Have you ever wondered what life on earth would be like if there was no moon? How would we regulate our cycles or plan feast days or understand the ocean’s shifting moods? Who would dogs howl to and under what light source might lovers kiss? And what about music, from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata to Elvis Presley’s Blue Moon to Benny Goodman’s Moonglow?
The spark for my song came from something my dad said: the Sun is Einstein’s but the Moon is Newton’s. I found this poetic but opaque, so I did some research, which spawned lyrics. For a full lunar cycle, I carried my song with me on my travels, letting it out to test its latest incarnation. And then one day, in my basement, the rock and roll chorus came to me, a gift from the muse.
Here are a few parameters that help in creative tasks and that occured to me as a result of my current project of filming one song a day, for 26 days, with each song corresponding to a letter of the alphabet, and filmed in a particular outfit.
Have some elements of your project pre-ordained so you don’t have a chance to second guess yourself. (In my case, the song, the letter, the costume.)
Make the ritual of setting up the shot and grooming the self be part of your process.
Have a time limit for the product so you don’t have to deliver a perfect take. (Instagram has 1 minute limit for video.)
Play with visual elements. (The visual realm is highly gratifying to me.)
Be able to put the work out into the world at the moment of its completion. (Instantaneousness is gratifying.)
Design your project to span an arc of time. This way you can gain mastery over a period of days or weeks, which builds confidence.
Set up your daily creative assignment so that it is a healthy stretch. In other words, set yourself up for success.
The dresses on the left represent the past. The dresses on the right, the future. It’s a way to mark the passage of time, 26 days, 26 dresses. I’m making a song video for each dress, marked with a pin and a tag, A-Z. 26 songs total.
It’s not that I had trouble marking the passage of Time. I wanted to plot an orderly arc through a unruly and vibrant landscape.
The putting together of this project/ feels so analogue and piecemeal/ not at all peaceful/ her friend says to record it when the feeling hits
It’s strange to listen back.
It’s 1995, I’m living at the Parkside, 19th & Aloha. I’ve taken to writing poems on tiny white pads of paper. In my mind, they’re just frenzied mental notes, slated for the scrap-pile. One day I press record on my Sony Walkman and speak the bits into the room. Later, I listen back. The thing that hit my ears is astounding – polished and confident! I’m ashamed that I had thought so lowly of my scribbles. They’ve morphed into something real, something worthy of existing! Now I have something I have an obligation towards, something to preserve and protect. I stash the cassette in a box and later find the tape has tangled with another tape and must be cut. I keep the damaged tape for some time, but eventually throw it out, tired of seeing it un-mended.
Flash forward to March 27, 2018. I soak in the tub and listen back to a recording on my phone. It’s rough. I’m playing a few coarse chords on the piano and singing words from my journal about the impossibility of capturing the essence of the moment. Body submerged, the sounds coalesce. The content strikes me as raw, yet perfect. Once it’s in my ears, I know it has become a thing that will hold up for me, that I’ll expect. That I’ll defend. If I hadn’t recorded it, I wouldn’t give it the time of day. The recording makes a claim on my memory, fixes it in my brain as something worth saving. What is behind my fascination with first takes? Is it blind obedience, or something higher, something approaching grace?
This song takes me to the ocean really. It breezes along, actually I used to think of it as a bit Beach Boy-ish in melody and mood.
So why did I match this song with Disillusion, which my dictionary says, refers to an instance of disenchantment?
Let’s go back to the shore, the waves. It’s magical, right? But the ground isn’t really solid, it’s composed of billions of shifting particles, granules of mountains. And the horizon, your point of reference, what is it but vapor molecules condensing and evaporating? Likewise, anything or anyone you cling to is liable to switch allegiances with the waxing, waning moon.
Still, the beach is a treat, it’s ample balm for the divesting of illusions. As is this song – whose catalyst is just about washed clean from my memory. . .
In every love affair, no matter how lofty or diseased, there comes a time for subterfuge. What does this mean? My dictionary defines subterfuge as: 1. a statement or action resorted to in order to avoid blame or defeat; 2. a place to which a person escapes, a retreat, a refuge; 3. a thing which provides concealment, a cloak.
But isn’t love supposed to be transparent, all-revealing? Aren’t secrets to be avoided at all costs? My experience begs to differ. I’m not talking giant gaping secrets that rupture the foundation on which lovers stand. I’m talking tiny rebellions that sprout at one’s feet like errant dandelions or pop up in dreams as unruly fantasies, too vital to be puffed away into oblivion. These are the gems that one can channel into dance, poetry, music – covert arts in which the obscene serves us, obscurely, without obstructing our ability to coincide.
Of course, subterfuge can also be a call to action. . .
Why does ecstasy fill us up and deplete us in succession? We can never get enough, so we go to our chosen church saying: I’m afraid I’ll come to nothing, is it necessary to be reborn again and again? I just need someone to embrace me in my contradictions and my complications, someone to compliment me, someone to complement the perfection that constantly confounds me.
The sensuality of the word rhododendron first occurred to me when I used it for Vlodoya’s speech in A Warehouse Dream, the way it rolled melodiously off Vlodoya’s tongue. Years later I wrote a love song on my lunch break to this same species. What does it imply to sing, “you are the flower with the almighty power! I don’t mind a spring shower, we’ll spend hour after hour. . .” ? The craving for communion springs eternal.
As a child, I once visited my dad’s friend’s family. I think there were three kids and in the basement the man had carved out a workspace for each child out of wood and chicken wire. That image stayed with me which is perhaps why as an adult warehouse life resonated with me! The notion of being secure in one’s own creative world and yet surrounded and stimulated by other creative humans is an artist’s dream!
This song, written two decades ago, has several layers: it’s about having a surprise crush; it’s also about the joys of collaboration – finding the best friend or soul mate or killer roommate whose box of tricks has a keyhole in which your key, the one you’ve worn around your neck all these years, turns easily. Inside the box are photographs, you take one back to your desk and gazing at it, begin your story, which turns into the story of Us. . .
Here’s an admission: I may be a bit of a wallflower, but my little red journals are chock full of flirtation. I always thank my lucky stars for writing. Something about those scribbly vowels and stretchy consonants, sprinkled through with spry commas and peppery periods, that makes me feel, well, flirtatious. I guess you could call it my guilty pleasure.
Wordplay, unlike much foreplay, is so portable. And who can deny the thrill of saying “now I’m drinkin’ all this lilac wine with an urchin slurpin’ turpentine, you know you’re never gonna be my valentine!” C’mon, you know you wanna. . .
The geneses of this song: a community theater rehearsal of Alice in Wonderland in which I played a ballet-dancing flower; a post-rehearsal trek on foot to a Ballard warehouse with a giant bonfire outside and a raging jam session in which I improvised a tune to the nursery rhyme Miss Muffet; the party’s Bacchanalian host, John Foss, standing in the middle of the road, drunk, serenading the universe with “If I was a helicopter, I’d make all your parties!” And then, sitting in my Laurelton apartment watching the rain fall for days on end, writing my version of his visit from the muse.
Ideal love is a necessity. It returns us to childhood when we believed in fairies and lined up our stuffies on our beds to fight the evil forces blocking our entrance into the kingdom. We all belong there, which is why we love stories and can never get enough even though we know that life is full of potholes along the way.
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