Something wicked this way comes

Published May 24, 2015 by Kristie


When I first moved to Tucson, 17 years ago this summer, the weather was pretty predictable.  No rain from March to July.  Monsoon daily at 3:30 p.m. from July to September.  Weather perfection throughout October, which became my favorite time of year here.  You’d get a little winter rain in December and January, and have to put on long pants and a sweater, but come February it’d start warming up and you’d start it all over.  This went on for years.  But in the last few years, things have been changing.

We’ve been experiencing some unseasonably cool temperatures and unexpected rain here in the Old Pueblo of late, and people are rejoicing.  Desert dwellers always celebrate rain, both because we need it, lest the state go up in flames later this summer, and because it’s novel.  I come from a cold, dark place; I never tire of sunshine, but other people like the variety.

But every time someone comments on the “beautiful” weather we’re having, I really can’t join them in their appreciation.  Because while I enjoy a reprieve from what is usually pretty punishing heat by this time of year as much as anyone, the only reason we’re having this “beautiful” weather is because climate change is a real thing, and we have seriously fucked up our environment.  We’re not supposed to have rain in Tucson at this time of year.  It’s not supposed to be cool.  The wind is not supposed to be gusting for months on end.  This isn’t right.  But it’s happening.  I don’t care what some idiots in the government say; if you’ve lived on this planet for more than 20 years, you’ve seen with your own eyes the changes, as they’re happening.  It takes a special kind of mind to deny your own lived experience, but people are doing it. They’re doing it every time they comment on the “beautiful” weather without acknowledging WHY we we’re having it.  This beautiful weather.  Last winter’s horrendous storms.  The increased number of hurricanes. It’s all the same deal.

I feel like Lara watching Krypton’s last moments.  Sure, it’s impressive, and beautiful in its way, but it is NOT good news.  And according to the scientists, we may be too far gone to save ourselves.  At least not without radical global change.  And we humans are not really good with radical change unless we have no other option.  The fact that my recycling bin is always fuller than my garbage bin and I drive a small car with good gas mileage isn’t going to do it.  I’m not sure what will.  Giving up on rampant consumerism might help.  Giving up our commitment to suck every last bit of oil and natural gas out of the Earth and getting serious about wind, water, and solar might help.  Not being stupider than the average hamster, and finally getting the concept that we (and the factories we run) shouldn’t shit where we eat might help. I’m sure there are other things, but I’m also sure that the vast majority of the folks in first-world countries will have to be doing them in order for it to make any kind of difference.  I find myself counting on the fact that I have no descendants to worry about, and that I’ll probably be dead before it gets really, really bad and we’re fighting each other tooth and nail over the last gallon of bottled water and squirreled-away bag of ramen.

So I’ll put on my sweater in May, and let the June rain water my plants, because what else ya gonna do? But I can’t really get excited about this weather.  The subtext is just a little too scary.

“I am waiting for you, Vizzini. You told me to go back to the beginning. So I have.”–Inigo Montoya

Published May 12, 2015 by Kristie

Exactly 10 years and 6 days ago today I played my very first open mic in Tucson, at Bentley’s Coffee House on campus.  I was so nervous and everything shook, from my voice to my legs, as I battled my way through those 4 songs.  The whole gang came out to hear me, and while every single one of them said nice things after and told me how great it was, only two of them ever came to one of the subsequent 163 shows (and one of those is married to me, so he was kind of obligated to attend now and again), so it was probably as bad as I thought it was.

Such is the way, and the point, of open mics.  Everybody has to start somewhere, and you need to put as much practice into your performing as you do in your playing and singing; it’s a whole separate skill set.  So they tend to be a little rough, because you’re going through artistic growing pains, not to mention dealing with a fair amount of nervous energy.  Because even when you’re certain this is exactly what you want to be doing, doing it will bring out every fear, insecurity, and nervous symptom you’ve ever had at exactly the moment you could do without those things.  In my case, it was many trips to the restroom, cotton mouth, freezing cold hands, and jittery legs that I had to will into stillness while I was busy singing, playing, and trying not to look terrified.

Most of those symptoms have subsided after a decade, or at least lessened in degree, but the pre-show neurosis is still there, and there’s not a single performance in all these years that I haven’t considered bailing on.  Hard to believe, because the single show I’ve missed was because of a horrible flu, but it’s true. I still feel these things, but I strap on my guitar and do it anyway, because I’ll be damned if the weakest parts of me are going to run the whole show.  Nuh-uh.

I kept waiting for it to get easier, and to be more fun.  I see some people who just sparkle on stage, who love performing, and it’s obvious performing feeds their soul. In the spotlight is where they’re supposed to be.  I have no doubt I’m a musician at heart; whether I’m meant to be a solo (or even duo) performing musician is a different question.  I’m not anti-attention.  I wouldn’t have been a teacher, or a performing musician, if I couldn’t handle that.  It’s not even stage fright in the classic sense.  I could sing all day without fear.  It’s that I’m not as good a guitar player as I’d like to be, nor am I a reliable guitar player, and I don’t know if it’s nerves, my natural lack of dexterity, or age that seems to derail my fingers and attention span at the worst times. And somehow, when 15-minute slots at open mic morphed into 3-hour gigs at coffee shops and farmers markets, the opportunities to mess up increased exponentially.  And I’m annoyed to say, I took advantage, however unwillingly, of those opportunities.

I practice.  I’m getting better.  I had a serious chat with my guitar teacher recently and he confirmed both of those things.  And also the very natural desire to be better, no matter where you’re at.  I’d have to live 3 more lifetimes to learn half of what he does every day, but he has his own musical heroes and role models.

I’ve also realized I’m not having that much fun overall.  This is an ongoing issue, one discussed in these pages many times.  It seems to me that walking off the stage feeling relieved as if you just walked away from a plane crash is not the triumphant feeling one is going for.  I’ve never had an utterly and irredeemably disastrous gig, but mistakes tend to stick with you until (and if) you can expunge them with the next gig, where you’ll presumably do better.  This is the kind of mental torment that high personal expectations will get you.  But I remember having fun, being one of the gang, at those regular Friday night open mics.  I remember walking off the “stage” feeling like I nailed it.  And then I sat down and celebrated with cake.  Good times.

If you’re wondering why I do this to myself, you can be assured that I’ve asked myself that question only a million times.  But when I consider my mixed feelings, and then consider walking away from performing, that never sits right, either.  So I’m getting my ego out of the way regarding where I should be at this point, or what kinds of gigs I think I should be doing, and going back to the beginning.  There’s a new open mic in town, and I’m going to bring myself and my guitar down there and try to build my performing chops to where I’d like them.  My goal is to find my way to fun.  And, you know, eat cake.  Wish me luck.


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