Melody's Blog

ideas

Ideas I have to delete from phone so I can receive text messages.

*may 3, *8:48. If I had to leave my life to someone, everything about it, every picture or memory of written word, it’d be to you. You’d be the only one who’d get it.

** may2 * 5:14. Someday I will be wildly happy, flying around the world-but it makes me happier now thinking of it somehow…

*April 27, 1:01* the flowers you bought her look good enough to eat, what is it about her makes you so sweet, you’re probably just afraid she”ll cut off your…

* Movie?show idea: SOmeone has to live in an apartment with all their exes for a month.

*lyric/song idea: how many boys did I stay up late texting that I have not seen for years, chased them acrosses universes through jealousy and fears, traded loyalty to friends for another night’s embracei guess I don’t regret the den of time, but was it all a waste? At home I see pictures of a clear eyed girl, letters to a boy she loved more than life itself, but maybe this one’s different, maybe when I’m old, he’ll relish every memory, think I’m beautiful, he’ll dance every dance with me till we put ourselves on the shelf…. etc.

* WHere are you now? How far within yourself?

*Every moment was a Rembrandt, sat on the hotel floor, where you’d kiss my broken porcelain moments before, knowing I’d tasted the beginning and the end…now it doesn’t matter what I do—-I’m a vagabond in a world of marble looking out for you, as you fall again and again, I was drunk with happiness then..

*my eyes start to glaze over in the cafe, does he know that I’m imagining our wedding day, how my cheeks would flush with blood, we both know it’d be perfect, but they’d think we are absurd, so I sit here daydreaming, never saying a word. If I knew you’d be waiting at home for me, I could face the ( traffic ha) face most anything, proudly be a “garbage man” if I wore your ring. But heaven’s meant for after life, and she’d kill you if she heard, so I just sit here daydreamin, never saying a word.

* Don’t start thinking I’m an angel…or your mother.

*Veronica’s song: L.A. will let you know when you’re wearing the right dress, and I guess today’s my day—I like wearing heels without shorty around judging what I say, but I miss him when the bill comes and there’s noise in the parking lot, I better try and love him cause he’s all I got.

*Don’t cry, you’ll ruin your make-up for this invented dream.

Dude just hit my car and I don’t give a *( It’s just one more dent in your car…one more punch to your beat up heart. One more nick  in the time someday maybe I’ll be fine.

* Musical idea. Woman. Three characters within herself. The young and naive romantic. The jaded old sophisticate…the happy medium traveler….songs….

*Let’s make a deal to make each other laugh every day.

*You never know what you lost till you can’t find it, you never care about the cost till you can’t buy it.

*you should never give a broke gypsy ex lover your credit card.

*I can tell the way this cabi is driving his wife must not be a happy lover.

*everyone here’s got beautiful memories hiding in their heads.

*Lizard brain.

*please don’t start making demands, I’ll stay as long as I can.

not gonna play in the fire of our new york city romance.

your energy is so strong here, it’s driving me wild, I pass a corner where we kissed and can’t help but smile. But if it’s meant to be it’ll happen, by precious perfect chance, can’t play in the ashes of our new york city romance.

*I haven’t felt at home here since life began, soon as things got heavy I packed up and ran and had trouble trusting anything I see, till I looked in your eyes believing in me.

* Smell of something chinese after midnight, yes hungry so we eat, with change in our pockets dreaming of someday,m typing you love in subway cubs, winter welding together in elevators, to stay warm hands intwined in gloves, trains alleyways we don’t see the strangers.

* first time in an airport in a while, missed strangers smiles, flowers fame learned about Kush and L7 from a nice welder hungry for adventure and expecting nothing.

*it’s torture but it’s literary, he strikes a transcendant chord. What we got it’s the stuff of literature baby.

* I can still smell his cologne on my face, our lips were so close what a waste, pinned against a hotel wall, the girl he loved shrinking within me…I am not the girl he once loved.

* every time I See him I get a new song, not his heart of his promise…he strings me along…but every time I see him I get a new song.

*though i pretend to love other when I’m with him I both die and am reborn, over and over, our souls find each other, he stays till he gets bored.

* wouldn’t it be a tradegy to die without someone knowing your story, like if you forgot everything, need someone to tell your your best memories cause they were there with you….sharing.

*don’t want the sun to go down, too much to do I know once the sun goes down I’ll start missing you…I’ll be good for nothing like a worn out shoe…

*the universe in a coffee bean. Drink it all up. Stabs of joy in a bright blue cup. Happy for a second but down in my core, every stab of joy leaves me wanting more.

* I knew i was over you when I bought laffy taffy.

*my spritis already married to yours, even if we were apart, even if you’re with someone new…even if the door has closed…

*

Family.

As the plane took off, immediately my mind began to gain perspective, as if…there was a drain pulling out the extra liquid that was fogging things up—-and I could see, wish-washing in teal and blue—the past year in LA. I could see that yes, progress had been made…though slow and tortorous, for the first time my spirit was gaining muscle—and the two lives, one of exterior and interior that had always batteld each other were beginning to meld. Our band had played the night before at the Ascap convention at The Renaissance Hotel. The owner of the hotel was so impressed he wants us as regulars.

I closed my eyes as a stern looking fellow read a book on the Pope to my right. Flashes. Brett. Tyler. Joe. Taco Tuesdays. Pasadena. Open Mics. Songs. I could see myself lugging equipment from parking lots to the street, see playing shows alone—see friendships forming—see the struggle and how, at times I had started to slide, but I’d held onto the rocks jutting out of the mountain. I thought of soft sweet morning breath—-and the safety of knowing another human being with a heart as warm as Kansas was within reach.

Currently it’s 6 am. I’m at a hotel in Missouri—somewhere in O’Fallon…the Misko side of the family sleeps…and I realize, no matter how I fight it, in one way I will always be my mother’s daughter—a morning person. The smell of vanilla hazelnut coffee to my left is redemption itself. I spent some time talking to the woman at the desk counter.

” Is your room ok? The woman you were with went out in a huff this morning at 4 am” her Indian eyes twinkling with fatigue and smeared liner ( Gosh…this sounds like a book on tape).

” Oh no…that was…my mom. I think family makes her…uncomfortable.”

Can’t think clearly—and though, whenever I open this website I want to just pour out the moment—I always remember midway there are people reading this…pn. I saw the photos of you in LA with Jess and Paco and Andrea and wished I could have said hello and all of us been in harmony. I’m sure you did an amazing job. I hope you find your way in this world I see my mom and all her broken parts…and I know I must work hard not to run from everyone as she does. Even my mistakes. So as I always do in my mind and heart, Jess, Justin, Paco, Andrea…I wish you well.

Have some ideas brewing for business—-will reveal soon.

Home. Home. Green trees, bright and fresh. I wait for the moment I can get out of this hotel and home! To my old old old out-of-tune piano…waiting in the garage…

First.

What a day. It couldn’t have started off more wrong—-achey, tired—-behind shedule.

Rush rush rush. The Hilton called and said to come in at 4—-suddenly i had 30 minutes to get down to promenade, play for an hour—-to hopefully make enough cash to get my hair washed somewhere before playing the hilton and the charity event at night.

IT must be some law of the universe—-when people know you’re in a rush and don’t have time to talk, suddenly they all want to talk to you. Every homeless man or woman I’ve ever been nice to suddenly showed up at the same time…every person I’d seemed to meet was there…wanting to talk.

I played the best I could—-hungry….feeling dizzy. Superman brought me a sushi bowl…and a nice guy bought me a beer—-

got through the set—and ended on the Finale of a giant gust of wind blowing my dress over my head…so…everyone could see my….greatest ass*et.

yep.

Rushed to hair salon. Wash wash. All the money I made gone.

But. Worth it.

Waited in traffic—-some dude hit the back of my car. He didn’t get out…or anything. I rolled down my window—-looked at him and said, ” dude…you hit my car…”

He shrugged his shoulders and said ” Oh…uh…sorry”

It was just one of those days. I just let it go.

I thought…eh. My car is already dented….and I’ve probably rear-ended someone before. Let it go.

Got to Hotel. was an hour late cause of traffic. Did two songs. They loved it. Turn-around. The day turned around :)

PLayed for ISCC, a children’s cancer organization at Cuccina Benne for a group of elegant Iranians. Some of the women didn’t seem to like having a young girl singing there—-but besides that it was delightful…they bought cds, I had a delicious dinner with the owner.

Then went to my first frat party :) And realized…I might have actually had a good time in college :)

this month catch up

Wall is getting covered in events—like last night’s poetry slam or business cards from strangers on the street. More freckles on my forehead—-text message lyrics to self.

Milk in fridge, milk and cereal is the staple. Days move fast—-like lemonade from a glass in North Carolina. Wrote a song for Ms. Dingman. Worked with Boots. Started rehearsals with the band. Trying to find balance between friends…which is so rewarding…and music…which is the burning force moving me through days…

texts from phone I need to write somewhere so I can delete them and have space:

* when you’re not who they think you are and you’re not who you thought you were, fat cigarette butts at church, can I just go home tonight if I make it back by monday, can I just go tonight. 

When you can’t remember the last time you laugh in full, worn down faded laundry soul, when the God you loved can’t be found at a dead end there’s no turn around, let go and switch to am radio—too early for dried up pop, broke a wine bottle full of dollars rent was due on april fools, the chubby man at bank found it adorable me handing him $500 in ones ” I’m not a stripper, I swear” i said,  we get those all the time, he took HIs sweet time.

* cafe latte with foam leaf, la tries to pervade my brain, vocab book in traffic saved the day, I will make this city work, i will own a book shelf , i will find knowledge if i have to hunt it to a cliff and hold its throat and say teach me or die. I will block out the sun somehow. and not become a bloated leather bag…

* it ended with a brownie. lol.

*how are you, i remember when we used to bare our souls to each other. So here’s whats new turning into my mother, growing older and darker than the girl you once knew…well souls change my love and I guess soul mates do too.

April 3, Green glass shards scattered with dimes, happy anti-socialite-redhead boy waits outside, Allen says don’t find the time, for friends that change with the tide, when music gives you better vibes. Rad a*s poetry last night, kids coughing up their life, yelled at cops for second time, then wrote a song to apologize— parking tickets in the dash like relatives who need some cash.
Life is grand and life is great, when you stay up just too late, bite freckled skin until you taste the twenty’s blood you cannot waste. Cds gone carpet needs cleaning, wall covered in newspaper clippings. One day I’ll get to every bill, do the laundry, hone the skills, wow the boys in the band, according to God’s perfect plan-

March 26

Yesterday.

Yesterday skim milk would have been fine.

Yesterday when the father and baby performed the perfunctory smile-

you would smile back as if by reflex. Cute baby. You smile.

Yesterday, you wouldn’t mind the man beside you blasting a self-help tape in the cafe.

Yesterday the barista was kind.

Yesterday…there was all the hope in the world.

Today…a Latino man plays the instrument they sell here—with a lakers shirt and fat thumbs. There are sounds everywhere. I give the man beside me blasting his self-help tape my head phones—and now I miss my headphones. He was the man hitting on the young sculpture yesterday.

I want to put everything—everything on MUTE.

But today could be perfect. Today could be bliss. The coffee is shaking with the typing—coffee glistens in the sun—a girl absentmindedly stirs her coffee and stares at the pile of napkins. 

Today.

Today.

Loved by one, loved by all. Rejected by one, rejected by all.

THe woman oredered a “PLAIN” bagel she says. ” But…if that’s mine, I’ll take it,” she says it like a saint, and smiles as she takes her massive garlic looking bagel to the table. She looks happy…or something like it…pounding butter onto the bagel.

Quantanteramo plays on the speakers. WHAT IS EVERYONE DOING HERE?

Airport bliss.

Airport bliss, need to p*ss.

But hold it in, sit with bags.

HUmans move in slow mo, British girl watches my bags as I hunt down a charger for phone.

“How much?” I ask sweet-smiled girl at Kiosk.

“$40.”

“Forget it. Can I just charge it here for ten minutes?”

She plugs it in. Thank God for the Kindness of strangers…the salvation of my life.

WE get to talking.

She’s going to Barbados in the fall…the weather has been bi-polar here, my mind wanders to L.A.—the empty apartment I will be moving into. How will I get the bed in there…will Alex pick me up from airport? Do I have gas in the car…

Chew. Everyone is chewing. Man with 5th grade-boy-eyes eats hot fries. Dude with neck pillow attached to man purse wanders looking for “just the right seat”.

Old woman sips her caramel latte looking…simply worried Her husband reads the paper—bored, methodical. Is he controlling?

Tissues out. I would like to hand tissues out to everyone in NYC.

Face tired. Puffy. Man beside me plays on his phone—nice plump Indian skin. He looks at me—he knows I”m writing about him.

Well…nothing real to say here—-large gorilla looking woman ( there was a Gorilla man in Paris in the 1930’s I just read about) reads a romance novel…a red head with purse, wrinkles lips from too many cigarettes—-looks at the clock…

ah what a devilishly tempting concept…all her cigarettes…

where did she smoke her first?

Was it by the pool in Miami, was she pale then freckled then tan, drinking blue lagoons, her hair is so thick and smooth—-was it in a motel she and her girlfriends rented

and smoked all night and played cards—-and had…pillow fights—-and pranked the guys next door…

Where did she smoke her 60th cigarrette? Her 300th cigarettes? Her 2,000th—-probably as she was divorcing her first husband for sleeping with another, a younger, woman. 

I could be wrong. Perhaps she is a dancer. Red Flag.

5th grade guy eats a banana….banana and hot fries…9 am. Wow.

Worried woman looks less worried. The carpet is still blue and I still have to pee.

Ode to NY.

Ode to NY. I’m sure I’ve writ this ode before… but who has time to keep the score I taste the silence wilt the room to silky navy gravy blue Greenwhich village whirls outside forgotten days of virgin brides by the water gray and pale Porky’s pub is purging ale Vine climbs up Ms. Moore’s brick it’s been so cold I should be sick LA sun runs deep within my heart is weak my blood is thin Can’t keep up with rapid pace another step another face I see eyes, remember none maybe in heaven just for fun we’ll see a movie  the whole playback of elegant accidents turned to fact performers in the cirque de’ soleil tripping life’s trapeze all day Met an Old woman in Thai restaraunt the food was dusty the salad was shot when I found a hair, they offered me rice she asked ” is it good?” I tried to be nice “I don’t believe in God above, I regret wasting time on men and love, the only thing now I do is write I forget words though, most every line” she said she was pretty when she was my age and that I should have kids before it’s too late but not be too hasty I need my career I realized she wasn’t making things clear. I’m tired of rhyming I wish I could stop I hear thistles of whistles and next door rain drops the room is so heated like thick wallow cream radiator buzzes with ancient steam they say Bob Dylan lived in stables nearby I hear footsteps, it’s not him, my chest heaves a sigh He’ll have a surprise could it be? Perhaps he’ll ask to marry me where is my brother my sister my mom are we all connected to some ticking bomb the comforter’s white like melted cream cheese it’s far too easy to fall asleep Call me lazy? I’ll call it first. My spirit is tired from unquenched thirst. maybe all I needed was New York’s sly grace of running my troubles in endless race fast paces, junk foodies and magazines Edges so sharp they cut through your seems survivors from Rockers to Models to Cabis they all had some gusto to live in Manhatti- they have my respect just for surviving tomorrow it’s back to social climbing in LA where the mauve has no air where faces stay still, butts stick to the chair dreams float like match cars or cartoon balloons distant, familiar as Old Mr. Moon and you say tomorrow you’ll seize up the ladder you’ll do every task a little bit better you’ll have self-control get another job wear sunscreen and heels not look like a slob you’ll eat protein and work-out and play hard to get all your past loves you’ll promptly forget you’ll make your folks proud and be an example for girls who want to win the shiny red apple you’re getting older and oh how time flies before you can swallow the buzz has died it swims in your stomach that, my God, is still churning and down to your loins where some plot keeps on burning if only to get you through the next scene hold you suspended in between dreams (why do some get to stay and some have to go why are children starving, I don’t know) why are we wasting, where is it lost where does the money come from that pays the cost how did he do it, raise a family and kids would he still love me if he saw what I hid she said, the woman, to not lie to myself And thank God above I have my health, I walk away and wonder how could she not feel the magic in life that God is real fine, give Him no name call Him a Her but without that Artist it’s all such a blur I feel my gut yanked up towards the sky toward the ancient sun rising toward the mystical wild of spires inspired epic centuries past of warriors fighting until their last breath in the name of that One Creator Profound “I Once was lost but now am found” New York your chaos makes me small and gaze in wonder at the heap of it all.

Ever-Changing Face.

The ever-changing face of L.A. bewilders me—like a familiar relative you see every few years, her hair color has changed, blonde now, her body has fluctuated, fatter,—and yet, the sound of her voice is exactly-prickly-pin-precisely the same—it continues to both grate and comfort you. L.A. I sit at the CasBah Cafe—-how many people in the cafe are blogging right now? Every single person within is undoubtedly an “artist” of sorts—-modern-day-chasers-of internet blown dreams. Men with hats, glasses, small teas, lap tops—-who knows what their journey has been. The man at the register tells me he is a musician. My hair is toppled and my lips are red today—I feel comfortable in my curves—and so I give him a smile, only a bit self-conscious about my teeth—-since at the request of my father I will be wearing a retainer—for a few months at least. Will my chicken be ready soon? Do they think I’m fat? ” Don’t manifest it Melody” said Jenna, as I spoke to her flying down the freeway last night. ” I’m on another couch Jen…the movement is getting to me. I was ok before, but this time it’s different. I want my own stake of land…”

I have found my dream apartment. I will lay on the carpet face down if I get it, kiss the ground, and not tell anyone where it is for at least a month. It will be my own oasis and territory, just me and music blowing through little speakers—-teaching me, teach me.

Spoke to an old kindred spirit today—he was troubled. I called him without reserve for once—because it was an odd morning. For the last few days I have had the urge to be still, to sit still, to not move. Sit against a tree. Sit in the sun. Not move. He said he tells me what he’s going through because he thinks…between me, his mom, and his friend Josh, the three of us would be able to piece him together if anything happened. This was touching…shocking. Makes you wonder.

Russians Speak.

Russians speak. The smell of salad dressing wafts into my nose, and whereas usually the left-over smell of someone’s else’s food might be slightly offensive, today it is mildly nostalgic, like a cold movie theatre, or a highway from home, not mine but could have been. The computer screen is smudged—but you know what? It’s mine. And I don’t care. I. Don’t. Care. Today, I am fine being me. This is a magnificent thing. Strange, bizarre, wild even. It came over me, a rush of brisk positivity—attributed to possibly many factors…positive thinking? A flood of certain hormones due to a certain time of month? The days in sun and hiking with my best friend. ” Da da da da” they say.

The last few days have been full of…spirit, to say the least.

I am so excited for tomorrow=—surprise.

Lyric of the day:

As I grow I find one thing  true

no one can live your life for you.

Amusement Park.

Hot coffee, liquid gold, touches my lips—swims around light on tongue, Missisippi mud water, sprinkled with chalky-chocolate. THe coffee shop is empty, pop-punk comes from right corner speaker—and I don’t recall if I’ve written any of this before. Nails a chipped maroon dance around the keys and it’s the most graceful I’ve felt in my mind in days. My fingers, moving. Sun blares in windows, barista steps out for a smoke. I wonder what she deals with—-fights with—her weight? I know she says her man is an a”s. I mean we all find something don’t we? Don’t we. What if we were all just injected with happy gel for one day and we weren’t able to think about our own demise. One day. Ha. Couldn’t you see the dictators dancing? My lazy mind doesn’t want to look up their names. ” Don’t say anything negative about yourself—because that goes into your ears and you hear it about yourself.”

Bright Eyes used to say, what if we were the hero in the story?…I never thought of it till now.

For I am in the interior. I am only thinking and feeling thinking and feeling. But if I saw her, if I saw me, I think I would have more compassion. I would see her waking up, in despair and panic, and wrestling with her own mind to put it on the right path, crying out for grace. I would see her being punched all day long, as her memory was a boxer, punched in the face with memories—that for 1/2 a second are sweet before turning overwhelmingly bitter—and then making their way into into regret.

My best friend is in town—from high school. I would wake up at 6 and look at the ceiling and feel the wonder of waking—of being ALIVE. Get an iced coffee made up, 18, and all-knowing, and wise—drive my little brother over the Missouri river, highway 55, flashing gold and pink, to school—and then have 10 precious minutes alone with music blasting—with only the music, myself, and the future stretching out ahead, magical. THe feelings the music would bring—-

Coach sends me a text right now; ” How are you Mel?”

I don’t what to say. I’m supposed to be positive. What I really want to say is…well…I’m here right. I’m still here. I don’t know where to run…of course, I’d like to have things happening—a song playing on the radio…a tour…not still at square one. But I’m here. I’m here. ANd…well, fine really, by the world’s standards. I have a roof…I have half rent ready to pay, my best friend is in town. I’ve been eating…a lot. I wouldn’t tell him how my mind aches in 40 different directions for 50 cities of the past…that I wish I could go back and fix a million things lately…that I don’t know to push this train any faster…that I’m wondering if the adventure is over.

Lord don’t let the adventure be over. I don’t say anything. Maybe that’s ok. If I say anything he will say…Patience. I need to be patient. I’m not ready. I’m not ready.

And so the next month stretches before me….gym…practice…attempt to diet, play on the street. Come on mind. Rally with me.

My best friend is here and it has been odd. It was an odd succession of events and feeling.

The show. THe show. I had been working towards for a month straight—it would be a telling night. Would playing on the street about 20 times that month pay off? Would…things change with certain people—-I don’t know. Then my dad shows up. 

And…the show happens. And it’s over. And he is here, and my old friend from home shows up. And it’s…totally odd. An odd false security. I haven’t seen either of them in forever…and here they are…and I’m driving them around my life here like it’s an amusement park. “Well that’s where I sing on the street, this is the little…cabin I live in…here’s the…” …and they will leave. ANd I will stay. Oh this world.

I want to say something but I don’t know what. I want to get it out of my throat. I want to roar the endless storm of thoughts out, out, out. I want to be happy and young and fiercely driven and alive. I must be. What is the alternative?