so,
the ep is finished. i have, as proof of its existence, posted two songs here on the ol' myspace page. it would be nice if y'all wanted to listen, weigh in, smile more broadly because of them, etc.
we have less than two weeks until the ep release (at the lily pad in handsome cambridgetown), and my belly is knotted like in the olden days (i.e. back when i was anxious all the time...not just on occasion and in the anxiety-light variety, like mostly happens now), and it's making the getting-to-work portions of my day (which is all portions of my day at this point in time) trickier and testier than they should be. i want to go to bed, pull the covers up over my head, and dream about being a baby.
or drink a lot of bourbon.
or drive to california.
or eat a plate of nachos, followed by a half-gallon of ice cream.
or any other thing that spells e-s-c-a-p-e, which is my tiny chicken heart's way of trying to not face the music (funny, right? i mean, it's my music), of not having to look the sum total of all my effort in the eye and say either, "you'll do. that's enough." or "dammit, reva. you should have done better."
the problem is, i love the work of this, not the waiting around for an after-glow. i like the struggle and effort, not the celebration/reflection after the struggle has ended. i want the will i? or won't i? difficult daily chores of being an artist who doesn't have enough time or money or faith or whole-heartedness to go around. i like shoestrings and tape and chewing gum and nail glue, and all the bad ideas that combine to make up the only good ideas i ever get to bring to fruition.
finishing is the goal, but looking back and feeling a sense of accomplishment is harder for me. seems like no matter how much work i do, all it does is give me more desire for the next project/song/chore/lyric/record/job/on and on and on.
the end is near.
which is a good thing.
it means i can start something else.
finishing brings up a fear of failure. it brings to a grinding halt all the energy that has been well-directed and well-intentioned.
and it does mean i can start something else.

Dolls and Dollettes,
We've posted a new number called Carlotta--which is an honest to goodness name in usage back where I'm from: the sweet, sparse middle of Kansas. It's a sketch, which means that it isn't a final product. It's a clearing in the forest on the way to the final product. Melissa plays the saw on it--the full of teeth kind. It's got death and avoidable tragedy, love and that ever-sour note of wish-things-had-turned-out-better-than-they-did. Let us know your thoughts on it. The next record is being worked on in fits and starts and stutterings.

In other news, there's a new collection of Charles Wright's poetry out and about and available at your local bookstore. It's called "Scar Tissue". Thank you, Mr. Wright.

Peace,
Reva and the Gretel that is behind Gretel

i'm visiting kate. she lives atop a fine art gallery (turtle gallery is its name) in bust-lush maine. old, white farmhouse, stately and solid, with a wood-burning stove and plenty of windows. the paintings scattered about are good; there's sculpture in the front and back yards; and the place smells like a flower orgy's taking place in a painter's studio. we aren't sleeping quite enough; i'm reading paul tillich like he's a self-help guru; kate's making many a raunchy and inapporpriate religious joke (insert laugh track here--she is really so very, very funny); and i'm pretending i don't have bangs.
last night, we went to haystack, which is an art/craftschool here in deer isle, for a slide show presentation of the instructors' artwork. before the show, stuart kestenbaum read three poems of the breath-catching variety. here is one of them (from his collection, "house of thanksgiving"):

The Light

A Camel-smoking teenager I have returned
from New York City with my friend
Ellen, she of the wispy blonde
hair in her eyes and the sophisticated
laugh, when a moth dives deep
into my throat, so that I can't
talk or swallow. We are on the way
to her house, for what I pray will be
love and I can't even tell her
what has happened, I just
stand there in the mercury vapor
light on South Orange Avenue
until we part and I walk home.
The day in New York with the visits
to her genteel friends,
the Metropolitan Museum of Art,
and Art Students League and the
exotic promise of the train station
all behind us, I knew I just wanted
a girl to put in my life to make
me whole and instead I swallow
a moth, the brown and white
moth that circles endlessly around
the glow, that can burn itself on the
candle of desire. It must have been
after the light that was
inside me, the light that
even after all these years
I have not yet seen or understood.

thanks, stuart.

peace to all you light-makers out there from a hungry brown and white moth,
reva

I'm procrastinating. It's raining outside, so I still haven't gone for a run today (and I skipped yesterday), which can really derail me. There's a proper order to how i like to do things, or at least an order of preference, and when my desired propriety (the one in my head, my own rituals, my own carved-out reality) is spooked or down-right skedaddled, I have a hard time coming 'round to the rest of my list/day/life. First, I wake up and then I heat up old coffee and drink it and then I go running and then I make breakfast and read something Bible-y or self-help-y (in the mornings, it's all about trying to keep my perception on the up and up, on the track of not-gonna-fall-down, etc.) and then I shower and then . . . See? They follow one after the other. When they (I mean the things I do in a day, the life chores and doings) don't go according to my preconceived plan, I get confused and head-achey. I do this living thing by rote oftentimes, you know? I've misstepped today (actually, yesterday was that way, too), and now it's all gotta be conscious and intentional again.
Maybe it helps to confess . . . I need to clean the house, find a job, finish a story, a song, go running, make some phone calls, pay some bills . . . get to the bottom of the knuckle-gnaw that's churning my stomach. Routine is helpful. It can keep you/me/us moving. Mine has been disrupted--not just by the rain either. My temp job in the city ended. 50 hours a week or more have been freed up and placed back into my irresponsible and ungrateful hands. I have time to write and book shows and record songs and agonize, again. Lucky me.
If you read between the lines here, you'll notice something: me bashing myself. It's a hobby I developed as a child, and it is also part of my routine. Running keeps it at bay until around 3 o'clock. It shows up earlier when I don't run. Ick. So, I'm gonna try and pull this thing out of the Slough of Despond (any Bunyan fans out there?). Here goes:
My routine is off, and my day has not been as productive as I would have liked, but the day is not over. I can go for a run (or not). I can start cleaning the house (or not). I can write or read or sing or sleep (or not) (or not) (or not). The main goal is to get up and out of the swamp slump. I can do that. I think I just did that. Who keeps sitting in shit after they've looked around and noticed that's where they are? Well, not me--not today, anyway.
Peace out, friends.
Reva

so, how does it work again--solar system 101? we're actually closer to the sun this time of year, but b/c of the earth's tilt-y-do (23 degrees?), we're pointing up (can one talk about "up" and "down" when considering space--probably not--but for our purposes, i'm assuming that the south pole is down. if ever an astro-physicist were to read this crap, he/she would giggle at me. that is, if the really smart and nerdy have not evolved in such a way as to be unable to giggle) at a more alarming angle, toward oblivion instead of the sun, the void and not the warmth, the general darkness instead of the specific light? i want to appreciate the irony that those of us who live in the northern hemispheres experience the least amount of day and heat when we are actually closest to our source of those things, but i can't b/c i'm just too cold. also, i may have my info regarding the earth and the sun all wrong, in which case, there is no irony to enjoy/comment on/etc. whatever. it's still really cold. and as if i needed reminding--that this is no gap commercial--in the northeast, gloves and scarves and knee-length coats are not decorative. it's an insult to hear people singing about winterwear here. winterwear keeps us alive, as does the whale oil we use to light our lamps, and the seal fat we heat our homes with. i am frustratingly low on sweaters, as well as the resolve to go buy some. i don't want to go outside to where the sweaters are b/c it is too cold. i want to light a fire in a trash can in my kitchen. i want to cut arm holes and a head hole in my quilt. i want to eat habanero peppers. whenever my roommates open the refrigerator, i want to snarl at them, "you're going to kill us all! you and the tilt of the earth!" it's silly, but i am so bound by how my body feels, and whether or not the little animal in my brain is fearing imminent death or just the eventual death. she gets a bit more jumpy in the uber-cold or in the very hungry. "not now. not yet." ugh. why does winter always make me think of death? but what i meant to say at the outset of all this, was that christmas arrives in 12 days. happy partridge in a pear tree.

i always want to rhyme something in my subject lines. today, i was tempted to rhyme "break" with william blake, which made me start thinking about his poems, so i'll leave one here for you: A Poison Tree I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears, Night and morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright. And my foe beheld its shine. And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning glad I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree. so, a little vengeance and embittered anger to contemplate today. william blake is one of the poets who is actually capable of giving me nightmares. he's on to something though--the capacity for evil in each of us can function to create something that will have a reality unto itself, whose death-dealing potential is capable of upending us and those around us if it is not put down at an earlier age/stage. i like his claim that if our wrath is told (i.e. if we own up to the shitty-gritty in our own hearts) instead of being hidden-away and cultivated, then the posionous apple will never appear. oh my, how i do go on. anyway, what i wants to throw out into cyberland is that gretel is taking a break from playing out, and i'm relieved to have some time to think things through, stretch my legs, not risk leaving gear at a venue, ease my depression, etc. it's not so much that we've been playing a ton (4-7 times a month isn't a huge amount), but the work it takes to play part-time actually feels a bit weightier (in that it's less efficient, etc.) than the work of playing full-time. why is that? i think it's the lack of rhythm (loading is more hectic, setting up is weird, set lists feel like a foreign language) and grace (i really have less patience when i've only got one foot set down into something). so, in the meanwhiled hinterland (and that's just wishful thinking, people--the hinterland part--although i'm heading to kansas in a month), i'm going to hatch a new bevy of plans relating to writing and recording and living and being neighborly, and since i read a bunch of book titles today (from eighth day books' catalog) that made my stomach ache and my mind whirl, i'm hoping to read as well. peace out. r

so, we had 30 people at the huge house for thanksgiving. 'twas fun and tasty. trying to get back in the swing of work, but i keep taking weird breaks (to rearrange my office, change my t-shirt, count how many tupperwares of left overs there are, etc.). phil and i are playing at a wedding tomorrow, which i am really looking forward to. weddings are like a shot of caffeine straight to my heart muscle. i cry and feel hopeful and get nervous, feel sweaty, etc. not b/c i'm singing and playing, but b/c there go another two people, taking on the world together, hoping against hope that love matters no matter what the future holds. it's a brave and risky endeavor. like columbus setting off to explore the new world. who knows where you'll end up or whether you'll survive or whether you'll die or starve or hate it or love it or get rich or find god or find peace or a nearly infinite number of other possibilities--as many bad as good and not very many that are neutral. their names (the people getting married tomorrow) are melissa and bob. say a prayer for them, for all of us, if you think about it. peace, reva

so, we have arrived in bostonia. september is nice. the giant house full of friends is nice. surprisingly, we have ample space for bathrooming and kitchening, and i have my own desk now on which to write and read and book and blah blah blah. we're starting to get some gigs, which is a mighty pleasant surprise. so far, we're booked for 4 dates in october in the light-leaking-out-of-the-sky new england (i'm dreading winter and its blackness, people. i really am.) and it looks like a few more things may fall into place as well. which gets me to my point: i still feel like all i do is business-ize my day. trying to make good art, communicate it well and not die in the process is hard. i've committed myself to playing my guitar today, to trying to write, to trying to remember why i spend time on the phone and email talking to people i don't know so i and the band can play our songs (weezer just popped into my head, "i play my stupid songs. i write these stupid words, and i love everyone waiting there for me. yes, i do. yes, i do. in the garage i feel safe . . ."), but i can't help but feel the pressure of the work that remains. but the work always remains. there is no bottom of the pile, no end of the road. all i/we/you can do is try and make the day(s) we got worth breathing in. and to get to play shows with mel and phil, to get to sing and play for people the words i wrote in private, i will call and email and research and run and drive and cry and hope. over and out, reva (joined in spirit by the rest of the gretel-ites)