathroom, as to not be seen or approached by him. I was ashamed and disgusted with myself that I was unable to function. I understand now, that my fear, shame and guilt, all stem from being a victim of sexual abuse. Today, I release this part of my life.

My first encounter with this man, was at my parents house, in early 2000. He was visiting with his wife and children. I recognized his form, as soon as he looked at me. Immediately, I felt the urge to leave. They were staying over, and he and his wife were going to sleep in my bed, for the night. I prepared my room for them and packed an overnight bag, for myself. There was no way I was staying in that house, feeling the way I felt. 

"You're not sleeping here tonight?"

"No."

"That's too bad. Well, thank you for letting us stay in your room."

"You're welcome."

"What side of the bed do you sleep on? I want to make sure I sleep on your pillow."

Shortly after, I was ready to leave, and had to say goodbye. Everyone was in the backyard, so my plan was to just shout goodbye, from inside, through the screen door. 

"Nice to see you all. I'm leaving. Bye." (Everyone says goodbye and carries on with whatever they were doing. Fredrick approaches the screen door.) "I don't get a hug goodbye?" (opens the screen door, and grazes my hand) "Oh, yea." (awkwardly hugs him, he whispers) "You smell nice."

I felt dirty.

I felt ashamed.

I was scared.

I'm breaking the fucking cycle. This shit ends today. To any family, reading this...if you are planning on reaching out, think about who you should be surprised and shocked by, before you speak to me. 'Disown' has been in my vocabulary, since last year, and no one is above it. You will never see me again - if you dare.

Anyway, thanks in advance...for believing me. Upward and onward.