Choosing Wealth

In Vagabonding traveler and author Rolf Potts talks about choosing how we define wealth. Rather than assuming that “wealth” and “money” are the same thing, he suggests measuring wealth in what we value. Wild concept, I know.

I would love to have more money for things like a trip to Ireland or new tires on the car or a new instrument (still deciding between octave mandolin and mandocello, but it looks like I’ll have plenty of time to ponder it.)

It’s not what I value most. Every time discontent creeps in I remind myself that I have plenty of the stuff live is made of: time.

I rarely wake to an alarm.

Nearly every day, I play some kind of game with my daughter, the last of our 7 children still at home.

Every day, I cook three interesting meals for my wife while she runs the business.

Every day in February, I’ve written a song. Every single day. And recorded a demo thereof.

Deadlines are almost unknown around here. A day off only requires balancing personal needs or desires with what’ll have to be done tomorrow.

Want to spend August in northern Wisconsin (highs in the low 70s) instead of southern Arizona (highs in triple digits and humid as an old sock)? Arrange our work schedule to allow it, plan for gas, the primary expense, and go. (Our travel requires two other factors, a location-independent business [check] and oodles of friends to stay with to avoid expensive hotel bills [check] but those didn’t happen by accident either.)

Today I’m worried about money. Ausoma has lost two big clients (they love us, but need to get other things done before they come back and work with us again) and for the first time, rent for the 1st of the month isn’t a slam dunk. It always works out. Always. We both have faith, Best Beloved and I, and it always works out.

So today, I’m going to enjoy the time I have and not worry about what I don’t.

Songwriting Finish Line and Missing My Kids

Unrelated, just the two things most on my mind today.

there is nothing here

Tough part: my 4 adult kids haven’t spoken to me since their mother and I split 15 years ago. The youngest was 13 at the time which means I’ve missed more than half his life. They’re adults, they make their own decisions, and I have to accept the consequences of breaking up the marriage. Doesn’t stop me missing them achingly and wishing things were different.

But good news: since FAWM‘s slogan is 14 songs in 28 days, I’m a winner (that just means I’ve written 14 songs, not that I beat anyone or anything except maybe Resistance.) I am happy with the songs I’ve written. Most are performable, at least once, and I’m especially proud of #14, called Here Before.

My plan was to write 28 songs, so I’m still going to plug along, writing the happy and sad as they occur to me, and most days, writing a chapter of that time-travel fantasy y’all are dreaming of.

The Temporal Lisle: Chapter 42

Thought I’d share one of the most recently written chapters of Rafe Keyn‘s time travel fantasy.

Long before the Traveler had crashed around packing up his camp and moved out, the old warrior was awake, watching. Knowing he would hear the inexperienced man’s noise and smell his artificial scent a long while after he disappeared into the trees, the old warrior dropped to the ground and tidied up the mess left behind, covering the ashes with dirt, pushing rocks back where they were better suited, burying a dirty bit of something the Traveler’s food must have been wrapped in.

It took less than five minutes to clean up the site, during which he listened to the other’s noisy passage. Slipping through the shadows, the old warrior was within sight again in less than ten minutes, and spent the morning following what rapidly became a familiar path. Had he known this Traveler’s destination he could have arrived in an hour and had two more to rest before that one emerged from the woods—if that had been his intent.

Instead, after circling around at what seemed to the old warrior an excessive distance, he settled in to make another oversized fire and camp on the far side of the village where the old warrior had first believed he would find his stone. Finding the Traveler was a surprise, then it felt obvious. That the man led him here made the old warrior suspect he should stop being surprised at the twists and vagaries of this quest, and simply forge ahead, eyes and mind open.

This time, rather than sleeping rough and going without food, he circled the village and came upon a farm on the outskirts where he was invited to share a meal and offered a bed for the night. The Traveler’s ignorance of the prospects of hospitality were another mark against his intentions. An honest man didn’t hesitate to sit table with others and accept the warmth of their fire.

After eating, he slept a short time, asking his host to be sure he awoke again before the sun had fully set. Though he offered to help with the farmer’s evening chores before leaving, that one laughed and wished him a safe journey and more excitement than feeding a few chickens and goats.

Moving quietly back around to the Traveler’s camp, he smelled the sickly sweet scent of the man on the breeze, and minutes later, heard him making a fire. With a full belly and two hours’ rest, he once again climbed a tree to await the Traveler’s next actions.

Dozing in the tree, noises from below woke him. The moon had set, and in the pure darkness the coals below glowed. The Traveler pushed dirt over them, gathered his few things, and moved toward the village.

Moving more quietly than usual, the old warrior followed closely. If this one was considering something untoward, he wanted to be in a position to act if necessary.

Their path was straight to the village, along a narrow alley behind a row of houses and shops. At one, the Traveler looked through a window, then squatted under it. In the darkness, the warrior couldn’t make out what he did as he hunched facing the wall, but a sharp ugly smell came through the dark. Rising, the Traveler moved around the building. By the time the warrior followed, the man had disappeared. He stayed behind the corner of the house, not sure if this was a time to act or wait. He had seen the Traveler’s dagger, true, but he had also smelled a medicinal smell which made him believe the man’s plans, though troubling, were not violent. Still, he listened as only a woodsman of his caliber could listen.

From inside came the sounds of the Traveler’s clumsy shuffling attempts at stealth. Whatever he was doing was taking ages. His sounds came now from farther back in the home, then stopped, replaced by other sounds, still quiet, but troubling to the old warrior. A woman’s voice, stifled; not words, only a harsh breathy gasp.

Then, silence.

Less than a minute later, more shuffling noises, and then suddenly the Traveler burst through the front door with something slumped over his shoulders. He stumbled and struggled with the weight, but once out of the building he straightened up, adjusted his burden, and walked between the buildings and back into the forest.

Rhymes with Gloom

Rumor has it Phoenix sees 360 days of sunshine a year. Anecdotal evidence suggests we could skip some of those during, say, June, but no, the few gloomy overcast days come in winter, no surprise.

Best Beloved and I both suffer from mild versions of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Grey days bog us down and make us cranky. Awareness is 51% of the battle, eh?

First time in months, we took a bike ride together this morning. Once around the block. It’s a small start, because we believe in the power of small wins. Persistent consistent effort, not grand gestures. She’s been sick, I’ve been sick, we’ve been pummeled no end the past 6 months, but it’s all working out, as it always does.

I’ve reached the point with this month’s songwriting that I’m filling gaps with experimental stuff, goofy lyrics, and songs I’ll never bother performing. Writing 28 songs in 28 days, I give myself a lot of slack. A lot.

Imposter Syndrome

The group of mad songwriters I’m hanging with this month have a thread with 100+ posts about imposter syndrome.

Every artist who’s ever created something they feel strongly about has also felt like a fraud. Who am I to pretend to be an author? Who am I to pretend my songs are worth your trouble to spend 3 minutes listening?

John Lennon anguished about his lyrics. Stephen King is, to this day, ashamed of his subject matter, still smarting from a teacher’s disdain for the junk he wrote.

I have reached a point where I’m confident about my song lyrics, and getting there about my books. Every smart writer I trust has said they learn to ignore feedback except from very specific people in very specific ways. Not the 1-star haters on Amazon. Not their Best Beloved (though mine is my first audience, but her one and only job is to smile and pat me on the head; we both know her job doesn’t involve anything like honest criticism, that comes later.)

I don’t believe in the anguished lamenting artist who must bleed and die to create. We choose to do this. On some level we’re driven to it; I don’t think I’d be happy if I stopped writing novels. But no one makes me do it, and a lot of folks never feel the joy of publishing a book or performing a song they wrote. I get to make art, and I’m happy about it. It takes work, though, to focus on the positives when Imposter Syndrome and Resistance strike.

Next time you see someone doing something creative, whether it’s performing in public or just sketching a doodle in the park, thank them for daring. They can always use the boost.

Coffee, 2 Weathers, Please

People make funny assumptions.

Because I (usually) drink decaf, apparently people think I like weak coffee. One place I worked, my morning ritual was to dump out the watery half-strength muck someone had just made and make a pot of strong-and-a-half decaf. At home, my coffee is the strongest you’ll ever taste. Not kidding. It will punch you in the tongue. I love the taste of coffee. What I don’t like is the caffeinated shakes.

When we were traveling, everyone we stayed with or even drove with assumed that because we were from California, our preferred temperature was somewhere around 80ºF. It’s closer to 65º, thank you very much. We’d sweltered our way through two experiences as guests when we realized what was going on.

Having moved from far northern Wisconsin to southern Arizona, it is only natural that every single person we meet comments on how nice it must be to finally see some decent weather. I’ve learned to respond that it sure is sunny here, oh ho oh ho.

We hate the heat. We love the snow. Since we work from home and don’t have to go out if we don’t want, two feet of snow overnight is fun for us. We all prefer sweaters to short sleeves, and a roaring blaze in the fireplace to living cooped up with a/c for six months.

Also, apparently from the way I talk, everyone assumes I love bacon.

Got that right.

2 Happy Songs and 2 Long Drives

Tucson

Our little one visits her sister in Tucson every month. She usually stays 3 nights. They have a studio so while the little one and her sister are up all night singing and laughing and making videos, the good husband is trying to sleep so he can go to work in the morning. We’re all (especially him) hoping they can move to a bigger place soon.

It’s 3 hours down, drop her off midday, then 3 hours back. Two full days at home, then do it all over again, pick her up late afternoon, arrive home wiped out after dark.

Music

Two more songs, making it 4 for 4. Four for four. Fore! These two were happy.

The next one will be pensive. Many lines will begin “I remember . . . ”

I never know which list songs will end up on: lost and forgotten, performed once and abandoned, or regular rotation crowd faves. Some songs I thought were great when I wrote them don’t interest me much anymore, and some I thought were throwaways get played all the time because people love them.

This is the planting time. Harvest will happen later, and as always, will surprise me.

I Don’t Want to Sleep

Needed to jot some notes about a song and this is as good a place as any

I’m tired, but I don’t want to sleep
One more thing I need to do
Almost done
It’s something for someone
Only take a minute or two

I’m tired but I don’t think I can sleep
Rather play with my friends than shut my eyes
It’s just a song
It won’t take long
We’ll sing a while and then say our goodbyes

I’m so tired, might be time to go
There’s one more thing I have to say
I look at you
You’re tired too
So I love you, now I’ll be on my way

Yeah I’m tired, but I don’t want to sleep

Okay, that’s all I’ve got right now, but the bones are there and I’ll flesh it out on our drive to Tucson. [Edit: I had a few more minutes. Pretty much done.]

February Album Writing Month Rides Again

Tomorrow begins a month-long exercise in artistic immersion.

I’ve been participating in February Album Writing Month (FAWM) since 2006, making this my 13th year. (I missed the first year it went public, but I’m still one of the Old Folks in the forums.) Nearly every song I’ve ever written has been born in February. For a while I wrote throughout the year, partly because I couldn’t afford to shut down all my other activities during February.

It wasn’t the same, though. Writing three songs in a week isn’t the same depth of immersion as writing 14 (or 30, like last year) in 28 days. Now that my schedule allows it (thanks to Best Beloved who loves my art) I’m back to diving in unrestrained.

Except tomorrow, when we’ll be taking the Little One to Tucson to spend a few days with her sister. But I’ll bet I can write a song on the drive. Maybe she’ll even play the ukulele while I record it.

15-Minute Song

That’s not 15 minutes long, it’s 15 minutes to write.

Last Saturday we played some of my songs for a bunch of friends in our living room. During the show, folks scribbled notes on slips of paper and dropped them in one of 6 hats:

  • people
  • places
  • moods
  • things
  • times
  • ?

At the end of the evening, I drew a random sample of suggestions from all 6 and wrote a song. In 15 minutes.

The suggestions were

  • pensive
  • dark ages
  • Costa Rica
  • Aunt Jemima
  • old motorcycles
  • siblings
  • a cowboy who doesn’t like horses or cows

I chose 2 people which is why there are 7 on the list.

It pretty much wrote itself. The video below (lightly edited for bonehead mistakes) was shot 15 minutes after I drew the suggestions. I’m switching a lyric to specifically mention Costa Rica, but even though “dark ages” would fit where I used “medieval” it just doesn’t flow, so that stays.

Lyrics

I wonder why I didn’t post these before?

what do you do when you’re in the wrong place
in the wrong place in the wrong time?
thinking like that can ruin your breakfast
looking for reason and rhyme

roping and riding and drivin’ ’em in
is driving me out of my mind
so I’m moving on
next week I’ll be gone
the week after that I’ll fine

my sister just doesn’t get it
she doesn’t have to, she knows I’m okay
her Harley will get me to LAX
I’m flying south today

chorus

I’m off on a plane to the tropics
heading south as fast as I can
get away from those horses and smelly old cows
in Costa Rica I could work on my tan

chorus

no more bacon and eggs in the morning
Aunt Jemima’s got nothing on me
that medieval torture of saddle tramp days
is washing away in the sea

chorus

Not a Professional Patient

The last round of blood tests trying to locate the cause of my extreme fatigue over the slightest exertion returned nothing of any meaning. My triglycerides are still slightly elevated despite taking a medication for exactly that result from the last blood test. My potassium is slightly low despite taking one medication and a daily supplement for exactly that result from tests over the past decade. Everything else, everything blood can be tested for (include Valley Fever, the local version of Lyme’s Disease) are exactly as you’d expect for a healthy person.

It was suggested I follow up with another doctor who might have more insight.

Rather than becoming a professional patient, since there’s no indication anything life-threatening is going on, no evidence of a ticking clock, and no suggestion that a solution is on the horizon, I’m going to treat myself, starting with the daily bike ride I’ve neglected since the fatigue set in, a return to daily mindfulness meditation, and a continued drive toward emotional and spiritual balance and security.

If you find me beside my bicycle in the ditch with my heart or head exploded, remind me I’m in good health for someone my age. I’m sure I’ll feel much better.

Frustrating Dreams

My dreams follow a pattern: someone is waiting for me, I have somewhere to be or a task to get done; essentially, a clock is ticking and it’s my job to beat it. Never happens. Every dream is a cosmic conspiracy to mire me in failure. Now, lest you get the impression I’m having some groovy James Bond Mission Impossible action adventure in my head, here’s what was going on just before I woke up this morning:

We were rushing to get ready to go somewhere important, “we” being, perhaps, my family when I was a kid. People in my dreams tend to morph between past, present, and imaginary. I could not find my one and only good dress shirt. I found a pile of shirts and knew I had to take each one off the hanger before I could see the next one. The first shirt, red rayon or thin cotton, Hawaiian print, had frayed buttonholes. The buttons caught in the threads and it was torture getting each one undone. Every button was buttoned.

Trivial, eh?

At this point in the dream, I’m having trouble breathing, my chest is pounding, I’m in full blown panic, beyond reason, flailing and raging internally like an animal, but carefully stifling any expression of emotion lest others, already tense and frustrated and blaming me, become offended.

I never finished the shirt because I had to put the fish in the freezer. I’d told everyone else to go ahead and I’d come on my own because I knew I’d never be ready on time. They chose to wait for me, but still expected me to be ready on time.

Walking from the kitchen to the bedroom, something was wrong. I went back and walked it again, some giant package which was apparently frozen fish (though it wasn’t cold) in my arms.

The freezer was gone. I’d been walking back and forth through the space where it had been.

At this point the panic reached the point of madness. If it wouldn’t have disturbed the people around me I would have cackled maniacally, knowing my mind had entirely lost its grip on reality. Vague thoughts of doing grievous bodily harm to myself or others hover in the back of my mind; I can no longer bear the madness of confusion, frustration, obligation. I would surrender if I could, but the thought of all those people waiting on me drives me on in my useless, fruitless, hopeless quest.

I could picture my shirt. I kept seeing flashes of the pattern but it always turns out to be that blasted red shirt with the frayed buttonholes.

No one knew where the freezer was. We were all late.

I woke up.

Why can’t I have flying dreams?

Oh, the fish? No idea where it went. Before the dream ended it was just gone.

Too Much Salt

If I’m going to make a cooking mistake, it’ll be the seriously rookie mistake of adding too much salt.

We use kosher or sea salt for everything. I don’t like the taste of table salt; it’s too sharp. We have a shaker by the stove, and bamboo salt boxes on the counter and table.

Here’s what I do, time after time: pick up the salt box, swivel the magnetic lid, and shake right from the box into the dish. (This morning it was some tea biscuits, which you might call graham crackers or some such.) Here’s what happens: our brains see a lot of something, and misjudge portions accordingly. This is why using smaller plates is a very effective dieting tool. Honest.

So instead of a few shakes of salt, just to kill the raw taste of the flour when it bakes, I got salty cardamom crackers. If it was green cardamom they could be chai crackers if I’d used pepper.

But not. Cardamom and honey and too much salt.

Maybe I’ll use that empty cardamom shaker for salt.

February Album Writing Month #13

Every February since 2006 I’ve participated in February Album Writing Month. (I joined up during FAWM’s 3rd year.) While I do sometimes write songs during other months, the bulk of my nearly 200 songs have been written during these episodes of shared mania.

Hundreds of participants commit to writing a full album, 14 songs, of new material during the 28 days of the month. Sort of a NaNoWriMo for songwriters, though with less emphasis on embracing low quality; it’s more like accepting it without actively chasing it.

Some of my very favorite music has been written by my fellow FAWMers during this month of madness. Here are four examples:

Fiji (Matt DiVito) Quickly (Resonance)
Dear Noreen (Phil Henry) Pig of Lovliness (oddbod)

Whether or not the styles are your cup of tea, the songwriting is as good as most of what you hear on the radio or elsewhere. Better, I think.

I’m still working on making better recordings, which these chaps have mastered. But I’m proud of my lyrics, confident in my songwriting.

And ready for February.

Introducing Rafe Keyn and the Real Jake Calcutta

So, there’s this time-travel fantasy I’ve been working on . . .

Round 1: Too Conservative

Years ago I wrote a book titled (at that point) Anodyne. It was going to be the first in a series of connected stories each with a different protagonist, each telling their story under the pseudonym Jake Calcutta.

Long before the book was finished an author friend pointed out that the artsy intellectual guy in the book was nothing like the name would suggest. Jake Calcutta, he said, is a modern day Indiana Jones.

He was right.

I changed the protagonist’s name to Jesse Donovan and the book’s title to That She Is Made of Truth. It may become a series, but not in the way originally intended.

Round 2: Too Cerebral

… more … “Introducing Rafe Keyn and the Real Jake Calcutta”

some more late thoughts

My 13 year old daughter has never known me as anything but a writer. She came along well after my life in accounting, construction, janitorial services, computers, and the web.

When asked the inevitable “What do you want to be when you grow up?” she’s always had one answer:

A writer.

She has sleep issues. Sometimes she uses her sleepless hours to write. This is something I found this morning.

once i went to a coffee shop and in one room of that coffee shop was a white piano and a white bench and a marker and people had written stuff all over the piano and the bench with the marker and honestly i thought that was so cool.

i really like that kind of stuff.

i think it’s really neat.

people years from now may never meet you, never know you, never know anything about you, and you can scratch something into a tree or a wall or write it on a chair and someone out there will see that and know you exist.

you know what would be cool

… more … “some more late thoughts”

Terpsichore Antipodes

I’ve pushed the button on yet another book, both Kindle and paperback versions. That’s the title up there.

Hold on, hold on. Don’t go rushing off to empty your wallets. The paperback isn’t live yet, though Amazon has created a page already. (Update: oh ho, the Kindle version is live.)

Another reason to hold your horses (and wallets.) This is nothing like I’ve ever written before. It is an experimental stream-of-consciousness romantic mystery novella. What’s it about? It’s about 20,000 words oh ho.

Here’s the sample from the back cover:

… more … “Terpsichore Antipodes”