This morning as I was getting ready to go out busking, I found my lucky Mexican coin.
I had held onto it faithfully for many months, but sometime during the summer I lost track of it. Maybe I put it in my wallet and mixed it up with my other change. Maybe I accidentally spent it, leaving it as a worthless tip at a dimly-lit restaurant somewhere. I was annoyed with myself for losing the Mexican coin. I even considered going to the Currency Exchange to get another one, though I don't know how much it's actually worth.
I figured it was gone for good. But this morning, I found it in a Ziplock bag along with an ever-increasing mountain of uncounted change.
My Mexican coin looks just like a toonie, so it's perfect to put into my guitar case as "seed money". At the end of every busking shift, I have to subtract the seed money I put in at the beginning, but when I use the Mexican coin I don't have to subtract it. (It's a mind game, I know, but strangely it works for me.)
Earlier this week, I played a short set of songs at a local club, in front of an audience of about 25 people. I felt confident and enthusiastic about the music I was playing, and I was enjoying the physical space: a local restaurant painted a rich warm red, with cheerful paintings on the walls by local artists and a good sound system. I felt great, I sounded great...and the nice lighting probably made me look great too.
This morning at Osgoode station, I played the same songs, and didn't feel that way at all. The environment was cold and unflattering and I felt underconfident. When another musician came by and said hello, I immediately stopped playing, happy for the distraction. When a guitar string broke just after he left, I wasn't at all surprised (the guitar a mirror of my fragile state) and gratefully started to pack up.
Along with a few Canadian dollars, I collected the Mexican coin.
One of the songs I sang, in both performances, had recently prompted another musician to urge me to start shopping my songs around to publishers. This particular song, he thought, had strong commercial potential. The song went over very well on Wednesday night but attracted no notice this morning.
Like the Mexican coin, the song may indeed be worth money, but only if it's in the right hands, in the right setting. This morning at Osgoode Station, the coin sat in my case, dormant, waiting to be transported to Mexico where it could participate in the actual economy...and my songs were similarly square pegs looking for round holes.
It's all a question of fit, I thought, as I slipped my token into the turnstile and headed home.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Monday, September 19, 2005
Bookishness
For the past few weeks, I've been editing my blog postings into something I will publish as a book.
I could capitalize the word ("Book") to emphasize its importance, but just using the word adds a sense of formality and legitimacy to my writing enterprise. So I say it straightforwardly. Book.
I could be cute and create a new word--"blook"--to describe the marriage of book and blog, but, predictably, that trivializes the upcoming work, making it seem an even less worthy project than it already seems. The project's worth, needless to say, is already somewhat in question because of its direct relationship to a blog...and to busking. (Sorry, Gestating Creative Offspring, your lineage does not bode well.)
+++
Two years ago, I heard the word "blog" for the first time, and I thought, "yuck".
It didn't sound like something I'd want to read at all. Plus, I didn't know what it was, and I felt embarrassed about being out of the technological loop. Unlike some people, who may find such embarrassment motivational, I found myself curling up with a good old-fashioned book and shutting off my computer. Then one day, my husband (in his free time at 2:30 in the morning) set me up with my own blog, allowing me to express myself and "publish" at will without having to trouble myself by actually submitting my work to publications.
Thinking about the awfulness of the word itself, it makes me wonder whether blogs were invented as part of an evil plot by the Corporate Media to entrap the hordes of eager would-be-published writers, or at least to keep them very, very busy. Hasn't anyone noticed how much "the blog" sounds like "The Blob"?
"Blogger" also sounds suspiciously like "gobbler"--a devourer of time--and could be an in-joke among published authors who no doubt consider us turkeys. (I know of at least one writer who has successfully published--and been paid for--two articles on busking since I've been writing this blog.)
Like the world of independent music, in which inexpensive recording technology made it suddenly easy for anyone to become a recording artist, blogging has facilitated the free expression of ideas. But it hasn't erased the boundaries between what's considered professional and what's not. While some newspaper columnists may be nervous that bloggers might steal their jobs, I think that's less likely than the other scenario: that capable thinkers and writers (including much better ones that me) will remain bogged down in the blog ghetto, buried under all that crackpot ranting and poor punctuation, unable to rise above the label "amateur".
Okay, personal challenge time. Along with getting my book (BOOK!!!!!) ready for the printed page, I will select and edit a few articles for publication, submit them, and keep you posted.
I could capitalize the word ("Book") to emphasize its importance, but just using the word adds a sense of formality and legitimacy to my writing enterprise. So I say it straightforwardly. Book.
I could be cute and create a new word--"blook"--to describe the marriage of book and blog, but, predictably, that trivializes the upcoming work, making it seem an even less worthy project than it already seems. The project's worth, needless to say, is already somewhat in question because of its direct relationship to a blog...and to busking. (Sorry, Gestating Creative Offspring, your lineage does not bode well.)
+++
Two years ago, I heard the word "blog" for the first time, and I thought, "yuck".
It didn't sound like something I'd want to read at all. Plus, I didn't know what it was, and I felt embarrassed about being out of the technological loop. Unlike some people, who may find such embarrassment motivational, I found myself curling up with a good old-fashioned book and shutting off my computer. Then one day, my husband (in his free time at 2:30 in the morning) set me up with my own blog, allowing me to express myself and "publish" at will without having to trouble myself by actually submitting my work to publications.
Thinking about the awfulness of the word itself, it makes me wonder whether blogs were invented as part of an evil plot by the Corporate Media to entrap the hordes of eager would-be-published writers, or at least to keep them very, very busy. Hasn't anyone noticed how much "the blog" sounds like "The Blob"?
"Blogger" also sounds suspiciously like "gobbler"--a devourer of time--and could be an in-joke among published authors who no doubt consider us turkeys. (I know of at least one writer who has successfully published--and been paid for--two articles on busking since I've been writing this blog.)
Like the world of independent music, in which inexpensive recording technology made it suddenly easy for anyone to become a recording artist, blogging has facilitated the free expression of ideas. But it hasn't erased the boundaries between what's considered professional and what's not. While some newspaper columnists may be nervous that bloggers might steal their jobs, I think that's less likely than the other scenario: that capable thinkers and writers (including much better ones that me) will remain bogged down in the blog ghetto, buried under all that crackpot ranting and poor punctuation, unable to rise above the label "amateur".
Okay, personal challenge time. Along with getting my book (BOOK!!!!!) ready for the printed page, I will select and edit a few articles for publication, submit them, and keep you posted.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
The Water Is Wide
In the days following Hurricane Katrina, I've picked up my guitar a few times and noodled with song ideas. Several ideas have come to me but been discarded. There is no shortage of subject matter to write about related to Katrina, from the wrenching human toll to the sudden migration to the bureaucratic incompetence to nature itself.
Like the onslaught of water, the images and words have come relentlessly, a torrent of "what nows" and "if onlys". There is so much to be done and so much to be said, yet I find myself mute in front of the television set, overwhelmed by the losses, not only of whole lives but of all the parts-of-lives, the parts that seem so hard to live without: the houses, the pets, the jobs.
After the initial shock of the event came the rapid rush of understanding of what Katrina means. Thousands of people are now permanently displaced, and their experience will ripple through the generations, as will the echoes of unheeded cries for help in a country where peace and security was thought to be a birthright.
Hundreds of songs will come from this. The best ones, I believe, will come from the people who lived through this disaster and still have strength to sing.
Instead of writing a new song of my own, I have been drawn to an old song that has been sung by many. I find myself singing the traditional folk song "The Water Is Wide" ("...I can't cross o'er. Nor do I have strong wings to fly...Give me a boat that will carry two...and I will sail, my love and I...") Today, that lyric seems to describe the gulf between what New Orleaneans expected from their country and what they received, between what was promised and what was delivered.
That water remains high today, between the shores of dream and reality, fiction and truth.
Like the onslaught of water, the images and words have come relentlessly, a torrent of "what nows" and "if onlys". There is so much to be done and so much to be said, yet I find myself mute in front of the television set, overwhelmed by the losses, not only of whole lives but of all the parts-of-lives, the parts that seem so hard to live without: the houses, the pets, the jobs.
After the initial shock of the event came the rapid rush of understanding of what Katrina means. Thousands of people are now permanently displaced, and their experience will ripple through the generations, as will the echoes of unheeded cries for help in a country where peace and security was thought to be a birthright.
Hundreds of songs will come from this. The best ones, I believe, will come from the people who lived through this disaster and still have strength to sing.
Instead of writing a new song of my own, I have been drawn to an old song that has been sung by many. I find myself singing the traditional folk song "The Water Is Wide" ("...I can't cross o'er. Nor do I have strong wings to fly...Give me a boat that will carry two...and I will sail, my love and I...") Today, that lyric seems to describe the gulf between what New Orleaneans expected from their country and what they received, between what was promised and what was delivered.
That water remains high today, between the shores of dream and reality, fiction and truth.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Where I Stand
With the mail was indeed a letter from the TTC, saying that yes, I did clear the bar to get a Subway Musicians' license for next year.
I didn't clear the bar by much.
It's funny how things turn out. You envision so many endings to the stories, answers to the questions...and sometimes the universe winks at you (as it did when last year my license number was 63 and the orientation session was October 4th) and sometimes it laughs at you.
Because I was ambivalent about continuing to sing on the subways, I thought it possible that I simply wouldn't get in...that the audition process would present an unlikely but unmistakable sign that I'm simply not meant to do this anymore. On the other hand, I felt pretty confident about my audition this year. Now that I "knew what I was doing" I felt sure that if I got in, I'd get in by a pretty wide margin...that my "ranking" would reflect all the fabulous learning I'd done over the past year, the personal growth, the improvement as a musician and performer, the new songs written during the experiene, and so on.
All of that would, I thought, count for something.
And of course, it does. It counts for me. It counts in my inner life and my personal journey, which is completely separate from my public career, in whatever form it takes.
That's a lesson I want to believe I've learned. In fact, it was a lesson I tried to learn over and over on the subway this year: the quality of my work and the value of my contribution cannot be measured simplistically in material and predictable ways. I must continue to stand up and sing even when it appears it's having no effect.
Even though I've spent most of the past year re-evaluating rankings and status--re-defining what I thought of as "success" in music--I was initially disappointed to discover that in the competition to get a subway musician's licence this year, I hadn't done as well as I had in last year's auditions.
After all this, have I really learned anything at all? Haven't I learned that rankings don't matter, and that art defies competitions? Maybe the fact that I was irked by the numbers shows me that I still have a lot to learn in this area...I'm still hung up on winning something and getting somewhere, instead of being content where I am.
I didn't clear the bar by much.
It's funny how things turn out. You envision so many endings to the stories, answers to the questions...and sometimes the universe winks at you (as it did when last year my license number was 63 and the orientation session was October 4th) and sometimes it laughs at you.
Because I was ambivalent about continuing to sing on the subways, I thought it possible that I simply wouldn't get in...that the audition process would present an unlikely but unmistakable sign that I'm simply not meant to do this anymore. On the other hand, I felt pretty confident about my audition this year. Now that I "knew what I was doing" I felt sure that if I got in, I'd get in by a pretty wide margin...that my "ranking" would reflect all the fabulous learning I'd done over the past year, the personal growth, the improvement as a musician and performer, the new songs written during the experiene, and so on.
All of that would, I thought, count for something.
And of course, it does. It counts for me. It counts in my inner life and my personal journey, which is completely separate from my public career, in whatever form it takes.
That's a lesson I want to believe I've learned. In fact, it was a lesson I tried to learn over and over on the subway this year: the quality of my work and the value of my contribution cannot be measured simplistically in material and predictable ways. I must continue to stand up and sing even when it appears it's having no effect.
Even though I've spent most of the past year re-evaluating rankings and status--re-defining what I thought of as "success" in music--I was initially disappointed to discover that in the competition to get a subway musician's licence this year, I hadn't done as well as I had in last year's auditions.
After all this, have I really learned anything at all? Haven't I learned that rankings don't matter, and that art defies competitions? Maybe the fact that I was irked by the numbers shows me that I still have a lot to learn in this area...I'm still hung up on winning something and getting somewhere, instead of being content where I am.
The Postman Always Rings Twice
This morning, I was walking down the street on my way to pick up Calla for lunch when a car pulled up beside me.
"Has the mail arrived on this street yet?" the woman asked.
"Nope, not yet", I replied knowledgeably.
"You see, I'm Patrick's mother," she said. "I was hoping to pick him up and take him for lunch."
I told her, as I told you yesterday, that I always look forward to seeing Patrick and that he's doing a very good job.
When he arrived just now (after respective lunches of both mothers and children), he seemed especially friendly when he gave me my mail.
"Has the mail arrived on this street yet?" the woman asked.
"Nope, not yet", I replied knowledgeably.
"You see, I'm Patrick's mother," she said. "I was hoping to pick him up and take him for lunch."
I told her, as I told you yesterday, that I always look forward to seeing Patrick and that he's doing a very good job.
When he arrived just now (after respective lunches of both mothers and children), he seemed especially friendly when he gave me my mail.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Please Mr. Postman
No, I haven't received my letter yet, so I don't know whether or not I'll be a subway musician next year.
I haven't been singing very much in the subway either. Rather than considering myself stalled, I'd prefer to think I've just briefly pulled off to the shoulder.
Last week I had a bad cold, making singing a challenge (although I did play a show at the City Roots/City Wide festival in Toronto's historic Distillery District). In the three days leading up to the festival, I exhausted our household's supply of ginger tea, which seemed to help. If nothing else, it made me need to pee so often it must have flushed the virus out of my system, thus allowing a dense cloud of ragweed pollen to invade and keep me in the sniffles.
For the last few days, even though I haven't quite admitted it to myself, I've been watching expectantly for the arrival of Patrick, our postman. (Yes, his name really is Postman Pat.)
Like other letter carriers I have met over the years, Pat is a perpetually cheerful guy. He always says hello and smiles and he always has a spring in his step, even when it's fall outside and his mailbag must weigh a ton with the various catalogues and reports he's delivering. Today we received both a Staples and a Lee Valley catalogue, giving me more excuses than usual to procrastinate as I think about all the office supplies and woodworking tools I suddenly may need.
I may not need them after all. But the perception or possibility of need is there. It's printed on all the ink-on-paper communication that comes through my mail-slot. Even if I toss them immediately into the recycling bin, the envelopes lying on my vestibule floor always appear to me, at least for a few seconds before I pick them up, potentially essential.
That's worth something.
And that must be why Postman Pat seems so happy all the time. Many people wait for him with a happy expectancy. If occasionally the waiting is also accompanied by a shadow of suspense (for the mail could also bring unhappy news) it always, also, holds the possibility of a surprise twist that could change everything.
That moment of anticipation, when we're really not sure what is around the corner but even if it might be bad we can't resist finding out, makes Pat a pretty popular guy. No wonder he's always smiling.
I haven't been singing very much in the subway either. Rather than considering myself stalled, I'd prefer to think I've just briefly pulled off to the shoulder.
Last week I had a bad cold, making singing a challenge (although I did play a show at the City Roots/City Wide festival in Toronto's historic Distillery District). In the three days leading up to the festival, I exhausted our household's supply of ginger tea, which seemed to help. If nothing else, it made me need to pee so often it must have flushed the virus out of my system, thus allowing a dense cloud of ragweed pollen to invade and keep me in the sniffles.
For the last few days, even though I haven't quite admitted it to myself, I've been watching expectantly for the arrival of Patrick, our postman. (Yes, his name really is Postman Pat.)
Like other letter carriers I have met over the years, Pat is a perpetually cheerful guy. He always says hello and smiles and he always has a spring in his step, even when it's fall outside and his mailbag must weigh a ton with the various catalogues and reports he's delivering. Today we received both a Staples and a Lee Valley catalogue, giving me more excuses than usual to procrastinate as I think about all the office supplies and woodworking tools I suddenly may need.
I may not need them after all. But the perception or possibility of need is there. It's printed on all the ink-on-paper communication that comes through my mail-slot. Even if I toss them immediately into the recycling bin, the envelopes lying on my vestibule floor always appear to me, at least for a few seconds before I pick them up, potentially essential.
That's worth something.
And that must be why Postman Pat seems so happy all the time. Many people wait for him with a happy expectancy. If occasionally the waiting is also accompanied by a shadow of suspense (for the mail could also bring unhappy news) it always, also, holds the possibility of a surprise twist that could change everything.
That moment of anticipation, when we're really not sure what is around the corner but even if it might be bad we can't resist finding out, makes Pat a pretty popular guy. No wonder he's always smiling.
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