just_cyd: (Default)
The package is still in transit, but should land tomorrow. The recipient won't be at the destination until Thursday. That was Mistake #1 for sure. I worried it'd get there too late, but when I discovered it'd get there too early, I should've said "i'll be back on Saturday" for a better target date.

Travel time still won't affect the fact that the contents will be a full week old by the time he gets them. The cookies were under-baked and not fully cooled when I packed them up. I used butter, so they were still super gooey, and in the TX heat I'm sure things just got worse, not better. I won't be surprised if he transfers the bags from the box to the garbage, not willing to risk it.

my note to him was written on this postcard from the Mincing Mockingbird that reads "the risk I took was calculated, but man am I bad at math" which, in hindsight, might be too forward for someone only after friendship. I wrote out the ingredients on a separate sheet (an attitude is a terrible thing to waste), another indicator of my personality.

so that's three (or more!) major mistakes, all inside a box that perhaps should've never been sent at all. ND is on a month-long tour in the plains/TX, and that's a long time to be away from home. Yes, he's got a ton of friends around those parts from past tours and festivals and competitions, and his daughter lives in Memphis, and he plans to visit her for a bit. Was this really necessary?

in my mind, yes. "a little something from home" is what I believe I called the honey from Saxapahaw General Store. The cookies were from my kitchen SW OH. The tea was a no-brainer if not a repeat, but he's a singer and all singers I know live by Throat Coat tea. He mentioned before that my goodie bag of tea and honey came in handy in VA/MD/DC, so I will forever connect him with that stuff.

There was no hint of "miss you" or "see you soon" or "when will you be home" or any of that clingy stuff-that's not the point. But he doesn't know that committing Random Acts of Cookies used to be A Thing I'd Do, Frequently. Baking for anyone and everyone back when I was working in an office full of people, and had a ton of close online friends. COVID and time and distance killed a lot of that. I mentioned it to John, and said it was nothing that I wouldn't do for him or JDF should either of them be on a month-long tour out of state. I want him to know he's thought of, cared for, not alone in the world.

I used a Mary Englebreit return address label with my full name and home address on the box. so it's all out there now - my full name, my actual home address, the not-actually-Dayton city of residence. If I wasn't sincere, if I was playing games and trying to hide who or what I am, I'd have figured something else out for the return address.

My actual, honest, prediction is that he'll say absolutely nothing about it. not to me, not to friends or band mates or colleagues. He'll take the tea and add it to his stash, because there's nothing about that tea that says "SOME FREAK FAN MAILED THIS TO ME!" but he'll quietly put everything else in the garbage, and move on with his life and hope I, too, never speak of it.

and the various scenarios in my head are no better. the brainweasels have decided that he'll probably freak a little, and either cease-and-desist me into next year, or get Andrew or FJ to order me to stand down. (If it goes that way, I hope it's FJ - I think I'd take it better coming from him, and he'd be able to get the point across without destroying me directly.) the little fuckers ran wild the other night, convincing me that Andrew would take his phone and call me via messenger while ND is on stage and grill me over the whole thing, saying the things ND can't/won't say.

I can't decide what would be worse, being told to bugger off or just have the whole thing ignored.
his tour schedule is public (out of necessity) so I can solve for X any time I need to. The waiting this week is going to be the worst.

I guess I'll find out Thursday. or Friday. or never?
just_cyd: (Default)
the last week has been, inexplicably, just fine. Even with having to be in the office on Wednesday, the violent mood swings were mostly something that didn't follow me home from NC. Sure, the snark kicked up a bit when I had one too many tickets with zero info logged by people who knew better (and a couple that I just could not decipher by people who clearly did NOT understand the assignment), but there was no rage monster to quell, there was no thoughts of driving off the road or any of the ping-pong ponderings that plagued me the prior week.

is it the altitude change? I'm taking my meds, so it's not like that time that I just -didn't- take the happy pills and had the nerve to be surprised at the results.

-----
Ben arrives in one month. I have 18 days at home to make this place habitable. and in my head, I have pretty much already written this off as the beginning of the end. I'd sent him a letter as a way of working out a bunch of my pre-visit/planning anxiety, knowing if I didn't get it out somehow, I'd end up driving him (and me) crazy. he acknowledged receiving the letter, and I figured I'd get his reply via post as well. he got a postcard I'd sent from NC, and this reply:


I do not have nearly enough brain space to try to figure out our schedule with you. Also, that's not really how I travel. I secure transportation, lodging, and a cat sitter, and then just kinda figure out once I get there what I want to do. I know your brain works differently, so how about a compromise? you plan all you want, and when I get there, we can talk things over and see what we both feel like?


upon reflection, perhaps this isn't the assumed attack I took it as, but rather just a statement on how we function differently. But, I've met me, and I'm pretty sure once he lands it's going to be a mess. I don't know.

-----
tomorrow I head up to dad's to collect something he offered and which he's frantic to be rid of: granola bars. my god, who knew that two family-size boxes of crunch granola bars would be such a disturbance to him. or maybe he's acting too much like how I act, and it's triggery AF?

he got pissy that I wouldn't drop everything on Sunday and come up right that second. he's got some pants with drawstrings knotted tighter than he can manage, so that's on the docket.

-----
a week or so ago, in a doom-scroll-avoidance tactic, I got a wild hair and scrolled back far enough to find J's ex-wife. not at all who I pictured, and it sort of changes my mental picture of how that all shook out. did confirm that their kid was a teen, not a tiny human, but I still wonder what the catalyst was that landed him with the responsibility of raising said kid. he's told me he was the stable one; guess I should just take him at his word.

he again sent me a direct insta message with the show info, and replied many hours later that I was looking forward to seeing him on his home turf. he replied only a few hours later (and at a much more reasonable hour) with "and seeing you !" i'd swoon, but his gf is watching.

-----
tons of pain lately, can't figure out why. annoying, and limiting. DO NOT LIKE.

-----
Watched a live-stream of a film about/by a band. among the few attendees was ND, which surprised me, but I should have known he'd be there - they're longtime friends after all. waited til most of the way through to DM him a hello. posted to the group about crying, and a line from a song that set me off big-time. can't remember it just now, but it fully/totally sums up my "bliss" ring in many more eloquent words.
Asked ND if I'd see him on Friday, but if he replied, the chat cut off before I saw it. Tempted to ask him to meet for coffee on Saturday - every single day since I got home from the last trip I've debated IF and WHEN to ask. how do I know he isn't salty over the whole mess I made?

-----
overnight trip with Dan coming up in two weeks. it's been a LONG time since we've done one of these. and I'm the one planning this one. Need to book a hotel room, buy my concert ticket, and form a plan of attack to get us from NE to central OH on that Monday.

debated contacting don Dixon to see if he'd want to meet up for lunch. less inclined, now, since it appears Joe is not joining us. Dan won't care, other than to brag to Joe.

-----
need to figure out the money acquisition for all of this. still running in the red for Reasons. need to get the tax return filed (assuming felon in chief doesn't destroy that, too), and start squirreling away pennies so Ben's visit isn't made of suck. plus all these other trips. I think i've already scheduled 2/5 of my vacation time.
just_cyd: (Default)
Stage banter asked "what are the five stages of grief?" while introducing a new-to-me song. We shouted out "anger!" and "denial!" and "bargaining!" and made it to four when he suggested Buc-ees as the fifth stage of grief. we all laughed, at least some of us familiar enough with roadside haven to get the joke.


I was filming, my phone battery low, or I would have googled it for him. I think that was closest he got to ever saying his wife got sick and died, but i'l have to listen to it again to be sure. my phone completely dead about 5 songs from the end, I wasn't able to to fill in the blank as we grudgingly said goodbye. back at my hotel, he was online so I googled it and let him know:


ME:
We missed depression

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Not that I ever follow directions


HIM
I knew there were more than four!

ME:
I guess when depression is the default setting, you kinda forget about it?

HIM:
yeah, kind of a 60-cycle hum going through the whole thing


I should've stopped there. I didn't. too wound up, too thrilled to be chatting, too high on the thrill of whatever this is


ME:
for nearly 25 years now one of the tags I use in my online journaling is EKRcanKMA - Elisabeth Kubler-Ross can kiss my ass.

i'm currently too manic to notice any depression. like a toddler with the zoomies at bedtime.


-----

sleeping away my day, it occurred to me that Buc-ees is a good substitute for Depression, as it offers all the things Depression robs from your life: clean bathrooms, an amazing selection of food and drinks and toys and impulse buys and light, such violently bright light. I'm told the Richmond KY store can been for miles at night by the glow of the lights, an oasis in the dark hills of rural Kentucky.

They're also overrun with tourists, and there's nothing tourists love more than swarming in on a tragedy, dispensing pleasantries and platitudes, and then scurrying back to the bus for the ride to the next stop.

Dreams of a similar sort speckled my slumber - running away, by bicycle not car, in familiar cities changed by perspective of mode of transportation. searching for help and not finding it. Eventually running into him, the tractor beam of i-still-don't-know-what pulling me into his orbit, into his arms, into his promise of a steady, solid something. A message, in my ear, via his lips directly or via voice mail, assures me "I'm OK. We're OK. It's all OK." The tone is one used with an inconsolable child, a distraught friend, someone on the brink, someone who prefers the alternate ending to Cocoon. I took the "we" to be us two, not any other obvious groupings (his band, his family, his community), because that's what fits my delusional waking narrative.

-----

At the end of the night, he told me didn't know I was there until several songs into the show. Aghast, I exclaimed "I was sitting right in front of you! How could possibly miss all this?!", gesturing to my heft, my girth.

They took a break a good hour into their set, Jess's request. I stood up to move my aching bones, and he found me, said hello, and then offered a hug in case he didn't get to do so later, but then promising he would see me. I assume(d) that I was the cause for these decisions. don't rock the boat, don't anger the highly unstable woman. He hugged me again at the end of the night, and with both, I felt more the warm fuzziness of his velvet blazer against my cheek than his arms around me, disconnected from my self. We held on tightly, but briefly. The promise of Saturday's show giving me hope that it's not a "goodbye forever" but just a "farewell for now."

up until I set foot in that decommissioned church, I was a Very Hot Mess, on the very far end of the Scoville scale, crying multiple times over songs and scenarios my brain would conjure up and the brainweasels would run off with, leaving me bereft behind the wheel and nowhere to pull off. Once in the door, though, I had A Purpose - feed everyone! - and the music either melted away my worries, or threw me deep in denial and held me under for two-plus hours. I fully expected to cry at least one song more if they made the set list (not knowing the set list and show was fully Australian Rules music - "the rules are THERE ARE NO RULES!"). driving back to my hotel with a phone that was just being resurrected, but not willing to provide direction, I did mostly fine, as it was just two turns and a long dark road back to the interstate, and I roughly knew how far and which exit. back in the hotel room, well, scroll up to see what happened.
just_cyd: (Default)
Inspiration for this came from Ordinary Elephant's "A Few Words for Wednesday #111: Left" which is linked below. I believe you'll need to be a Patreon member of theirs to view it.

https://www.patreon.com/posts/few-words-for-120572898

Memories shared are memories extended. There are few tangible reminders of the growing miles racked up: tickets and payments are digital, the tshirt saturation point reached longer ago than I will admit. I don't take many photos, and even fewer selfies, not wanting to spoil the moment, to out myself as fangirl, only out for tickmarks on a hit list. Miles racked up and dollars spent are the best proof I have, if you need proof.

the music rings still in my ears, months later; that chord, that harmony, the rise and fall and breath and hush and all the rough spots that get polished out of the professional recording, but make the live moment so singularly special. Those chords that transport me back to the first time I heard them.

So many moments that are mine and mine alone: Mark Kano apologizing for his voice being off, but still sounding as perfect as they did on the drive in, the only changes being the depth of voice that comes with age. Wes & Barry singing along with CSN on the musak while the Scott dials in the tuning, the night FJ had a family emergency; sitting impossibly, intimately - inappropriately? - close to Pete Damore on stage, seated, in profile, such a youthful face projecting an old soul. Crystal, across from him, expressions holding back nothing, their connection just short of palpable. John Gillespie in his infinite patience, explaining yet another nuance of a song, or instrument, or connection between people I've met, my musical tour guide, BFFs from that first 3-hour breakfast. Darren Jessee - sweet, sensitive Darren - exasperated at crowds not there for him. "Joke's on you," he tells the Asheville crowd, "you bought the ticket." the true punchline is him setting up his kit, drumming for the headliner. The Greensboro crowd, some months later, see him begin to lose his cool, begging them to give him four minutes; I think he got two.

The list goes on. The musicians I now call friends, meeting for coffee or a meal; offering emergency respite in the threat of a winter storm; telling me of a bookings or cancellations before they are announced, knowing I travel so far, so readily. "Can you keep a secret?" one asks, over our usual departure-morning breakfast. Of course; I smile and take in what has clearly been held back for too long, the relief to have a confidante visible in the now-relaxed face. "I'll share some new music with you and only you soon," says another. multiple tries to get a usable file to transfer, both cell numbers and emails shared, no hint of concern of misuse on either end. "Of course I can listen to it now," as I rush to dig earbuds out of my backpack in the hotel. I'm honored beyond words the trust placed in me. Appreciation, reciprocated, returned and repeated, as only Midwest Nice meets Southern Manners can. Mama would be proud.

My brain is brimming with such snippets, if only I could capture them and cram them into jars to pull out when the days are dark. Brainweasels try to wreck the place, but I do my damnedest to keep the memories safe and the brainweasels at bay. How can I possibly run out of memories, when they keep piling up? Will next week's triple-header somehow replace a long-past show? will I someday forget how I cried through "Landed," the second song played at my first Ben Folds concert in 2010? Can anything overshadow the brief but close connection with Darren Jessee, discussing Amy Hempel at that GA show, my fifth that year? our mutual surprise that I picked well, impressing his friends, or was it just the Buffalo Trace bourbon that bought his favor? the smiles, the small waves, the "hey, good to see you!" and "omigosh you really made the drive??" at the sight of me walking in the door of any given venue. The pride of Don Fucking Dixon talking to me from stage mid-set, introducing me to the group assembled in Cat's Cradle Back Room on a winter's night when the rest of the Triangle shut down. Him greeting me with a hug and kiss on the cheek as he breezed onto stage, thrilled that I was making the most of the crazy Friday night. life-long friends the second time we meet.

Can I turn that box full of empty Bonne Maman jars into my own little pensieve, and tuck away what's most precious to me? What shelf will be out of reach of the brain weasels until we can dial in the right mix of magic and meds? what needs to be given up to keep something new? how can I make room for the notebooks and research I'll need to get Jeffrey's story told, without losing too much of myself? Who can I trust to help me pluck my claws out of the tangled mess of 50-plus years of not living, but just existing? I'm only just now beginning to live, and I don't want to waste a minute more

Roadside

Nov. 4th, 2024 12:03 am
just_cyd: (Default)
NC is awash with colors, peacocks showing off for the zoo guests, like male avians fighting to get the attention of the ladies, as if pegging season is for them too. They are outrageous, flamboyant, bold, but, it seems, also short-lived. The ladies can be seen, the forest through the trees (quite literally), what you don't see when you look. Steady, stalwart, sure.

VA is a rusted out green Chevy, on blocks in the side yard. I think it was green, at least. Maybe it's the pine trees lining the freshly harvested corn fields that tell my brain to read "green"? The fields glow in the dying sun, a sea of golden beige, Thanksgiving dinner laid flat across the landscape, a reminder of the cyclical nature of things.

10 miles and a tunnel to WV. That will bring twisty turny roads, construction, toll booths, and close the distance to what currently counts as "home."

"To establish residence with the intent to not leave" is how Mike worded it. I never intend to leave, but reality requires it.

Rest stop breakdowns are no fun. It's there roadside assistance for mental illness? Instead of my tire, can you change my circumstances? Point me to the closest brain shop that can put me back together, running efficiently?

A job. A job with a living wage. That's all i need. Everything else will fall in place once i have a job.

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