Posts Tagged ‘The Myna Birds’

Running Into Old

October 14, 2016


Is so very nice.

I saw two people tonight that I have not seen in some time and it was really good to catch up.

“It’s been forever!” I exclaimed to one of my friends, who raised an eyebrow.

“It doesn’t feel like that to me, but then again I read your blogs.”


I love that.

It just made my night.

Especially when it comes from people who I respect and admire, who I think are smart, it warms the cockles of my heart.


It’s a word.

Look it up.

Granted it meant not getting home until after 10:30 p.m. tonight, but I really needed to catch up with my people and it was super nice and I feel more connected and seen.

Sometimes I just need to claim my seat.

And I did that tonight.

I also got to relax and come down from work, the breaking up the week between gigs is challenging.

Not just from the standpoint of the differing locations and the different times, but also in establishing my boundaries again with the boys.

It’s something that usually happens on Mondays.

But I’m not with them on Mondays anymore, I don’t see them until Tuesday, then I’m at the other gig on Wednesday and that means the last couple of Thursdays have been a much greater challenge than they used to be.

I’m rolling with it, but by the end of the day I have been pretty worn out.

Of course.

I have my second wind, but it’s like after 11 p.m. and I should be winding down.


I’m listening to

Bon Entendeur.

Fuck it’s good.

So good.

It’s a bunch of French actors who open the set of music with a little monologue, then the music.

Ooh la la.

I’ve been quite into it.

It’s electro, chill, deep house, hip-hop, disco, house, techno.




More please.

My darling French friend at school had put together a Spotify play list for me and one day she added this awesome mix by The Kungs, a French dj–Valentin Brunel–Cookin’ on Three Burners, This Girl and I just couldn’t get enough of it.

I ended up saving all their music to Spotify and listening pretty compulsively to their artist page on Spotify.

I was so hooked.

Then when I ran into them for the mess in the park that was Hardly Strictly melt down for me, I mentioned it to her husband.

She had relayed to me that he was the one who needed to be thanked for the Kungs hook up, he had discovered them.

So I did.

And the next thing you know he’s adding Bon Entendeur to my phone and, well, god damn, it is so, so, so good.

I’m a happy clam listening to it, let me tell you.

There is always something new and amazing to listen to.

I can’t keep up with it all and when I get hooked on something I do tend to stay with it for a while.

I mean.

I am not necessarily embarrassed by it, but I did listen to Mike Doughty’s Stellar Motel for a couple of months pretty non-stop every night earlier this summer.

I got to where I could basically sing a long to everything.

I either want something that I can sing along to.

Or I want something I can groove to when I’m writing.

Once in a while.

I need jazz.

On a Sunday.

Chet Baker.

Miles Davis.

Coleman Hawkins.

Or I need some Regina Spektor, a Saturday night spell of girlishness where I will sing and sway alone in my room.

Sometimes I need The Myna Birds and I need to stomp and shout and be mad melancholic.


I need some Van Morrison.

Which is familiar and wistful.


A little Shuggie Otis Strawberry Letter Number 24.

Which is got all sorts of undertones to it, some raw and perfumed with the devil of jasmine on a cold night in the Mission with the fog cool on my heart and the breath of autumn rains soon to come.

At times I need the Bach cello sonatas.

I am an emotional eater of music.

Bon Entendeur really has my ticket right now.

It may be that way since I’m going to Paris in May.

It may be that I like fucking good music.

Probably a little of both.


And even though it’s late for me, on a school night.

Tomorrow is Friday.

Thank you God for helping me get through the week.

I do have a lot of homework, a lot of papers that need to get written.

But thank God, I finished the reading for one of my classes–which meant being caught up with the back log of reading I had for the class and finishing the reading that is due for next weekend of classes, so that paper will be easy to write and it’s short.

The other I can do in an hour, max two.

The third, yeah, there’s three.

I’m not exactly sure how to approach.

Depending on how early I get up tomorrow and what the weather is going to be like, it’s supposed to rain, I may knock one paper out tomorrow morning before I go into work.

I bet I can get it done.

Then one on Saturday and one on Sunday.

Totally doable.

Even if I don’t feel like doing them.

I will.

Even if I’d rather dance around in my house listening to god damn tasty French music.

I can probably manage to do a little of both.

Fingers crossed.

Hello weekend.

So nice to see you.



What The Fuck Was That?

February 12, 2015

I just had the most intense flight or fight response I have had in quite sometime.

I got a lot of news about some people I care for in short period of time.

Including a friend who has been trying to use like a gentleman and not having a good go of it, someone I love and care about and had to tell, hey, I love you, but I can’t talk to you when your intoxicated.

Then not being able to get a hold of someone who I was worried about and had a brief monstrous flash of what could be wrong.

Fortunately I was incorrect, but it was an intense moment, standing in the door way of my studio pacing back and forth trying to get a hold of someone on the phone while receiving texts about my friend using drugs at the same time.


Then, well, I go where I need to go and on Wednesdays that’s changed since the break up with my ex.

I used to see him on Wednesdays on the regular before we were dating at this one spot in the Inner Sunset.

Then my job changed and I stopped going there, and when we broke up, it was completely off the table to show up there.

We agreed to the 90 days no contact and I have honored that.


You know, surprised, might be an understatement, to see him walk into the Beach Burrito not ten feet away from where I am standing at 8:25 p.m. this evening.

Fuck me.

I went tharn.

That would be, like a rabbit caught in the headlights as it’s about to be mowed down by a car, made up word stolen from one of my favorite works of fiction.

Watership Down, Richard Adams.

I was knocked over by the feeling.


My heart.


Right then.

Relapsing friend.

Another friend missing in action.

Catching my breath, trying to breathe, then my ex walks into the fucking burrito shop ten feet away from me.

He waved.

I don’t know that I did, I don’t think I waved, that is.

I don’t know what I did.

I did of course.

Tear up.




My heart beat, my eyes watered, I was shell-shocked.

It shouldn’t hurt like that.

Like what?

I mean, I don’t know.

I haven’t been in a serious relationship in a while.

Despite it being short, it was sober and real and intense and lots of emotions were stirred up and it was a deep learning experience.

I feel things.

I am a sensitive bunny.

That’s why I like the jackalope, it’s got some horns.  One doesn’t fuck with a jackalope, one might get pronged.


My heart on a pair of horns.

But my God has me, takes care of me, makes sure that I can handle exactly everything that I have been handed.

My best friend calls thirty seconds after I see the ex go into the burrito joint with another woman.

I am standing looking into a room while I am on the phone with her, the room, full of smiling faces, warmth, laughter, friends, all I have to do is take a breath, pray, and walk over that threshold.

Sit down and be enveloped in my fellowship.

Thank you God for this experience.

I have not been painted into a corner, I was just made vulnerable, soft, washed out with salt and tears and hollowed out to hold the light that was there, Christmas lights, white on the floor, glowing in the dark, softly blurred from the tears running down my face.

I am grateful for this.

I am grateful for these feelings.

It means I am alive.

And I can hold more than one emotion at a time.

There’s room for them all.

Even for humor.

I mean, it’s funny, the details are more convoluted and ridiculous the more that I looked at them, how human, how connected the people in my life are and how the picture continues to change and grow.

“Look at all your hair,” he, a friend I was surprised to see in my neck of the woods, said to me afterward, when the lights came up, the candlelight done for the week, to return next Wednesday, same time, same channel, hopefully less an  ex boyfriend eating Mexican next door.

I hugged him.

God he felt good.

“What are you doing over here, didn’t you move to Berkeley?”  I asked.

“Ayup, class today,” he said and sparkled at me.


You look good.

But you’re not on the list.

I asked you out once before.

You said no, let’s be friends.

And friends we are, but you know.

When you bury your face in my neck and smell me, I wonder, you know.

We caught up.

I told him about what had happened, in a bit more detail than here.

There are things I can write about are through my own lens and there are things that I can’t.  I don’t want to write about people I know and love except in the vaguest way–anything that is unkind or breaking a confidence, I just cannot put here.

Other people and their lives are not my business to write about, how I feel, what I do, how I live my life, my experiences, those are the things I can write about.

I’m tiptoeing a fine line is what I’m saying, but I could tell my friend that I saw tonight in a bit more detail, namely because he didn’t know any of the people I was talking about.

Then we talked about money.

Student loans specifically.

“I figure I just take the next action and if I get in, God will put the money there, it will happen,” I said.  “I mean, it’s only $50,000 a year, for three years.”  I think I may have blanched saying that, but since my friend’s in nursing school he knows, his tuition at a private university is about the same.

Just a little thing called faith.

“Hey let’s bounce,” my friend’s ride came over.

He hugged me again, I mean hugged me.

It was snuggly.

Boy howdy I needed that.

Then it slipped out, “are you sure we shouldn’t get together and snuggle,” I whispered in his ear.

“I mean, I know you don’t want to date me, we’ve already covered that ground before,” I teased him.

“Well, I think, maybe, I should rethink that, we should go out and have dinner,” he said.

“Yes we should.”  I said and hugged him back.

I wasn’t expecting that.

I don’t know that it could have happened at a better time.

And though he wasn’t on the list, since, I had asked him out over a year ago, he would have been on the top of it at a certain point in our acquaintanceship.

Everything works out.

I don’t have to know the how and the why of it.

I just need to know that it will.

Fall into place.


Everything falls into place.

It falls right into place.

Because you’ve got a big heart, baby.

Oh, you’ve got a big heart, it’s true.

Constant Replay

June 29, 2012

I have been listening to a new album recently and I am just smitten–The Myna Birds–What We Lose in the Flood We Gained in The Fire.

Oh my god.

Total new band crush.  I can’t stop listening to it.  I actually figured out how to delete Pandora station at work to program them in.

I have listened to the album at least seven or eight times since I got it.

I know its good when I don’t even want to do anything but listen to it.  Or I get excited hearing a new song and it has [oh my, stomping my foot so hard rocking out to track number  9] a line that I have to hear again, and again, and again.

I just stopped to take a phone call.  My love to my Joan Pie.  See you Sunday darling!

Hmm, play it again?


Music, there is just something about it.  The things I need in my life–love, friends, music, writing, books, recovery.  Need.

Music is a necessity, a life requirement.  I need to sing.  I need to hear music.  I get so caught up in it.  I could have been a gospel singer in another life.

I used to be jealous of my Aunt MaryBeth, I loved her singing voice.  I hear some one sing well and I get so taken with the idea of having a voice that can belt it out.  I love Glee, I can admit it, I love singing.

Oddly enough I am not a huge fan of musicals.  They don’t really move me.

Then again I have only been to a few.  Wicked, a couple of productions in high school,  nothing that stands out.  I think I went to Wicked with an ex-boyfriend for Valentines Day.  It was ok.

Not worth $70.

I like to go to bed with an album playing and listen to it while I drift off in a warm black haze of notes and swaths of rhythms.

Not always.

In fact, often times I find it more challenging to fall asleep with music playing then without.

But sometimes, like recently, I get smitten, I get taken, I get wrapped up in an album and I just want to hear it again.

I am a junkie.

Fix me up please.

I want to nod out in my white cloud of a bed, snuggled in under the comforter drifting through the landscape of dreams and drum beats and vocals.

Smart vocals, lustful, fuzzed out, reverbed, tangled up in the rattle of cymbals and the wah wah pedal, and the occasional interjection of an old Hammond organ.

I think it’s a Hammond, I don’t know why.

I just do.

I also find it a little romantic.  I want to share the album with some one.  I want to slow dance around the room.  I want to get caught singing my heart out and be loved for it.

Baby if you want to be right, I will let you be right, you know the numbers don’t lie, the numbers don’t lie.

Two wrongs don’t make a right.

I remember Justin walking in on me in the back bedroom in the first house we lived in together in Madison after the Co-op on Lake and Langdon.  We were in the top floor of a two-story Victorian with wood floors.  It had a huge front porch down below that we shared with all the common neighbors.

We had many room mates–Matt, Naboja, myself, and Justin.  Then there were the parties and the girlfriends and the chess games and the bongs and the pot and the police and the heroin junkie room-mate that never paid rent, and Justin cheating on me with a woman who actually had a crush on me and wanted to sleep with Justin and me and then ended up dating Naboja for a while.

That was a place to live.

I can romantize the hell out of anything though, music can take me there.

I don’t want to talk, so keep to yourself.

Heather, that was her name, Justin cheated on me with Heather.  There was a second woman as well, I never met her, however.

I still stayed with him.

Ah, love.


Ah, alcoholic dysfunction.

I mean love.

There was this moment, and there were others, although the bad really outweighed the good in the end with Justin, which I will never forget.

I was wearing a skirt I had fashioned from an old dress of my mom’s.  I wish I still had this dress,  it was a long A-line skirt in a navy and red fine print plaid, drop waist, button down bodice, short sleeves, wide dress shirt color.

I can almost see how young and beautiful my mom is in it, still to this day, might be my favorite dress of all time.  Just holding the vision of my mother in that dress.


I had cut it in half, tore off the bodice and fashioned the skirt to fit me. I was wearing it with a blue leotard, a dance leotard, I also had fancied myself a dancer (not really trained, just a longing for it, you know, a fantasy) and I love the way it looked, the long leotard, the full skirt, I would swirl about the apartment with it.

My god.  I must have looked like a little hippie.

Barefoot, long hair, navy blue leotard, long skirt, dancing in my room, thinking no one else was there, Sunrise on the Surfer Bus, the song–When Jody Sings–belting out of my mouth, I twirled around the room singing out my heart.

Justin was standing in the door way watching me.  I have no idea how long.

“You are so beautiful.”

I must have gone thirteen shades of red.  And no matter how fucked up that relationship was I will always remember him looking at me like that, in awe, lovestruck, long lanky body leaned in the frame of the white door way.

No one to watch me dance right now, so I dance for myself.

I listen to the words and I forgive him and I forgive me and I move on.

And I listen to music now because I like it.

Too much common sense will leave a bad taste in your mouth, so wash it out, so wash it out, wash it out.

Leave your plans by the sea.

When the tide comes in.

Let them bleed.

And wash it out

Wash it out

Wash it out.

Guitar, drums, drums, drums, drums, bang.

Oh. God damn. It is good.

Thank you.

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