Boulder, CO – “On Writing Songs” – October 29, 1999

After dropping McRae at his house, in the lightning-fast revelations between street lights passing from overhead to behind, I got a spider of considerable size stuck in my skirt. I had to jump up and down and freak out which amused the boys to no end. But there ain’t nothing funny about a spider in the skirt, nothing I can think of, and just think of what that poor helpless spider was going through, trying to get out!!!!!

Getting home from tour was confusing as usual.  It was 1 am.  I’d been bone tired moments before yet found myself, 15 minutes after dropping my bags, with a canister of Ajax and a Brillo pad on my hands and knees scrubbing my bathtub.  I wish there were a guidebook for navigating post-tour re-entry. I’m clearly bad at this. 

I went to sleep in my overalls and woke up three days later with a headache and a urinary tract infection.  Walking into downtown I realized how anxious I was.  My whole body was upset.  I wasn’t breathing into my ribcage.  Inhales merely hit my earlobes and rushed out again. 

I sat down in a sunny patch on a curb outside “Lolita’s” on the corner of Pearl and 8^th. My hair was unwashed and in the same matted ponytail it had been stuck in for over a week.  I vaguely recalled talking to animals in my dream and a crick in my neck.  I was disoriented.  Why was I so anxious?  I flipped through the catalog of current circumstances that might be causing this muscle-clenching reaction.

I sighed and took a swig of milky coffee.  If my life were to happen in the blink of an eye, it would be an explosion of dyed feathers and glitter. It would smell of sage and lavender and hum like an “Om” emanating from a well.

What was going on with me?  And suddenly it hit me.  I’m embarrassed of my music.  It should be better.  I’m nervous about making a new record.  That was it.  Tears melted the iceberg around my heart and I broke down weeping like a baby on the curb shrouded in dappled morning light. 

Writing songs reminds me of catching butterflies—they are so beautiful and magical that I can’t help wanting to play with them.  But once in my hand, I’m worried I’ve ruined them forever. I go into a trance when I write music.  There are still periods of listening to muse and then rushing to write down all I’ve heard, in my notebook.  I’ll bait muse with a string of chords and wait like a predator, hardly breathing, for what wants to be written over them.  In this way, songs get channeled from the silence, strained through my heart, and written down in ink and sweat.  I appreciate muse’s time and attention and feel unworthy of it.

Maybe I should write a song about that, I thought to myself, picking pieces of my heart out of the cracks in the pavement. There is little time to loiter in self-doubt. That is the dubious luxury of non-artists. “You got this,” I whispered to myself under my breath, ditched my empty coffee cup, and headed over to Rob’s Music for new strings.