A Rose for Valentine's Day

Today is my parents' 47th wedding anniversary. Thank you, Mother and Dad, for your commitment to each other and your loving guidance over the years. We love you both very much. Congratulations! - Lynn, Dave, Tucker and Calla

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This morning, my scheduled busking spot was Dundas Station, under the Eaton Centre. I like that spot, and it's out of the cold, so I decided to go there. Unfortunately, a major escalator overhaul had taken over the whole corridor, so I had to go someplace else.

I wound up at Osgoode, which is a so-so location at the best of times, and also tends to be very cold and damp.

Predictably, I encountered mostly sour faces as I sang my collection of love songs. Here's one I sang!

I was considering just going home after three songs or so, when a man stopped (during the song you're listening to, this being a multimedia experience) and bought a CD for his wife for Valentine's Day. Thus validated, I ended up singing for another hour, until my fingers were numb with cold.

Not many people donated today--or even smiled for that matter--but the ones who did were valuable to me and I will remember them. When I'm busking, I often notice that when few people seem to appreciate you, the ones who do really stand out. Maybe that's a commentary on love itself. We value our relationships with family and close friends (even if they're imperfect) so highly because they're so rare. Most of the time, our individual gifts are undervalued and virtually invisible to everyone else, as we all shuffle ahead quickly in this big moving crowd.

Today's task was love songs, and although I sang many of my own, I found myself also wanting to sing Amanda McBroom's "The Rose" (made popular by Bette Midler). In my opinion, this is one of the best songs ever written. The inspiring story of how it was written can be found here at Amanda McBroom's website. Also on her website, in the "Gossip" section, you'll find a wonderful speech by the writer Anne Lamott, which includes this:

"It's magic to see spirit largely because it's so rare. Mostly you see the masks and the holograms that the culture presents as real. You see how you're doing in the world's eyes, or your family's, or--worst of all--yours, or in the eyes of people who are doing better than you--much better than you--or worse. But you are not your bank account, or your ambitiousness. You're not the cold clay lump with the big belly you leave when you die. You're not your collection of walking personality disorders. You are spirit, you are love, and...you are free. You are here to love, and be loved, freely. If you find out next week that you are terminally ill--and we are all terminally ill on this bus--all that will matter is memories of beauty, that people loved you, that you loved them, and that you tried to help the poor and innocent." - Anne Lamott, giving a commencement address at the University of California at Berkeley in 2003.

Isn't it amazing, by the way, that I can go to the website of the woman who wrote "The Rose"?! Until just this minute, I've been connected with her only through the song...and I've always imagined her as some distant, mysterious genius-goddess. Now, I discover she's much like me, posting fun essays and stuff on her website. (It occurs to me that perhaps she can better afford to take time to do this because of The Song. Notes to self: Write Great Song. Sell Great Songs.)

I sang "The Rose" especially well at Osgoode Station today. Appropriately, the best rendition (I think) took place when the station was almost deserted and the few people passing by were pretending not to notice.

"Just remember, in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows...lies the seed that with the sun's love in the spring becomes the rose."

Thanks, Amanda.

Happy Valentine's Day.

The Songwriter's Gift Cupboard

This is an essay I shared recently with a student songwriting club in Whitby, Ontario, as part of my work with the School Alliance of Student Songwriters.

The subject of half-finished songs also came up yesterday at the Winterfolk IV festival, when Gregg Lawless and David Newland and I started talking songwriting on workshop stage. (We could have talked songwriting all afternoon, but fortunately we decided to talk less and sing more!)

Anyway, here's "Gift Cupboard".

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I have a closet at home that comes in very handy when I need birthday presents and Christmas gifts. It’s my gift cupboard, which I try to keep well-stocked with appealing items that I’d like to give to others. Throughout the year, if I see something that might make a good gift in the future, I buy it and put it in the gift cupboard.

My songwriting gift cupboard serves the same purpose. It consists of title lines, groups of chords, subjects, lyric fragments and other ideas that are likely to come in handy for future songs.

About a year ago, I was busking in the subway when I found myself strumming a little groove in between other songs. It was a very simple C to F pattern, and along with it I found myself singing “people come and go…it happens all the time”, as I noticed the people coming and going in the corridor.

Later that day, and other times when I was practicing, I found myself playing that little song-beginning, just for fun. I liked it. But on the other hand, when I tried to develop the song, it didn’t seem to want to go much further. The topic didn’t interest me particularly, and I had other ideas that were more compelling to work on. So, I put the idea into my “gift cupboard”. I didn’t throw it out; I put it in a special place for safekeeping.

Then, about three weeks ago, an important relationship in my life changed, when a previously close friend became more distant. Although I understood why the person needed space, I still was sad (and a bit angry) about the change. I found myself working through the situation by writing…and I discovered “People Come and Go” just waiting for me in my gift cupboard.

When I pulled it out this time and started working with it, I found that the writing went very easily, and the song was finished, more or less, in an hour or so. The writing had a natural, easy flow to it because the subject was now immediate and vital to me. Any subject that you really care about, right now, is the best one to write about.

Like the gifts in the cupboard, waiting for the right time to be given and the right person to be given to, our “unfinished” songs are waiting for the right time to be given to the world.

Most Wanted

Here's something else independent artists (and probably lots of other people) do from time to time:

They search their own name on Google.

We justify it by saying that "search engine optimization" is an important part of our businesses, which maybe it is.

On the other hand, sometimes it's just navel-gazing.

Anyway, right now Lynn Harrison the singer-songwriter occupies the Top 8 spots on Google.

The 9th listing is an FBI "Most Wanted Fugitive". (Somebody else...a Gary Lynn Harrison, also, coincidentally, from Texas. Wanted for bank fraud. Note to self: pay Visa bill today.)

It's a symbolic reminder that my "web-presence" isn't the real me. The real person is hiding out somewhere else...and she's the "most wanted" one.

Quote-O-Rama

I recently read a quote, or "blurb", which praised an artist I know very highly.

Upon reading it, I immediately experienced a wave of negative emotions, much like an allergic reaction.

I felt jealousy, competitiveness, unjustified anger (at both the artist and the person who praised her), insecurity ("why didn't this person give me a quote?") and confusion ("what should I do next?").

In the game of self-promotion, many artists are chasing blurb-quotes as visible markers of validation. "Look, I AM good! So-and-so, who's a somebody, says so!"

I use the blurbs myself, in the hope that they might positively influence others and enhance my career prospects.

But when I think about it, I realize that as an artist I'm trying to reach a wide range of people (not particularly other musicians or media professionals). And, in life, I want to respect all people equally, not just those with professional status.

So, why not use the words of praise I received from the firefighter, the bookseller, the teacher, the author, the cook? For that matter, are titles necessary? Why not simply credit Bob or Sue, or dispense with review blurbs altogether?

Even though I question the importance of the quote-o-rama ritual, I find I'm not quite ready to give up the illusion of prestige I receive from those "somebodies".

It would feel like a leap of faith to stop using those blurbs (I notice, too, that I use the word "using", which describes other unhealthy addictions)...to rely instead on the integrity of the work and the real-time experience of communication with an audience.

Still Wondering at Spadina

I haven't abandoned the subway entirely. I'm still getting out at least once a week, but sometimes I don't get around to writing about it. Last Friday, I went to two different stations, Spadina and Queen's Park.

At Spadina, a man came along and contributed to our conversation about "What kind of music do you play?".

He didn't ask that question exactly. What he actually asked was "What kind of music IS THAT?"

He obviously really liked my songs, and I realized (but too late to be truly helpful) that he was asking the question so he could find more of this kind of music in the future.

The right answer for his question might have been simply "folk", because there IS a folk section of the record store and that's where my CDs usually are. When they're at record stores, that is. Which they rarely are.

Maybe he'd find other people whose music is similar to mine in the "Folk" section. Then again, he might find better songwriters in the "Rock" or "Country" section. It's really about the artist and the song, not the category.

As it turned out, the song I happened to be playing, which he liked, would probably be filed under "Jazz".

It wouldn't have been very polite to say "I don't know what you'd call it, but it's only available right here in this vestibule on this $20 CD which you'll never see again!" If I'd been a bit more on top of my game, I'd have pointed him to my website.

Isn't there a Patron Saint of Missed Opportunities?

Anyway, Mr. Very Nice Man at Spadina, I'm sorry I was vague. Thanks for asking.

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Note to self: I'm going to take my camera out next time. Promise. Speaking of cameras, a couple of tourists on their way back to Amsterdam took my picture in Spadina on Friday, on their way to the airport. It would be fun to busk in Amsterdam.

What kind of music do you play?

(Photo by Arthur Uyeyama.)

A few days ago, I launched a conversation on a discussion board about the question "What kind of music do you play?"

My post was mostly tongue-in-cheek, highlighting the inevitable inadequacy of whatever I say (usually a variation of "contemporary folk singer-songwriter").

The responses I received were entertaining. Some were lighthearted while others were surprisingly serious. One person suggested that, because I took note of how difficult it is to answer the question, I must not have spent much time defining my art. (My guess is, neither has he. And that's okay.)

The discussion made me notice, more clearly, the many times the question is asked. Coincidentally, it's been asked a lot over the last few days.

Last Wednesday, I had just arrived at Pape Station to play and was tuning my guitar. A man stopped to watch me and called over from the wall to ask "What kind of music do you play?" even though I was clearly just about to play whatever kind of music it was.

The second time, I was at a clothing store (Here & Now Clothing Co., 770 Queen St. East in Toronto, where I bought the cool top I'm wearing in the picture). The owners had been listening to my CD and seemed to want to find a way to describe it. They cast about for adjectives and similar-sounding artists (as I do), came up short, and happily talked with me about how difficult it is to describe an artist and about the challenge of finding the right career path and calling. We didn't come up with any brilliant insights, but we had a delightful conversation and I bought a very nice shirt for my brother.

Then last night I was at a concert by the superb guitarist Stephen Bennett. In the break, a friend-of-a-friend asked me again, "What kind of music do you play?" He asked it twice, genuinely interested. I offered him a few possible answers, and then said something like "I'm still learning how to answer that". An artist himself, he smiled and nodded.

As I sat in the church, listening to the beautiful melodies and note-patterns Bennett offered into the space, I continued to wonder at the question, and I felt ultimately it was the wondering that counted.

I'm always wondering what the most important parts of life are...what lessons I'm supposed to be learning. I'm always wondering where beauty and truth lies. I'm wondering whether a new melody or lyric might be a little more accurate in describing the often-baffling complexity that is being human.

In a sense, the opening up to the Creative Spirit is an asking of that question to the world: What kind of music do you play?

As I reflect on that question, may my songs be a mirror of that greater Music.

Listening to Myself

It was obviously my ego talking.

When I was asked "Would you like us to record the show?" I said, "Yes!" And when they said "How about you edit it for us?" I replied, "Sure!"

The road to obscurity is full of self-created potholes.

One of which is having to listen to your live performance, rather than simply basking in the knowledge that the concert was a big success and that everyone seemed to love it.

Today, after spending two days listening to myself (and laughing and cringing by turns) I'm feeling humbled and surprisingly grateful. I've been reminded that I'm likely to make mistakes and have "off" moments not only in the lowly subway corridor, but in a prestigious venue with all the lights on me. Although I'd like to choose which venue I'd prefer as a training ground, I'm not in charge. I will be plunked right down in the place where I need to be, just in time to fall into the pothole.

Ironically, many of my songs are concerned with the acceptance of imperfection, in myself and in my relationships with others.

Naturally, I want to sing them perfectly.

In my songs, I reassure myself that I'm okay the way I am.

And I find myself wishing I was "better" than I was.

When I record my songs, I re-record them until they sound the way I want. I edit out the flaws I'm least comfortable with...and keep in the ones that I think seem stylish. (It occurs to me that other recording artists are doing the same thing...which must be good news for recording studios.)

Tonight, at our children's music lesson, the teacher told them: "There are no mistakes".

As I overheard her saying that, I realized how many times I'd semi-consciously heard and dismissed it. "Oh yes, that's an encouraging platitude, appropriate for children," I'd think. "Yes, yes, 'there are no mistakes'...except for [annoying stage habit/botched guitar chord/wobbly vocal delivery]."

Needless to say, the imperfections that seem so glaring to me are likely less noticeable to others. It's our own flaws that inevitably come to light. I can cling to them (and beat myself up) or hide from them (by reciting the evening's glowing reviews). Or I can listen to them, observe them, and accept the fact that they exist. I can start to see "mistakes" in another light...as an integral part of the design of being human. Then I can move forward, knowing that even this awareness won't insulate me from the next hurdle I'll surely trip over.

Tonight I'm grateful for the opportunity to listen to myself as I am, and to embrace that person who is still growing.

Huge Room

You probably can't see them in the dark, but there were people there at all those tables.

I couldn't see them either. When the lights are on you, you can't see very far ahead. Past the first row of tables, it's all fuzzy and black. You rely on the sound of applause.

My show at Hugh's Room went really well. But before the show, I was very nervous. It's unusual for me to get nervous these days, so I was annoyed at myself, which made me even more nervous. What was I nervous about? I couldn't really tell. Nothing really...and everything. Who'd show up, who wouldn't, how I'd sound...all those things, but mostly, whether I really belonged there.

It's funny...you work so hard to get to "the next level" (whatever it happens to be at the time) and then when you're there, you think maybe it's all a big mistake.

Anyway, I didn't feel like my usual confident self, and suddenly I felt a strong kinship with Carly Simon and Barbra Streisand, both of whom had stage-fright problems. (Today, 48 hours later, "Memories" has been going through my head. I'm sure that's why.)

Part of the problem was that I had not pre-planned the "before-show" time period. I had carefully mapped out every other part of the day, but had ignored the two-and-a-half hours between sound check and curtain time. As it turns out, two-and-a-half hours is a very long time, especially when you're too nervous to eat anything but a protein bar. The guitar player, Eric, kindly accompanied me to a used record store and then a cafe to kill time.

When we returned, the room was filling up, so in order to avoid socializing nervously with friends and fans before the show, I was forced to spend time wringing my hands in the little anteroom behind the club's administrative offices (which is to say, a bad place to look like a complete wreck). Just then, my producer and bass player David mentioned that I could go outside to the roof.

The roof? Where? I was practically sprinting towards it.

He led me along a zig-zag corridor through the kitchen, where the staff were merrily preparing food and listening to some other kind of music, completely oblivious to my panic.

And then, out the doorway, there it was: a blessedly open rooftop deck...the kind you find in back of so many Toronto houses, apparently even those that have been turned into restaurants.

It was cold on the rooftop, but I could pace and sing, freely and without being noticed.

Also, I could notice the moon, which was almost full, and the stars clearly visible above the city's glow. I was shivering, but I stayed as long as I could, singing for awhile but then just standing still and watching the real stars, which put my own reaching upward into perspective.

Lessons from Busking on the Eve of a CD Release Party

1) You never know who's going to show up.

2) Play like nobody's ever going to see you again.

3) On the other hand, nobody's paying as much attention to your performance as you are.

4) What you're doing is virtually unimportant in the big scheme of things.

5) But what you're doing is valuable and special.

6) That contradiction is funny!

7) You're always right beside the garbage bin.

8) People are asking you for directions.

9) There are always several directions to go, not just up or down.

10) It's easier to be singing than to be thinking about singing.

The Big Small

Pape Station is a small place. It has a little name and a narrow busking space, which is, apparently, shrinking. When I returned today after an absence of several weeks, the rectangle of yellow dots designating the performance area had shrunk to maybe three feet by one foot, because a new garbage-and-recycling sorting bin had replaced the garbage can.

The sorting bin is a good thing (in fact, it seems to draw people to the immediate area) so I'm not complaining. I can still fit into the space.

This week, I've been thinking about big things! A big CD release concert! At a big venue! With a band! (That's pretty big, for me.) A few people from (small) radio stations have interviewed me about my music...giving me a chance to think big thoughts about why I wrote the songs in the first place. "Why do you write about little things?"

I answered something (off-the-cuff, not edited, not exactly right) and later found myself thinking about Mrs. Popeski and Bob Dylan.

Mrs. Popeski was my high school art teacher. She required us to create what she called "home drawings", one per week. We had to draw an object or objects in our house. Some students protested that their house was not interesting enough, but she was firm. It didn't matter how humble your environment was: if you observed it carefully, set your subject in the right light, invested time and care and improved your technique through practice, you could produce beautiful work. (This was proven true by my friend Janice, whose gorgeous drawings of objects in her famiiy's small house will someday, I predict, be worth a lot of money.)

Bob Dylan, master poet and illuminator of details, summed up the poet's eye when he wrote "In the fury of the moment, I can see the Master's hand, in every leaf that trembles and every grain of sand." In fact, I think we all can see it. But usually we don't notice it. And even if we do, we can't express that we see it so eloquently. (I certainly can't.)

But it's worth trying.

So today I returned to Pape Station, to observe the afternoon, while painting with the melodies and words I know. Once or twice, I got a phrase just right...other times, I rushed through it, missed a detail. When some people noticed me, I realized that I too am a detail, a footnote, a bit of local colour. Worth being.

Earlier today, I was feeling tense with anxiety over my upcoming "big" event (which, as I had already observed but pretended not to notice, isn't really so big at all). I calmed down only when I did something humble and easy, something virtually insignificant in the big scheme of the entertainment world.

Welcome back to the Big Small.

Looking for Christmas

Over the last three days, our family has lost a number of things. The first one was Tucker's Advent calendar. I have fond memories of my childhood Advent calendars, which had coloured pictures underneath each square and much finer chocolate than they seem to have now. Somehow or other, I've always managed to give my own children Advent calendars, even though we haven't been doing a very good job of defining Advent because we haven't been going to church.

But Tucker's Advent calendar got lost this year. I have no idea where it is. His sister's calendar is still here...and it seemed ridiculous to insist that she share hers with him, so she's just gone ahead and eaten up all the dates without fanfare. We told Tucker it'd turn up. But it didn't. It'll probably show up in time for Easter, in time to join the chocolate bunnies.

The next thing that went missing was the recipe for Molasses Crinkles. They're going to be part of the three-cookie homebaked spread I bring to Dave's Family's Christmas Dinner tomorrow because I'm in charge of dessert. I didn't realize until now that I must've unconsciously been trying to conjure up my own family Christmas by baking so much, and by baking traditional family recipes, but that's obviously what's going on. I was well-organized with all the ingredients ahead of time (molasses, ginger, cloves) and had carefully taken out the page from the ring-bindered Betty Crocker cookbook, the reissued one Exactly The Same As My Mom's that I recently bought at Restoration Hardware. I thought the Page would be hard to lose...being 8 1/2" x 11" and printed and everything, but it's gone. Missing.

Some of you may know that I have a hard time with losing things. In fact, that problem became the inspiration for a song called "Keys" ("these little losses bring me to my knees"). But today, because it's Christmas Eve, I was determined to not let these losses get to me. I looked for the things awhile, yes, but quickly enough became philosophical and comforting ("It's okay...have this chocolate bar instead"..."Mom? It's Lynn. I need you to dictate the recipe for Molasses Crinkles from your Betty Crocker cookbook.")

I even stayed cheerful when Calla (who just turned 9) told me that she'd lost the envelope that contained $100 in Christmas shopping money. It was a good idea at the time...I thought they'd both like to have a shopping budget (and they were thrilled) but unfortunately we all ran out of time to actually shop and I ended up running around at the last minute and buying appropriate stuff which they could reimburse me for later. But now, the $100 was lost. She felt awful and offered to pay me back. I tried to minimize it...while looking... looking...looking. Finally the envelope was found in a pile of papers waiting for recycling.

Then, as if I hadn't had enough losses already, I decided unwisely to look for something else: a Shared Purpose for our family concerning the meaning of Christmas. Although I was raised in a faith-ful home, my husband is not religious, and I confess that I've deferred to him somewhat over the years, opting to keep the peace (if not the faith) on holidays and Sundays. Most days it's a reasonable compromise...ordinary life is challenging enough without demanding some sort of higher calling for the whole group...and I've found it possible most of the time to find personal meaning through art and other forms of community.

Yet, at Christmas, I look for more. I hope to renew my own spirit and purpose...and I hope to do that in alignment with the people I'm connected to: the people I love. I hope, I guess, that we all define hope and love the same way, whether or not we find that definition in the Christian church or elsewhere. But can we? Does such a light--one that shines on all and can be commonly defined--really exist? (When compromise is so difficult in families, it makes me wonder.) Some would say it doesn't matter...stop looking. Shrug your shoulders and say, just having a week off from work is enough. That's what Christmas is all about. Why complicate a complicated season by talking about spirituality or life purpose? Those things are hard to find. We've almost forgotten what they look like.

As it turned out, we didn't go to church on Christmas Eve...nor did we go on a moonlight walk or take a drive to see the Christmas lights. I made a really nice dinner (how many other women default to this very basic soul-comforter at all times of stress?) and in a few minutes, we will all sit down together to watch "It's A Wonderful Life". Is that what I'm looking for? Is that Christmas...or close enough?

Tonight, that's all there is to find...a shared work of art, a story about one man's search for meaning ( a movie which is starting now, ironically, as I continue to write my personal message on this individualized medium so darkly called a "blog").

The light will return...we will find the Advent calendar in time for Easter. And tomorrow will be Christmas, imperfectly as always.

The Karaoke Next Door

Tonight I went to a holiday party hosted by a friend of mine. He didn't have room in his place to invite all his musician friends, so he booked a little cafe space in the back of a stylish historical hotel. About a dozen musicians showed up, and all were invited to sing a few songs.

But in the bigger room on the other side of the wall, it was Karaoke Night.

It was clear from the start that we were in trouble, but we forged ahead anyway, playing our original songs as well as we could under the circumstances and earnestly strumming our acoustic guitars. A handsome young songwriter with a clear tenor voice doubled as the sound man and he kept fiddling with the monitor, to no avail.

In the pauses between songs, we heard the karaoke. "Brown Sugar" by the Rolling Stones. "Hurts So Good" by John Mellencamp. And a particularly enthusiastic rendition of "American Pie".

I thought of the songwriter, Don McLean, and realized that (had things gone somewhat differently for him) he'd fit in with our little group just fine, and he'd probably try to sing alongside the karaoke, too. He'd be just as earnest as we were up there, singing "I knew a girl who sang the blues and I asked her for some happy news".

But young Don with his guitar had morphed into something else entirely: a roomful of boisterous, out-of-tune voices, practically yelling "This'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die".

When it was my turn, I got up and sang my songs. They were okay. One of the maddening things about making original work is that you're never really sure how it's going to be received. The same song can be a huge hit in one room and a complete flop in the next. In this room, the response was enthusiastic, but not wildly so. Not so wild as the room next door.

The truth was, in the pauses between songs, I could tell the singers in the next room were having a whole lot more fun than we were.

Maybe I really wanted to go over there.

Meanwhile, the organizers of the party convinced the hotel management to erect a makeshift door, which succeeded in muffling the karaoke a bit. (The songs were a bit harder to make out. Wasn't that The Eagles?)

It would have seemed, well, heretical to go over to the next room and start singing "Desperado".

But why not, I wondered? After all, we all know the songs, they're what inspired us to start writing our own in the first place. We can sing them really, really well...almost as well as our own.

Leaving early, I went through an alternate exit to avoid the karaoke room. I didn't want to look sheepish, walking past the stage toting my guitar. But now, I kind of wish I'd tried it. Don't you get to pick the song?

I could sing something like..."I can't get nooo....sat-is-FAC-shun..."

And it'd be fun.

JCB 4EVR

Although I often say I know why I write songs, and claim to remember why I chose to be an artist, sometimes I get lost. I get thrown off into the ditch of fear and insecurity and question the value of the undertaking. Climbing out the ditch, I begin to create again, to follow the light up ahead that says "move forward".

In order to stay on the road, I need encouragement from others, as well as basic things like food and sleep. I also need great art made by other people. Today I am especially grateful for a song and video called JCB, which I invite you to enjoy.

Like many artists without mass audiences, I sometimes complain about "big money music" and the commercial-scale distribution that comes to some creators and not to others. I've said, at times, that everyone should just create in their own backyards so that everyone could be appreciated equally.

If that were the case, we wouldn't all get the chance to be united by art. The world's a big, divided place. If a few beautiful things can be seen and understood by many, we might be able to work together to heal the world. A big distribution machine can be a powerful vehicle for transformation.

Just like a giant yellow digger.

Okay, have you watched it yet? If not, watch it now. Now let me tell you why I think it's great, and why I hope the songwriter Luke Concannon and his partner John in the duo Nizlopi succeed beyond their wildest dreams.

The song is told from the perspective of a five year-old boy riding with his father who drives a big construction vehicle. As they drive, they "hold up the bypass", irritating other drivers who want to go faster on the highway. The boy is proud of his father, glad he's not in school, and all fired up in his imagination, inspired to tranform into huge dinosaurs and robot toys. The simple, acoustic song is illustrated with in childlike line-drawings by animator Laith Bahrani.

The poetry is full of British-isms that most North Americans wouldn't know: JCB, bypass, "having a top laugh", etc. Doesn't matter. Few listeners will have ridden in a digger. Doesn't matter. It's a "children's song" (nope, it isn't, and doesn't matter).
(It's also getting really really popular, and therefore seeming suddenly commercial, and even being offered as a--shudder--ringtone. Doesn't matter.)

The reason any of us write, and the reason we are drawn to great art, is because great art describes humanity accurately and therefore reflects its beauty. When someone, anyone, illuminates their own little corner of the world, we are all celebrated and affirmed. We watch it over and over, or listen to it, or come back to the painting, because it makes us feel well and whole. We look to the art as we look to a lover's eyes: eyes that see us and know us and love us as we are.

JCB captures the interplay of strength and vulnerability that makes up the human journey, which is joyfully evident (in a dreamlike way) in childhood. It's also, of course, about the love between parent and child, the power of the imagination, and the vehicles that move us. The biggest vehicle of them all--the one that moves young Luke the artist--is Love.

Love is slow and sure and will not be moved by irritated, small people in little cars.

Love moves in a straight line, to a good place.

The child in the story knows this. We all do.

And that is why JCB will be the Number 1 song in the UK this Christmas.

Jill, Cyndi and a Person Who Rhymes With Itch

Last night I saw Jill Sobule and Cyndi Lauper in concert at Massey Hall in Toronto. Sandwiched in between them, like an unappetizing layer of devilled ham, was a well-known female comedian.

As a performer, I know it's bad form to do a few things. One is to complain, onstage, that one isn't getting paid enough, as this woman did early in her set. Another is to swear repeatedly while prancing about onstage during the headliner's signature song. (Cyndi Lauper's biggest hit, in case you missed the 80's, was "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". She-who-shall-not-be-named must've noticed that another word sounded just like "fun"...and so she just yelled it over and over. During the song. Bad form, as I said.)

The effervescent Jill Sobule was terrific, taking requests from the audience during her captivating and warmly-received set. Later on, she enthusiastically joined Cyndi for an encore, while Mean Individual (also called back to the stage) sulked about having to do more work.

Cyndi Lauper was bopping around in fine form, decked out in a black leather bustier (which she acknowledged was a bit uncomfortable) and belting out her tunes like it was '85. A class act, she impressed everyone when she (while singing) convinced a hunky guy in the audience to hoist her onto his back so she could ride up and down the aisle. She also spoke warmly about her young son (who has given up the drums for hockey) and pledged her support for the Erase Hate purple-wristband campaign undertaken by the mother of Matthew Shepard, a young gay man killled in a hate crime.

Both Cyndi Lauper and Jill Sobule were such positive, generous spirits throughout the evening--giving, enthusiastic and respectful of the audience--it's hard to understand why they were on tour with The Negative Celebrity at all.

And it's hard to understand why anyone in the audience was laughing and clapping.

Maybe some people see her as a daring, edgy, brave person. If so, I wonder if they'd support an unknown "comic" if he or she mouthed off onstage without bothering to write any real material and insulted the headliner? Was this just a case of celebrity-worship? (During Cyndi's set, a guy sitting next to me didn't bother to clap for any song...until "Time After Time", "True Colours" and "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". See what I mean? For him, the valuable part of the performance seemed to be whether or not he had heard it before.)

Maybe the performer is successful (to whatever extent she is) because she's venting all the pent-up rage many people are feeling these days. If she's a reflection of the public's current consciousness, I'd say we're in more trouble than we thought. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the skewering of deserving targets (such as George Bush) but I get nervous when the "performance" slips into inarticulate rage. Keep the guns away from the comics, folks!

I'm always rooting for the nice people, the eloquent ones, and the ones still smiling. Call me crazy.

Jill Sobule's latest CD is called "Underdog Victorious", and it further develops a theme she's been working with for years: may the little gal win. May good prevail. (She sang my favourite song of hers, called "Bitter", last night: "I don't want to get bitter/I don't want to turn cruel/I don't want to get old before I have to.") Cyndi Lauper has always struck me as a bit of an underdog too. When she emerged at the same time as Madonna, I might have predicted Cyndi would have become the bigger star (yeah, yeah, and I'm no good at stock tips either), but here she is, playing Massey Hall instead of the Air Canada Centre--and rockin' out anyway to her ace songs.

All three women performers, striving to keep their audience engaged and their artistic spirits aloft, have (no doubt) lots of things to complain about: declining audiences, rising costs, depressing world events...you name it. Two of them put on an entertaining show with class and maturity.

Just because you're an underdog doesn't mean you have to be a bitch.

Out of the Box

A few days ago, I took delivery of several large cardboard boxes of new CDs. Inside, there are many shiny cellophane-wrapped copies of "Broadview", my latest collection of recorded songs. Inside each jewel case, there's an even more shiny thing, the disc itself.

Embedded in the shiny discs is the digital information that makes up recorded music...the science that allows people to play someone else's song in their home or car.

And deep inside each song is the shiniest thing of all: the desire to share an emotion, or to describe something beautiful or meaningful...the urge to write it down, to tell someone, to capture it.

As soon as it's "captured", we see how elusive it is: I look at the boxes in my living room and I think, that's not shiny. That's just big and heavy and challenging: inventory that must be moved.

So today, I spent most of the day addressing envelopes, sending CDs flying around the world, moving them in the hope that they will move people in turn, and that the shiny new songs of others will find their way back to me.

Six Songs, Minus Six

I really wanted to go sing in the subways today. I wanted to go display my new CD "Broadview" and see if anyone would notice that it has the same name as a subway station.

Nope.

But they did notice me doggedly playing, as the sub-zero wind whistled through Osgoode Station and I sang "It'll Grow On You". Subway busking would always be fun if it took place in comfortable temperatures, when people aren't hurrying by with mystified expressions. I think that's called a concert hall, but never mind.

Yet, it was fun, in its own frosty way. It's cool (ha) to know that I can actually play and sing while freezing.

I lasted six songs at Osgoode. When I nodded at the TTC ticket-takers, who shivered behind the glass, the woman in the parka applauded. I laughed and said, "thanks, but it's way too cold!" and she let me through the turnstiles without paying another fare.

What song would you sing?

In the movie "Walk the Line", Sam Phillips of Sun Records challenges the auditioning John R. Cash by asking him with a sneer: "If you only had one song to sing to be remembered by, what would you sing?"

I've thought of that question before. In fact, I tried to write a song about that question a year ago, but although I finished the song, I've never sung it in public. I like the song, now that I think of it. And I see the dodge in it, too: it's one thing to recognize the question and quite another to answer it.

The other night I went to an open mic where each songwriter played two songs. Many good performers were there, including a writer I've heard maybe ten times. Many of those times, she's played one particular song. It's wise and likeable and memorable (as she is). And because the song reveals a lot about her life and worldview, it's helped me get to know her...or feel I do...in a relatively short period of time.

Meanwhile, at the same open mic, I played two brand new songs: one that had just been finished that afternoon. I like art forms that can be completed and shared spontaneously...little sketches and essays and songs. Some of the songs I might never sing again...and there's nothing wrong with that. They have a short expiration date, but that doesn't mean they're not nourishing and tasty at the time.

Still, it's worth shooting for that one song.

When I know that people are going to hear me only briefly, I do choose my song more deliberately. As an artist, it's helpful for me to take note of which songs come up over and over. What do they say? What are they reaching for? What's absent in the songs I don't want to sing again? Or what am I uncomfortable about and unwilling to share?

In those moments when I have one song left, before I'm about to pack up and go home, I notice myself reaching for that one song. No matter which one I choose, there's a little voice in the back of my mind that wonders if there's another one.

I'm still trying to find that song by writing it, and that's why I'm still a songwriter.

The Return of the Mexican Coin

Faithful readers will remember my lucky Mexican coin.

It was donated to me during a subway performance. I didn't notice it until I counted my change at home and realized someone must have given it to me by mistake, thinking it was a two-dollar coin.

Today I was walking into the liquor store when I paused to give a woman outside some money. Today it's cold in Toronto, with temperatures just above freezing and a strong wind. I'm afraid I don't have a very consistent policy when it comes to responding to requests for handouts. Usually I don't give, but sometimes I do. It all depends on my mood, the weather and the impression I get from the person asking. Not very scientific, I know...and probably not the wisest policy when it comes to making lasting change.

Anyway, today I paused before going to buy a bottle of wine (a luxury item after all) to respond to the obviously freezing woman about my age outside the door. Reaching into my pocket, I found about $3.50. It seemed awkward to fish out only a portion of that for her, so I gave her all of it, feeling simultaneously generous and foolish as she thanked me profusely.

When I came back a few minutes later, she held something out for me.

"This coin you gave me," she said. "It's a Mexican coin. You should keep it."

Sure enough, it was my lucky Mexican coin. I gratefully took it from her, telling her she was very kind to give it back. And she obviously was kind. Her earnest expression showed how relieved she was to give back something important that was rightfully mine.

Just now, I've done a little research, and I've discovered that the 2 Peso coin (which is what I think it is) is worth about 25 cents Canadian. Not much, and certainly less than $2.00. But both she and I knew it was special. It became even more so when I told her how I had received it and kept track of it until now, and that I'd be writing this story about it later today.

In return, she went on to articulately explain why she (44 years old) is standing outside the liquor store in sub-zero weather asking for handouts. Whether or not I agreed with all of her choices, the background she gave me made me feel better about replacing the Mexican coin with $2.00.

Friday Matinee

In Toronto Life magazine (I think, if memory serves), there's a feature that appears regularly called something like "The Perfect Day". In it, local celebrities describe what they'd do if they had all the time and the money in the world. Usually they end up spending, oh,$35,000 in their mind...imagining buying lots of expensive stuff and going to interesting hipster places. I could never do a piece like that; I wouldn't know any of the cool spots my imaginary self was supposed to go, and I probably couldn't bring myself to spend large amounts of even imaginary money.

Today I had the perfect day though. I sang at Dundas Station for a couple of hours in the morning (earning $43.50) and took myself out to the Rainbow Cinema at Market Square for the 1:00 p.m. showing of "Walk the Line" (a $4.50 matinee). Lunch was excellent: a small bag of popcorn, a cranberry juice, and a bag of peanut M&Ms.

(A word, before I review the film, about the Rainbow Cinemas. Sure, the screens are small, but they're made up for by the big heart of the place. I enjoyed the slightly goofy advertisements before the show--they have the feeling of being produced at home on a graphics program that's missing a few fonts--and I really appreciated the uncommon friendliness of the staff. Interspersed with community-business advertising before the show, there are inspiring words of wisdom up on screen. Here's one I remember: "Time flies, but remember, you are the navigator." This movie theatre hosts "Movies for Mommies" where parents can bring babies...and during the Christmas season there will be free-with-$2-donation movies at 11:00 a.m. on weekends. Plus, the work of a local painter, Fred Harrison, adorns the lobby. Five stars.)

So, you have to go see "Walk the Line"! Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are terrific as Johnny Cash and June Carter. I was watching, of course, to see how well their musical performances came across (Phoenix learned to play guitar and sing for the role). They're completely believable (more so than "Elvis Presley") and their onscreen and onstage chemistry is wonderful to behold. Critics may say that the film isn't as dark as it might have been (Cash's drug addiction is a big part of the story) but that may be because the love story is the main event here, that and the music. One of my favourite scenes is Cash's almost disastrous audition for Sam Phillips of Sun Records. Phillips is cold and dismissive...the audition jury from hell...but he motivates John to sing honest songs instead of nice politically-correct ones.

Other cool facts: Shooter Jennings plays his dad Waylon in the film...John Carter Cash (June & John's son) Executive Produced the film, Johnny Cash reportedly chose Joaquin Phoenix for the role. Also watch for singer Shelby Lynne as John's mother and appreciate the terrific job done by T-Bone Burnett as Music Director. Highly recommended.

Number 12, Number 12

I've just returned from the CD manufacturer's office, where I needed to approve the press proofs for my album cover. I've been feeling rather behind on all of this.

Despite my best intentions, the CD is being delivered later than I'd planned or expected. As usual, I'm feeling as if I haven't done everything quite well enough, or met the targets I'd intended. The subway has a sign posted everywhere that says "Mind the Gap!" But, plunging ahead semi-consciously as I often do, I sometimes miss the fact that there's a difference between what I expect and what I get, or how perfectly I plan to do something and how well I actually do.

Anyway, back to those number 12s. There are two of them. Two track "#12"s listed on the back of the album cover. The songs are called "Feels Like Spring" (and today it does in Toronto, if you count a chilly rain as spring-like) and "Pennies". "Pennies" is the last song on the record. It's supposed to be Number 13. But it's Number 12. It's another Number 12.

I considered holding up the whole operation to make that Number 12 a 13. Turns out it would have cost me more to do that. Not just "Pennies". More like "Fifty Dollars".

I had painstakingly proofread the text ahead of time, of course. But I hadn't seen it.

Had that extra Number 12 mysteriously manifested itself during the printing process? No. It had just slipped in...a little chink in my armour, a little giggle of a reminder (at the very end of the record too, and on a song about little tiny things) that I can't control everything...that being imperfect is part of the deal...that "mistakes" are woven into the fabric of life.

Maybe my Number 12 is an example of the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which acknowledges three basic truths: nothing lasts, nothing is finished and nothing is perfect.

Suddenly I realize that I've managed to end (not end) my project, well, imperfectly perfectly. Some people might even think I did it on purpose. (Or maybe they'll think I'm superstitious about the Number 13.)

But of course, it wasn't intentional. In order for something to be truly imperfect, it has to be done accidentally, doesn't it?

Anyway, right now I consider my extra Number 12 a happy accident. And a reminder that the universe is unfolding as it should.

Fallen Poppies

I wore my bright red corduroy coat today. Beside the stylish subway-station buttons I wear (Dundas, Osgoode), I pinned a red poppy, which almost matches the coat exactly.

As it turned out, this morning I didn't have much time to play at Pape Station. I planned to be out for a couple of hours, but I hadn't counted on the jackhammering. The woman at the Gateway stand tells me that each day it's been pretty constant between 8:00 a.m. and noon, so I counted myself lucky to play uninterrupted for 45 minutes.

During that time, I had conversations with two friends I hadn't seen in several months (now I don't worry too much about taking the time out from singing, because these chance meetings are so valuable) and I gave out a business card to a new friend who enjoyed my music. He stopped to listen while I was playing "Could it Have Been The War", a song I often play around Remembrance Day.

Shortly after that, a decorated veteran came through the station and I tried to signal my respect for him while continuing to sing. In return, he gave me a jaunty little salute, his way of returning my smile. I was glad to be wearing my poppy.

But on the way home, I noticed that despite my best efforts at carefully pinning it on, it had fallen off, somewhere on the road between the Pape bus and my street.

It occurred to me that they may be designed that way on purpose: so that people come upon them by accident and notice the fact that they've fallen, or (a more cynical view) so that people like me must make another donation in order to get a new one.

It seems to me appropriate that we can't hold onto the poppies...that we can't keep them pinned down neatly to our coat or our consciousness...in a moment of inattention, another is gone.

And then we pause to pick another one up.

The Squeaky Escalator

I heard the noise before I started to descend the escalator at Queen's Park station. At first I wondered if a violinist was in the spot, tuning her instrument or (perhaps) playing something bravely avant-garde.

Instead, it was the escalator itself making the noise: an agitated "squeak-SQUAWK!' that rang through the echoey vestibule every few seconds. It was an intermittent sound that didn't seem to be related to any particular event in the escalator. It was just a persistent protest, like the Tin Man's cry of "oil-can!" at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz.

Oh well, at least no other musician was in the spot. I set up my stuff, chalking up the noise to the dampness, or wondering if it was the ghost of commuters past, come visiting for Hallowe'en.

It'd been more than a week since I've been out singing on the subways, so I found myself a bit out-of-practice. Although my guitar and voice filled up the space thanks to the natural reverb in the busking corner, I found myself tending to over-sing to attract people's attention. Also, after an hour of playing guitar, I noticed a strange prickling numbness in my left hand. Repetitive strain injury? I took a break, stretched my hand and took a drink of water. The escalator squeaked.

Over the last few weeks, I've been digging out from under a higher-than-usual workload, and tending to ignore my need for food, rest, exercise and personal space. I've had that "soldiering on" kind of attitude that I sometimes get when there's too much to do in my life. When I've picked up the guitar, I've sometimes played with an energy that's close to violence, as if music itself could knock down the walls of responsibility and over-commitedness that so often rise up around me. The intensity in my performance worked at Queen's Park subway, attracting many enthusiastic donations (including a $10 bill). I took few breaks as I played, often running one song into another, and pushed aside the sound of the squeaking escalator each time I briefly paused.

But eventually, after 2 1/2 hours, my voice and my hands were telling me I needed to stop. As I packed up, I saw that the squeaky escalator had out-lasted me. There it was, sounding off as loudly as it had at the beginning, saying "You want me to take you somewhere? Then look after me!" Today, I'm thinking of that message, as I take a break from the computer to go to exercise class and to eat lunch.

I'm still here

Today I received two letters from friends who mentioned that they're still checking my blog...and meanwhile I haven't been posting very regularly. Well, here I am again. Thanks for reading!

Here's an update on my recent news. My third CD, called "Broadview", is now in manufacturing (whew!) and will be ready in about three weeks. I'm very proud of this collection of songs, all of which have been sung on the subway...and in other venues too of course.

The name of the CD refers to the subway station (there's a song called "Luminous Veil" on the record, paying tribute to the safety barrier on the Prince Edward Viaduct, and "Music Everywhere" which was inspired by the three-note "doors closing" signal) but it's also a way of saying "long-term perspective" and also, the "view" of one "broad" (which is to say, me). I'm very excited to be having the CD release party in the vestibule of Broadview station on...wait a sec, bad idea, middle of winter...never mind. The concert will be at Hugh's Room on Thursday, January 12th.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned in the blog that I was planning to pitch a few articles around. One article, which I started as a blog posting but then completed off-line and submitted, will appear as a Globe & Mail "Facts & Arguments" piece in the next few days or weeks. Another one, which was written a few months ago, will be published in the next issue of the Songwriters Association of Canada magazine. Coincidentally, a few other (paying!) writing jobs have come my way, which have kept me busier than usual. Also, I've been completing the book project based on my first year of subway busking. There's been lots of writing going on, but less blogging (and singing too).

But as you know, if you've been reading regularly, the regular singing (and writing) has helped me stay sane and creatively energized since this project began. So I'm sticking to it.

You may notice some changes soon. I'm planning to renovate the blog a little, to allow for the more natural inclusion of essays on a variety of topics. Chances are, most of them will have something to do with creativity, artistic expression and popular culture. (But don't worry, I'll still be busking. Tomorrow morning I'm planning to go out--though I'm a bit out of practice, so I'm not sure have the nerve for Bloor & Yonge, where I'm scheduled!)

More to come...and thanks again for reading.

Ears

Last week, the subway musicians who use amplifiers got together at Osgoode station to have our amps registered and approved. We needed to set the appropriate levels for our machines so we won't play too loudly on the TTC and annoy people or cause a safety hazard.

After the amp test, I went to Bay Station to play. The Bay corridor is a long, usually quiet expanse of white ceramic tile. It's not the best-travelled busking spot on the system, but it has very good acoustics.

I placed my amp on the floor, turned it on and plugged in my cord. I set my volume at the correct level and began to play.

I thought, briefly, that the sound of my guitar was more quiet than I expected. I double-checked the amp. The red light was on and the volume was set correctly. I kept on playing confidently and attracted several donations.

I played for almost another half-hour before I looked at my amp again and realized that although the cord was plugged into the amplifier, it wasn't plugged into my guitar.

I had been playing all this time without any amplification, while assuming I had that extra "boost" all along and acting as if I was.

Slightly embarrassed, I plugged in the cord, hoping no one was looking. The new-and-improved sound filled the space beautifully...and I attracted the same number of donations as before.

+++

Meanwhile, I'm trying to finish my latest CD, "Broadview", and finding my ears can deceive me there, too.

I find myself putting the recording and my performance under a magnifying glass (probably driving people around me completely nuts) and not knowing when to trust my own ears. I have good reason to doubt them. Over the course of my life, and as recently as Friday at Bay Station, I have "heard" my music as louder or softer, stronger or weaker, and more important or less important in the big scheme of things.

Early in my career, I sometimes thought my songs and my performances were better than they actually were. That wishful thinking is very powerful. It motivates artists to get out there and play with confidence, and usually the work improves over time. On the other hand, the power of negative thinking is equally strong. When I listen to my work today and compare it to that of major label performers with much more experience (and money), I sometimes find myself paralyzed and unable to hear my work clearly and appreciate it.

The best listening (whether the relationship is between one person and another, or between one person and a song) takes place in an atmosphere of gentleness and trust. There needs to be a willingness to hear...and an ability to tune out the cacophony of so many distractions: other music, mass media, advertising, and our own personal self-talk messages about success, achievement and quality.

When I listen to anyone's CD with an attitude of acceptance and openness, without expectations and evaluations, I usually find something to like about them even if it's not "my kind of music" or if the work has technical flaws. I sometimes find it difficult to listen to my own recordings that way, especially at the final stages of a project, because the music has gotten tangled up in ambition and judgment.

The people who threw the coins into my case at Bay Station were responding to the un-amplified Lynn and the amplified one. It didn't really matter to them how "good" I was compared to anyone else: they don't have any attachment to the outcome of my musical story. They were simply enjoying a song, fully and briefly, acknowledging it gratefully...and moving on.

The Crowded Field

This weekend, I'm heading to Kingston for the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals conference. This is a once-a-year event where folk festival organizers get together as a community. It's a chance for artists to meet the people who might book them, to drop off promo packages, shake hands, smile--and possibly play some music too.

I must admit, these events make me pretty nervous.

But why? I hear some well-meaning festival organizer ask. After all, everyone's doing the same thing: trying to make wonderful music and spread it around. Yeah, my little nervous voice responds, but some music is being judged more wonderful than others. What if my music isn't important or needed, when there's so much "better" music around?

"Oh yes," responds my mythical Folk Festival Artistic Director, checking her list, "Mmm....you are correct...you are in fact #2,467 on our list this year..." as I bolt awake out of my bad dream.

Folk festivals often take place in small towns and rural areas, on hillsides dotted with wild flowers. On the winding roads up to the weekends of music, the wildflowers are also seen on the side of the road. A songwriter friend of mine wrote about these "Flowers in the Ditch". I enjoy being in these fields of flowers all swaying in time together, all blooming in our unique ways, our colours seeming more intense because we're all crowded together. At the same time, I sometimes feel lost in the crowd, and jealous when another is "picked".

In situations like the subway, I'm the only singer in the vicinity, so I get all the attention. But sometimes it's negative attention because the singing is unexpected and may seem by some to be out-of-place. "What's that dandelion doing there?!" (I have an unfinished song that includes the line "I can't tell the weeds from the flowers anymore".)

It's important that I stand as part of the field, even if I'm not singled out for special praise. (I'm not evading the conference, as I've sometimes done in the past.) I need to focus on others more than myself in such situations...yet I need not be a shrinking violet. (My own props to help me stand taller include new clothes...which I rarely buy...and some well-rehearsed familiar songs that I can sing at the come-one-come-all "campfire room".)

We recently acquired a car, which I'll drive to Kingston. The other day, Dave found a little bud vase that sticks to the windshield with a suction cup. Before I leave on Saturday, I'm picking a flower still blooming in our October garden, and it'll
be with me all the way.

Re-Orienting

Yesterday I headed for the TTC Head Office with the other newly-licensed musicians for this year's orientation session.

On the way there I noticed a very well-organized busker at Yonge & Bloor with a point-of-purchase stand for his CDs, which I don't think is allowed. I noticed two men on the same subway car talking about this musician, and I could tell we were all going to the same place.

At the meeting, I sat with a very nice young couple I had met at the auditions, a polished duo that sings classic country songs with just the right amount of style and twang. Like me last year, they listened attentively as management explained what to do and not to do on the system (stay within the yellow dots/get charged with assault) but I could tell they also wanted to know what TO do while performing. Stake out a regular spot and time? Play upbeat songs? Dress up? Down? Smile at people or affect an air of professional nonchalance?

The marketing staff at the TTC, helpful though they are, don't have the answers to those questions--nor the really big ones.

What kind of art can you create that will shine through the often depressing minutiae of the daily grind? How can you sparkle when you're singing under flourescent lights and pressed against a wall beside a garbage can? How will you create a life of harmony and balance, honouring your creative spirit while attending to financial security, providing services that people will reliably pay you for in addition to good works that are essentially voluntary?

In all likelihood, the staff don't even realize that some of us in the room are concerned with such questions. They may, in fact, assume that we do this simply for money, that the money's always good, and that we're involved with a simple economic transaction. Perhaps some musicians in the room see it that way.

But I suspect that many of them, like me, are always struggling with those deeper questions: trying to answer them by wrestling with the underground and, in the process, either walking away from the fight or learning to embrace it.

+++

At one point in the meeting, a friendly voice spoke up from the back of the room, reminding everyone that we need to welcome newcomers (I still consider myself one, having done this only part-time for a year) and to always have fun.

"That right," said one of the staff. "Thank you, Billy."

It was Billy James, the original busker on the Toronto subway system, who fought successfully to have a licensing system established so that musicians would not be charged with trespassing. (I hope I'm framing that correctly...in any case, he was the pioneer.)

When I started this journey last year, I remembered that in 1981, as a newly-arrived student at Ryerson, I had interviewed a subway musician. At that time, I was too shy to admit, to him or for that matter to myself, that I was also a musician and songwriter. I had put such childish things aside to pursue a mainstream career in broadcasting. I could afford to put a quarter in his case...but I didn't think I could afford to follow my heart and my music.

In the in-between years, I had forgotten about the assigment, lost the cassette tape, and forgotten the man's name. Over the past twelve months, as I worked as a subway musician, I started hearing the name Billy James. Could it be the same person?

At yesterday's orientation session, I took a deep breath and introduced myself and told my story, to which he said (as I knew he would) "I would have encouraged you. I would have told you to make music." He went on to say how very fortunate he feels to be a musician, and to have influenced--even in a small way--so many people over the years.

As I listened to him--still just as good-looking and healthy and intelligent as he appeared 24 years ago (though with considerably less hair)--I could tell that I was looking at a very rich man.

And I felt grateful that I had turned around in time, re-focusing my career around my music even though I had initially planned to leave it behind. I was grateful that in those intervening years I hadn't forgotten who he was--or who I was--and that I'd jumped on the same train, just in time.

Gift Exchange

What do you like to do on your birthday?

Some people book the day off work, while others take themselves out for lunch or buy something special. For many people, it's a time to reflect on life purpose, to look at the year gone by and the one just ahead, to clarify goals and renew energy. Of course, birthdays fall on whatever day they do, and often it's not practical to custom-design your own special day. Some years, the birthday ends up resembling an "average day", with its usual combination of small victories and disappointments. On those days, it's important to look around even briefly...to breathe deeply and say "I'm glad to be alive".

This morning, I had a bunch of things to juggle--mostly work-related and family-related--but fortunately (today anyway) I had some say about how I'll juggle them and in what order. What I wanted to do most was to sing for other people, so I headed for the subway.

One thing that struck me today, and which seems to be appropriate in an essay about birthdays, is that it only takes a few people to appreciate you to make your day--and in fact your whole life. We really don't need millions of people to say we're talented or special or valuable or loved. We only need a few.

This morning, although hundreds of people ignored me as always, three people stopped and made me feel extremely special. They reminded me of my family and my closest friends (just like your family and your closest friends) who truly see me and hear me (you) and who love me (you) the way I am.

The people who spoke to me, they didn't know it was my birthday, and I didn't need to tell them. I didn't want them to feel pressured to do something special (buy a CD?) because they already had.

Their birthday gift to me was the reminder to honour myself, to give what I have (a few dozen songs, played and sung imperfectly this morning) and to appreciate the special people in my life. Our exchange didn't take place on a prestigious stage, to great fanfare or applause, but the gifts I will always treasure.

Too Busy Writing to Blog

Sorry I haven't written for awhile.

I've been too busy writing.

It all started when I began to write a blog entry last week, and I realized, hey, this is turning into a publishable essay. So I stopped blogging, checked the submission requirements for this particular project, and tailored my piece accordingly. It turned out pretty well and I sent it in, but I haven't heard back from the editors yet.

At the same time, a new professional writing client landed on my doorstep, with lots of work to be done, and quick. It's both challenging and energizing to be writing on demand again and I look forward to getting paid. It's also enjoyable to be writing about something other than myself.

Of course, the old familiar identity issues are resurfacing. What am I, anyway? An artist? Writer? Singer? Advertising copywriter? Oh yeah, and what about that subway musician enterprise (cue hysterical fit of giggling)? What about that?! When I'm not wearing too many hats, I'm apparently up-turning them for loose change. Does this fit together into any kind of sensible picture?

I do hope so. Speaking of pictures, a photographer is coming to take mine at Pape Station on Thursday, so I have a date to keep. In the meantime, let's hope my new client doesn't ride the subway to work.

My Mexican Coin

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Music Unheard/Spinner Bottles

Today I wrote all morning (words, not music) and planned to sing in the afternoon. I had a solid two hours available and I was looking forward to singing at Pape Station again.

Of course, I'd had to get myself into the mood. Often, when I'm preparing to sing somewhere, I have to consciously boost myself out of the introspective doldrums. Usually, in the course of doing vocal warmups, tuning my guitar, packing it into the case with CDs, capo, tuner and so on, I find myself feeling more positive about the upcoming performance. By the time I'd done that today, I was feeling more energetic about the prospect of busking.

You'll notice I didn't mention packing my guitar strap.

Damn.

I did this once before. That time, I went all the way back home for it (which takes about 45 minutes and requires a long and heavily-loaded walk) and came back to sing. Although some musicians play in the subways sitting down, and I might have been able to find a small box to use as a seat (or used my knapsack), I don't do this. I'm a tiny person to begin with. If I sat down, I'd feel nervous about being trampled. Also, the optics aren't good; I can't afford to look even a notch more needy.

So I went home. This time, I didn't plan to return. It was hot, I was tired, and I wouldn't have as much time to sing as I'd hoped.

As I boarded the bus southbound, I wondered about all the other unheard music in the world. How much art is not being made, because something important was forgotten, carelessly left on the side table during a moment of distraction? How much music is not being played because of things that are lost, or that were stolen?

Do we have enough time to recover such things? What happens when we just let them go?

This afternoon, I'm writing this, which I wouldn't have otherwise.

+++

This also seems a good time to mention the Spinner Bottles.

About halfway up my Pape bus route, there's a tree that's decorated with Spinner Bottles. I know that's what they're called because there's a big sign telling me what they are: "Spinner Bottles!"

They're for sale, these Spinner Bottles. (Keep saying that over and over again. It takes on a funny nonsensical looping rhythm much like the things themselves. Spinnerbottlesspinnerbottlesspinnerbottles......)

They seem (from what I can tell, as I look at them for a couple of seconds at a time out the bus window) to be made of large plastic pop bottles that have had long strips cut through them lengthwise. These strips have been pulled out to catch the wind, and they spin on an axis while hanging on a string. They also have decorations, like flowers, on them or in them. I'd say there are thirty bottles or so hanging from this tree.

Does anybody buy them?

I've always wondered.

Then today, as I took the Pape bus home, I noticed another house, across the street and down a bit from the first one, with three Spinner Bottles, spinning away on the front porch.

Coins in the Fountain

One of the judges was someone I know. Well, not exactly know...but somebody I've met before.

A year ago, before my first audition, I worried that this might happen. I was concerned about someone from the local music community, someone who had seen me on a "real" stage, might see me auditioning to be a subway musician and therefore lower their opinion of me.

Today though, unlike last year, I wasn't at all worried about "what he might think" (except that he and the others think positively about my performance). In the course of a year, I had become much less concerned about status in the local music scene and more focused on simple quality of communication.

My audition went well. I did not goofily wave "hi!" to the judge I sort of knew, and he appeared objective and professional. TTC staffers shook my hand as I came offstage and a previous auditioner yelled "beautiful!" from the stands. I exchanged business cards with a talented country duo who sang before me, and marvelled at the skill of the European accordian player (whom I'd met on the subway this year, and who had told me his instrument was worth an astounding amount of money). Listening to him, and knowing he'd make it in for sure, I was reminded of the apples-and-oranges problem of comparing talented local singer-songwriters with world-class classical musicians.

Anyway...whew.

That's over with.

And I definitely felt better, having thrown a few coins back into the fountain, with a wish.

As Yet Unseen

I spent most of yesterday considering and re-considering my decision to try out for the subway again.

Upon reflection, I realized that I have received so much from the experience already, I could legitimately decide to step aside and let the project be a one-year-only event. As such, the subway year would have a neat, sewn-up quality to it. I would, perhaps, be able to see it as a distinct happening, one chapter in my ongoing story. It would be a chapter that ended when I wanted it to.

As I spoke to friends and family about this possibility, we all realized that my fear of not being re-accepted was a very real concern. If I wasn't chosen again, would that call the whole enterprise into question? Would it undermine my confidence in other areas of my musical life? At one point, I decided that the risk wasn't worth it and that I should call the audition off.

Meanwhile, outside, a storm raged. A tornado warning went into effect, as strong winds gusted from every direction, and pressure built up in black clouds overhead.

This morning, the skies are still cloudy, and my outlook still mixed. But at some point between yesterday night and this morning, one thing did become clear.

My experience as a subway busker has always been about risk.

I have never known, when I start to sing, what the people coming up the stairs will think: whether they will think my music is beautiful, or boring, or essential, or superfluous, or if they will even hear it at all. I've had no control over their responses. Even when I've thought, "ahah, there's a family approaching, I should sing 'Teach Your Children'..." and I've tried to do that (with mixed success) usually they haven't even noticed.

It has been the times that I've sung directly from the heart, from--and to--a place of more universal communication that transcends individuality and even time, that miracles have occurred.

The right music has in fact found the right ears.

Over and over again, despite my frequent doubts and fears, I have experienced those miracles. Singing to an as-yet-unseen audience is a risk, and somehow, it has been no gamble at all.

Two Shades of Blue

Bay Station - 10:00 a.m. - 11:45 a.m. (Maybe $6.50? I haven't bothered counting.)

In previous posts, I've mentioned that certain songs seem to suit certain days. For reasons that aren't immediately apparent, random individuals will respond to one song over others--and it won't be the top song of the day before. I usually look for the reason behind the popularity, but I often end up wondering if I'm simply making it all up: if I'm just looking for meaning in this little movie I'm creating for my life, and I'm picking the best song for the soundtrack.

Anyway, today's song-of-the-day was "Two Shades of Blue". It's a new song, written about a month ago. I've played it in the subways before and at several open mics. It was written while en route to the subway. (I hadn't noticed before but now it seems important.)

It starts out like this. (Oh, and a little "ha ha" aside here: I've learned that if I decide to publish my blog as a book, I must excise all lyrics written by other songwriters, because it would be too expensive to get the rights to them. But I can publish my own! So here goes.)

Why do we say that we're blue when we're down
When high up above all that blue shines around
That's just a riddle so old that it's new
Love paints a picture in two shades of blue

You get the idea: the thing that gives us joy also brings us sorrow, and vice-versa. We get them all mixed up, even as we obsess about them, and meanwhile we're right in the middle of both, all the time. (Don't worry, there won't be a quiz.)

No matter how Two Shades Of Blue stacks up as a song, it does reflect pretty accurately how I feel about singing in the subways, and the fact that I've stayed so long, and that (so far) I still plan to re-audition on Saturday morning. Here's the last verse:

The beauty of life is you don't have to choose
To live is to love and to love is to lose
So what's a poor colour-blind poet to do?
We're caught and we know it, in two shades of blue...

I'm always right on the fence. Is it worth it, or not? I don't know. I do notice that when a friend asked me today whether I'd do it if no money were changing hands, I said no without hesitation. Money validates. And singing in the subway prevents me from spending time on activities that make more and more reliable money, even as it keeps me connected to other people (some of them), and to the world I live in and to my spirit, which in turn energizes me to do what I'm best at. Again, mixed blessings.

So, the auditions. 11:30 on Saturday morning, at the Canadian National Exhibition, behind the Food Building.

Today, by chance, along came the Special Constable from the TTC who'd encouraged me at the auditions last year. He asked me how the year had gone for me. (I said it had been great but that donations were unsteady; he blamed gas prices.) He wished me luck and will see me on Saturday. (It's supposed to rain.)

The auditions, of course, are unlike singing in the subways. There's an audience there. They clap. As my friend said at lunch today, maybe they should videotape people singing alone in an empty corridor for an hour, while people file by ignoring them.

My Secret Identity

I forget about it when I'm not there.

When I am away from the subway, or away from any part of my music and writing life, I'm usually not aware that I miss it. I may feel disconnected, but from what, I'm not sure. If I think of my creative experience, I do so in a parenthetical way. I look at it as a footnote, a by-the-way, an aside. It's not my real life. Is it?

One of my favourite movies from the past year is The Incredibles, in which two former superheroes, a man and wife, must set aside their previous secret identities in order to live what is generally viewed as a normal and responsible life. Mr. Incredible becomes an insurance salesman. Plasti-Girl becomes a mother of three.

Although they settle into their new roles with admirable stoicism, Mr. Incredible hasn't left his super-alter-ego behind altogether. Late at night, he and a buddy (also a closet superhero) go out on clandestine rescue missions. Plasti-Girl, now Super-Mom, is too busy to do the same, or to notice.

As the story unfolds, their "former" identities re-emerge. (That's all I'll give away here, in case you haven't seen it.)

I identify with that former super-couple, as do, probably, most people past the age of 35, especially those who are still engaged in a creative passion which may not always dovetail neatly with the other parts of their adult lives.

You can be a superhero and an insurance salesman, but not at the same time. You'll likely have to keep your identities secret from the people who know you by day or by night. You might even find yourself cutting yourself off from your own secret identity at times, in order to keep things chugging along acceptably.

That's why, when I'm not engaged in intense creative activity, I tend to forget about it, or minimize it. It's a self-protective strategy. A way of staying sane.

This weekend, I had a very long, challenging conversation with someone who could not sympathize with the difficulty of keeping the various roles in my life in balance. As I write this, I now see his point. It would be hard for Mr. Incredible to stand around the water cooler chatting about how hard it is to get up in the morning after he's spent the night flying around the city. Everybody'd be jealous. Or think he was just bragging. Meanwhile, the regular moms in the park probably wouldn't want to hear about Plasti-Girl's constant temptation to expand.

But I can imagine Plasti-Mom, seeking connection and wanting her friends to experience something of the same exhilaration she feels when she stretches, asking whether they too might have a Secret Identity--some sacred pursuit that might rocket-fuel their existence, even for a few minutes a day?

It's funny...at one point during that long, challenging conversation, I did walk away to get some air. But I didn't pick up my guitar or consider going to sing in the subways. I walked right by my psychic phonebooth, not even attempting to don my cape.

If I had, I might have flown clear of the frustrating minutiae in which we were trapped. I might have seen something on the horizon that made our petty conflicts seem irrelevant and damaging.

I didn't believe in My Secret Identity just then, just when I needed it most.

Vacation's Over

I have been talking to the man in the wheelchair outside the Beer Store.

It started yesterday, when I was on my way to a place called The Grasshopper. It's a cozy little three-steps-underground bar that has an "open mic" on Wednesday nights. Unlike Fat Albert's (which is on vacation for the summer) and other open stages, there's no long sign-up list of artists at The Grasshopper. There is, however, an open mic, a really open one, sitting invitingly in the middle of a stage, waiting for someone to come up and seize it. It's a good place for my songwriting friends and me. Yesterday night I was headed there by streetcar and I was feeling especially happy because I'd just finished a new song. It's called "Giant Slide". I wrote it on Tuesday at the end of a family vacation, when we were sitting on the sand at Wasaga Beach, a frozen-in-time summer tourist town.

When I'm excited about a new song, I feel like a new person. I'm more energetic and confident and likely to connect with anyone I see. Songwriting takes me to a new place entirely. It's a holiday in a notepad (add an instrument and, heck, you're all expenses paid at a luxury resort) No wonder I find myself climbing into that vehicle (and revving up the pen) even when I'm riding in actual cars, and especially when I'm hanging around beaches on family vacations.

The vacation's over. Or it's just starting. More likely it never ended.

So back to the guy in the wheelchair.

I had always avoided him. For me, he personified the cause too lost to help. My children had noticed him--he does not wear shoes or socks, his feet are patchy and swollen with sores, as is one of his hands. The kids could not understand why he did not wear shoes even in the winter and I had no answer for them. I fear and avoid this person normally; I have no response, no generosity that could make a dent. Yesterday though, humming and buoyant, I met his eyes--which were clear and bright blue and lively--and smiled and went over to talk.

He could barely speak, but he gestured toward my guitar with his good hand, then pointed at himself and grinned.

His meaning was unmistakable. "You play?!" I asked, giving him a dollar.

He nodded enthusiastically but indicated his crippled hand, which prevented him from playing anymore. Continuing the conversation without words, he started moving his other hand as if on a fretboard...and SANG a blues guitar lick for me.

Today I returned to Pape Station. The woman at the Gateway Newstand seemed less friendly than usual today, which rattled me at first, as did a man who seemed to make fun of my hat. I played for couple of hours, selling a pair of CDs to a wonderful man who had just seen The Rolling Stones at The Phoenix last night, meeting a teacher from my daughter's school, watching several daycamp groups file by. In honour of The Stones, I played "You Can't Always Get What You Want". And I played "Giant Slide" of course, confirming my suspicions that I haven't yet memorized the words. As I was packing up to leave, one woman donated a dollar and wished me good luck at the auditions.

As is my custom now, I bought something at the Gateway store, and said hello to the woman there. She told me business is very slow. It's true, I said. Other people have told me that, everywhere, not just on the subways.

As I came home, the man in the wheelchair was outside the Beer Store, for the second day in a row. I wasn't sure whether to stop today (this is always the question...do you stop? Do you stop again? Do you never stop stopping? How is this done?) and was walking past him when I realized he could see my reflection in the Beer Store window.

"HELLO!" he shouted out at the window because he couldn't turn around. I stopped.

I saw that today he wasn't doing as well as he was yesterday, even though his eyes were still penetrating. Placing some change into the paper bag he held (small change, not the kind needed) I asked him if anyone was looking after him...whether he just looked after himself...?

I knew the answer...and there was nothing I could do but hold his (good) hand for a few seconds, knowing that at one time, he was playing and singing too.