Back to the serious stuff-- Fraggling!

I avoided blogging during the heavy election season, because after all, I am quite opinionated about much of it. 

So, as my draft blogs tended to lean towards things that could, whether intended or not, become political, I just stayed away from the whole thing. Considering my entire readership consists of me, and maybe two friends, I presume the damage would have been negligible. Still, why piss off my two good readers? Thanks, you two.

Now we can get back to being serious about things that are NOT so serious... like my newly rekindled love affair with the Fraggles. 

I have always, always always always, claimed Jim Henson and Dr. Suess as two of my heroes-- if you think there's not a huge need for bravery in fearless creativity, you need to try some yourself. It's a tough world out there to allow oneself to be fearlessly creative-- I know that I hold myself back in a million damaging ways, and it's wonderful to suddenly find inspiration renewed in this series. 

The Fraggles are a show I watched... a little bit... when I was younger. I remember enjoying them, but I remember small images, not full storylines. I remember the dog, the man, and the fact that the fraggles lived and sang underneath them. I remember the names, the voices and I remember hating the Trash Heap. I was disturbed by its masculine/feminine thing ("it should be a man!!" I kept thinking, but the voice was feminine! Very easily bothered young child, I was. I won't even go into what I thought about Boy George.) 

However, now that I'm older... and a huge fan and connoisseur of muppets and muppetry skills, along with voiceover skills, the Fraggles have become a rich and bold source of inspiration. I was enjoying them from a nostalgic perspective, until suddenly two fraggles-- Red and Boober-- were trapped in rock fall, losing air, and facing.. quite earnestly... death. It was so emotional, so full of realism for two little Fraggles, that I stopped what I was doing and allowed myself to become deeply engrossed in the story. I thought about the children's shows of today-- Dora the Explorer, Thomas the Tank Engine, etc. etc. and thought-- you know, here are real issues, faced by real people, and while kids themselves may not find themselves trapped in a life and death situation like this, they certainly face moving locations, or being isolated, or finding themselves with nobody who understands them-- and here's a show dealing directly with these issues in a hugely emotional and inspiring way. Directly. And in a non-threatening way, because after all, these are Fraggles, not real people. 

Fantastic. 

In the last season, the Fraggles deal with pollution-- oh boy, a political hot button apparently-- but they were most certainly anti-fracking. The polluted water that was being placed in the rock was killing them. Boober prayed-- yes, prayed-- although not to a higher being, but only to "outer space" as he understood it-- specifically to the silly people who populate "Outer Space"-- and left an offering. Prayer and an offering in order to end the pollution that was killing his people. Wow. WOW. Could a children's show even get AWAY with that today? 

I don't have much more point to make than this: we are entertaining-- and yet-- dumbing down our children. We are treating them like little Fraggles, instead of actual human beings. We need to give them shows that are emotionally rich. Politically charged, so to speak. Challenging. That deal with REAL emotions, and REAL circumstances. The Fraggles did it. And they did it through song, dance, humor and bold creativity. They reinforced their ideas through several means- human/dog, Gorgs, Doozers and Fraggles. Multi-faceted approaches to problems. Different perspectives. Intelligent -- no, brilliant critical thinking with some occasional magic thrown in. 

How can we get shows like that back on the air? What would it take? How can we get them to sell and if I'm missing a show that does as much as the Fraggles did, what is it? Because I think these Fraggles are as relevant-- if not more so-- right now, than ever before. Thank you Netflix for allowing me to rekindle my nostalgia-- and reinforce what it means to be boldly creative. 

May I do justice with my life to what I've learned from my heroes. And Amen. 

Roadtime & Forgiveness

It's no wonder we listen to music when we travel in the car.

For one, it passes the time brilliantly. I've been doing quite a bit of car travel, and there is absolutely nothing like music and songs to make the ride move along more quickly. I have also found that singing along with songs I know and love, unlike texting, helps me focus and handle stressful driving situations much better than when driving in silence.

For another, boy-- isn't it uncomfortable to sit alone with your thoughts sometimes? I am practiced at meditation, and being a relatively confident person, I am unafraid of letting thoughts come and go as they will. This week, however, seems to be a bit different.

There was a little kitten, one I loved and adored, who stayed with me for a week before passing. I had found it isolated and alone on the side of the road, only to discover that its family was a quarter of a mile back and that momma cat was overwhelmed and not taking care of her babies very well. I was head over heels with this little guy. I took it home to give it a home-- or at least give it a chance.

I won't go into detail because I'm still sad, but the kitten ended up dying. I'm convinced it was my fault, through a combination of ignorance and some anxiety, along with being improperly prepared to care for the little guy. Now,  I love my two older cats. Dearly. I don't have kids, so they benefit from my being able to dote on them without competition. They, too, were rescued as babies from starvation on the streets of Queens, NY. Even then, I did not feel the sort of absolute love I felt for the little kitten. I don't know why it was so particularly strong.

Anyway, the death of the kitten happened about a year ago. It had only lived with me for seven days. For some reason, the spirit of this little kitten has been hanging around and sending me into tears and feelings of regret.

My more hardy friends may laugh at my sentimentality. That's fine. This emotional reaction has surprised me too. For a week now, on and off, this little kitten and my role in its death has been a constant companion.

Yesterday, I took a longer trip than usual, and had exhausted my music. Once I turned it off, however, my thoughts returned to the little guy. My mind strove to make connections-- why now? why so powerful? Why so emotional? Is this memory trying to tell me something? Should I be on my guard? Is it, like a dream, trying to signify something broader in my life? Or is the spirit of this little cat truly around me? I never even had a chance to give it a name.

Before you know it, I'm crying behind the wheel-- which is probably as distracting as anything.

This whole episode left me with a few thoughts. One, is that when you hold the life of somebody, anybody-- a pet, a friend, a child, a patient-- in your hands, you are ultimately still a human being with all of the faults and failures and love that a human being can offer. No matter what you do, sometimes, no matter how strong your love or care-- it's not enough. Sometimes love itself is not enough. Sometimes. Regret, too, is powerful. And so is forgiveness-- although, when you are truly responsible for another being's life, forgiveness can be a harder one to swallow. I think we play games with ourselves when we say "forgive" -- we really mean "shove it aside into the corners of our mind and hearts and don't think about it." Actual, real forgiveness-- it's a bit harder to achieve, isn't it?

Do I really believe that the kitten would have survived if I had done things differently? Yes, I do. In reflection over my actions, in hindsight, yes. I could have done better. So I regret. I'm sad. And I've lost a bit of trust in my ability to handle something as delicate as another creature's life. Will I let my anxiety override the care another creature needs? Will I make more mistakes and let a life slip away in front of me when I could have done more to help? Will I recognize what's needed? What if it had been a child? Or a friend? Or a parent? Obviously the same mistakes wouldn't apply-- but would the same weaknesses?

Forgiveness, of one's mistakes and one's human limits-- in the face of the death of another-- is not easy. I didn't reach it during my silent car ride. I think I'd rather have listened to music instead.

The secret of faith

The radio program was already in progress by the time I scrolled to it. Typical NPR/Canadian programs are so darned intriguing, I was hooked a few moments in.  The narrator, a woman, was relaying her story about losing faith, and trying to get it back again. She said, and this is paraphrased and shortened: "When I was a girl, I said a prayer to God and immediately received a sign that it was heard. It was a miracle to me, and I accepted it as proof that God existed. I grew up, and began to seriously question my judgement on this. There didn't seem to be proof after all, and in fact much that I learned seemed counterintuitive to there being a divine being. I slowly lost faith. After a hard time, I wanted to have that simple faith back, the same belief in a higher power that I had when I was young. I prayed to God to give me a sign that He was there. At the same moment, there was a huge flash in the sky-- a larger-than-life shooting star, low in the horizon, flashed by. But it was not as easy or as clear as when I was young. Was it coincidence? Was I trying to see signs of something bigger in what was just a chance occurence?"

The girl had an opportunity to renew her faith, but was unable to make that choice.

My friend, Dave Baldwin, shared in his blog the reason he came to believe in God. And it's a pleasant little journey. It inspired me to consider sharing my own reason for faith, because it does seem so illogical when you aren't willing to allow it to blossom. Here is Dave's article: How and Why I Came to Believe in Godwww.dave-baldwin.comwriter. innovator. thought leader.


Unlike my friend Dave, my period of agnosticism never fully included the possibility that this earth was all there is. I left the Catholic church and studied Wicca. The bright, earthly light of pagan-based magic. I cast spells, and had some degree of success with them. I studied what was termed "new age" and like many others, sought information from the old age-- herbs, healing, spirits, etc. I moved through Wicca, and found that while there was much good that could be done, it was not enough. One early morning, or perhaps late at night, after carousing with my friends through the haunted woods of my college, we rested on a hill and looked up at the stars. I said a prayer to God that I would continue to learn more, that my life would lead me to deeper understanding of the spirits, of God, of the angels, of the world. Immediately-- and just like the woman who told her story to NPR, an unbelievably huge shooting star--- low in the horizon and magnified out of proportion by its angle and its location in the sky-- like the moon when it rises low on the horizon-- white brilliant shining light cascading fully across the horizon and its comet shaped tail behind it. It was wonderful. Magical. I asked my friends if they saw it, and none of them had. It was a message, and an answer to me.

I could have, like NPR woman, questioned the timing of it. I didn't. This... this is where faith steps in. Faith is a choice. It is not an accident, it is not something you come by casually and go "oh yeah, I'm full of faith." Faith-- will be tested. It will be challenged by people who have none, it will be challenged by what appears to be reality and science. Faith is all about choice, and allowing yourself to trust in something that is bigger, higher and smarter than you.

Could it have been coincidence? Sure, why not. Except you know what?  God is bigger than that. God can orchestrate coincidence so that it serves as a form of communication.

I have had answers to my prayers throughout my life. When I asked for a brother, He supplied. When I asked for an apartment in NYC, one showed up in a fairly unorthodox manner. When I asked for a roommate, there one was. For help. For love. For assurance. For dinner. For undeniable motivation. For an opportunity. For peace. For truth. For .. for goodness sake, for a free treadmill in my apartment. All I have ever had to do is ask, and it has always been answered. I may not always like the answer. I may not always WANT an answer. But there is one. So-- I choose faith. I struggle less and less with the question of why I should believe, and more with "how can I deepen my faith?" and "if I resent the answer I'm getting-- if I fight and dislike it, am I also then demonstrating a lack of faith?" which brings me back to "how can I deepen my faith?"

If one chooses -- like the woman above-- to believe that a Godly experience is just coincidence, it's ok. Lots of folks call that atheism. I find that most atheists are actually agnostic-- folks who haven't looked too deeply, or read much biblical literature, or who haven't tried prayer, and who don't want to question too much. It's ok. Here's where I loved Harold Camping's response-- although he couldn't pick an "end of the world" date to save his life, he did speak some truth-- and he would say "God is so good, that you can choose not to believe in him and still have a wonderful, beautiful life-- with family, children, work, and wonderful experiences."

On the other hand, if one chooses faith, it's a much harder road. There is so much that will try to convince you otherwise. Plus, it is really hard to talk about. I admire Dave's blog-- it's very bold to stand up and proclaim "I believe" when so many are there to pester with "But why????".

For the record, I also believe we can use science to understand our world, to deepen our comprehension and understanding of how it all works. There is no need for us to pit science against faith-- they actually work hand in hand. Just remember, God is bigger than all of that. If it looks like a contradiction, it may be because we have a limited perspective. I, like my friend Dave, am not one to preach or try to convince anybody else to believe if they aren't willing to go there. Belief has to come from within, or not at all. I simply wanted to stand up with him and say yes, me too. And this is my "why."

I welcome discussion. What have your experiences been? Why do you believe... or not?

darn dogs

I'll keep this short and sweet. Dogs should be leashed. Unless you live on private property surrounded by a safe fence or electric system.

We humans believe that once we get to know an animal, and they have proven themselves gentle and trustworthy with us, that the animal will be gentle and trustworthy with everybody else. 

We have anthropomophized animals so much that when they show and demonstrate the slightest hint of human compassion and empathy, we think they are capable of so much more. True human understanding. I love animals. I believe they are capable of love, dreams and making memories. I believe they do understand compassion and I believe they are capable of heroics and of amazing human-like qualities. 

Never, never have I thought that animals are .. not animals. They still understand things in their own quirkly little animal minds. They still see things,  hear and smell things in ways that we humans seem to be incapable of doing-- and they will still act in their own lovely animal nature when left to their own devices. 

So why on earth do human dog owners (and many other animals, but today I'm picking on dogs) believe that their dogs are trustworthy enough to run around a city block without a leash? I speak for my neighborhood, where my neighbors have been known to open their door, let their dog run around their lawn or down the block, and assume the dog will return. 

Dogs often do. 

But sometimes cars go down the street too quickly to see them.

Sometimes the dogs actually like to go INSIDE the cars of  people who are nearby. This happened several times to one dog, who nuzzled his way into three cars before people yelled enough for his owner to come get him. 

And my neighbors in particular have no problem letting their dogs run around their driveway and their lawn-- not even thinking that another person on the block could be terrified of them. 

Their dogs have run up to me, sniffed me, barked at me and growled at me as I'm walking from my car to my apartment. "They won't bite," the owners assure me. 

I'm not so sure. It takes great restraint not to yell at my neighbors in language which I put aside during the school day, and often I am shaking as I go up the stairs to my home. 

Dogs that are the most loving creatures will bite when they feel threatened, and just because we humans see a different lawn or a house and think, "oh that's not our property," who knows how much the dog believes is his territory? The yard? The driveway? The whole block? 

Dog owners in my neighborhood are just awful, and I'm curious if it's particular to my block or if dog owners all over are just careless, or stupid-- or so in love with their pets that they think, like a certain lion-tamer that eventually was eaten, their animals are above and beyond being the dogs they are? 

maple syrup

Somewhere in the recesses of my memory lies my kindergarten field trip to a sugarbush to find out how to make syrup. We ate pancakes and poured maple syrup on them, enjoying their sticky sweetness. I recall watching the steam lift off the syrup as it was being made, and I remember the wooden, green darkness of the classroom and the round softness of my teacher. These are images only, brushes of moments-- much like a scratched DVD that skips ahead from scene to scene.

This weekend was a much needed break from the gloom of our overcast, grey skies in Buffalo, NY. It may not have snowed much, but the sunlight is a surprise every single Spring. The warm weather made it feel even better.

To celebreat (that was mistyped but I like it, it works), a good friend and I traveled to Freedom, NY, and visited the Moore's Pancake and Maple Syrup house. All you can eat pancakes (which were astonishing in their light, delicious state. I had three helpings-- nearly ten pancakes in all, and could have kept going except I'm really trying to lose weight here) plus large round sausage patties and scrambled eggs. The decor is all vintage artifacts from the six generations of Moores that have been running the restaurant and making their own maple syrup. They include photos, dresses, hats, shoes, farm equipment and an old phone.

Afterwards we toured to the sugarbush-- via 1951 John Deere tractor (possibly 1961)-- and hosted by a friend of the Moore family. While in Kindergarten I'm sure we were taught much the same process-- stick a hole in a tree, collect the sap and then begin processing it into syrup-- this trip meant a few more things.

First, I teach an Erie Canal program to fourth graders and we spend a good portion of our time discussing what the world was like "way back then." I try to describe the bumpiness of the wagons back then, and the noise -- well, the tractor gave me a visceral reminder of this past. Our fellow passengers included a 2 year old going on 3, and her parents held her tight. Our host talked about how he used to take a horse and wagon back there, collecting sap on snow that rested three feet high. We haven't seen snow three feet high in a while-- definitely not this winter, where I'd be surprised if we saw 6 inches total in the city.

Most striking to me, and to my friend, was the man's accent. That he had an accent was clear. He grew up near Arcade, not quite an hour away from the city of Buffalo-- and yet his earthy, farmer accent-- it sounded close to Canadian, and yet also a bit new englandish-- was strikingly not the way we talked. I grew up on the outskirts of the city of Buffalo, and between that and the time I spent in NYC, consider myself quite the yankee-- but a citified yankee. Now we were listening to the genuine "salts of the earth" and I was taken aback at how different we sounded. Perhaps, because he has worked so closely with his family's generations, he has retained the closest version of our colonial speech that remains. I almost envied his close acquaintance with our past-- he knows more about where we came from than I can ever hope-- inept as I am at telling the difference between a maple, an elm or an oak.

If you need to appreciate where you are, I can think of no better way than to travel back in time a little bit, and spend time with the folks who are connected that way. After all, I may be an adult-- but that maple syrup tastes just as good as when I was in Kindergarten. Sometimes a trip back is all you need to refresh living in the moment.

war on women... a personal pontification

The news (by which I mean Facebook), has had abundant posts about the current "war on women" from the GOP. Actually I don't care which political end of the table you sit at, what I do care about-- quite deeply when the guns are actually pointed-- is women's rights and elements of the language that is used when talking about  women's rights.

Wow, sounds so archaic, doesn't it? Next thing you know and the label femi-nazi will return, along with all of the slurs and derogatory words used to project an idea of what a "woman" is and what our "rights" should be, as if we are separate and not equal.

Let's start with Limbaugh, since he made the most noise most recently. Calling a college student a "slut" in answer to her bold testimony about the use of prescription contraceptives for reasons other than strictly birth control (I went on the pill as one of the last resort efforts to clear my skin after years of terrible acne, before finally being blessed to find a doctor -- Dr. Stephen Comite, in NYC-- who helped me obtain Accutane.) is pretty bad. I was glad he was called out on it. But his calling the woman a "slut" didn't bother me half as much as his awful apology which was far from apologetic.

You see, any woman worth her salt-- any teacher, too-- can read through an insincere apology as easily as a bald-faced lie. "Johnny, did you punch your sister?" "Wasn't me!" "Don't lie to me. Go to your room!" is as easy for us as "Johnny, you apologize to your sister for punching her." "Fine. Sis, I used the wrong punch when I swung my fist at you, I didn't intend to hit you personally."

Right?  His apology gave more validity to his initial statement. Rather than appearing  truly regretful, his apology clarified it as a belief he holds.

What about the rest of this war on women?
My friend Carolyn Castiglia provided a nice little turn of the table in this blog she posted today: http://blogs.babble.com/strollerderby/2012/03/05/win-female-senator-in-ohio-introduces-bill-to-help-men-make-informed-reproductive-decisions/

I am particularly fond of the use of these words: “provisions to document that the symptoms are not psychological in nature, and would guide men to make the right decision for their bodies." This language mimics the language used in similar bills about women's health, and I'll admit that I get a squeamy feeling when reading it.  It makes me feel like a "sensitive" man is trying to compensate for the fact that he ogles naked women in Penthouse magazine (or whatever is out there, I'm way behind the times. For all I know Penthouse went out of business. haha... nah.)

When it comes down to it, at absolute core, it is a belief that women-- for all of our quirks and hormonal shifts and the fact that we deal with all of that and men don't-- are still in need of protection from themselves. They need men... and legislation... to tell them what's what.

I understand that there are women out there who probably see Limbaugh's point, which I believe was about first amendment freedom or something. Easy to forget when he smothered it under the "women will have more sex on birth control and become sluts" mask. Speaking of-- yes, some women will indeed seek out more sex even if they are on birth control for mundane reasons (like acne control). To counter Limbaugh, I recall Dr. Oz recommending sex four times a week for better health. Huh. How about that.

And we women, I think, also realize that the abortion issue rubs right up against women's rights issues-- because it is, after all, OUR perogative about when to have children and when not. Except that... often, it's not. Culture, personal habits, health, drugs & alcohol, men with controlling and dominance issues, societies that don't give those rights to women, and competition between women themselves-- all of these things interfere with a woman's clear decision whether or not to have sex as a means of procreation. Lack of education and lack of access to birth control also limits women's freedom and their ability to choose.

So when the question of abortion comes charging through our government-- and those who want to maintain its legal status argue with those who wish to take away access to it, they argue as though it is a separate issue from women's health, as though women's health is a separate issue from women's rights. The fact is-- these things are closely entwined. Calling one woman a "slut" for speaking publicly on behalf of other women's health issues and telling another woman she has to have a transvaginal ultrasound as means of determining whether or not she still wants an abortion... that's exactly the same as telling a woman she does not have the right to make decisions-- for her body, for her country or for her family. Language that demeans and diminishes women's rights can be hidden in legislation designed for "the sanctity of all life".

My hope is that women continue to hold men's feet to the fire when they let loose a bit of truly raucous legislation-- or radio pontification-- and that we stand up for ourselves and our rights, always.
The war is, indeed, still on.

Caveat:
Having said all of this, the fact is--  I work with male musicians. I have worked in the restaurant business. My skin is tough and I have a Mae West sense of humor and sense of self as a woman. Hell, I have a show called sultry cabaret jazz and blues. You can pretty much guarantee that I'm not up there wearing a nun's outfit. So with all of the above, my caveat for this blog is context driven. Limbaugh holds a special place for his influence on his listeners. Legal legislation with language that effectively removes the woman herself from private choices she has to make-- also very important to consider. My band making a joke about "that's what she said..." eh, I'm bound to join in.

Yours,
Melissa

Habits and morals

What's in a blog? I'm a bit late to the blog game, and am just starting to contribute. I expect, old fart that I am (technologically speaking -- let's face it, my favorite christmas gift this year was a record player), that by the time writing this blog has become a habit, the world will have moved on to the latest advancement of twittering every single thought that you think, without the hard effort of typing it all in with your actual fingers. Thought-twer, they'll call it. 

A young child wore a shirt with a record player on it just a few weeks ago-- probably dug out of an attic or found at a garage sale-- and I asked him what he thought it was. "A DVD," he said, without hesitation. 

Well reader, I hope you will forgive me a few rather more blase blogs as I build up the habit of writing in one. My journal is typically the place I turn to and, yes, handwrite my thoughts. Here-- what I intend to incorporate are stories, song lyrics, and observations about life which I find interesting. My hope is that you will too. I don't have anything catchy or gimmicky-- this blog is pretty much as low key as I can get. You may be interested in what happens backstage, or even onstage-- and some of the behind the scenes happenings as my music career does what it's supposed to do. 

So I'll end this blog with a little *true* story. 

Recently, I was assisting a friend with doing sound for a rally. The temperature was bitter cold (30's and a damn cold blustery wind), and we planned to stay in a vehicle, cleverly setting up the equipment so that the back door could close and it could still  operate from within. The idea was that we would run the van, stay warm and toasty, and let the ralliers shiver and freeze in the cold as much as they wanted. They had our love and support, but the freezing was up to them. We set up the sound, running cords and cables through bushes, into the grass, around a gazebo-- and after a good hour of set-up and shivering, we hustled into the van and closed the doors, ready to work for a couple of hours. Turned the ignition in the key and... nothing! The battery, drained by leaving the key in the ignition with the radio on-- combined with the electrical charge of the equipment we were running-- drained it. Fail, on our part. So we used the van as a wind-guard, and literally shivered our way through the rally, playing music the participants could dance to so they stayed warm. Finally, only after the rally ended and we tore equipment down, were we able to get a jump from a rally participant. I suppose there's not really an ending to this story-- more a moral, than anything: Plan the van, and never trust the weather. The moral even rhymes. Thank you very much. 

On the run...

A short post to start us off on the right foot. Just about to head out walking, jogging (maybe) in the chilly 30 degrees that we have today-- before the sun goes down. I've been working out on the Wii Fit and can jog in place for 60 minutes, but I'm not so sure about on the road. Last time I tried I had to give up after about 5 minutes of jogging. You can bet there was no runner's euphoria or sense of accomplishment. Not exactly the most encouraging start. But-- I'm determined. Wii says I can run for five miles or more in 30 minutes, so let's take that to the bank and see what happens. Y'all can watch and laugh. 

I'm starting this blog as another way to reach out to readers and music lovers and thinkers around the globe. It's titled after one of my songs, but perhaps it's also a way to encourage you to stop by. The read will be fast, the thinking... we'll dive a bit deeper.

Meanwhile, my feet are saying "Woman, you better get us out on the road, because we're about to walk over to the fridge and eat some ice cream, yes we are." 

love ya,

Melissa