Falling Reign

This past summer has been an emotionally difficult season for me.

At a time when most of my peers have been wrapping up their careers, and at a time when I had fancied myself to be starting my career anew, I instead discovered my future to have fallen far short of that expectation. This has consumed me, and I have been stuck. And when my son returned from his trip to Europe late this summer, he knew it too, straight away.

“You are becoming happy in your sadness” he’d said after I’d admitted that I was still bereft at the end of my recent musical employment. “You are becoming happy to be sad. It’s not acceptable. You’re letting this become your story. ” He paused, and then he let a few minutes of dark highway pass, as if for effect. “Do not let this become your story.”

Although whatever had happened was in the past, he could tell that I was still dwelling on it – nay, simmering in it. What was gone – and how it had all gone down – was becoming toxic to me. “You have to move on” Elihu said, as we drove home in the inky darkness. It stung to hear him so critical, so serious. He was hardly my kid anymore; he was a peer offering sage advice. My mental health depended upon it, and we both knew it. I’d been able to push it away during the lonely summer months, as I’d had no one to counter my mood, no one to discuss it with. But he was home, and now I had the outside perspective I’d needed. Yeah. Time to move on. But to what?

________________________________________________

With no musical comrades, no peers and no dear friends in physical proximity, “moving on” seems truly daunting. Elihu has been my closest companion for the past nineteen years, and it is a tall order to replace such an insightful and considerate person with whom I can discuss things. I do have a few close friends – my oldest bestie from high school having recently become a cherished part of my life – but she is far away and has her own life to contend with. And in the end, no one can really take the place of my son. People warn against considering your child to be a peer, but I dunno. I have often said jokingly that I gave birth to a 50-year-old man. Not so funny as it is true.

Music seems to be fading into my past, and it breaks my heart fiercely. I have new projects – unrelated to music – which I should really dive into, but I flounder. I try to convince myself that I need new headshots, new recordings. That I need to write songs. Sure, I can always do that, but is it truly necessary at this point? Who fucking cares? I’ve worked mostly as a sideman; at 59 it’s a little late to pretend I’m a solo artist. So what is it that will earn me money, give me a sense of joy, self-respect and fulfillment? Is music even my path anymore? I am beginning to doubt it. I mourn the richness of my musical past and miss the brief taste of how it felt to make music again with other humans (that gave me joy, albeit short-lived). For now, I suppose it’ll have to go on hold while I discover what the next practical move should be.

What that will be, I don’t know. I’m grateful for my spiral-bound pads, filled with writing, lyrics, poems and project to-do lists, yet following through and assembling any of it into meaningful content seems as challenging as losing these goddam extra pounds I’ve solidly re-packed onto my frame over a season of self-soothing and grief.

__________________________________________________

Last night, a violent late-summer storm pelted the house with sheets of rain and gusts of wind that knocked out power and toppled trees. I stood in the screen porch, feeling fully the might of the wind and water, and I asked the force to please wash me free of the past; wash me clean that I might start over again, from this moment forward…

It’s been a few weeks now since Elihu has returned to campus. He is an autonomous individual. I am no longer a full-time parent. The Queen has died, lain in state, and been buried. Things are different now. It’s time for the new order.

I suppose it’s time for Elizabeth 2.0 now. And when I figure out what form that will take, I promise you’ll be the first to know.


Turn of a Dime on “Liz Sings 70s”, my YouTube channel

hillhousewoman on Instagram

The Heart of a Moth

If one were to believe in karma, or in a certain “this-therefore-that” way of thinking, a belief that each event is the product of other events, all serving to bring forth one particular outcome, then things would be easier to justify, easier to handle emotionally. But these days I’m not too confident about it.

Once I was. And it was a less stressful way to live. Everything happens for a reason. Easy.

Sure, one can see in hindsight with some clarity how things build upon each other. Some consequences are so clearly related to things that came before that one can’t help but make the association. And there are those segments of our lives when things just seem so perfectly scripted that it’s hard to believe it wasn’t all “meant to be”, or that we might not have just earned the perfect outcomes through a withdrawal from some sort of energetic bank account.

I’m a mass of conflict these days. Just a few months ago I could not have felt stronger, more hopeful. Great things were within my grasp – I’d say I even sat squarely in the middle of some moments of pure perfection. Things I’d dreamed of for ages had finally come to fruition. And somehow it felt as if I’d earned all of it through my years of sacrifice and toil and hope… The world owed me some good shit now, cuz I’d been through a lot, and I certainly deserved it. Right?

A lot of people deserve good things. And a lot of people will never, ever receive these things. Most people on the planet will live fairly crappy lives, ones in which merely existing is the only goal, lives in which nothing out of the ordinary will manifest. But what on earth have they done to deserve these horrible fates? Not a bloody thing. Not in this life, at any rate.

Where is the parity? There seems to be none.

Not to say that there isn’t a direct correlation between hard work and its reward. Of course that can exist. But to me, that kind of opportunity seems a luxury. For me personally, I feel that reward doesn’t always seem to be a reliable outcome of hard work. Cuz I work a shit ton. I toil, I clean, I sort, put away, file, fix, tend, check in on, shop, cook, learn the tunes, learn the gear, teach the students. All for what ends up being not enough income to pay bills in anything like the real world. Were it not for the home provided for me by my mother (the Hillhouse itself), I truly would be out on the streets. And at 59, that’s a crappy thing to know about myself. All this work, just to exist in another person’s dwelling, and without the means to sustain myself in the most primitive way. Demoralizing.

Yes, I might see my reward as existing in my son. He is undoubtedly a remarkable human, and he’s destined for great things, he’s happy and launched. Yes, I’ve enjoyed a life densely packed with experiences that most folks don’t have.

But here I am on the other side, with the remainder of my life an expanse of nothingness. No rewards in view, no destinations. Got some ideas, a couple of projects I’d like to accomplish, idealized visions of what I’d like to write or perform. But any one thing on the list seems to require an investment of energy which I just can’t seem to summon anymore – or money, which I simply don’t have. My gear is old, my clothes are outdated, and the blog isn’t free. So what now? As I see it, it’s a game of waiting and simply slogging it out, hoping for a few more good moments before the finish line.

My inner conflict is further stoked by a secret disdain which I feel for some people. Shameful, but true. Look at those ham hock arms, listen to the horrible way in which they speak to their children, look at that antagonizing shit they post across their vehicles… And then I realize that if there were to be a catastrophic event and we were all thrust together, I would see their humanity first. My heart would soften when our eyes met… I would see the fragile person within. I would feel forgiveness, and I would understand that their life was a product of the situation into which they were born. And I wouldn’t care that they still believed in Trump. (Many of my friends would disagree with me on this quite fervently, but I say humans are humans at the end of the day. I don’t have to hang out with them, but I don’t have to hate them either.) How dare I feel so superior?

As I was standing at the window just now, looking out at the tall weeds surrounding the vacant chicken coop with a deep feeling of despair growing inside, my eyes landed on a moth, clinging to the wall. That creature and I both have hearts, I thought. A vague feeling of hope overcame me. For just a second, I felt some relief. It felt as if we were all in this together, every creature on this globe. Good outcomes and bad outcomes, we all experienced them. Moths too. Imagine flying towards a thing that your whole essence tells you to be the ultimate goal, only to find your life extinguished? That doesn’t seem fair, to be sure.

“Who ever told you life was fair?” my mother would often say to us as children. I could never form a response, shamed, scolded and immature as I was back then, but now I understand what I had been thinking but couldn’t articulate. “Everyone”. From the time we’re tiny, we’re told to play fair. What a strange incongruity. Play fair, nothing in life is fair. I suppose that both are true.

We earthly creatures are all linked in some way, sharing this bizarre brew of the tragic and the magic. And strange as is may seem, in view of the unfavorable odds with which we are presented, it appears that each one of us somehow manages to maintain a tiny feeling of hope. Each one of us has a heart which continues to beat.

Even a moth.

The Privilege of June

This is the first June 12th in several years which has passed rather uneventfully.

Last year on this day my son graduated from high school. Two years ago on this day I permanently injured my eye. Today had been my former in-laws’ wedding anniversary. This is also the birthday of my ex-husband’s second son, the out-of-wedlock child who inspired me to move with Elihu from the Midwest to upstate New York and start a new life.

It’s interesting to me that the day which used to cause me such anguish now hardly registers as a day of note. Even my eye injury (something which is still an ongoing cause of mild discomfort) falls to the status of the everyday. And my son’s half-brother’s birthday is not the hurtful anniversary it used to be. In fact, I’ll likely suggest before the day is through that he might call him. Can’t say that I don’t feel a slight twinge when this other family is mentioned, but at this point, it’s simply part of our reality.

The past several weeks have been painful for me, in the wake of an imprudent move of mine regarding an old friend. I lost a professional situation in the mix as well, but it pales in comparison. Yet somehow, the internal anguish which has dogged me recently without much letup has tempered a bit today.

This morning and afternoon I have passed the hours in the sunshine and in the shade, reading, leisurely walking about the waist-high grasses of our property, and just being with my son. When Elihu and I walked together down the long, wooded driveway to the road at his suggestion, my heart was made light. We two always enjoy great conversation, and much laughter. It’s something I’ve never taken for granted, but perhaps in this final time before he leaves for the rest of the summer, I cherish his company even more. These days I am living moment by moment, noticing the peace and comfort of my life, and regarding it far less casually than is my habit.

“I am not grateful for my life,” answered Elihu when I asked him if that was how he had felt, “but rather I feel privileged to be here”. He went on to cite the exceptionally rare chance that each one of us had at becoming humans, let alone coming to be in such a safe and thriving time and place. Prone to depression as I am, it’s easy for me to want to give it all up, to get it done with already, just fucking leave. But something about the way in which Elihu presented his case and the manner in which he spoke had reached me. It inspired me just a little. And a little is something. Today it was the something I needed.

On Wednesday my son leaves to spend the summer in Europe with his father and the other family. I’m thrilled for him, but I admit that a tiny piece of me still feels a tad jealous. I wish that I was going with him on this adventure. But instead, after having raised him on my own, and having done all the of heavy lifting during those densely-packed academic times, the trend continues; his father gets to share with our son all of the magical, other-worldly experiences, all of the travel and adventure. (Fits the term I recently learned of “Disney Dad”.) But it’s ok. Elihu’s life will be so enriched by the events ahead. This makes me happy. It makes me feel grateful.

Actually, it makes me feel privileged.


Postscript: Another contributor to my improved mood is the success of my mother’s recent surgery, and her favorable prognosis. She is faring well and her recovery looks to be complete. An enormous relief.

June 12ths of the past…

Birth and Baptism

Summer, Defenestrated (9th paragraph)

Storm of the Eye

For Now

My son is at the kitchen table adding to an already thirty-five thousand word essay on his unfavorable feelings about Abrahamic religions, and I am sitting just outside the door in the sunshine, putting the world off just a bit longer, myself also writing. Or at least trying to. The material isn’t coming the way it usually does. There is a dull sense of dread present in my gut today which is making everything much harder to do. There is quite likely a bit of unpleasant news waiting for me soon in my inbox, and I cannot bring myself to look. And there is some information forthcoming from my mother’s doctor which also might not be good.

This day, however, is a counterpoint to the threatening unknown which awaits.

It is the most perfect sort of late spring day one could wish for – clear skies, just the right temperature and no heavy humidity to weigh things down. The occasional breeze delivers the rare scent of irises. Every so often a single-engine plane buzzes by overhead, preparing for its descent into the nearby community airfield. Water trickles endlessly over the rocks in our small pond, and the usual backyard birds do their thing. The chipmunk who I hand feed each morning has paused for a very un-chipmunk-like length of time in a crook of the apple tree, as if he too knows how perfect a day this is and wishes to take it all in. Knee-high grasses dotted with stands of pink and yellow flowers bend in the wind, common fritillaries and the occasional Karner Blue butterfly dancing among the blossoms. This is a moment I do not take for granted. I hope to linger in this pleasantness of the day and in this state of unknowing for as long as possible.

My mother has had a recurrence with breast cancer. She’s 87, so when I heard this, my first thought was that this was the ‘get out of jail free’ card she’d hoped for. There would come a decline in her health, a need for increasingly generous doses of morphine toward the end, and then finally she’d die a peaceful, pain-free death at home, something she’d long made clear that she wanted, and something which I had promised her I’d make happen when that time arrived. Instead, she is choosing to have a mastectomy, followed by a home-based recovery. No chemo, but likely radiation. If she were a decade younger, it might not concern me as much as it does. If her strength and mobility were a bit better I’d be more confident that the surgery would do more benefit than harm. As things stand, I’m apt to think this action might make her remaining time on the planet less than ideal.

I think some skilled nursing might be in order after the surgery, maybe a few days at a rehab center. But my mother is insisting that I’m making a big deal out of this and says if her doctor’s not concerned, then why should she be? She insists that she won’t need help and reminds me that there’s hardly anything left of her breast now anyway, as if that somehow mitigates the trauma. But she’s a good planner, and so has already made and frozen food for the recovery period, something which will certainly help. (Recently she made a slightly dramatic comment about maybe finally being able to get her favorite pizza after the surgery – as if for the past several years she has been actively prevented from enjoying this perceived luxury. Her Silent Generation stoicism and predilection for passive-aggressive comments drive me positively nuts.)

So tomorrow we’ll learn whether the cancer has metastasized or not. Mom got a funny feeling from the way in which the doctor talked about her case, and it has her suspecting that the news might be bad. I’ve got a funny feeling about a recent situation in my life that has me suspecting bad news, too. And so here we exist, in this perfect spring day, neither of us knowing the outcomes that await us.

My son being home offers a nice distraction from my empty calendar and ignored inbox. There are still meals to be made and a bit of shuttling around to be done while he’s here. Errands, haircuts, doctor appointments and prepping the Airbnb all help to fill the space. But my students are just about wrapped for the summer, and there are no gigs on the calendar, aside from a few solo shows in the fall. There’s time for a few farmers market dates I suppose, but still, those offer very little motivation to get out of bed in the morning. When Elihu goes to Europe with his dad for the summer (he leaves in a week), I will be faced with long days. But then again, mom may need my help. From where I sit right now, I just can’t tell.

The following few months contain a lot of unknowns.

It’s times like this when I need those lists, those spiral bound notebooks which I filled up when I was light-of-heart and full of inspiration. It’s times like this when I’m so grateful to have reconnected with my high school bestie. There is no tribe to which I belong in this town, and now that my son’s life is expanding and taking place mostly elsewhere, it has me further questioning where home should be, and what it is that I should be doing in this world. I almost don’t even feel that I can say with complete integrity that I’m a writer or a musician, when there is so little pay and work isn’t consistent. The only thing I’ve ever known myself to be with absolute conviction is a mother.

I hear Elihu moving about the kitchen making some food. He and I have both done very little today. I didn’t make anything to eat, just couldn’t find it in me. I called out to him to bring me some naan just now, and he did. I’m glad for the company, and for the bread. I’m glad for the fine spring day.

For now, I’m glad for the simple things.

Growing On

We are put upon this earth without our consent. We are launched into a life incarnate without our choosing and by the time we’ve finally gotten our wits about us, many of us may come to realize that we might not have signed on for the experience if we’d been given an option at the outset.

This may sound deeply cynical, I know. But please understand that although I may often feel as if I don’t wish to be here, it’s not to say that I do not bear profound witness to the unfathomable marvel of this planet and the mortal life we share. Daily I am astounded by the complexities around me in the natural world. Daily I am fairly tortured by my desire to know more about my fellow humans and what motivates them to move through their lives and into their futures. Who among us is enthusiastically participating in life? Who among us is caring principally about advancement, who is working simply to avoid the pain, and who is altogether unaware that his or her own existence even merits examination?

From my privileged seat in a commercial airplane I can see vast tracts of land below me, all organized into human-sized portions. Suburban grids by day, cobwebs of light by dark, our handprint is ubiquitous. While I know there’s plenty of magic taking place here, I can’t help but feel the collateral despair. I imagine all of the strife, all of the heartbreak and loss. All of the fear, shame and regret. Perhaps it’s this way of thinking which has motivated me to live a more colorful life than some of my peers. I wish to avoid undue toil and discomfort in favor of the more pleasurable experiences. I am interested in reaching people and connecting. I am attracted to candor and insight. My goal is to bring comfort and witness to people. You can count on me to be the ice-breaker at a party, or the one who gets the silent old man in the corner to smile.

But sometimes, none of this is what’s appropriate or necessary. Today I learned that lesson again, and it has me stopped for a moment of reflection.

As I look out at the disheveled property that surrounds me, it cries out for me to surrender. This is the summer when it seems I will have to relinquish any illusion of control and simply let everything go….

The lawn is already up to my knees, the downed trees are becoming overtaken with vines, the retaining rock walls are tumbling down the hill, and my perennial garden looks to be nothing more than stinging nettles and goldenrod. The many hours of labor I spent tending to the garden last year appear to have been in vain. My arthritic hands hurt and my once-broken neck is becoming more of an issue each day; I just don’t see how I can wrestle the patch back into shape the way I’m feeling now. I honestly don’t think I have it in me anymore. And with a recent surprise turn of personal and professional events, my energy reserves feel even more depleted. As some might say, “I haven’t got the bandwidth” for it all. Truly, I don’t.

This will also be the final year for me at the helm of the Studio. It will conclude a decade of my hard and unpaid work. Work that was, at its core, a Sisyphean task. That’s not to say that it was a waste of time and resources – to the contrary, it was the birthplace of many great works and memories. Audiences leapt to their feet in applause at inspired performances, people of all ages danced, sang, acted and played music. Artists painted, writers finished novels, dance troupes worked out choreography, yoga teachers held workshops, kids enjoyed summer camps, elders convened to talk about death, people were married and neighbors drew into a circle to play drums together. There was even a workshop in which participants (of which I was one) walked barefoot over hot coals. Truly, a wide net was cast. I cannot say that it was not a success. In many ways it was an astounding success. But that era is over now, and I need to find something which better suits my waning energy and stamina.

I have to wrap while I can still feel the afterglow of the good things that happened there. If I stay at this too long, I’ll resent it. Time to stand aside now. Time to let things be.

What will come next is truly unknown to me. There will be music, there will be new gigs, new jobs. I know this. Just not sure where, or with whom. Not entirely sure I’ll even stay here at the Hillhouse. For now it’s where my piano is, so it’s where I am. But like the Studio, this place may have served its function in my life. Not sure. Much is yet uncertain.

The only thing of which I can be sure is that with or without me, the grass will continue to grow.

Making Music

It’s come to pass now. I’ve just been to New York City for a rehearsal. It was my first time playing with other musicians in almost two decades. And it was fun.

But it was also work. I had learned my parts, yet I’d still missed a few details. The music director and the leader were kind about it though and helped coach me as best they could. But in the end, there were a few nuances I couldn’t get in the moment, and which I promised to make good on by the time we met in Chicago for our first show.

I know I talked too much. I’m accustomed to being the funny one, the one in charge, the most colorful character in the room – but it wasn’t so in this situation (nor was it really appropriate for me to add my unnecessary commentaries). For as many times as I scolded myself during the rehearsal to please stop talking, I failed at that effort. It had been so long since I’d been in the company of professionals that I felt downright provincial, and it threw me off. I felt like the chicken farmer from upstate who couldn’t stop chittering about how exciting it was to be in a big city and playing with a real band. Sheesh.

But all in all, it went well. And it’s going to feel like heaven when we’re all assembled on stage and playing (we have some guests for the upcoming date in Chicago who are joining us – it promises to be a night of gorgeous sounds). How perfect is it that our first show will be in my hometown? It seems like something from a dream. And yet it’s real. Very real. When it’s all said and done, I will have driven a few thousand miles and moved a whole lotta gear. I will have spent hours upon hours learning and practicing. Man, it’s just such a lot of work. But strangely, that seldom enters my mind. It’s just what one does in order to play music. It’s a challenge, but it’s also a joy. And not everyone can do it, so I’d be foolish to waste such a gift.

It does make one wonder, though, why in hell would anyone go to all this trouble and invest all this time and money only to end up barely breaking even? Any sane person would question the whole thing. But musicians, we don’t tend to focus on the effort or expense. If we did, I can promise you there would be no live music! So why do we do it? For me, honestly, it feels like I’ve never had a choice. And look, I know, no one made me do this. But I’ve always felt that playing music was so naturally a part of my life that there were no other options. I did go to college and I tried to do things the “right” way, but it simply wasn’t my path. Learning, rehearsing, loading in and loading out, it’s been part of my life ever since I was sixteen and my mom drove me and my suitcase Rhodes to rehearsal in our powder blue ’65 Valiant.

This new situation is more than just about the opportunity to play music, it’s about the opportunity to work with people who are very good at what they do. Over the past fourteen years I’ve been so musically lonely. When I lived in Chicago there were so many excellent and talented musicians with whom to work that I never experienced a shortage of projects, and I was always challenged. But here in my country life I haven’t had any musical relationships at all. Of course I’ve been busy raising a child, but still….

So this is why I bought a new keyboard, spent hours learning material and just drove four hundred miles for a rehearsal.

So I could get back to making music.

Imposter’s Roster

All in all, things are going so well these days that I’m starting to become suspicious. I’ve had such a challenging run over the past fourteen years, I can hardly believe the recent and rapid cascade of events.

Firstly, I have been welcomed into a new band under the leadership of one very intelligent and creative individual, a man whose work has been known to me for many years.

There was a time when I’d held him in such high esteem that he seemed altogether in another league. And I still assert this to be true; the guy is super-prolific and uber-talented. But, if I will remember my own sentiments from a recent writing, he is still just a man. I get this. I’ve spoken to him on the phone and very much enjoy his energy from those conversations alone. And after having watched a few interviews and having begun to read one of his novels, I’m feeling much more familiar. I can feel the love and sincerity present in him, and frankly, I’m beside myself with happy anticipation at our first meeting in just two days’ time. I so seldom meet individuals whose energy comes close to mine, and this time I think I will definitely have met my match. I cannot wait.

At this writing it is Thursday, and my very first rehearsal with the new band is on Saturday in Brooklyn. I’m hoping to capture my experience as it unfolds, because this, the “time before”, will be an interesting thing for me to look back at some day. It feels a bit bold to be revealing this part of the experience; is it not cart-before-the-horse? Is it too much like a flat-out diary entry? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I shall continue to document the process.

I keep telling myself to be realistic; things could still change. I might not be a fit. I might not be good enough. Oh, but man. I know I am. I just know it. But wait. Do I?

There is a constant feeling living in me these days which I must combat. And having learned recently that it’s an identifiable “thing”, I feel a bit better. Perhaps I’d heard the term at some point in my life, but previously it had meant nothing to me. “Yeah,” my friend had said as I described the unpleasantness I was experiencing, “You’ve got ‘imposter’ syndrome.” “Yes! That’s it!” I’d shouted when she named it. What a relief! She told me that as a working architect she too often wondered if she hadn’t been fooling people all along. “I think to myself: Why am I here?” she said, “There’s got to be a mistake, do they understand it’s me?“. Exactly. That was how I was feeling too. Somehow, I musta fooled someone. Right?

Likely not.

It’s just that is has been nineteen years since I’ve played in a band with other musicians. That’s a very long time to be on hiatus, and it makes me wonder if it’ll be just that easy to get on the horse again. And I can’t say that I don’t write that with a bit of inner animosity; curse those musicians who had supportive spouses to share the load of a household. Curse all of those people whose lives didn’t change with the advent of children, whose music didn’t come to an abrupt halt. I admit it, it makes me jealous. But keeping in mind the wondrous result of my almost two-decade hiatus – a successful, creative and thriving child – I can temper these thoughts and instead focus my energy on the adventure that awaits.

As some readers may know, I recently had a piece of writing published in a very public way. It happened so very quickly, and with no foreknowledge whatsoever. I’d been upset at the headlines surrounding the death of drummer Taylor Hawkins and immediately set out to express what I was feeling. When I finished, it was 1 a.m., and as an afterthought – I have never once submitted a single piece of my writing to anyone before – I decided to send it to a couple of newspapers. I perused their requirements, amended the piece accordingly, then sent it off to the Boston Globe, New York Times, San Fransisco Chronicle, and lastly, from my hometown, the Chicago Tribune. I had a tiny voice inside my head saying that the Tribune would pick it up. Ages ago I had written a grant proposal and mailed it off, never thinking of it again. Turned out I was the winner. The grant had been from the Chicago Cultural Center. So, I had a feeling.

I slept very little the night after I’d written the piece, and by the time I arose and checked my inbox just a few hours later, there it was. A rejection from the NYT, but a letter of interest from the Trib. I was excited, but I was conflicted by the subject matter. Seemed strange that I should revel in a success made possible by a man’s death. I smiled to myself all morning, but then would scold myself for doing so. Just how was I supposed to feel? Within two days the paper’s syndicates had in turn published the piece for their weekend papers, and shortly after that my inbox was filled with emotional letters from people all over the world. This time, however, there was no imposter thing going on. These folks all just wanted a witness to help them process their grief. I set aside several hours to respond to all of them. It was the necessary and right thing to do. For once, I knew that this was my job, and I was good at it.

I’ve got some exciting but rather intimidating challenges ahead in my immediate future. I suppose just meeting the fellows in the band and spending an afternoon rehearsing in earnest will be the first thing on the list. Then comes the show in Chicago. And then comes a photo shoot. And finally, on my 59th birthday, I’ve agreed to perform some absolutely on-the-fly, improvised and through-composed songs as part of a storyteller’s program. When the host asked me, I didn’t allow myself to say no. Many have been the moments I’ve wanted to call her back and tell her to find someone else, but I can’t. These days my life is about saying “yes”. Even when I am fairly certain there must be some mistake, I need to behave as if everything is just fine.

I’ve got to trust that people know what it is that I am capable of, even if I myself am still not quite sure.


Visit my future bandmate Wesley Stace (formerly known as John Wesley Harding) here.

A Greeting

This is an unconventional post for me; I should like to briefly introduce myself – and in some way, qualify myself to a completely new and unforeseen audience.

My name is Elizabeth Conant. I’m a 58-year-old woman, originally from Chicago, who has recently concluded a 15-year run as a single mom in rural upstate New York. Although I’ve worked mainly as a piano teacher and accompanist in this past chapter, in my previous city life I was a working musician.

This blog began in earnest some ten years ago when I desperately needed a conduit to the word in the wake of a traumatic divorce (I know, what divorce isn’t traumatic?) and cross-country move.

I’ve dealt with depression and panic attacks since adolescence. Thankfully, these issues are currently much less acute than they’ve been in past years. That may well be because I now stand at the threshold of a curiously inviting time of freedom and possibility.

In some respects this collection of writings might be construed as an online diary, but I hope that readers may find contained within the 650+ posts some substantive content which pleases or inspires them.

Welcome to The Hillhouse and thank you so kindly for stopping by.


For a peek into our life here at The Hillhouse, please visit our Instagram page.

Link to the Chicago Tribune piece on the death of drummer Taylor Hawkins

Numbers Game

When people say “Age is just a number”, I usually don’t respond. Because I do not agree. And in a mere few seconds I cannot possibly convey the degree to which I do not.

Age is represented by a number, and that number tells a whole hell of a lot about you, no matter how you spin it. You can have the most youthful, energetic presence in the world, but still – seventy-five is not thirty-five. Period.

I don’t mean to sound snarky. But then again, maybe I do. Sometimes snark is what it takes to get folks’ attention. And if you’re willing to go there for a moment, I invite you to see things from my perspective….

Crazy 45 was of the opinion that, like a battery, a person is born with a fixed amount of energy which is depleted over the course of a lifetime. For as much as we laughed about his ridiculous theory, the basic phenomenon which he was trying to express is real. We are physical machines living in a physical world, and physical shit degrades. You simply cannot do the same things at the age of eighty that you could at the age of forty. Everyone has a shelf life.

Numbers are the benchmarks by which we mark change – good or bad. We need to know where we stand in order to know what needs improvement.

Back in the day – say in my mid to late twenties, when my body was in its finest natural form – I began working out because I wanted to finally present to the world as the badass I’d always secretly felt myself to be (in my school years I’d always carried a few extra pounds and I wanted to change that). I hefted my own equipment numerous times a week and never accepted help from anyone, it was a point of pride. I would routinely lift very heavy amps and keyboards in and out of the trunk of my car with a good degree of ease.

At the time, I’d thought that working out in a gym was helping me to maintain that strength (as well as helping to define my arms for sleeveless stage wear), however the truth is that it probably didn’t matter all that much. I was young; I was already fit and strong. I coulda carried that stuff around all day with the same amount of effort whether I worked out or not. And regarding the weight, although I might’ve lost a few pounds thanks to aerobic activity, for the most part in my twenties I stayed within the same five-pound range. And if you were to have told me what my new acceptable baseline weight would be several decades hence – I woulda thought you were crazy. I am now what I would’ve termed then as huge. But numbers change. New normals emerge….

Skip ahead a few decades, and I have actual proof on paper of the benefits of exercise. These days it seems my exercise is in some ways making up for the natural vitality of youth. I can see an advantage which I did not in my twenties. Numbers, apparently, do matter. And it seems the older one gets, the more they matter.

I’ve had an emotional rollercoaster of a ride over the past year – figuring out what would define me after mom duties ceased, wondering how on earth I was going to make a living post-child support while also dealing with depression and panic attacks – and so my health-related numbers have been all over the place. My blood pressure has historically always been good, so when it spiked this past year, my doc was concerned. What was to blame? Had anything changed? Yes. I was incredibly stressed. I’d begun to drink a lot, and I’d ceased working out almost entirely on account of an injury. She pointed out how different all of my numbers had been when I was working out – and how they’d all gone up since. It was shocking.

And so I began a restored campaign to take back my health. After a few months of greatly reduced alcohol intake, an almost vegetarian diet and routine exercise, my numbers – chiefly blood pressure and cholesterol – were back within the normal range. My arms didn’t look like the ones I’d enjoyed in my youth, no matter how many pounds I could curl (in my current natural state I cannot lift the weight I could two decades ago, proving that age really does affect our latent physiology), but the numbers now definitively proved that exercise was indeed making a difference.

The older I get, the more important these markers become, because my biological reality reminds me that my life is on the physical downslope now, and I mean to optimize my experience for the remaining trajectory. Please, don’t protest. It will likely be an enjoyable time, and there may be wonderful adventures still ahead, but I am on the other side of the hill. Quite likely you are, too.

Youth is something of a guarantee that things will be on track for optimum health (if one doesn’t struggle with eating disorders, substance issues, disease or depression – those situations change the game entirely). If you’re in your twenties or thirties, you’re most likely in a nice, stable zone. Trust me. If you’re there now, don’t fret too much about improving yourself. Nature is on your side for the moment. But add on a few years, and you’ll have to re-define what being “normal” means. It might mean ten or twenty extra pounds. It might mean higher blood pressure or increased cholesterol. It might even mean that getting through winter seems to take more out of you than it used to. And eventually, if you want to keep those numbers healthy, you’ll have to take some action.

We all like to think that our looks aren’t the most important part of the life equation. That it’s our quality of life that comes first. But it’s a vain world in which we live; our looks are inherent to our quality of life. Our mental health – our very outlook on life from the moment we rise out of bed in the morning – is very much defined by how we feel – and look. It’s been said that Queen Elizabeth I had all of the mirrors in her chambers removed as she began to look older. Wisely, she did not wish to waste her precious energy in fretting about the heartbreak of the inevitable.

In my recent trip back home to Chicago I visited a few nightclubs and heard some bands play. I wondered, as I looked out at a sea of aging musicians and concertgoers, just how were these folks all feeling about their aging process? I saw men who dyed their hair just like I do, and this time I give them a pass. Cuz there is no doubt: gray hair signals to the world your true age; it implies a certain feebleness and infirmity. (Sure, there are a few lucky souls whose looks are even improved by silver tresses, but they are in the minority.) And we live in an ageist culture here in the US. You get old, and the younger population can’t help but see you as somewhat irrelevant (if they even see you, that is). Argue against this if you like, but I believe it to be true.

Having been gone for almost twenty years and returning without benefit of having seen these folks in the interim, I noticed the changes more keenly. We were all older. It was almost shocking. I’d left when I was young, and I’d returned in late middle-age to a roomful of men whom I once knew but now could no longer recognize at a glance. For me, every visit, every party or reception required I make a little internal adjustment at the new countenances of my old friends. I couldn’t help but wonder if all of them were doing the same for me. After all, I wasn’t thirty-eight either.

Believe what you want, but I assert that getting old and remaining physically attractive are directly at odds with each other. And I think we can all agree that youth and beauty signal power and relevance to the world in a deeply visceral way. On some level, I think most older people pretend that we aren’t truly aging (because in our minds we still feel young) or at least we try to downplay it. Hell, I know I’m still pretending. And I might yet give in and choose the needle. I might. Why not? I color my hair….

In assessing the path ahead of me, I plan on having one more relatively active decade left. And I mean to play the game of life as best I can. My feelings on this may change as the years pass, but at this writing I am committed to doing what I can to temper the reality of looking older as best I can.

I know my age, and every infirmity related to it. And even if I should choose to lie about it – the numbers definitely won’t.

Dear Diary

Tenses change. Plans change. This is uncensored and unedited. Raw diary stuff. These are my journal entries from my recent trip. Girly stuff, but maybe it’s of interest to some. Had to get it off my chest and out the door. Thanks in advance for the witness.

February 8th, 2022

It has been a very long time since I’ve been away.

Perhaps paying twelve dollars for a grilled cheese sandwich wouldn’t phase a lot of folks, but I’m fresh off the farm. It was stunning at first, but then my road-reality meter kicked in and I realized this was gonna be one expensive, albeit modest getaway.

It’s been years since I’ve gone “back home” to Chicago and wouldn’t ya know that when I had my hair done today in hopes of presenting my best self, I acquiesced and had my eyebrows colored too. I knew it had been too much, but my gal insisted I always get dramatic and overly concerned about making them too dark. “Worry more about the dye on your fingers,” she’d said. Yeah, well you can be sure I’m worrying about that, too.

When I flipped on the Motel 6 light and had my first fluorescently-lit sighting of them, I recoiled. Then my heart broke. I would be returning home a female Groucho Marx. Why now? And things had been going better than well up until that moment in the chair. Ah well. First-world problems, I reminded myself (as I made a note to immediately find a salon when I got to Chicago which could reverse the travesty).

I’m resting for a few hours in Erie, PA, and have made only half the drive. It’s the first time I’ve ever decided to break the trip up with an overnight stay. It’s also the first time I passed most of the drive in thought. Because there’s a lot to think about right now. I’m embarking on a whole new life, and this is not an exaggeration. The way in which events have built up, one upon each other, is remarkable as I examine them in hindsight. I was shaking my head in disbelief for much of the drive, marveling over the last fifteen years, over the past fifteen months, over the past fifteen days.

Without an internet connection for my laptop nor a charger for my phone here in the room I need to conserve power and so shall sign off shortly. I am endeavoring to document my adventures in bite-sized pieces as I go along.

Day one: pack and drive. Night one: lay in a bed in a non-smoking room which nonetheless smells queasily of smoke, while trying so hard to remember just how exhausted I’d thought I was just moments ago.

Post note: I experienced a “Cheryl Strayed” moment at the motel. I couldn’t put my hands on a few items, so I broke down and unpacked both bags. I spread the contents onto the bed, and only then could I sleep. I repacked in the morning. Packing an under-seat bag for Vegas has proved a huge challenge. Trying to be casual (my companion travels a bit like a homeless person) and yet prepare for any number of situations is no easy feat! I hate to say being a woman ups the ante, but it does. My uber-thin hair requires products, I gotta have day looks and night looks plus workout wear, swim crap and makeup, too. Oy. It ain’t easy.

February 9th, 2022

To see an old friend – who knew you way before – and to find yourself squarely in a safe and familiar place, and then to find yourself laughing effortlessly to the point of tears – all this, mind you, after decades apart – is a holy thing.

Last night we had our first visit. So easy, so good. My girlfriend is going through a time of compromised health, so I’ve been afraid that my balls-to-the-walls energy might really zap her of her reserves, but so far it hasn’t been the case. This is why I like to keep interpersonal visits somewhat brief. Short and perfectly sweet. You know – kinda like that quote ascribed to Ben Franklin about fish and house guests having a similar shelf life. So, on I’ll move before long. But how lovely this is, right now.

I’ve awoken and there’s no going back to sleep. It’s the second night on the road, the very start of what may turn out to be a three-week excursion. My mind is swimming now. For some reason Rainbow’s “Stone Cold” has become this early morning’s ear worm. It pulses behind my thoughts. Where shall I hold court and meet everyone? I want to make sure no one gets slighted. I want to make sure I don’t lose my voice. Cuz that often happens. And mostly, I don’t want to get sick. At every last recreational trip I’ve ever taken I’ve gotten sick. Usually very sick. It’s almost as if my body didn’t feel like I deserved it. This time, I’m gonna assert that I do deserve this holiday. So please, universe, not this time. Really.

I’m staying with my high school bestie, and I’m the most comfortable I can remember being in a long time. With her as host, I’ve come to understand the experience of sleeping atop a good futon (my weak back would have the floor if it weren’t quite so hard) and underneath a weighted blanket. Heaven for now.

I’m in a suburb just west of Chicago, and it feels like home. The houses, the very way in which the trees bend over the street, the brick two-story shops along the main drag, the diffused light of the cloudy nighttime sky, all of it is deeply familiar to me. And the winter light of a cloudy sky evokes a certain mood… I peered thru the blinds just now and it looks the same outside this morning as it did when I went to bed last night. Mercury vapor lighting fills the block making it look like a movie set. Yeah. I remember this. There’s that certain feeling. It brings me back.

We are directly under the flight path for planes departing O’Hare, and it was exciting to see the belly of a plane overhead as I arrived last night, its whining engines audible. What’s fun about my experience here and now is that while it’s like being back, it’s also like being a tourist and thrilling to things for the very first time.

I fully admit to leaving short and cryptic posts on Facebook. Although it gives me a tiny thrill to see the conjecture among my friends as to where I am and what my plans are, I really don’t mean to tease. I just don’t wish to over explain. And I shall endeavor not to inform folks of my next location, nor share too many details of that portion of the trip as I wish to honor the privacy of my travel companion, and also I’d like to keep that tiny pocket of experience as my own. Honestly, it’s the reason for this whole trip, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

Two more days here before the adventure begins in earnest. Another Midwestern city, and then a flight to a destination at the other end of the country. It still does not feel real. I’ve been alternately giddy and apprehensive about it since I said “yeah, I’ll go” several months back. It’s been the fuel for my forward-moving engine, it’s been the light at the end of the tunnel. And as exotic as the location may be, that’s really just an extra. What’s lifting my heart is the thought of spending some time with my friend. I’d thought we’d pass the time just hanging at his place with the dog, but then this appeared. And these days – being closer to 60 and understanding in a much deeper way the finality of it all – there’s very little room for “no”.

So “yes” to Vegas it is.

February 10th, 2022

A magic day. Truly. Effortless and serendipitous, a day filled with new experiences, a dozen stranger’s stories, tears even, and hugs, too – parking spaces that appeared at the right time, an ancient lady who shared stories of her medical practice and of hearing Julie London sing, a day of beauty salons and gyms, Mexican food and long post-meal conversations with my high school bestie.

I’m straight-up legit tired right now. Not much to add, only that I’m really grateful for this little window of respite. I’ve been on the hook for so long now that I feel almost delirious with freedom and possibility. I even feel a little guilty; it still feels like I should be doing something productive,

And right now, sleeping seems the most responsible thing to do. Adieu, dear friends. See you tomorrow.

February 11th, 2022

Today was a quiet day spent at home. My friend is coping with health issues and so moves slowly through her day. I admit I haven’t been doing all I can to temper my own cyclonic energy, and I do think we’ve reached the natural conclusion to our three-day cohabitation. We certainly learned a lot about each other after some twenty years apart, but yesterday I could tell that I was taxing her patience as I repeated questions and forgot conversations. Not gonna lie, I do worry about my memory. But I also know that I process things differently (I don’t tend to remember details but rather emotional impressions), and I communicate differently, too. I tend to speak in a gestural way – lots of movement, sounds, impressions… lots of schtick. Much of it did in fact have her laughing to the point of tears, of peeing her pants even, but it took energy to witness, to react to it. Or, as I learned last night, it required “some spoon”. (A spoon being a unit of energy.) Spoons she didn’t have left. And I get it. I felt the energy in the room shifting. It was time.

We love each other and nothing changes that, but it really is true that we are very different people. I can elaborate on our short but rich visit later… For now it’s enough to say that two late middle-aged women have had a lovely visit, bathed in the silence of an old house and kept company by the chittering birds outside the kitchen and an ancient, blind cat named Marilyn.

I’m snuggled under a weighted blanket on a deliciously just firm-enough futon, comfy as can be, enjoying the rare nether time of early morning with the shades closed. It’s my last morning in my friend’s home. No idea what the light is outside, and I have no clear idea where I am. I am just HERE. And soon, I won’t be.

The gentleman friend with whom I am going to Vegas called yesterday and told me that his mother was just put on hospice. It took me a minute to take it in. Life had entered into my little fantasy. I shifted inside. My relationship with him had just gotten more human. He was going to need a friend, and some support, even if he didn’t realize it. And I knew I was the perfect gal for the job.

This morning I’ll pack up, recount the takeaways from our visits, I’ll apologize for being such an energy Godzilla, there will be hugs, and then I will hit the highway in my tightly packed car and head out for Milwaukee. From my comfortable, reclining post here in my darkened room, a building excitement begins to grow in my chest. I’ve been on the farm for a long, long time. And I am here, now, precisely to reward myself for all those years of toil. Now it is here. This next leg is going to be unforgettable. I am on the front side of what will become a treasured life memory. Crazy.

February 12th, 2022

Ok. Here I go…

It is that rare “time of the beginning”; waves of excitement push at my chest, a pulsing begins in that certain place with no encouragement… I feel like a girl with a crush… How glad I am that I was never in a serious relationship with this man; he is an unpredictable guy, and I don’t think it would’ve been enjoyable. His ex-wife must’ve had a time of it, I’m sure. But now it doesn’t matter. This is our window. It will be brief; it will be lovely. I’m going to savor every moment. When I’m an old crone it will be memories like these – which I’ve yet to make, how thrilling is that?! – which will fill my thoughts as I sit and rock, waiting for my time to be up….

Gosh how things can turn. I’ve approached this whole trip having as few expectations as possible, knowing full well that things would change; the very nature of this excursion was about welcoming serendipity. I was going to give myself a basic structure and things would happen of their own accord in the spaces. It was wise of me to remain open; within the first two hours of my arrival in Milwaukee I’ve been to a funeral and will soon head to the hospital to visit my host’s mother. As I waited outside for my friend, I walked his big black dog through a sidewalk-less suburb in the snowless cold, reflecting on the last few days, and musing at the days to come.

I have now left the dog in the car and come into the Irish pub to join the gathering, albeit from a distance. I took an ale from the open bar and passed on the wake’s buffet of cabbage and meatballs. Hungry though I am, I’ll wait to share a meal with my friend. A man in a red-letter jacket passes me. UW Madison. (Go Badgers.) I’m definitely in Wisconsin, and that makes me happy.

We’ll be off to the hospital shortly, and likely Sabbath, the dog, will come with us too. And then…? Somehow we will be on a plane tomorrow afternoon. What happens between now and then is anyone’s guess.


February 14th, 2022

You know the way they say that Vegas never sleeps? Well, I’m here to tell you otherwise.

We’re staying in a fine hotel, and the details are elegant. The lobby is beautiful. The grounds are generously planted with mature palm trees, and a water feature stands in front of the enormous portico where limos and cars wait for their passengers– and we’re even on Las Vegas Boulevard. This is one of the most comfortable beds I’ve ever slept in. The down comforter and pillows feel grand. But that’s where meaningful luxury ends. There is no hotel restaurant, and the bar is shut tightly by eleven. It’s 3 am and I just returned from a walk outdoors. Two teenaged doormen greeted me on my way back in, and aside from one fellow standing behind the massive granite slab of a reception desk, I saw no one, not even a homeless guy.

My companion (in futuro to be known as “minor rock god”, aka “MRG”) is here to bet, and to lay about in bed. He’s about sports as much as he is about music, and while I can’t ever recall having as much fun singing to tracks and playing air parts with anyone, I can’t match his enthusiasm for the games. Even after I’d won one of my bets, I’d shortly thereafter forgotten the details. I was sorry not to have been more invested in it, as my attention to the games was a kindness I certainly owed him.

I don’t mind the low-key stay we’re having. I pretty much knew what to expect, in that both of us are poor as paupers, but I guess I kinda thought a hot cooked meal here and there would’ve been part of the deal. Thus far on our trip we’ve subsisted on bags of snacks from a Walgreens down the street and a pizza from downstairs (barring the first night when, absolutely ravenous, I foolishly spent nearly $100 on wine, cheese and fruit from the hotel store). I can live like a college student better than any 58-year-old woman I know, but at day three of our adventure I’m weary of gleaning sustenance from Ziplock pouches of nuts. And I’m so fucking hungry.

As with everything else in my life, I shall have to remedy this situation on my own. As my companion sleeps, I am hatching a plan to strike out on my own tomorrow. I’ll take the monorail into town and see the strip. I’ll watch the dancing waters of the Bellagio and have myself a goddam proper sit-down meal. Yeah, I’m a pretty chill gal these days, but this current low-rent situation is a bit of a drag. I can’t imagine I’ll ever get to Vegas again, so I’d better step up.

Absent too is any meaningful, simple physical kindness. It’s really no more forthcoming from this fellow than it was with the hostile, misogynistic guy I became entangled with a year back. MRG is a kind man with a warm heart. He is observant and intelligent, and I think he’s one of the most creative and naturally talented musicians I’ve ever known. But he’s also got his own issues. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who knows what it is to live with such a deep and immutable depression – and that ticky, nervous energy which manifests as a chronic swaying of the body or tapping of the foot. This can’t help but endear him to me, because in some small way, I get it. And I do count him as a good friend. Plus I’ve known him for over twenty years now.

But sadly, I can’t count him as a lover. And I’m the easiest prospect! I’m not interested in a relationship, I’m ready and willing, and tho I may be looking older, and although I realize I’m not thin nor in top shape, I still assert I’m not a bad catch. But he’s not into it. He’s really not present – something I feared would be the case, and so early on – as in months ago – I had asked him specifically only for his presence. Can’t ask for something someone can’t give, I suppose. Kinda breaks my heart. All I want to do is take his hand, to feel his arm around me. For him simply to kiss me. But none of this is happening. Ironic, isn’t it, that there are men who’d have me in a hot minute, yet the one I’ve got a jones for could take me or leave me? And he’s the one who invited me… but for what, exactly? There was a time in my life when all of this would’ve made me weep. Now I just take it as a soft punch to the gut and keep moving. (Who am I kidding? I still might weep.)

Gotta get some sleep. It’s 4 am on Valentine’s Day and I’m still wide awake. I can’t cry. I just gotta take another Ambien and hope that it takes me away for a minute. I’ll need my rest because tomorrow I have a date. With myself.

Post note: MRG and I had a conversation about the situation, and we ended up going downtown together, and then sharing a meal. He knew I’d been to Vegas before, so he thought I’d already seen the strip. (No, I worked here before: plane, venue, plane, I explained.) He told me that food wasn’t even on his radar (he’s one of those power bar/protein powder in a blender guys), and he apologized for not being aware of my desire for a meal. I felt better that we’d talked about it, but I still can’t say I wasn’t a bit let down. But I’ll always enjoy his company, and I appreciate his understanding. And I really did want his witness, cuz this was not exactly what a girl had in mind, ya know?

And btw, check out this unplanned coincidence….


February 18th, 2022

These aren’t the best circumstances. MRG’s mom has been moved to hospice care, and his long-deceased bestie from high school’s brother-in-law just died of an overdose (just what the fuck is up with heroin and boys from Waukesha?). This is heavy stuff. Easy for me to downplay tho, when my expectations have been dashed and I’m in my own personal vortex of experience. I wish it weren’t so, but selfishly I am bereft, as things really turned out so much differently than I’d hoped. I do know enough about MRG, however – and about life – to know that shit changes on a fucking dime and you just gotta go with it. But still….

Today I’ve been given a second ‘bonus’ day with MRG. I’m really happy about this, yet if I were to be truly honest about my deepest feelings, I still wanna cry. We’ve learned a lot about each other over the past week, one such thing is that he admits to a reduced sex drive (due, I believe, to the several meds he’s on), and he has a compartmentalized way of dealing with it. I’m guessing it’s kinda like those men who screw prostitutes without kissing them. MRG finds kissing an awkward annoyance. Might be just his response to me. I can’t really know. But in that I’ve been waiting a long time for some real connection with the man, my heart has been processing some bitter disappointment over the past few days. There will be no such connection.

This bright, cold morning in Milwaukee I am in a waking dream. I cannot step outside the feeling of deja vu. I have been through this before, I’m absolutely sure of it – is this merely for the fact that I myself have broken many mens’ hearts and now it’s my turn to feel the same? Nah – it’s more than that. I feel a strange familiarity here. Crap. I want just to be near him… Honestly, it’s not about sex in this moment – I just don’t want to leave. I like being in proximity to him. And when my stay had twice been extended, each time he smiled. We’re friends, this I know.

I’ll be leaving shortly. That makes me apprehensive in a tiny, nagging way. I have many times watched the ‘other’ party suck it up and face the rejection put upon them when I myself had to leave or break things off. When I felt a mere kindness and little more for my short-term bed partner. Now I am the one suffering the mild rejection. There is nothing really personal going on here – at least I don’t think so – but I can’t help but wonder. Is it me? He’s told me it’s just something he’s not into. Hell. (Again, I wonder, why did he bring me here?) Having sex (never mind even broaching the term “making love”) has been off the table for most of this trip, but man. Just once before I leave? No?! How sad it this? Months and months of waiting, with no happy ending. Sad, sad, sad. But I’m a big girl, so I’ll deal with it.

For me, this is a dramatic and disappointing conclusion. Even still, none of this visit was a mistake, nothing was truly unpleasant – to the contrary; we became better friends… And man, I laughed. Can’t remember when a person – aside from my son – has ever made me laugh like that. So. Gotta work with what ya got. (Says the grown woman with tears streaming down her cheeks at the coffee shop.)

February 20th, 2022

So what is a girl to do once she’s had it all?

There are far worse problems I know, but still, this feels like something of a quandary. I have dropped two dress sizes these past four months, hooked up with an old crush, sat in with a musician I’ve admired for years, met with a number of old friends, and…. And? At the end of the day, what the fuck does it matter? Who cares? I’m still feeling the loss in my gut. I hate this.

Time to try again, I guess. Gonna visit with another fellow tonite. He’s not a reader or a thinker like MRG; he seems like a simple guy. But he’s kind, and he’s a hell of a great musician. Those things mean a lot in my book. I think it’s a date, but not sure. I’ve assumed before, so I gotta be cautious, aware. I’m going out with Southern Blues Rock Guy tonite! (Just please don’t tell EC – a bassist we’ve both previously worked with – as I don’t think he’d be too thrilled. SBRG mighta been a player back in the day. Who cares?) It’s nighttime, it’s snowing right now, and the neighborhood looks heavenly. I’m waiting outside the door of the house in Skokie where I’m staying, waiting for my new friend to arrive. Got my hooker boots on and I’m having a relatively good hair day. Feeling put together. I’m actually excited. This feels crazy. I’m not quite sure what’s happening….

Post note: I couldn’t have seen this one coming, either. SBRG took me to his father’s home for pot roast – and I met his lovely sister and his dad’s girlfriend. Surprisingly, it turned out to be one of my very favorite moments of the trip so far! Afterward we went to his apartment and – jammed. Ha! A cop even came to the door to shut us down. But no vibe, nothing else. And when my Uber never showed, he was a true gentleman and drove me home in the falling snow. A lovely night but can’t say I wasn’t once again just a little sad at the end of it all. I suppose he was just being respectful and professional. Who knows? (Seriously, is it me?)

February 25th, 2022

The second to final night of my trip. Staying in a luxurious bed of down in a beautiful home in Evanston… I’m the guest of a family whom I love and who loves me too… A couple with whom I have history, and so I’m totally comfortable here. Host Randy and I enjoyed some whiskey, a light snack and some good conversation before I tucked in. And earlier, I enjoyed a dinner with old friend Lisa. As I settle down for a moment of pause before I turn off the media, I realize that I couldn’t feel more perfect, satisfied and resolved as I do right now. Can’t begin to convey what I’ve experienced during this trip. So much that I’m confident I shall never be able to remember it all. The numerous personal interactions I’ve had are the huge gift that I take away from it all. And I’ve learned so much more from in-person visits with old friends than I ever could’ve gleaned from online exchanges. Can’t being to express the depth of insight I’ve been given. This trip has exceeded my expectations, in spite of its disappointments. It’s been a tiny miracle. A real joy.

A true adventure.


Anecdotes and Takeaways (A post-Post digest):

Where to start? Firstly, I feel a bit naked. This post might be a case of TMI, but hell. I ain’t gettin any younger, and I’m beginning to feel like I have nothing to lose, and perhaps some insight or closure to gain. Nothing I’m saying here is all that shocking. And I’ve tried to provide a certain level of privacy to those I mention (save for a few links which the more tenacious among you may follow if you choose).

I’ve just about lost the timeline now, but I can say that among the many stops I made, one stands out: I went to the annual event called “My Sweet George” in honor of George Harrison’s birthday. It was at Martyrs’, a club I’ve played many times, and something of a landmark in Chicago culture. It was there that I met many old and dear friends, I heard wonderful music and even threw out a little flirty energy. Why the hell not? I had to feel a little emotional traction after all that rejection… It was a magical night, and now it exists as a treasured memory.

I fit a lot in on this trip. In thinking back, I’m overwhelmed, really. I sang on a friend’s song at his home studio, sat in with a rock band, sang on stage with a well-loved Chicago songwriter, enjoyed several wonderful home-cooked dinners, saw my old neighbors (and my old apartment!) – even saw my childhood home. I visited with a dozen or so friends and attended a few really fun nights of live music.

I can’t begin to express how restorative this trip was. I learned a lot about interpersonal relationships, too. Yeah, some of this experience was a letdown, but at the end of the day, the whole thing has helped me to usher in a new chapter. I’m no longer nervous about driving across country, nor about airplanes (panic attacks seem to have subsided for now). Hell, I even took a zipline over the rooftops of old Las Vegas. I was superwoman for a few weeks, and it was just what I needed.

Thanks for the witness, friends. There’s going to be an exciting new chapter before too long… Furreal. There’s some real-life shit gonna be happenin in my life pretty soon. And you can be sure I’ll share it all.

_____________________________________________________________

These are a few of the folks I visited on my trip:

Martyrs’ “My Sweet George” / oh my god / Lisa Lauren / Kick The Cat / Ralph Covert

The Claudettes / Louie Zagoras / Conscripted