Once upon a time, I consulted a psychic, and she told me I should get a part-time job working in a coffee shop and do some light and feminine summer reading. Well, I knew I wasn’t going to get that job in a coffee shop, but I felt guilty about it- especially since I had just read an article that said married women without jobs are committing husband abuse- so I read a mountain of chick lit to make up for it.
This song was inspired by one of those books, I don’t remember it’s name. Probably “The Laces of Summer,” or something like that.
A song I wrote in Kentucky, at a time when I was obsessed with the color white. But not, this time, the clear icy white of the stars, but rather the thick and milky white of the moon.
During the summers I would cover myself from head to toe in the euphoric, almost dirty scent of jasmine flowers, stuffing handfuls of them in my shoes as well, and walk around for hours in the night, through the country and through the town. The moon and the humidity would mix to create a feeling of hope and possibility that soothed the despair which plagued me during the days.
A song about my desperation to leave the cold world of outer space and feel earthed again. I wrote this song in Nashville. As a kid, visiting Nashville from Kentucky, I had always liked its warm, earthy vibe, like pizza cooked in a red brick oven. But when I moved there as an adult- around 2006, I think, it didn’t seem the same anymore. It had become citified, slick, black, stylish, and cold. Sure, there was country music, but there wasn’t anything country.
What is country music, anyway? To me, it would be any music inspired by a southern, rural life. It wouldn’t have to fit a certain mold- it could be strange, nonsensical, angry, dull, sad, or wild. It could express the full range of human emotions and the crazy imagination of nature. But Nashville music isn’t rooted in the country, it is rooted in the tradition of country music, which is a very different thing. It pulls its tradition from a handful of 20th century country heroes, a well that becomes more depleted with every song written. Art that draws on other art as its foundation… well, I think it can get a little inbred. That is how we end up with blank canvases and the like hanging up in museums.
But that is just my opinion. The point is, I felt disappointed that Nashville had become more cosmopolitan than homey. I wanted something soft, warm, and natural, but ended up with something cold, hard and plastic. It may be no coincidence that so many of the songs I wrote in Nashville relate to being lost in outer space.
What a strange little song… probably in the top ten of songs I wouldn’t mind being washed away in the sands of time… why did I even have to mention the word clothes? Why did I think I needed permission to keep my clothes on?
At any rate, at one point in this song I mention my age and my weight, and- just to clear the air- I feel the need to say that neither statistic was accurate.
My weight came from a cop, who said it was his favorite weight for women and offered to write it down as being my weight (which I didn’t know) when I got detained for stealing gummy worms.
I didn’t mean to steal gummy worms- I thought they were free samples. It was my first time inside a giant superstore where they had those clear plastic bins filled with unwrapped candy. I thought I was in heaven eating handful after handful of gummy worms and other candies while wandering around an endless store. Next thing you know, I’m having my mugshot taken and bawling hysterically, certain my life as a respectable citizen is over. I think the cop felt sorry for me and was trying to comfort me by helping me select an ideal weight. At any rate, the whole event scared me so much that I promised God I would never break another rule again- a dangerous vow, since trying to be too good can land you in far more trouble than being a little bad will.
The second inaccuracy in this song was my age, which I lowered by five years after being constantly criticized by my boyfriend for being too immature. I agreed with him that I was immature (getting arrested for gummy worms!), but felt it would be more practical to adjust my age to reflect my development rather than the reverse. In some ways, changing my age was a good idea, since it did lower people’s expectations of me and cause them to praise me more. But I couldn’t keep it up for very long since my nerves were too delicate to be lying all the time.
Still, the basic idea of lowering people’s expectations seemed sound, so I decided to start telling people I was mentally retarded. But that is a story for another day.
I’ve written a lot of songs that involve a character crossing an endless stretch of frozen land, because I feel a lot of my life has been about perseverance and trying to outlast unbearable situations without going insane- or at least without going insane in a way that is irreversible.
So this song is about a soldier/spice salesman, who uses the warmth of spices to help him and others survive (emotionally & spiritually), a hard, barren, and relentless lifestyle.
One of my first songs, with their hyper-simplistic Grandma Moses sensibilities.
I used to write a lot of “free love” type songs, because I had just gotten divorced and had a lot of personal experience with the opposite of free love. I had learned that being married to someone meant they could pretty much treat you anyway they wanted, without consequences. My husband liked to give me what he called “Ego Bats” which were basically insults that he would randomly scream out in public, designed to keep my ego in check for the purpose of spiritual growth.
But the ego bats were not all that bad, because at least they were swift and merciful. Usually, the screamings would go on for hours, beginning in a public place until I would leave to escape the humiliation and he would follow me. It would always be the most bizarre and inconsequential things that would set him off, like whether fruit punch tasted like grape juice, or could I wear white socks with a black dress. The yelling was unbearable. Once I managed to climb into his car and lock the doors before he could get in. I sat in the car for a couple hours while he screamed and threw himself against the windows. Those hours are burned into my memory because they were so safe and peaceful, like watching a polar bear in the zoo.
But normally, I didn’t dare to lock him out. I didn’t know what to do. I started painting a giant black eagle on my face every morning. I don’t know why, it was my way of protesting against him, I guess. It stretched all the way from my forehead to my chin and across my face. Maybe it was a cry for help, but if so, it didn’t work. I don’t recall anyone asking me, “Hey, why did you decide to start painting a giant black eagle on your face?” even though I kept it up for a whole semester.
Besides the screaming, the other horrible part was the brain twistings… he would require me to believe the most ridiculous things– that the moon was just 20 miles from the earth, that classy ladies wore “cutaway tops” (shirts with the center part cut out, leaving their chests exposed), that he had just traveled through a space-time warp (space-time warps came up a lot). If I didn’t accept these truths, well, then it was back to the screaming part.
Which is all to say that free love seemed like a pretty good deal to me, considering what I knew to be the alternative.
When I was living in L.A. I went through a phase where I only painted pictures of Jewish people (and I would always write into the painting that it was a painting of a Jewish person, to underscore the point). Why? I have no idea, but now that I am a more cautious and worldly person, it is hard for me to even say the word “Jew” for fear that someone will try to find antisemitism in it. But be that as it may, I ain’t gonna lie to you- I went through a phase where I obsessively painted Jewish people, and I don’t know why.
Another one of my first “Dusty Stables” songs that would have been lost to the sands of time if James hadn’t pulled up the lyrics on his computer the other day…
This may be the only song I’ve ever written that is intended to convey a positive message…
well, I guess it is not so much a positive message as a desperate question…
I wrote this song after having to declare bankruptcy from making a series of outrageous purchases, ranging from $500 garbage cans to $5000 shirts in an effort to achieve financial stability via the law of attraction. Really, I think I had suffered a financial break with reality when I got married and had to assume my husband’s six-figure debt, something that seemed soul crushing given my $20,000 yearly income. Not to mention that he wanted Porsche’s and caviar and fine dining experiences and it seemed that his spirit would leave this earth if I could not find a way to provide them…
I suppose I could be grateful that my desperation drove me towards the purple end of the insanity spectrum (fantastical thinking) rather than the red and black end of crime and violence.
I remember having to go to court to declare bankruptcy… I was so scared and my legs were shaking… it seemed impossible to go through with it. But in the end the judge was a light & cheery man who just said, “Oh you’re an artist. Well, great! You’re free to go. Keep up the good work!” It felt like he was congratulating me. Sometimes I really love California.
Ok, I had to take a break for a few days, because it was becoming too painful to revisit my earliest songs… sometimes they bring up memories that are too much to bear. Anyway, this is another one of my first songs which were all about my love for Dusty Stables. How could I have been in love with someone who had the same hair color as me? How could I have been in love with a tall skinny guy*? Looking back, none of it makes sense.
*No offense… it is just that I perceive tall skinny men as being dreamers** and less likely to enjoy moving heavy crates from place to place. I may be wrong.
**Not that there is anything wrong with being a dreamer, but when you’ve spent the last six months trying to grow wings (literally), a dreamer shouldn’t be what you’re looking for.
Once upon a time, I consulted a psychic, and she told me I should get a part-time job working in a coffee shop and do some light and feminine summer reading. Well, I knew I wasn’t going to get that job in a coffee shop, but I felt guilty about it- especially since I had just read an article that said married women without jobs are committing husband abuse- so I read a mountain of chick lit to make up for it.
