The (belated) birthday breakdown -- double entendre intended

After declaring last year that I would treat my birthdays a la Merrill Markoe's "It's My F---ing Birthday" heroine (see here if you missed it and are bothered by said missing), it seems I totally blew it on the first chance I got... oy!

Well, better late than never, right?

So... Part I is the birthday recap, Part II will be what have I learned this year and what do I hope to learn in the coming year.

Ahem...


Birthday Recap

The birthday week started out quite well, with Therapy Monday (yay therapy day!) being followed up with our FINALLY having a fully-functional kitchen for the first time in almost a full year.  (Yes, I said it with my outside voice, so you just know the gas stove is about to explode... send hunky firefighters!)

My BEST GIFT EVER wasn't even a birthday gift, as far as I know.  On Tuesday, our friendly neighbourhood postal worker (no, she really IS friendly) knocked on the front door with a large-ish package for me.  I will admit, I was more than a little apprehensive, after the last very-large package delivered to the door (see here if you don't get the reference), but... I didn't recognize the handwriting as anything familial, so started to breathe again.  And then I noticed the "Official Gate-Keeper Survival Kit" printed in red along the bottom of the envelope...  Mwahaahaaaaa!  Friend and fellow survivor DVS, in her forever-creative way, had sent me a care package.  Inside was a card with a chocolate bar taped to it and the instructions "Step One: EAT CHOCOLATE" on the envelope.  I pulled out the remaining package contents and read the card, which explained it all:

Gate Keeper Survival Kit

Just add Alcohol

(preferably in a sippy cup so pudding doesn't get in it)

1. Chocolate -- eat first to set the mood
2. Pudding, chocolate of course and apparently fat-free so eat as much as you like!
3. Shower Cap -- so you don't get said pudding in your hair... that might be nasty.
4. Nourishing mud face mask -- looks like chocolate pudding and deeply cleanses
5. Softening body scrub for when you want to sit back & relax
6. Scandal survival handbook... how the rich & famous handle it!  AKA National Enquirer

(If you don't understand the pudding references, visit the bottom of this post.)

This was totally unexpected, and had me hooting and laughing for hours.  Then Don came home, and I hooted and laughed some more.  I seriously needed some hooting and laughing this month...

Later that day, once of my cello students also gave me an awesome birthday gift, without realizing it.  She bashfully came into her lesson, admitting she hadn't really practised in the past week, because she was too busy trying to figure out how to play two of her favourite songs.  I asked if she'd had any luck, and she produced HER OWN HAND-WRITTEN MANUSCRIPT of the two songs.  I asked her how she'd figured it out, and she said she'd listened to the songs a few times and tested things out on her cello to make sure she'd written them down correctly.  I withstood the urge to burst into happy tears and hug her on the spot, but did tell her what an amazing thing she had just been able to accomplish, especially when she's only been playing cello for two years.  And then I did my best to not grin and blubber like a crazy fiend throughout the rest of her lesson, as she played her arrangements and tried to figure out how to make them better.  ONE PROUD MAMA, let me tell you.  :-)

Wednesday was another musical gift, although one that did remind me of how much I've been missing since leaving the musical metropolis.  I'd been asked to sub in on a chamber music concert, and had half-heartedly said yes, because I didn't really know anything about the organizers and, sorry to say, this is an area where volunteer community orchestra members are considered "pros", so my expectations are not terribly high.  Well, those expectations were blown out of the water, as I found myself playing with people who ACTUALLY WERE pros.  First music high I've had since playing with Victor freakin' Wooten in Feb.'11 (see here for that reference) -- and that was just the rehearsal (the concert was Friday).  Granted, the majority of the players had been imported from further south, but it was so refreshing and revitalizing to be able to play a concert with only one rehearsal together and have it not suck, to work with players who spent the rehearsal discussing phrasing and dynamics, instead of just trying to get the right notes, who actually gave a crap about the music.  I was finally excited about my chosen profession again.  Halle-freaking-lujah!

Perhaps it was this newly-reawakened longing to live closer to potential musical collaborators, perhaps it was the cumulative effects of this past month, perhaps a bit of both, but on Thursday -- the actual birthday day -- I was fighting one nasty bitch of a depression.  To the extent that I caught myself staring at the paper-slicer / guillotine in my office and fantasizing about what might happen if I used it to slice my fingers down to the first knuckle.  Fortunately, the majority of me thought that this was a bad idea, but the bit of me that came up with the idea did take quite a bit of talking down.  Which freaked me out a little (!), because I haven't had any self-harm ideas since my high school years -- in which I would flatten myself against the back wall of the subway platform (and preferably at the front of the train), just in case a part of me decided to jump, as I hoped that would give the other parts of me time to talk that bit out of it before the train came.  I imagine this finger-slicing bit of me was at least closely related to that bit.  I suppose this self-destructive fragment could have been triggered by this month's goings-on, although it seems rather strange that she would re-appear just when I'm more determined than ever to stay alive, be fully functional, and shout my story to the rooftops.  Maybe she's still terrified of that concept.  Or maybe, as with all the other dissociated bits that have taken their own sweet time to make an appearance, she now knows it's safe to show herself, to become integrated with all the other shards, where she'll be loved and protected, at last.  I will go with the latter for now, barring any future finger-mutilation urges.

Suffice it to say, my fingers are still fully intact.  Hence the typing.  :-)

And I managed to get my public face back on again in time for my sweetie to take me around the corner to Era 67 for dinner.  There, we were greeted by my birthday twin, Cory, who made sure we were treated right.  :-)  That's me and my birthday twin below (he's the one with the Movember 'stache, in case you were wondering).

Regular readers of our Brights blog are probably clamouring for the food and beverage report.  I'd hate to disappoint!  We'd brought a bottle of our favourite Amarone, but wanted to give it a chance to breathe (nice excuse, huh?), so Cory decanted the wine while I had a Cosmopolitan and Don a rye & water (Cosmo is so much prettier!).  We usually split an appetizer, but Cory said the shrimp appetizer only had 4 shrimp, so we figured we'd each have an order.  He failed to mention that they were MUTANT shrimp, however.  Yes, that piece of battered yumminess that resembles a turkey leg below is actually a shrimp!  Note to self: go back to sharing an appetizer.

A (slightly inebriated) woman at the table next to us and her husband were enjoying an anniversary dinner together, and we got chatting away -- they made fun of Don for taking pictures of food, but they obviously don't understand that sometimes the most interesting things we have to say are food-related.  ;-)  (Seriously, I've actually had readers of our Brights blog COMPLAIN when I forget to include the food and beverage report in our tour reports...)

My main course was maple cranberry salmon over a bed of wild rice.  Maple cranberry salmon is almost as good as wine.  Almost.  Sadly, I was so full from those Pterodactyl legs shrimp that I could only make it partway through.  Don also had to take home a doggie bag (very rare occurrence!) for his breaded pork chop on a bed of garlicky mashed potatoes.

Just when we thought we could eat no more, Cory presented us with a special birthday treat: a warm butter tart on creme anglaise, garnished with fresh fruit -- we ordered some Dalwhinnie to wash it all down.

We waddled home, painfully.  Where we decided to have some more birthday single malt and stay up talking until the wee hours as we digested.  This might have been a mistake, as I had a 10:00 cello student the next morning!  (I did manage to wake up, and be vaguely coherent for said student, although promptly went back to sleep and didn't wake up until it was time to get ready for the chamber gig!)

Fortunately, our stomachs and livers had recovered adequately for the Birthday Dinner Party / Sleepover (kind of like when we were kids, only this included wine and boys).  Seven friends and one Chocolate Lab (the canine, not edible variety) joining us for another night of too much food and beverage.  It started with champagne and a toast to moi that had me already teary (and I hadn't even drunk the champagne yet), with some antipasto appetizers that Lisa & Paul brought.  Then Don headed to the barbecue, Lisa and I headed to the wine, and everyone bustled around to get the rest of the food ready.  First, Ray custom-mixed salads for each of us, then we had Ali's creamy roasted red pepper soup, then steak for the carnivores and maple-teriaki salmon for the pescavores (if that's not a real word, it should be).  For each course, Ray played sommelier, pouring (lots of) wine to match each dish.  Once again, we were rather stuffed.  But wait, there's more!  Roy and Sue had brought not one, but TWO birthday cakes -- see the dessert picture from Thursday.  Much chatting and laughter into the night.  Lisa was the first to change into pyjamas, followed closely by Ali.  I went to change into mine, and my body said "jammies!  bed!  they won't notice..." so I never returned downstairs.  Apparently they sent a scout to make sure I was OK, but I was already fast asleep.  Most of the others filed off to their respective beds shortly thereafter, other than my beloved hubby and Ray, who were reportedly up until 5:45 drinking scotch and talking.  So, for once in my life, I was actually the first person to wake up the next morning!  (Other than Ali, who had to head to the farm to play with horses.)  Don made us all breakfast, and everyone was on their way home before he realized just how hungover he truly was...  Other than the hubby's hangover, it had been the perfect Birthday Weekend, surrounded by people who love me and support me, and who have stuck by us both in some pretty trying times these past couple of years.

I spent the afternoon in joy-filled, feeling-the-love bliss.

To quote myself:  Do you see where this is going?  Because I did not see where this was going...

Yes, friends, there was one birthday present left to be delivered: a brand-new cannonball-to-the-gut, courtesy of the Gate-Keeper-of-the-Month.  Perfectly timed, perfectly aimed.  As one friend (and cannonball recipient) commented: "of course, she KNOWS it's your birthday weekend, so... why not piss on the parade?"

You see, after her previous cannonball -- in which she attempted to turn my husband, best friend, and various other friends, family and supporters against me by saying I was lying about my childhood sexual abuse, but if it had occurred she hadn't known about it, gaslight, lie, deny, denydeny, denysomemore...  I had, in a weak moment of believing she might still have some semblance of sense and reality about her, sent her a "cease and desist" letter, including some samples of evidence I had on hand (from the oft-mentioned two filing cabinets, ancient hard drives and basement full of boxes) to disprove just one of the lies she had consistently been including in her e-mails to my friends and family -- said lie being that she had never known of the abuse, and we had never spoken of it before.  Thinking, of course, that being able to back myself up with hard evidence -- including her own damned handwriting -- might appeal to some hidden logical side within, or at least scare her self-preserving side out of being caught in more bold-faced lies in the future.

She did not reply to me, of course -- I'm still non-existant for her.  She completely avoided me, and once again turned to my friends and family, to once again try to convince them I'm a lying piece of shit.  Completely ignoring the documentation dealing with my 1983 disclosure and her own actions (though mostly inactions) upon said disclosure, later (witnessed) discussions with her about my past abuse, and even later written correspondence to and from her.  Attempting, in fact, to use one of those pieces of her own correspondence as proof of her original point that we had never discussed the matter before.  Which makes about as much friggin' sense as... well, I can't even think of a good simile for such a bizarre thought pattern, so my fellow writers are going to have to chime in here.

And I will admit, I should have known better, but there was still a little part of me that had been hoping that seeing but a smidgen of the (two filing cabinets, etc.) evidence I have of my story would have shocked her into an "aha! I should stop abusing her over her abuse story" moment.  Yes, foolish in hindsight, but I won't be holding out that candle again, never fear.

In fact, I had had very little hope she would "cease and desist" for my sake -- because, seriously, what kind of person reads the diary of a little girl who wishes her father would stop raping her, and then sporadically and unpredictably goes on the warpath against that girl for the next 30+ years over it? -- but thought she'd at least go into self-preservation mode once she knew that I could back up my story quite easily, and it was really her own credibility she was destroying.  But... sigh... I guess even saving face and keeping things quiet takes a back seat to roiling around in the same old patterns she's been employing since... well, probably before I was even born.

Which (finally) brings me around to Part II:

What Have I Learned This Year?

A. Lot.

First of all, there's the purely practical.  In beginning to research for this book-I-promised-my-nightmares-I'd-write (read here and here for that explanation), I have learned far more about childhood sexual abuse, incest, codependence, enabling, toxic people, domestic abuse and family dysfunction than I really ever wanted to know (but everyone really should know).

In that research, and in diving in deeper to my own story and opening up more about it, I have met some wonderful people, and joined forces with some amazing dragon-slayers.

I have learned, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am not alone.  That none of us are.  That, while each of our stories is unique, there are common threads running through them.  Common patterns that we all thought were ours alone.  Ridiculously, depressingly common patterns that I so wish had been explained to me and my brother and sister survivors, victors and thrivers when we were kids.  "Survival Ed 101".

What a different childhood (and resulting adulthood) we could have all had if, instead of teaching us "don't take candy from strangers", we had been taught "no adult should tell you to keep a secret", "nobody else can tell you what your feelings are", "trust your gut",  "nobody, even the people you love, is perfect", "if you're afraid of something, there's probably a good reason for it", "you have the right to say no to anything that makes you uncomfortable", or "you deserve to feel safe and secure and loved, no matter what."

In reading these case studies, and my brothers' and sisters' stories, these messages were all lacking.  Yes, there are a few lucky ones whose caregivers learned of the abuse and stood up to fight FOR them, and did whatever they could to get them out of harm's way, and provide them with the necessary tools and resources for healing.  These seem to be the minority, unfortunately.  (Or, at least, they didn't end up so messed up as adults that they needed enough therapy to turn themselves into a case study!)  The majority of folks -- at least those who needed therapy and trauma counselling in later years -- are the ones who had nowhere to turn, either because of family dysfunction or organizational dysfunction, or perhaps even a bit of both.  These are the kids who weren't taught it was ok to say no, they were taught they didn't have the right.  That they shouldn't ever say bad things about Uncle Fred or their baseball coach or their pastor.  That they should never question anyone in authority (i.e., a grown-up).

I have learned that we all have internalized and externalized these messages in very similar ways.  That these messages have continued to be reinforced in very similar ways.

And yes, the similarities are more than a little bit on the depressing side, but it's also really great to be able to sit back and say "oh yes, you're currently re-enacting case study L -- this really isn't about me, is it?"  I've FINALLY learned to not take the Gate-Keeper-of-the-Month's -- or any of the Gate-Keepers' -- antics personally.

I have finally learned that there is absolutely nothing I can or ever will be able to do to stop those antics.  I have learned to save my energy.  I have learned to hug and squeeze and love that little girl inside and give her the things she was never able to receive, to remind her that she won't ever be able to get those things from the people she was supposed to get it from, but that there are literally hundreds of people in her life now who are ready, willing and eager to give them to her, and she doesn't have to tap-dance up a storm to get them, they're just hers.

I have (again, finally) learned to give up hope that these Gate-Keepers are capable of change.  As one friend recently said: "She's never going to be able to see your truth.  She's never going to want to see your truth.  This is how she treated you 40 years ago, this is how she treated you 30 years ago, this is how she treated you 20 years ago, this is how she treated you 10 years ago, this is how she's treating you now.  She is still denying and fighting your truth, and in doing so, she is very clearly showing you hers: this is who she is, this is who she was, this is who she always will be.  You need to believe her."

I finally do.  We went through this whole scenario ten years ago (minus her trying to drag family and friends into the cyclone I refused to step into this time) and I had to shut of all contact.  After a while, toes were dipped, cyclones remained calm, and I went back in, thinking we had graduated into a state of at least agree-to-disagree.  I was wrong.

Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me for forty-plus years... well, I finally got the message.

I laughed with Don last night -- there are a number of friends for whom I lament that they keep ending up with the same kind of partner, and it keeps ending the same bad way.  But geez, at least they're falling for DIFFERENT people -- I've just been falling over and over again for the same patterns with the same damned person!  How many people have been breaking their hearts and tearing out their hair watching me do this?  (Don't answer that, the guilt might slay me!)

I have learned that it's my right -- and probably responsibility -- to protect myself from and stay away from the toxic people in my life.

I have learned that there are lots of non-toxic (and probably free-range organic) people ready to take their places.  I have learned that I don't have to tap dance to make them love me (which is good, because I was never meant to be a dancer...)

As others from the past learn of my story, I have learned that I don't remember as much as I thought I did -- there are apparently some fragments still missing.  One friend recently recalled watching in horror as my father ripped off my clothes and beat me mercilessly with a hairbrush in front of her when she came home for lunch with me in grade 3.  (I do remember being afraid of his spankings, but didn't remember the hairbrush part, nor that he did it in front of friends.)  Another who remembers feeling terribly uncomfortable around him, but didn't have the knowledge or vocabulary to put her finger on it as a kid.  Another who felt it was her duty to stay with my sister at all times, although she didn't really know why.  Another who recalls a super-inappropriate incident with him when she came to visit, that scared her into never coming back to the house (even after hearing her story, I have zero recollection of it myself, though I do remember thinking I had done something wrong and she didn't like me anymore).  There are many little pieces to keep gathering in -- my work is nowhere close to done.

But I AM in a safe place in which to do it now, so I imagine these memories will come back more and more quickly, once they see it's OK.

2-4-6-8 Think it's time to integrate.  :-)

I have, or at least started to, absorbed the lesson I wanted to learn last birthday -- that it's OK to meet my own needs, that it's OK to look after myself, that it's OK to be me.

Mission accomplished.

What do I hope to learn in the coming year?

Well, I want to learn more about these hitherto-unknown bits and pieces of fragmented-little-kid me.  What shattered them, what they have to tell me, what they have to teach me.

Although what I most want is to DO.  To do something with all this information, with all this learning, with all this barfing-up-of-my-intestines.  To dig myself out from this legacy and, in turn, help others with their shovelling -- or, EVEN BETTER, to prevent them from needing a shovel in the first place.

I want to learn my passions.  Not my reactions, but my passions.  Because I'm a bloody passionate person, let me tell you.  :-)  But I feel I've been reacting for so long, doing what has to be done and what I figure ought to be done, that now that I'm without a life-and-death situation or a particular crusade, I've been feeling a little aimless.

And yes, I realize it's kind of silly for someone who's starting up a charitable organization and writing a book and running a performance career and might-be-about-to-be-talked-into-another-solo-album to feel aimless, but... maybe I just have to get used to the fact that doing the things I'm passionate about is actually an aim... not to mention a passion...

Well, click my ruby red slippers together, we're still in week one and I just gave myself the answer to the thing I wanted to learn...

OK, I guess I need to re-learn a couple of the things about meeting my own needs and being me being enough.  Positive reinforcement and all that...  Maybe I should give myself a follow-up exam.

I would love to learn how to not let the Gate-Keepers send me into a big barfy braincloud -- although I have a feeling that the events of the last month have taught me that already.  The braincloud came in the beginning, but the more recent attacks sent me more into the "this again? give me a break!" mode.  Of course, I could see the more recent ones coming -- guess we'll have to see what happens when it comes out of the blue (because you just know it will...).

Gotta learn how to run a charitable organization!

Can't wait to learn what kind of nutbars are willing to read a darkly humorous book about child abuse!

But, seriously...

I guess what I really want to learn is how to take care of that little girl.  To make sure she has all the tools in her toolbox, yes, but to make sure she knows they were supposed to be hers all along.  And that the reason she never got them isn't because she didn't deserve them, but because there was nobody around who had them to give.

She doesn't need a hammer to change a lightbulb, and she really shouldn't stick a screwdriver in the toaster unless it's unplugged, because it's not as much fun as it looks (although her tap-dancing might improve...).  That she doesn't need to earn or find justification for being loved.  That being loved is a lot less scary than the toaster scenario.

That there is nothing wrong or shameful in being true to herself, or her story.

Keep speaking your truth -- and find your tribe

Hi folks,

OK, I obviously lied again about not posting here for a while.  :-)

But I've been a little worried that all the past few weeks' posts about being socked in the gut by a GateKeeper might be a bit discouraging for those of you with stories to tell, so I thought I'd share something my friend Sue sent me, via Chris Cade:

I think I might have to have this made into a t-shirt!  :-)

Yes, keep speaking the truth -- but don't expect the people embroiled in the situation to listen, or handle it well.  As you can easily see from my "adventures" this month, and in my childhood, you need to be rather judicious about who you share your truth with first.  The best bet is an outsider.  The best bet is someone with experience in a situation that resembles yours -- either because they've been there themselves, or because they've been trained in how to help guide you through the cobwebs.

Depending on the truth that's aching to get out, this could be a crisis hotline, a medical or emotional health professional, a support group (for those of you living in low-population areas that might not have such "in person" support groups, you can find many such things online these days -- as with the traditional models, not one size fits all, shop around until you find something that's a good fit for you), or another big-mouthed blogger who's been-there-done-that and probably has lots of resources (s)he can point out, as well as a pour-yourself-a-cup-of-tea-and-let-me-tell-you-you're-not-alone comfort.

As you know, I've got decades of therapy under my belt (and probably more decades ahead).  And they made a world of difference -- can you imagine how completely nuts I'd be now without them?  ;-)  But while those sessions were (and are) important and helpful to me, it was the support group that finally gave me the "aha!  I'm not the crazy one" moments.  Because much as a trained professional can help you see your patterns and help you collect some better tools for your mental and emotional toolbox, there's nothing like laughing with fellow survivors when you discover the latest in the "oh lordy, I thought I was the only one who..." stories.

Misery loves company, I suppose, but it's also good to be able to laugh at your misery every once in a while.  :-)

I just finished watching at TedX talk by another friend and fellow musician, Heather Dale: http://new.livestream.com/tedx/events/1665479 (scroll to about 58:00 and you'll hear Denise Donlon's introduction to her speech), which is all about "finding your tribe".  Because all you have to do is look around, and you'll find like-minded people, who think what you do is the most amazing thing in the world, and will share with you and support you.  In this internet age, it's so much easier to find, too -- there are webpages for pretty much everything you can think of (some stranger than others, and I'd advise you to think carefully of your search terms, lest you come up with some disturbing surprises... ).

Because I can guarantee you, whatever you thought "I'm the only one in the world who..." about -- you're not.  Yes, you're a unique and fascinating individual, but you are never alone.  Never.

That's been some of the "fun" (if you can call it that) of reading this book about enabling family members in incest cases.  Because, while I'm still guilty of sometimes thinking "hey, I thought I was the only one who...", I've been reading 186 pages worth of case studies and summaries that tell me nope, not even remotely the only one.  Everything I've gone through has a mirror, and a context, and an explanation, AND A WAY TO GET PAST IT.  As many times as this book has reduced me to tears this month, it's also given me those same laughs of recognition that I'm not alone.  There are a whole lot of people -- far too many people -- who are walking this path with me.

And misery does love company.  Not because we like to wallow in misery, but because we know how to help lift each other out of it.  We laugh, we cry, we fight our dragons, then we set out to help others fight theirs.

And speaking of musical friends, we had Rob Lutes staying with us last night -- a brilliant songwriter, one smart cookie, and really wonderful person, so go search him out and invite him into your tribe -- and he gave us a copy of his not-yet-released new album The Bravest Birds.  I've listened to it three times this afternoon, and am about to turn on a fourth round.  Tears, laughter, dragons.  He digs deep, and it's a thing of beauty.  I'm not just enjoying listening to it, I'm being inspired -- for me, the best songwriters make me want to write my own.  I don't know why, but as someone trapped in a dry patch, I think I'll be listening to a lot more of this CD.  :-)  Glory glory hallelujah.

OK, I'm really going back into Hermit mode now.  Honest.  I mean it this time...  ;-)

Go find your tribe and keep speaking your truth!
Alyssa

More music... and girly V-bits

I attended my first rehearsal for "The Vagina Monologues" last night -- being performed to benefit the Women & Children's Shelter of Barrie.  (Earlier in the day, we were told the April 26 show has already SOLD OUT -- yippeee!  A second show will tentatively take place May 15 -- check http://www.barrie.ca/Culture/Theatres/Pages/MadyCentre.aspx for confirmation.)

I'd been asked to come on board to sing a couple of songs and play cello during and between some of the scenes.  The director, Mareka Martin, sent me the script and invited me to come meet the cast last night, and see if we could come up with some ideas for music.

This is all fun stuff for me.  I really enjoy doing theatre work.  In fact, for those of you who complain I don't toot my own horn enough -- the musical soundscape I created for Jeffrey Nisker's play "Sarah's Daughters" was nominated for a Brickenden Award (London's theatre awards) a few years ago.  Toot Toot!  :-)  Collaborating with people in other disciplines gets my brain moving outside of its usual pathways, and it's quite fun to just let loose in a field where I don't expect myself to be particularly awesome.

A little sidebar: on my way to rehearsal, a musical colleague had called the house for me.  Don told him "oh damn, you just missed her -- she's on her way to a Vagina Monologues rehearsal!", and gave him my cell phone number.  The stammering when he called me on the cell was a thing of beauty:  "uh, Don told me, uh... where you were... what you were... uh... the play thing you're rehearsing... uh..." and so on.  I tried very hard to not let my giggles loose on him.  I mean, the man's wife is a nurse, he's got three daughters -- SURELY he's had to say the word before?  Vagina.  Va-gi-na.  Not the prettiest word in the universe, but seriously -- is it THAT scary to say?!?

Apparently so...

Anyhow, back to me.  ;-)

Knowing that Mareka wanted me to open the show with a song of mine, Don challenged me a few weeks ago to write a new song.  A vagina song.

Now, I love challenges, but this one is eluding me so far.  And it's not that I can't find anything to say about the subject -- it's that I can't figure out a way to whittle everything I have to say into 2-1/2 minutes!  I mean, even the play just scratches (don't got there...) the surface.  I could approach it from sooooo many angles (I said, don't go there...)  I mean, my vagina alone has had over forty years of stories, and just think of how many vaginas are out there in the world!

There's good stuff, there's bad stuff, there's funny stuff, there's embarrassing stuff, there's clinical stuff, there's... WAY more than 2-1/2 minutes' worth of material!!!  It's been quite an interesting journey, exploring my relationship with this particular body part.  (hey, I said don't go there!)

I mean, seriously, where to start?  So much obvious stuff springs to mind, so many stories.  I almost want to make it a victory song -- incest-survivor-makes-it-through-into-adulthood-survives-further-abusive-relationships-to-finally-grow-into-a-happy-healthy-sexual-being-with-a-fantastically-awesome-sex-life-with-the-love-of-her-life is a pretty awesome story, I think (though perhaps not a light-and-cheery opening to a play).  There's the story about how shocked my grandmother was when my sister shouted from the bathtub "Alyssa stuck her toe in my vagina!" -- not so concerned about the apparent location of my errant toe, but scandalized that Tarah knew the word vagina.  There's all the OTHER names for this part of the anatomy (some of them cute, some silly, some of them downright NASTY -- I looked it up online, which is not a good thing to do when you're eating lunch in front of the computer, just sayin'...)  There's the joyous, celebratory side.  There's the lonely side.  There's the shameful side.  There's the "power tools" side.  There's the I'm-horny-as-hell-and-I'm-not-gonna-take-it-any-more side.  Not to mention the medical side, and my near-death experience last year when Big Ethyl tried to make a break out of my uterus through my cervix and crawl OUT my vagina into the free world.  I mean, seriously, if they made a movie about my vagina (which would be kind of a weird movie, but I'm just speaking artistically-hypothetically-metaphorically here), it would be an awkward blend of ridiculously-unrealistic-soap-opera, cheesy-uplifting-and-empowering-movie-of-the-week, gushy-romance, naughty-porno, riveting-suspense, psychological-thriller meets Cronenburg flick.

Try fitting ALL THAT into 2-1/2 minutes!!!

I'm still trying, but... fortunately, the gals last night loved my "Plan B" option.  Which is good, because I still have to finish my tax return and prepare a bunch of other performances, and I don't know how much more time I can spend attempting to write light and humorous songs about vaginas.

So... the opening song is going to be a few verses of "Sasha", as it stands now.  One of the women said afterwards, she thought I'd written the song about her (no, and I'm not telling who).  I think most of us have either been Sasha or known Sasha at some point in our lives.

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what a swish of the hips can do?

     'Though all the boys wanted to touch her, they were too mystified to talk

     But they bragged about what they'd done with her anyway

     While nobody believed each other's stories, they'd relive them each night in solitary glory

     And by day, freeze like deer at the hint of her headlights

          They'd hold their breath with panicked hearts

          Yearning for a brush of skin as she slinked by

          And just the thought of her lit them up from the inside

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what a flick of the wrist can do?

     Though all the girls wanted to be her, we wouldn't be caught dead with her

     'Cause who'd want to hang with that tramp anyway?

     While nobody had met a friend of hers, we knew they must all be tres glamorous

     So we scowled in her shadow, wordlessly praying for acceptance

          We'd hold our breath with jealous hearts

          Wishing her magic might rub off on us as she skulked by

          And just a word from her lit us up from the inside

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what a lick of the lips can do?

     Though all the men wanted to own her, they were afraid to be alone with her

     But she could be their mid-life crisis any day!

     Nobody ever figured out where she lived, but many dogs were walked where they thought she did

     As they orbited 'round her oblivious sun

          They'd hold their breath with guilty hearts

          Praying for some inner strength if she swayed by

          And just one glance from her lit them up from the inside

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what two fluttering lids will do?

     Though all the women wanted to protect her, they knew she was a threat

     'Cause what sort of men wouldn't prefer her to them anyway?

     Nobody ever knew anything for sure, but her eyes said she'd had a lot to endure

     So they all gathered 'round to shelter her flame from the wind

          They'd hold their breath with conflicted hearts

          Hoping they could be of help if she stopped by

          And just one grateful smile lit them up from the inside

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what a little mystery can do?

...it kind of sums up a lot of those issues -- and without even mentioning the word vagina!  :-)

It's almost like I knew, six or seven years ago, that I'd be stuck writing (or rather, NOT writing) a song for the Vagina Monologues.  Not only that, the director specifically asked for verses of "Breathe" to be interspersed with some scenes.  How perfect is that?  A song that was inspired by the birth of my niece, and all that I wished for her in life -- the first two verses are definitely childbirth-and-therefore-vagina-related, the remaining song about triumphing over hardships along your path and becoming a strong, empowered goddess of a woman.  Plus I get to sing loud in that song, and I like singing loud sometimes.  :-)

So... I haven't given up on writing a new song, but the pressure is off a bit.  I'm sure, though, that once I actually start working seriously on my taxes, the new song will pop out of me (birth reference intentional here) as a marvellous procrastination technique.

And with that, I'm off to do my taxes!

(Hey, I used the word vagina 14 -- nope, now 15 -- times in this blog.  Do you think I'll get flagged for adult content?  Vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina...  ;-)  )

Musically and vaginally yours (but not in THAT sense, buster!)

Alyssa

OK, back to music...

Sorry, been a while again -- juggling many things this past week-plus, including a wee bit of depression that was inspired by the same events as my last posting.  (Call off the suicide watch, I'm ok!  Just needed to give myself some alone-time to process through the muck.  And those damned lucid dreams are back...)

One of these projects is preparing for two upcoming performances of Missa Gaia, in Orillia (April 21) and Midland (April 22) with the St. Paul's United Church choirs.  It's going to be a big multi-media performance of Paul Winter's jazzy Earth Mass -- for choir, instrumental ensemble (percussion, piano, organ, guitar, bass, saxophone, cello), and a collection of wild animals.

OK, don't panic, there will be no wild animals at the show -- their performances were taped in advance.  But you will hear the songs of wolves, whales, seals and birds interspersed with the live music!

There is an extensive cello solo mid-mass, called "Stained Glass Morning".  The conductor, Blair Bailey dropped the score off to me last Thursday.  It's a meditation, very improvisatory -- I imagine the original cellist improvised the whole thing and then notated it after the fact.  I took a peek through the music and decided it wouldn't be terribly difficult to put together.

That is, until I made the quip about whether I got to be in a cello-wombat duet.

No wombat (damn!), but it turns out I DO have to play this along with a bunch of birds.  (Probably more musical than wombats...)  First is a 40-second recording of a musical wren.  Then a 19-second recording of a woodthrush.  Then a 1-minute-and-10-seconds recording of a dawn chorus of birds.

Nowhere in the score does it indicate how I'm supposed to interact with the recording -- i.e., where I should be in the piece by the time the birds do their best to drown me out.  Listening to the soundtrack isn't helping me, as the piece the cellist plays is very different from what he wrote down in the score.  So... I'm gonna do it my way!  :-)

The opening in the score has me playing around on a bunch of high harmonics.  I figure that'll be me and the wren.  Not a clue about the woodthrush, though...  it's a pretty quick tape.  Maybe that'll be my cue to start the improv.  The harmonics come back -- with a vengeance -- at about the half-way point, so I figure that's when the morning birds can start to go crazy.  Maybe they can drown out the really weird harmonics I have trouble hitting cleanly.  :-)  It's kind of an unusual experience, trying to figure out how to do a duet with a bunch of birds...

So, if you hear some strange whistling and squeaks and squawks coming from the music room in the coming days, it's just me, Lady Jo (the cello) and my new birdie friends.

Musically,
Alyssa

P.S. -- to those of you who are going crazy waiting to hear the details about my new big-and-scary project (yes, you, Lisa!) -- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to drag it on like this.  And trust me, I'm going crazier than you are (yeah yeah, I know it's not difficult...).  Things that were supposed to be in place before I could safely make the announcement are still dragging their sorry arses.  Working on it!  Hopefully by the end of the month, at the VERY latest.  With any luck, before the YRAP Gala next weekend!

You can never go back (phew!)

My high school is having its 100th anniversary this May, and I signed on to be a part of the gala concert at Roy Thomson Hall.

As many people have asked me since -- WHY?  Why would you want to go to a high school reunion?  High school is an ugly memory for many people, and I'm no exception.

And yet...

The music program at my high school was one of the few things that kept me (relatively) sane, and definitely the only thing that kept me in school.  Oh sure, high school itself was the same angst-ridden, pimply-faced den-of-zero-self-esteem for me as it was for many, but... those hours when I got to hide behind my cello (and there were many) were the hours when I started to feel like I actually belonged somewhere, that I fit in with something, that I was actually OK at something.

Of course, this was all still haunted by the not-dead-yet spectre of my grandfather.  Which managed to keep me from believing in myself fully, and made me doubt myself fully, while sort of thinking I might be OK... but not really.

For starters, I wasn't even supposed to go to North Toronto -- I was out of district (if I'd lived across the street I would have been in district, but the dividing line kept me out).  But North Toronto had the best string program at the time, and I really wanted to be there.  There was a waiting list to get in, partially determined by musical ability, based on an audition.  Meanwhile, my best friend's mother -- who also wanted both of us to get in to NT, as Ali lived on the wrong side of the street, too -- did her usual "I'll fight for my children, whatever it takes" routine (oh, what a great honourary mother to have!) and went in for a private meeting with the Principal.  Very soon after, Ali and I both learned we'd been accepted -- thank you, Jane!

She did let it slip later, however, that one of her tactics was to declare that I was Don Wright's granddaughter, so any music program worth its salt would be begging to have me.

Not because of me.  Because of my grandfather.

So... was I in because of merit, or because of my ancestry?  This question haunted me throughout both my high school and university years.  The name opened many doors for me, gave me many opportunities, let me get away with missing a rehearsal or two when others were kicked out for less than 100% attendance.

I was chosen to be principal cellist of the junior orchestra in grade 9 -- was that because I was good, or because I was Don Wright's Granddaughter?  I was chosen as our school's music delegate for the Ontario Student Leadership Course -- in my incredible shyness, I didn't see how I could possibly be considered a leader in anything, so assumed it was because of my grandfather.  I was principal of the senior orchestra in grades 12 and 13, but always felt like a phoney, like I shouldn't be there, when there were so many other talented musicians who didn't have family pull.

I was proud of my accomplishments, but forever suspicious of them.  This combined with my family's assertions that I would never be able to "make it" in the same way as he had led to some very conflicted feelings toward music, cello, me.  (Fortunately, I eventually got over it -- especially once learning what a B.S. assertion it was!)

And so, I found myself waking up at 6:30 on Saturday morning (yes, really!) and heading down the highway to Toronto.  I had been dithering for weeks whether I really wanted to go through with this, but... did it anyhow.  I met up with a snowstorm about halfway down, and started to seriously question the decision again.  Fortunately, I had made an appointment at the Sound Post for later that afternoon, otherwise I would probably have chickened out and driven right back up the highway.

There is a sick, anxious feeling I always get when I'm on the 401 and approaching the Avenue Road / Yonge Street exits.  It grows as I get off the exit and drive through my old stomping grounds.  People often ask me why I don't move back to Toronto (especially now that we're considering moving to a different big city) -- the truth is, that's where I spent my years of terror, and I don't like being constantly reminded of it.  If I get this ill on a drive-by, how the hell would I live my life on a daily basis?  There's too much horror, too much sadness, too many reminders.  I don't need reminding, thank you very much, my stupid dreams are keeping me in the loop just fine.

Driving down Yonge Street, so much has changed -- the stores are different, it's more developed in some areas.  But the landmarks are still there.  The anxious buzzing reaches a crescendo as I pass Lytton... Craighurst... Briar Hill... St. Clements... and there are the lights for Broadway.  I turn left and enter the new parking garage that was promised in the directions to the new/old school, but have yet to see the school itself.

You see, the school I went to is no longer there.  They've torn down the old building and put up a new one, with condos above and storefronts on the Roehampton side, and a huge football field.  I've been curious to see it, although still trepidatious.

I go to the machine, buy my ticket, head back to the car.  "Alyssa!" someone shouts.  It's Alan, father of one of my former classmates, and fellow cello player -- we shared a cello teacher when I was in high school, and would often commiserate on who cried the most at the last lesson.  A very nice man, with a very nice family.  He (re-)introduces me to his wife and sister: "you know, Don Wright's granddaughter."

Ah yes, the Great and Powerful Oz himself...  my stomach does flip-flops... it's too late to run, now that I've been spotted.  Breathe... breathe... smile... he doesn't mean this in a bad way, he has no idea what battles you've been through at Oz's hand, or what fresh hells have been opened up in the last six years.  Breathe, breathe, smile, breathe, breathe, smile.  Brace yourself, because this is probably the first reference of many -- why didn't you consider this in the snowstorm, you silly twit?

We walk as a group out of the parking garage and towards the school.  I can see the north side of Broadway just fine, looking pretty much like it always had.  And then... holy mother of Zeus!  The school is nothing like the old building.  Nothing whatsoever.  The old anxiety-filled high school is gone.

I can feel my shoulders.  Sort of.

After a significant journey trying to find an open door, we venture inside.  Inside, it's a combination of old and new.  The old Ontario Scholars plaques have been transferred to the new walls.  There's a courtyard with the old bricks and arches.  The old Maytime Melodies photos are on the new walls (oh lordy, there's me with braces and helmet hair -- make the lambs stop screaming!).  It's kind of like a dreamworld, where the building you know is transformed into something else -- you know what it's supposed to be, but the details aren't correct.  A bit surreal.

And then it's into the music room, where a few familiar faces have already gathered.  Some closer to their old faces than others.  :-)  The old anxieties try to surface... I shouldn't be here, what if I let the truth slip out, what if somebody already knows my secrets?

Geez, Alyssa, you write and speak regularly about surviving childhood sexual abuse -- why are you suddenly afraid people will know your truth?

Right... ahem... yes.  They're allowed to know things now.  Not that it's really polite conversation at a high school reunion, of course, but... you don't have to freak out.

Yes, high school is an awkward time for the best of us.  I was not among the best of us.

Just before grade 9 began for me, my mother had finally told my father he was not allowed to come back to the house, because she had had enough.  Of course, she was still sending my sister and I for sleepovers at his new apartment, so I guess she didn't think we'd quite had enough...  Many secrets still had to be kept.  As well as haunting my musical life with the Toronto District School Board, my grandfather was busy trying to prove I was a liar about my father's abuse, and using his sleazy lawyer to basically try and crush us all into submission.  And by October, it had become apparent that my mother was involved with her psychologist, thus introducing sexual predator #2 into our I-thought-it-was-finally-going-to-be-happy home, as well as a whole other layer of secrets to worry about -- she knew enough, apparently, to know that it was unethical for a psychologist to sleep with (and later marry) his patient, and that we shouldn't let anyone know what was going on, she just didn't know enough to not do it.

Back then, if I was in the hall talking to people, I was at risk of spilling the truth.  If I was hiding behind my cello, no words had to come out.  Can I tell you how very much I loved my cello in those years, despite all the self-esteem issues that came with it?!?

Ahem, back to the present.

I see my friend Debbie come in -- who never knew me in high school, but is now the head of the music department.  She will be my reminder of who I am now.  I will not slip back into who I was.  And just to prove it, I go over and talk to the people who I used to not feel worthy enough to talk to.  And hey, they talk back, and give genuine hugs.  Maybe I wasn't as unworthy as I always thought I was... Oh shut up, Alyssa, you were NEVER as unworthy as you thought you were.  NOBODY is as unworthy as you thought you were.

The concert organizer -- who I've never met -- comes up and tells me that I was one of the two people identified as possible principal cellist, he's sorry to let me know so late, but would I mind sharing the job?  Hell no.  :-)  A total stranger, who probably has no idea who my grandfather was -- but even if he did, could not expect any special favours from him since he's now dead -- has just told me I'm worthy.  Damn straight, I'm worthy.  I feel five years of adolescent stupidity start to melt away... well, start, anyhow.

In comes David Ford, the head of music from my high school days, the man who always asked after my father and grandfather, who I spent five years smiling and trying not to spill the truth to, five years wondering if he actually saw any value in me, or if he was just trying to gain favour with Oz.  He recognizes me, but fumbles for my name.  Oh lord, I was obviously nothing, nobody, unworthy... Shut Up!  Seeing his embarrassment and discomfort, I offer up "Alyssa Wright" -- he grins and gives me a huge bear hug.  The Great and Powerful Oz is not mentioned at all.  He remembers me.  Me.

I remind myself that neither he nor most of the people in this room would recognize Me Today after knowing Me Then.  I've had conductors from my university years not know who the heck I was decades later, after spending years sitting directly in front of them.  I would hide.  I would blend into walls.  I would be quiet.  I would do my best to NOT be noticed (and then, of course, be resentful when nobody noticed me -- oy!).

Oh sure, I'm still an introvert.  But I'm an infinitely more confident introvert.  With, some might argue, a pretty big mouth.  :-)

The fact that I actually approached him to say hello probably threw him off more than the extra pounds, extra wrinkles, hair cut by a professional (i.e., not unevenly hacked off by me in the darkness of my mirror-less room and then gelled into submission), and lack of leggings, dark makeup and way-too-bulky men's sweaters.  This is what I'm telling myself, anyhow...  ;-)

I'm talking with my section-mates, realizing that there's only two of us doing music full-time.  So I must be worthy, right?  Duh...  Oz never had much sway outside the school system (not that I was aware of that until much later), this is me.  Merit and me.  Hard work, merit and me.

Rehearsal begins.  We get to the Medley -- a medley of several medleys from over the years.  I recognize many of the arrangements, some of them my grandfather's.  Oh, here we go... nope, nary a mention.  Phew!

There's a cello solo.  I'm ready to defer to my co-principal.  Debbie, who is probably wondering where Alyssa just disappeared to, announces it's supposed to be for electric cello, and would I mind bringing mine in for the concert?  The girl who never got picked for a solo is now the woman who gets picked for the solo.  Worthy, worthy, worthy... oh lord, WHY am I still stuck there?

Of course, the solo is in the nose-bleed section of the cello, and I'm sight-reading -- but instead of the devastated "I suck" that would have hit me in high school, I just fake it and laugh and say I'll look at it better for next time.  I'm imperfect, and that's OK.  The Old Me would never believe it.  It's OK to be imperfect.  And even in my imperfection, heads are nodding and voices are saying it's going to kick ass in concert.

Why yes, it is.  :-)

It took me a few decades, but I'm actually enjoying high school.  I will brave the snow storm (and early morning alarm) next weekend too.

After rehearsal, it's a stop down to the Sound Post, where I offer up my old cello for sale.  Mild (!) kick in the gut when I'm told it will probably be sold for about $5,500, minus the repairs it needs and their commission.  This is the cello I bought at the end of high school -- thinking it would last me for university and then I'd get a new one, though I only replaced it last spring! -- for $8,000.  I went in to debt with Oz to buy it.  I scrambled and scraped my way through university, taking on extra jobs to pay Oz back as quickly as possible, but still getting "why haven't you paid it back in full yet?" letters on a regular basis.  This cello was stressy.  I fought this damned cello for almost 25 years.  In inspecting it for sale, I learned all the reasons why it was so difficult to play, and how they'll fix it to make it playable -- yet nobody had mentioned this to me in all the years I'd spent taking it elsewhere for repairs.  Lesson learned.  But kind of depressing that after all that time and effort and stress, it wasn't even worth the purchase price any more... if it had ever been in the first place.

Oh well, Alyssa, it's a symbol of the past.  Get rid of it.  You have a beautiful new cello now that does everything you want it to.  Get rid of the past.

I do.  At least I hope I do.  They have it for 120 days, at which point they can change their mind if it hasn't sold.  Anyone want an angst- and pain-ridden cello?  Real cheap...  ;-)

And so, driving up University, my mind is pondering Old Me, New Me.  Old Life, New Life.  Old School, New School.  Old Cello, New Cello.  How much has changed, how much is no longer there, how much that I never could have imagined is now in my life, how much EASIER it is to be alive.  University becomes Avenue Road.  Oh look, there's my former shrink's office, where I spent an hour a day every day for seven years, trying to unravel the web of lies that had been the Old Me's Old Life.  Coming up to where I hung out with the friends from my youth group, trying hard to be somebody else.  My old primary school, where much of it all began.  Two more blocks, the street to my first house.  One more block, the house of hell.  I'm always tempted to do a drive-by, masochist that I am, but I opt against it, choosing instead to revel in all that no longer exists, not wallow in what used to be.

Yet... since then, I've found myself fantasizing about knocking on the door.

I have just had it hammered home that my old high school no longer exists, is not the same, that I'm not the same.  While the house from hell is still standing and fully intact, I'm 100% sure it's not decorated the same, and they've probably made a bunch of changes in the almost-20 years since my mother finally moved out of there, and... it's just a house.  With any luck, an abuse-free house.  It's tempting...

But then again, how would a normal person react if a total stranger knocked on the door and said "Hi!  I was abused in this house for ten years, could you please give me a tour?"  Yup, wacko, bolt the door!  ;-)

There's no place like home (Thank God)
You think there's no place like home?
Well you can change all the names,
But the characters stay the same
Oh there's no place like home

[from "No Place Like Home", Alyssa Wright, 2006]

Well, as much as all the characters continue to fight for the status quo...  I've changed.  I've changed, and my life has changed.  They can keep their status quo.  I'm happy to never go back.

...when you're ready, your heart holds the tools
So say goodbye to that road of salvation
And the heartless, the coward and the fool
Oh my
The heartless, the coward and the fool

[ibid.]

You can't go back.  Even if you wanted to.  Everything changes.  It stays the same in your mind, but only if you let it stay the same in your mind.  The beautiful part of living a long life is that you can change your story.

I can stay stuck in "not-worthy-land" as long as I feel like it -- or I can choose to see that all those years of feeling unworthy forced me to work my ass off and get farther than I ever could have been if I just plodded along in a "normal" life.  I can cringe at my choice of makeup application, or I can recognize that I was creating an obvious mask to go with the emotional one I needed to make it through to the end of high school and out of the damned house.  And enjoy the fact that I'm confident enough to not wear ANY makeup on a regular basis these days -- what you see is what you get, this is who I am, like it or lump it.

I am no longer a helpless child or a hopeless adolescent.  And those years helped me grow into the strong, capable, independent, blissfully happy and love-filled woman I am today.

I have cleared the space, it's time to take my place
Prepare to speak my truth, stand up and be the proof
Be the Proof... 

Only the Truth remains

[from "Sword and Wand", Alyssa Wright, 2009]

Happy Valentine's Day!

I got the best present of all -- Don's PSA score was Zero, which means NO MORE PROSTATE CANCER.  Life can resume.  Once I finish my happy dance and recover from tonight's celebration, that is, life can resume.  :-)

On our way down to the doctor's this morning, we were listening to the CBC (as always).  Today, of course, they were talking about all sorts of different love-related issues.  They had a fabulous advocate from the U.S. (forget his name, sorry!) talking about the work he's been doing with politicians regarding gay marriage and equal rights, and how he was trying to make sure that kids growing up now would know that love wasn't an evil thing, no matter what the hate-filled folks try to convince you.  My heart was filled.

And, of course, that's what it all boils down to -- whether equal rights or any other number of issues.  Love.    Love is "all you need", it's all that is ever really ours.  Love is good, love is beautiful, no matter what the hate-filled folks try to do to you, if you have love in your heart, they will never succeed.

I was reminded of this song I wrote a few years ago.  It never really took off -- probably because I was back to my old wordy self with this one -- but the sentiment still rings true for me.  Maybe if I edit it a bit, I'll go back to it.  In the meantime, a good reminder for all.


I Won't Apologize for Love


You can't always control where the waters flow, or see a wave until it starts to grow
And while I'm sorry you got lost in the undertow, I won't apologize for love
I'm sorry if fate was a little mindless, that you never learned how to give or receive kindness
That instead you chose the path of blindness
But I won't apologize for love, no, I won't apologize for love


I'm sorry for all that was left unspoken, for that pivotal moment that you've kept frozen
And I'm sorry that your heart was broken, but I won't apologize for love
I'm sorry you never could appreciate all the delicacies that were heaped on your plate
That instead you chose the path of hate
But I won't apologize for love, no, I won't apologize for love


     It never was a contest, don't treat it like a game
     Stop looking for a saviour or just someone to blame
     'Cause I'll stand for all that's true, and I will not be ashamed of love love love love love


In dishing out blame, you've been a top producer, tearing old wounds we were trying to suture
Well, I'm sorry we couldn't predict the future, but I won't apologize for love
Life isn't as simple as you'd like to pretend, trying to hammer us back into our boxes again
I'm sorry you chose the path of revenge
But I won't apologize for love, no, I won't apologize for love


I'm sorry that you were ill-equipped to deal with the scenes you wanted to skip
When the characters wouldn't stay true to your script, but I won't apologize for love
I'm sorry you never let your heart run free, that you never learned the difference between love and need
That I never was the monster you wanted me to be
But I won't apologize for love, no, I won't apologize for love


     It never was a contest, don't treat it like a game
     Stop looking for a saviour, or just someone to blame
     'Cause I'll stand for all that's true, and I will not be ashamed of love love love love love


My wish for you is that you one day stop reeling, make peace with your past and live with feeling
I hope you choose the path of healing
And don't apologize for love love love
I won't apologize for love


- Alyssa Wright, 2008

Musical Blog Entry

Hi folks and folkettes,

Today, my blog entry is a musical one.

It was my very first Mariposa Folk Festival, summer of 2006 (yes, I'm a slow learner / late bloomer / whatever).  It was hot.  I was walking to one of the workshop stages with my friend Jennifer Ives, carrying my cello, guitar, knapsack, big music bag and assortment of percussion; she was carrying two guitars and a bunch of other stuff, herself.  We felt like big, sweaty pack horses.  And then, across the field, we see Suzie Vinnick lightly flitting to her stage, with her boyfriend, James Dean, following up behind, carrying all her stuff for her, and staring adoringly.

Jen and I paused, looked at each other, and both said "I want one of those!"  And then, the inevitable, "hey, there's a song in there."  A few weeks later, I wrote the song -- a humorous (I hope) exploration of the unrealistic fantasies we all hold (although Suzie assures me that most of the things I wrote about are true!).

When I saw Suzie and James at the OCFF conference that fall, Suzie laughed and said she'd heard I'd written a love song for her boyfriend -- should we take this outside?  ;-)  I sent them the lyrics, but somehow never got around to actually playing the darned thing for them.

Suzie was up in Orillia a couple of weeks ago, for the Orillia Folk Society's January FridayFolk concert.  And I once again remembered that they'd never heard the song.  So when Suzie suggested that we get together and visit our mutual friend, Joe Yanuziello, this weekend, Don and I hatched our evil plan.

We spent Wednesday evening recording this song "My Own James Dean" in our music room.  I did my usual cello and foot-percussion stuff, but when we were finished, I asked Don how much work he wanted to put into the song?  Well, he's on recording withdrawal, now that his solo album is finished (other than the graphics, which is my department), so he was willing to go all-out.  So I suggested the cheesy Andrews-sisters background vocals.  We haven't had this much fun in the studio for a long time.

And so, Friday afternoon (after an unfortunate adventure with a wheel bearing), we all sat in Joe's lovely cabin, and Don presented James's song in all its "glory".  I apparently have to write a song for Joe now.  :-)

Curious?  Listen here: http://www.reverbnation.com/play_now/song_12140744  (Please note, I'm leaving this song open for free streaming for the next few days -- after that, it will become a "fan exlusive".  I just didn't want to force you to sign up as fans just to hear the song.  I know, bad marketing -- but hopefully those of you who actually ARE fans will sign up and make it official.)

Musically -- and cheesily,
Alyssa