Quinn had loads of talent. I am pretty sure she was missing at least half the normal amount of bones in a skeleton, she was that flexible. I struggled to do a split at ten years old; Quinn took her naps in a split.

Maybe it’s because Quinn didn’t have to work hard to get her leg up to her ear, but Quinn did not put forth a lot of effort in ballet class. She came to class every day, same as me, but she was a little listless and anemic in the execution of her movement. Because of that, Quinn never got the leads. She got supporting leads and even some solos–but never THE LEAD. However, I remember standing around the just-posted casting sheet and listening to Quinn make it very clear that she did not care at all about what part she got.

In fact, Quinn made it very clear most of the time that she didn’t care about much. But when we all found out what roles we were dancing in the Nutcracker Suite, Quinn was very vocal about how she just didn’t care.

And I am not sure when I realized this, but at some point it dawned on me that Quinn might just be acting like she doesn’t care about casting because she was protecting herself. Like, maybe if she said it enough–I! Don’t! Care!–then it’d be true: the disappointments would blend right in with the prizes in this homogenous, safe existence devoid of anything wonderful or terrible. Plus, it’s a way of saving face, I think, too. If you don’t care, then nobody’s gonna feel sorry for you, right?

But I thought about that today. And I decided that I don’t want to play it safe or sweep my dreams under the rug, like they’re evidence of last year’s party I never got around to cleaning up.

And I want to put this out there in the universe:

I CARE.

I CARE VERY MUCH.

I want MORE of a viable career in the arts.

I want to make albums. I want to write books. I want to create things that move my heart and subsequently, the world, too. And I want to do this on a level of true excellence.

And since I am on this I CARE! roll, I also want to be in a great relationship. A committed relationship. With a man who loves me and gets me and is not threatened by my dreams. I wouldn’t mind if he made me laugh and blended well with my family, either.

But, just to be clear, I care about my career. I care about tending to my dreams and realizing my goals. And when I am disappointed yet again, it effing hurts.

Because I care.

But when I reach a new goal?

It’s Christmas and my first kiss and defying gravity and Niagra Falls at once.

And that’s because I care, too.

Even though I am no longer standing on them, thank goodness.

But see, wear three inch heeled boots long enough, and they do make an impression. It’s the same kind of impression a bruise makes. You know, it hurts long after the impact is over. Oh well, my feet will feel better in the morning. And I did get to wear the same costume designed by the same designer who works on 2 Broke Girls, so that’s something.

See?

I actually really love serving people. I make it a game. I try to make eye contact and have real, human interaction with as many people who are reaching for my pigs in a blanket (or cupcakes. or chicken and waffles. or polenta with mushrooms. or chicken and shrimp skewers. or truffle mac and cheese) as possible.

But my favorite moment of the night was probably when I was elegantly ( I like to think so, anyway) walking around with a delicately balanced tray of miniature baked by melissa cupcakes on my arm.

“Would you like some cupcakes?” I asked two suavely dressed gentlemen with a wine glass in hand, respectively.

“Of course!” they answered. “But which one is your favorite?”

“I don’t have a favorite…I’ve never had one,” I said, honestly.

“Well, eat one right now, then!”

“I can’t! I’m serving you–I’ll get in trouble if I eat one on the job…” I blustered.

“We are executives at CBS. This is OUR event. I insist that you eat one,” said the CBS executive. Then they each grabbed my tray from me, freeing up my hands to apparently eat a cupcake.

On the job.

“We’ll cover you,” they mock whispered in a thrillingly conspiratorial tone.

And at some point in a girl’s life, she has to give up, listen to the CBS executives, and just eat a freakin’ cupcake, already. This was such a time.

I chose peanut butter and jelly. And man, was it amazing. It was such a tasty morsel, that I forgot about the searing pain in my feet for a moment. I grabbed my tray back from the suits and moved on to further peddle my cupcakes. And I did so with a smile on my face.

And something else about today: I started off working the event with four strangers dressed exactly like me. By the end, we were laughing and joking like fast friends. We were comparing notes on womanhood in general, swapping horror stories that are not blog-appropriate, and having ridiculous amounts of fun. The funny thing about me, is that I am usually more drawn to groups of men -or at least co-ed gathering–rather than groups of females. However, today was wonderful. And I spent it primarily with girls. We were on the same team in every sense of the word and at the end of the day, I was sad that we don’t get to work together on a regular basis.

I love the part of life when you think you’re just doing something for a paycheck, but you leave realizing that you gained a whole lot more than just numbers on a check.

Maybe with the cryptic email I found sitting in my inbox this morning. There was a phone number and a sentence in all caps, asking me to call someone named Jasper.

And the fact of the matter is that I am far too curious a person not to pick up my phone and see what comes of dialing those numbers.

“Hello?” said the guy who answered, presumably Jasper.

“Hi, my name is Jessica Latshaw…I received an email from Jasper this morning…?”

“That’s me. Are you Jessica–the singer?”

“Yep.”

And then there was a bit of awkward silence before he said, “Tell me a little bit about yourself, if you don’t mind…”

Which resulted in a little bit more awkward silence.

“Actually,” I finally said, “Do you mind telling me a little bit about you? I don’t know who you are, what you do, or why you emailed me, so I am very curious about all that and would love to know more about you.”

“Have you heard of the game Angry Birds?” he asked.

“Ahhh…yeah…”

“I created that game,” he told me, matter of fact.

“You DID?”

“I did.”

“I also run a program called Autism Smiles, have two record labels, and am just starting a film production company.”

“That’s…amazing,” I managed to say.

And then we proceeded to have a long conversation about his autism, how he’s in some sort of lawsuit concerning Angry Birds, how his dog Jack likes to talk whenever he talks on the phone, and how did I get involved with music for the disabled? he wanted to know.

“Excuse me?” I asked, at a loss.

“How did your music get involved with the disabled?” he asked again.

“I…love that idea, but I don’t think it actually is…I mean, I am doing Musician’s On Call next week–but that’s here in NYC and it’s not necessarily with the disabled, it’s with patients in hospitals…”

“Oh,” he said, “Your video showed up on a forum for the disabled…”

“Well, what an honor.”

And then he asked me my budget for advertising.

“I don’t have a budget for advertising; I have a budget for rent,” I told him.

So, from what I could gather, the creator of Angry Birds wanted to take me on as a client and help advertise me. I said that I’d have to think about it–but I’d love to keep in touch.

He agreed to keep in touch.

I hung up the phone and sat there in my pajamas. I stared at my emptied cereal bowl and thought about how life is the strangest thing that ever happened to me.

Yep, spanks.

I had never before worn spanks. Leotards, unitards, chaps, every kind of tights under the sun, tutus, spandex out the wazoo, but spanks? Not until my fitting today. They were handed to me with the uniform, and honestly, I don’t mind them so much. They’re actually a lot like a leotard, so I kind of feel at home in the them.

Anyway, come Wednesday, I will be walking around Lincoln Center with four other girls dressed like the two characters from 2 Broke Girls and offering cupcakes and drinks. All this in four inch heels.

God bless my feet.

And the poor stylist didn’t quite know what to do with me. All five of us were put in either the “brunette” or “blond” category. But they weren’t sure where to place me. They eventually landed me with the blonds, so there you go. Now I know.

Tonight, I met with two journalists from 60 Minutes and the New York Times. We sat down at a lovely wine bar on the Upper West Side and, because they’re interested in my story and doing a piece on me, they asked me lots of questions and I told them lots of answers. The nice part of it is that they are genuinely kind and interesting people. I felt a real connection with them, and opened up more so than I had ever done in any other interview before.

“This is a f***ing good story,” they told me halfway through our meeting. “Have you told other interviewers this before?” they asked.

“No,” I said, simply.

“We’re honored,” they said.

Why did I open up to these journalists? Probably because I am an artist–and what do artists do, albeit through many different mediums? Communicate. We share the stories that we hold close to our hearts. We whisper our secrets to the world, knowing all too well that the world has never promised to keep them well or keep them at all. Now, I did not divulge every little bit of my story, for, like I said: the world has never promised to keep our secrets, let alone keep them well. And to think anything else would be foolish on my part. But, tonight I shared my story to the journalists. They proved to be good listeners–and that probably had something else to do with me sharing so darn much.

Today I read an African proverb that said: “The weak have no scars.” And I am not saying that I am some kind of strong person–I am, like everyone else, I imagine–a great and perplexing mixture of weaknesses and strength. But, I do–like everyone else, I imagine–have scars. And tonight I talked about them. And it reminded me of the grace I’ve seen and known and felt in these past two years. Also, I am reminded that every one of us is a direct result of the people who love us. And I talked about them, too.

And then I came home and made this:

All I want to do lately is sing songs and make pictures. I pepper that generously with seeing people, trips to the gym, nannying here and there, and taking out the recycling.

What a life this is; what a beautiful life this is.

And when I finished, I thought: Hmm…the sentiment is a little codependent.

Which is how you know you’ve done at least a year of therapy.

Ha.

But the sentiment is also full of romance and story, which I love. And yes, I suppose there’s probably a little bit of codependent behavior in the greatest romances. I mean, Ariel gave up her mermaid-hood for Prince Eric–and she barely even knew him. I bet most therapists would advise one to wait at least a year before doing something so drastic as giving up their mermaid-hood.

But I suppose every situation is different.

Another way to know you’ve had some therapy?

When you find yourself at your nephew’s birthday party, talking to the mother of one of his friends. You tell her that you just saw that animated owl movie, The Legends of the Guardians, and then you proceed to diagnose the antagonist, Kludd, as “definitely having anti-social behavioral disorder.” She stares at you like you’ve told her Kludd will most likely be elected president, and do you mind helping the campaign along by wearing this Kludd 2012! button?

So you put it in layman’s terms and say,”The bird is really a psychopath.”

She’s still staring, so you continue, “You know–HE HAS NO CONSCIENCE! And man, stay away from that!” Now you sound like you’re speaking from experience, like this business with Kludd the cartoon owl is personal, so you wrap up the conversation and go find your sister-in-law to tell her how you diagnosed an animated bird’s neurosis to a total stranger at a children’s birthday party.

Cause, man, you may be nuts, but, oh well, this stuff is funny!

And right. Another way you know you’ve had therapy:

You start diagnosing animated characters with the disorders of those who’ve hurt you. 

Anyway.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah, the sketch. It’s a little codependent.

But hey! Maybe thegirl is in therapy–maybe she’s working on it.

And anyway, Hallmark doesn’t exactly make a card that says,

Sure, I love you and stuff, but I don’t need you at all and I’m totally fine without you. In fact, the door’s right there, if you choose to leave. Just leave the key before you go-along with the key to my heart. Which will still be beating, by the way, even if I never see you again. Happy freakin’ Valentine’s Day, babe! 

Yeah, I wonder why Hallmark doesn’t make cards like that, either.

My friend Vince Cirino added some amazing beats to my songs at the Wilmington Flower Market. And I wore some not-so-subtle pants. Or some would say not-so-pants pants. More like leggings. Or body paint, as my brother kindly pointed out.

I think this picture of Mike Nigro from Graffiti Radio interviewing me is so funny. I mean, the thing looks pretty posed. I can assure you, it is not. However, I didn’t even realize that I did that on a regular basis with my finger. Which is a weird thing to say, in general.

And after the show, my friend Vita so kindly cooked dinner for a small group of us. And not just any dinner, either: VEGAN DINNER.

I went in with an open mind and I went out with a full belly. It was totally delicious. In fact, I shouldn’t write too much more about it, because I am starting to feel hungry again, just thinking about it. And the company was fantastic, too. It’s good to be among friends. That just never gets old.

Oh! And this is just a fun thing I tried. Sometimes I don’t feel like wearing mascara, you know, and today, I put on individual lashes. They are supposed to last for a while, and already, they’ve lasted through my nightly washing-of-the-face ritual.

Here, I’m wearing no makeup, and those lashes still look pretty darn good. Plus, I can’t even feel them–so different from wearing a whole line of lashes. Those things get all pokey after a while.

Something to try for the ladies.
Or heck, the men, too, if you’d like.

And that is this issue of trust development.

And how I come across so many people who want to accelerate it. 

See, I live in Queens now. But I still spend a lot of time in midtown. And just about every day, I try to figure out a faster way to midtown from Queens. I decide to walk to the subway instead of taking the bus. I time it. I realize that, alas, I am not faster than the bus. I try the 7, I try the E; the E is faster, but still doesn’t feel quite fast enough.

Anyway, my point is, no matter how many routes I take (and there aren’t that many to choose from, I admit), I have to go a certain distance to get from Queens to midtown because there are miles between the two places. I just can’t end up in midtown without crossing those miles. And that takes a couple of things.

TIME. It takes an investment of time. I know, that’s costly and all, but if you’re here on earth, well–that’s one thing that you do have, actually. You might be poor in other areas or feel less than or lacking, but we all have the same amount of hours in a day, days in a week, weeks in a year, etc. And if you want to develop trust, than you need to spend some of those hours, days, months, and years on that endeavor.

It also takes EFFORT. Unless you’re naive, you’re not just gonna accidentally trust someone, or vice versa. Pointed, intentional decisions and interactions will result in trust–and not much else, I think.

Here’s a small example: while I was buying my train ticket today at 34th, a guy runs up to me. “Don’t buy that! I’ve got this ticket to…” he trails off as he notices me punch the button that indicates Philadelphia as my destination, “PHILADELPHIA! I can sell you a ticket to Philly for less than you will get from New Jersey Transit.”

“I’m good, sir, thank you,” I say, and continue on with my purchase.

“But twenty bucks! You can have this for twenty bucks!”

Having completed my transaction while he was peddling his ticket, I simply tell him that I already have my ticket, and hold it out for him to see.

“It’s because you didn’t wait! YOU DIDN’T BELIEVE!” he almost yells now.

“Why would I wait for you? Why would I believe in you?” I ask, not angrily, but rather methodically. “You are a stranger; I don’t know you at all and I don’t trust you.”

“That’s what Amanda said, too–and then SHE left…”

And like Amanda, I leave, too.

But really. He’s a stranger and I don’t know him and it baffles me that he thought I should believe in his ability to supply me with some kind of ticket and just trust that, as he pulls it from within his personal effects, everything is on the up and up with this should-be-in-a-back-alley transaction.

So strange.

And being in showbiz, I run into this all the time. People just want me to trust them NOW. And sometimes they even get angry for not trusting them, though I’ve known them for literally two days. Which of course, make me trust them less.

Anyway, trust takes time and effort. Usually, it’s a hike to get there from here–an even greater distance than the distance between Queens and midtown, believe it or not. And I am ready to walk those miles, sure, but don’t yell at me for not being at the finishing line yet, when I’ve barely taken two steps down the path.

So, naturally, I avoided all of it long enough to make this:

Creating is a way of avoiding the general messiness of my life. This is good and bad, I think. Good, because I write many songs, bits of prose, and sketches; bad, because, well: my room is usually messy.

And here’s a picture of me performing at Sleep No More’s Stortelling: REVOLUTION! yesterday.

*photo credit: James Tomas Moncion

I love that place so much. It’s always a privilege to play there. The audiences are so supportive. I don’t think they could look and sound any happier–not even if I threw candy at them during my songs.

Well, maybe if the candy was Toblerone.

But, c’mon! If I had Toblerone, I would not throw it out to anyone. I’d keep it and eat it very slowly, because that’s some of my most favorite chocolate in the whole wide world.

Oh, and here is proof that I am what the dictionary would refer to as an adult. Because, see? I have my very first NICE pair of sunglasses now.

They were a gift from someone who felt I was squinting too much, I guess.

“You have to take care of yourself, Jess!” my friend told me, clucking over the way I was going about with unshaded eyeballs from the brightly lit sun.

Apparently taking care of oneself entails wearing very nice, very cool, polarized sun glasses.

Well, I don’t mind.

And of course it’s been raining ever since my friend bought them for me. But, I’m so excited about them, I’ve worn them anyway. Heck, I even wore them underground for a bit, and there’s really no reason to wear sunglasses when you’re THAT removed from the sun, is there?

But, it’s funny, the only one in my life who has consistently sported nice sunglasses is my pop. Well, pop, there’s a new sheriff in town. And guess what? She’s wearing sunglass.

NICE ones, too.

I am currently on the train, returning home from Sleep No More’s Storytelling event.
It was some kind of magical Monday evening here in the city.
I even got to take yoga.
It’s good for me to take yoga.
It’s good for me to do things that are simply good for every part of me, whether I’m on a stage or not.
Whether it’s a performance or not.
Take care of yourself, says Wisdom.
It’s the only self you have.
The only self that was given to you, so do right by it.

I went from rehearsing with Pigpen Theatre Company (who are a brilliant bunch of handsome and kind men with pretty smiles and even prettier songs) at 4 o’clock, then to yoga, then to salad at whole foods (another ‘take care of yourself!’ moment), and then back to Sleep No More to perform tonight.

The pigpen boys and I had a great connection, actually. We’re already discussing another collaboration. “You’re actually the first, like, girl we’ve clicked with–musically,” one of them confided to me.

“Oh, that’s probably cause I used to be a man,” I responded.

Joking.

But, really–it was such a fun evening. I met a guy from London who’s working in NYC for the week and saw that I was playing tonight, so come out. He’s already excited about my London gig at the end of the month. Plus, he shared a cab with me to grand central. I know–stranger danger and all that. But the cab driver was there and everything was fine and sometimes one depends upon the kindness of strangers. If NYC hasn’t taught me that, then I’m a hopeless student. Cause the lesson has been evident so many times here.

The MC–Mums–told me that I am the prototype. That I’m what “they’re” looking for.

“Huh?” I asked, always so eloquent, of course.

“A white girl who can RAP!” he said.
And then he emphasized it with a nice big high-five.

It’s 4 am and I am finally settled into bed. What a beautiful thing life is. And tonight, I feel it. It’s nice when it feels that way–I try to really notice it and appreciate the feeling, cause it doesn’t always present itself quite so obviously as it did this evening.

*thank you, Robert Watts, for the photo!

Cabbie: “Why are you going home so early tonight?”

What I should have said: “None of your business.”

What I did say: “Because I want to go to bed.”

Cabbie: “Alone? You’re not going to bed alone tonight, are you?”

What I should have said: “None of your business.”

What I did say: “Um, yeah, I am…but my roommate will be nearby, I’m sure.”

Cabbie: “But where is your boyfriend?”

What I should have said: “None of your business.”

What I did say: “Oh…In Manhattan…”

Cabbie: “But why do you live so far away from him in Queens?”

What I should have said: “None of your business.”

What I did say: “That’s where I got an apartment.”

Cabbie: “So you WEREN’T out hunting for a man tonight, then?”

What I should have said: “None of your business. Or alternately: “I am actually NOT a vampire, so…no.”

What I did say: “Nope. I was at a gay bar with my friends; there weren’t really any men there who were interested in me, anyway!”

Cabbie: “HOMOSEXUALS?! I am VERY uncomfortable with homosexuals. I do NOT like them. They often look at me like they want to f**k me.”

What I should have said: “Don’t flatter yourself.”

What I did say: “Some of my closest friends are gay and they are wonderful; they are people, like all the rest of us.”

What I was thinking: Dear Jesus, please get me home soon. This conversation is ridiculous and exhausting…

Today I have felt afraid.
It started small, just a few pricks of fear here and there.
Not enough to cause me to stop what I was doing and confront it.
It is Jurassic Park; I am the human, and fear is the compys.
Looks so innocuous at first, till I can’t get up anymore. There are too many. I am crying and a friend texts me an old picture of us and I am smiling now, but crying, still.
I sing songs.
I curl up under the hottest shower I can endure.
I read the Bible.
I think and think and think.
And remember.
And realize that what I am feeling is just feelings and it’s okay to be sad.
It’s okay to remember and miss and grieve and weigh what is lost and wonder how it is that life looks so much like the room I live in:
Empty.
Large.
Messy.
Bereft.

A dear friend calls me yesterday to tell me that she is coming to see me play at the Gramercy Theater. It will be her first trip to NYC as an adult. I tell her she can stay with me, but I am embarrassed.
“I don’t have a mattress that is big enough for two people,” I explain. “I don’t have a couch, or even more than one blanket or pillow. I live a rather spartan existence here in the city. I have instruments and I have clothes, and that is basically all.”

I apologize.
She laughs and says she doesn’t need much.
She also says, “You may not have a couch, but you have a PUBLICIST, Jessica!”

And I do.
And that is dumbfounding.
But on a Saturday night, when the compys are biting, I would like a couch. I would like someone next to me on a couch. And I KNOW. A big reason why I don’t have someone next to me on a couch on a Saturday night is because I am picky as hell, which makes no sense, because I do believe hell is the kind of place that will take just about anybody and set its compys on you just for kicks.

Anyway.

That’s how it is.
Seasons and feelings and rising and falling and there it is, feel it, yes, but don’t go and build a house on it.
I won’t, anyway.
This sadness is just how I feel; it’s not where I live.

And bonus points: I bought some more soap for the bathroom sink.

So, I go down to the creepy trash room and I separate the recyclable materials and all that jazz. Then I come back to my apartment and I CANNOT GET IN THE DOOR.

And Ernesto isn’t come back till tomorrow…so, what the heck?

But, I figure the door is stuck or something, so I try even harder to open the darn thing. Which is when I notice the number on the door. And how it starts with a 2…and I live on the first floor. I quickly walk away and hope that I didn’t give the neighbor directly above me a heart attack for fear that he was witnessing a break-in.

Once I got back down to my apartment, I got in just fine, in case you were wondering.

And then I see that my three remaining bananas are brown.

Which means it’s time to make them into banana bread.

Yep, even when I have to get up at 6:15 in the morning, cause them brown bananas don’t wait.

So now the apartment smells like banana bread baking in the oven and I am left here writing. And thinking about Little C, the kid I’ve been nannying all week.

C loves to go to the park on Riverside Drive. I have to admit that I like it, too. It’s a beautiful walk there, the Hudson is close, and we inevitably find ourselves within view of it at some point during our outing. But C also loves to collect things. He finds all sorts of treasures/trash/sticks/things-that-he-hopes-I-won’t-notice-he-put-into-his-mouth. And he holds them like an art antiquities dealer would hold an entire headdress made of eagle feathers.

I am currently reading a fascinating memoir by a retired undercover FBI agent who specialized in taking down art and antiquities crimes. Thus, the reference. And did you know it’s absolutely illegal to sell or buy eagle feathers in the USA? Yeah, I didn’t either.

But, right, C and his treasures. He clutches them close to his little chest and runs about with this Mona Lisa-esque smile on his face because of it.

Until he wants to climb.

Because this park has a fantastic jungle gym set. And there are many rungs to climb up, up, up…to SOMEWHERE ELSE! SOMEWHERE NEW! SOMEWHERE BETTER! And I watch him start to climb, but, inevitably, he cannot go very far while he’s holding onto his treasures. He just needs everything to climb, is the thing. Both of his little arms and all of his brain power. So I watch him try to decide what to do, and then I’m proud of the little dude, because you know what he does?

He lets go.

He drops his treasures and climbs. Or sometimes he hands them to me, trusting that if they’re good for him, I will give them back to him, since I have his best interest at heart.

If you’re seeing a metaphor in that, then you’re right where I am, too.

We need to let go.

I need to let go.

And we can trust that, if whatever we’re holding onto is truly good and purposeful and beautiful, it will be handed back to us. But there’s no way we can climb to the heights we’re called to, if our hands are full of the stuff we’ve picked up along the way

I am not sure what that is for you, but I am trying to figure out what, exactly, that is for me. What am I holding onto that is keeping me from climbing my best? What do I need to let go of right now? To hand it over to someone else, who has my best interest at heart?

Cause that jungle gym is FUN, guys, and I don’t wanna miss out.

We’ve been spending a lot of time together this week, truth be told.

Yesterday, C discovered my belly button and thought it was hilarious to keep discovering it. The fact that it was cracking me up did not do much by way of discouraging him from it either, I am sure.

Today, I brought my ukulele so I could practice while C was napping. I ended up writing a song. I’m still working on it, but the body is there. I made sure there was no belly button in the body, though, or else C would be all over that.

C’s mom got home so late tonight, that I decided to take a cab back to my apartment. Which is when the cabbie tried to cook me alive. Really, he had the heat on so strongly, you’d think it was May in Antarctica. I rolled down my window, hoping he’d get the hint, but to no avail. I was so tired and hot that I almost became downright grumpy.

Almost.

And then I tried to tweet something and my hot, tired fingers clumsily hit the send button too early, so my tweet didn’t even make much sense. AND I COULDN’T DELETE IT TILL I GET HOME.

Well, this is the kind of thing that makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like to be misrepresented–even when it’s by myself.

I finally got home (and back into fresh air, hallelujah!), deleted the prematurely sent tweet–but noticed that, to my chagrin, someone had already retweeted it.

Oh well.

You can’t recall a tweet that’s been tweeted.

Lesson learned.

(the hard way)

Please realize that I am mostly kidding; I realize there are real problems in the world and my premature tweet is not one of them. 

Oh, and here is a picture that my friend Krista Connor took.

And another one.

Confession: I’ve single handedly eaten an entire side dish of edamame for two days in a row now. And no, I don’t feel badly about this at all.

Discovery: I just realized that I am one of the acts opening for The Neon Trees at the Wilmington Flower Market next Thursday. And no, I don’t feel badly about this, either.

And I just spent a long time figuring out how to hook up a printer to my computer and then I was trying to scan documents using a new app on my iPhone.

I think I got it.

If I weren’t so dang tired, I’d feel really proud of myself.

But 6:30 am comes fast round here.

And the little boy I’m watching for 13 hours every day this week doesn’t exactly let me nap.

(nor should he, let’s be real)

But, I saw this today:

And there I was, walking along with the Hudson on one side of me, Riverside Drive on the other, and an adorable little boy I was pushing in a stroller in front of me, and I felt at peace with life.

I felt happy.

I smiled like a fool and I thanked God for that moment.

And even though all my questions hadn’t exactly been swallowed up in any big and obvious answers, I felt like life was a very good thing to be included in and I had not a doubt in my mind that my dreams were given to me for a reason and that it was a very good reason, indeed.

I stopped my rocking out long enough to take out my headphones and embarrassingly admit, “Um…myself.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Lemme hear,” he said.

So I did. And I have to say that it is pretty fun watching somebody’s reaction when they first hear the verse of Ain’t My Friend. Cause: rap. They don’t expect it of me, I guess. This guy had this nice slow, spreading smile and started nodding his head like he agreed with what he was hearing.

He got his friend’s attention. “Yo, man, you gotta listen to this girl. She’s good.”

And so his friend listened and this time it was both of us watching his reaction.

I explained to the guy that I don’t normally walk around listening to my own song. “It’s just, it came on shuffle and it’d been a while since I just had fun listening to it, so I let myself get into it.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You gotta like what you do. Besides,” and he pointed to his friend, “He listens to his tracks ALL THE TIME.

The friend didn’t argue, either.

Turns out we were waiting for the same train, so we got into a conversation. His friend also let me listen to some of his rap, which was cool. “It’s pretty raw,” he explained, apologetically. “I’m working on more…lady-friendly versions…”

“Oh,” I said. “I don’t really mind raw so much.”

And it’s true, I’m a little hard to offend when it comes to music. I mean, I am sure it can be done–but I listen to a pretty wide range of music out there. I’ve heard raw before.

“You got a really good sound,” the guys told me, respectively. “You’re going places.”

I thanked them.

“Can I ask you something?” the one guy said, lowering his voice, getting all personal and stuff.

Here it comes, I thought. He’s gonna ask me something so intimate…Ugh…How am I gonna answer THIS?

But, I nodded to give him the go ahead and braced myself for impact.

“Those YOUR teeth?” he asked, point blank.

“Huh?”

“Your teeth. Those all yours?”

“Oh! Yeah, these are my teeth…”

“You must not smoke cigarettes, huh?” he observed.

“I don’t…”

“Well, God musta known you were gonna be famous, giving you teeth like that.”

Ha, God and invisalign. 

————————————————

And just because I appreciate y’all stopping by here the way you do, Imma give you a gift.

I met this little guy today on the Upper West Side. And now Imma share him with you, because he’s amazing.

 You’re welcome.

Now go out and find yourself some patriotic booties like this little pomeranian did.

(no, I don’t pay much attention to signs and stuff)

But, I love this little church.

And not just because it’s a good landmark.

Though, it is that.

I don’t even know what kind of church it is–nor do I care, really–I just love the way it sits stoutly on the corner of the street. It’s got a little gate around it, but the church is much taller than the gate. It’s as if its reassuring all of us that the gate is purely for looks. Cause the church could step right outside of that wrought iron wreath if it wanted to, but it doesn’t. It wants to be exactly where it is and nowhere else in the entire world and so we can all rest easy knowing that the church stays put by choice.

Nobody ever wants something around–anything or anyone, really–because it has to be there. There’s a lot of words for that, but none of them sound much like love.

Anyway, that church makes my heart happy.

And it also helps lead the way home right now.

We have a duo called The Paper Janes.

And tonight was our EP release party concert thing. We played with Rod Kim and Vince Cirino, whose set preceded ours. And we got to perform in a beautiful room in the Grand Opera House (which some would say is Delaware’s premiere venue; I suppose I might even be one of them).

We brought Shane’s yellow couch to sit on while we played. I brought a lamp from my bedroom in my parents’ house to add some light, too.

See?

It was also my debut playing a djembe.

And playing an egg.

It was actually really fun–though I must admit that it’s rather tricky to play percussion or rhythm while singing the melody.

It was a lovely show–one that I am proud of.

And then I drove back to my parents’ house listening to some pretty raw rap. And feeling oh-so-inspired. I started freestyling a little in the car and made sure not to get so into it that I hit a tree or something a little too hardcore like that (even if it IS rap).

I got home and said good night to the dogs, who my pop had let stay up for me on the porch. I ate some easter chocolate (it’s not gonna get rid of itself on its own, right?) and then I flossed my teeth with a little more intensity than normal, which may or may have not been easter chocolate consumption guilt-induced.

And it’s weird, tonight I am alone, I miss everyone and no one at once. I am content to be right here. I am content to sing my songs and freestyle in my car and crawl into an empty bed at night because my heart is not only full, it’s pouring out onto just about everything. And when my heart touches everything, then everything starts downright glowing with significance.

And like that one hymn says: it is well with my soul.

I held my jacket tightly against my skin and wondered why April insisted on acting like February.
But I suppose we all do it.
Pretend.
I have been told, however, that despite my acting stints from time to time, I am not so good at pretending.
I am like the the ocean in that when I am feeling something, you will see it and hear it and probably end up soaking wet with it if you stand too close.
I don’t know if this is good or bad.
It is probably both, depending on the setting.

Right now I am receiving confessional drunk texts on my phone. They are sad and true and document a time that was once so vibrant around me, I couldn’t imagine another color to my life.
One that wasn’t painful and tragic.
But now I feel almost priestly in my detachment to it. I read and respond and it’s not painful so much. It’s sad, sure. But so is talking about 9/11–though those tragedies are nameless and faceless to me, personally–and this one is not quite like that, of course (there will always be a name, always be a face), but I am less and less attached to how it all feels.

The past is a phantom that, when you try to touch it, your hand smacks the wall beyond it. But it’s here in subtle ways, still. Like when you leave a room one way and come back noticing small variances from how you left it.

My life should be one way.
It’s not.
But why does it look different now? Who was here?
The past.
Oh.

That’s why I started to just leave a little room at the table for the past, anyway. If you can’t beat it and all that. It exists, no sense in pretending it doesn’t. Let it come in, then; let it make friends with the rest of your life. There’s peace there. There’s freedom and acceptance and an ability to move the heck on.

There’s also a piano.

My ex just told me I could have his.
And I’m gonna hold him to that when he’s sober.

And, man oh man, I had no idea Joe’s Pub is simply awesome.

The place was packed with an audience that LOVES live music. And the whole night was just one after the other fantastic singers and musicians. I felt lucky to be included.

Honestly, I was a little nervous about the whole thing, because I hadn’t really practiced the song as much as I should have. It was a cover, meaning I had to learn a brand new song. For me, sometimes just making one up is easier than learning someone else’s. But, it had to be Carole King, see (seeing as it was a tribute and all), so I simply had to buckle down and play ‘Crying in the Rain.’

And now I am so glad I did.

Because it went just great. I had my ukulele and Joe McGinty (who was the host and keyboardist of the night and has a music biz resume as long as my legs) played some keys and the house band percussionist (Eddie) added some tambourine, too. I played my own version of the song–doing some scatting and just the teensiest bit of rapping–and the audience received it really well.

In fact, I ran into a few of them on the subway afterwards and we got into quite a heartwarming conversation. One woman asked to take my picture because, “You’re going to be famous,” she told me. The only thing that was slightly embarrassing was the fact that they approached me while I was eating one of those travel packs of combos. I got so hungry, that I decided to buy one on the subway, and it’s hard to feel especially cool and sophisticated when you’re reaching into a shiny, metallic combos bag and then stuffing your mouth, was the feeling I had.

Then at the next subway stop, a guy came up to me, asking if I’m the girl from youtube.

By then I had finished the combos, thank goodness.

He gave me his card because he wants to be included on my email list so that he can come to my next show.

Whoa.

Also, he told me that he just downloaded ‘ain’t my friend’ from itunes.

Whoa again.

Which is news to me.

I got it way on sale, but in the dim lighting of the store, it certainly looked yellow. Which was part of the attraction, of course. Then I got home and looked at the thing in the light of day. And suddenly it looked lime green. Oh my. Now, that’s a statement. I mean, yellow is, too–but yellow is the kind of statement I always want to make.

Lime green?

I am not sure that’s what I want to say with my dress.

But I wore it tonight and I guess the chartreuse was okay because, as soon as I stepped onstage, a little girl in the front row told me she liked my dress.

Win.

And now begins a crazy-ish weekend. I leave early in the morning for PA to rehearse with Shane in the afternoon and then play for my church’s retreat. Then I am in Delaware on Saturday to play the paper janes CD Release concert with our buddies, Rod Kim and Vince Cirino. We’re excited about this event for so many reasons–not the least of which is playing at the Grand Opera House in Wilmington. It’s such an iconic and beautiful theater–and we get to fill it with our songs. Like, wow.

And if you’d like to check out an interview I did with Girls Who Rock here in NYC, you can go HERE.

And if you’d like to see some adorable puppies, you can go HERE.

And if you’d really like some ice cream but just don’t want to move at all–not even to go to the corner store to buy some–and you don’t have one friend in the world who could get some and bring it to where you are perched on your couch–and you happen to have a credit card handy, you can go HERE.

You’re welcome.

I didn’t understand why it wasn’t working until I realized that most metro cards do not generally have a TDBank logo on them. Nor are they green.

Oops.

And I figure I might as well confess this now: I am in love. 

Yep, I am.

I love the way some lyrics read like a letter that must have begun dear Jessica, they feel that specific to me.

I love the way it is so good and perfect to eat food. Really. What a lovely, mysterious-less solution to a problem I confront every day: plain old hunger. I kind of like feeling hungry sometimes, because I know this means I get to eat soon (yes, and this makes me lucky; I realize this). Plus, there are so many delicious and even cheap places to choose from here in NYC, that it’s quite literally a treat to pick a meal. Tonight I had a sweet potato roll from a sushi restaurant. And when I first bit into that faintly sweet with enough crunch to make your teeth feel happy and needed, I decided that life was perfect.

I love reaching the subway platform just when my train arrives. It makes me feel like I am exactly at the right place in time. It’s a wonderful feeling. There’s no second guessing or hesitancy because look! I made my train. Me and life get along. I’m on my way. Sure, probably just to midtown–but let’s just say it’s a metaphor, because I might as well be on my way to perform miracles, I feel so darn good right about now.

I love watching the Hudson River. It’s such a lovely production, with sailboats and bridges and paths alongside it, too. Standing before it makes me feel all dreamy. Like I could write a hundred love songs and forget about lunch for the rest of my life, I’m so taken in by what’s before me and how it makes me feel.

I love when somebody gets me. And vice-versa. Today I had lunch with my friend Brandon. I have roughly a million words for him every time I see him. They are limitless, really. This means I love you, I think. When I am a person with skin and arms and legs, sure, but mostly, I am a person with ideas and words and thoughts and I am happy to show them all to you, one by one, the way little kids show anyone and everyone their lego creations or the monsters they spend hours drawing. We are still those little kids, but the difference is that Show And Tell is no longer just a half hour during our second grade lunches; now Show And Tell is the part of life when you and your dear friend get together in midtown and are still talking long after your plates are clean.

See?

I am so in love.

Life gives me a million reasons to be this way all the time, actually.

I worked on the video for over 24 hours straight and then I went to my roommate’s show. He plays the drums in Penguin Prison, and they’re great. They opened for Mike Snow–and that band has me thinking about buying some of their music. It was beautiful.

Oh gosh, I just wrote a sentence that made absolutely no sense in that above paragraph. And then erased it. I need to wrap this because I literally cannot keep my eyes open. And I have an audition tomorrow.

“Are you excited?” someone asked.
“No,” I answered, truthfully.
Right now I am overwhelmingly and utterly tired.
That’s how I feel about just about everything at the moment.

But I am sure some sleep will cure that.

And one last thing: I am so grateful for the people who come into my life and make it a better place. How beautiful they make the view from here.

So, I suppose I am tired and grateful.
Which is not such a bad thing to be at quarter to one on a Tuesday night.

Unless you count the ER.

But today I have been with Dez Ryan Stewart editing. And now it’s tomorrow and I’m still doing that. Okay, well, I’m blogging, too. But, shhhh, maybe he’ll think that I’m still editing with him, if neither you nor I say anything about it. I mean, at least I am still sitting next to him. And I just made him tea.

And I know, I know. You can’t just casually mention a little Sunday night trip to the ER in a sentence fragment and then roll on like you didn’t just casually mention a little Sunday night trip to the ER in a sentence fragment.

See, I’ve had this bump.
Ew, gross, I just mentioned a bump.
But I guess I just figured it was a cyst and would go away. It was around my hip area, and, not having health insurance, I wasn’t, like, jumping to go to the doctor, you know?
So I didn’t.
And didn’t.
And didn’t.
Until the bump was all, “Hey! I’m big and angry now and Imma make sure you notice!”

Which happened to correlate with this weird swelling under my armpit.

CAN WE JUST SAY H-TO-THE-O-TO-THE-T?! CAUSE WITH THE BUMP AND A SWOLLEN ARMPIT, I’M JUST BEATING BACK THE BOYS ROUND HERE.

So, I was like, “Oh shoot, I’m probably gonna die or something. But, at least I won’t have to pay rent for May!”

Just kidding. I don’t mind paying rent in May, if it means I get to be alive.

Anyway.

The bump was REALLY hurting on Sunday night and my weird swelling had me scared and so I started crying and, upon the urging of a friend, went to the ER at Bellevue Hospital.

Bellevue.

It used to be a place for the mentally insane, and considering it’s one of the few city hospitals that regularly cuts deals for people with no health insurance (raises hand high!), it’s not that far now from how it started.

I texted my friend Jes on the bus to Bellevue, and she immediately jumped in her car and came with me. After my protestations at her leaving her home on my behalf, she simply said, “Are you kidding? You’re not going to the ER by yourself. And you’re DEFINITELY not going to BELLEVUE by yourself.

So, she met me. Cause she’s one of those angels who trick us into thinking they’re humans by wearing skin and paying bills and stuff.

At Bellevue I met Aileen behind registration. She wasn’t so sure about me and wouldn’t make eye contact–not until I told her that my name is not the one that she sees on my license.

“Why not,” she asked, in a matter-of-fact manner.
“That’s my ex’s name.”
Which got Aileen’s attention.
“Ohhhhh…” she said. “But you’re so young…”
“Yeah, well…”
But then Aileen cut in with, “If he goes, the name goes.”
And just like that, we were friends. And she changed my name on my record, no more questions asked.

I am not sure which Bellevue highlights to point out here now, but let’s just say that wearing a thin hospital gown while listening to a nearby man scream at the top of his lungs that he was GOING TO KILL EVERYONE! was pretty new.

And then there was a guy handcuffed to his wheelchair. He kept yelling, “Why would you B*TCHES shoot me up with meds that I’m allergic to?!” He was manically screaming this over and over again and finally started to threaten to sue the entire hospital.
And I guess that’s when he realized he better know exactly which hospital he was suing.
“What hospital is this again?!” he screamed.
And then a Bellevue doctor politely told him that he was at St. Vincent’s Hospital.

Hilarious.

Of course, I had to tell a young hot male doctor about my bump and swollen arm pit. Who then poked and prodded with abandon. I couldn’t get a maternal lady doctor who was nice unattractive to me, now could I?

But, turns out, they just needed to drain the bump and that I’m fine. Gonna be around here a while yet, I suppose.

And when they drained my bump, it hurt like a mofo. But other than saying, “Oh, shoot…” I was pretty stoic. I was also pretty curious. I kept asking what the stuff looked like that was coming out of me. I know, gross.

But so interesting, too.

And now I’m gonna be hit with a big old bill, but I’m told that I can bring it back to the hospital and prove that I have no health insurance and not much money either, and they’ll make some kind mercy plan for me.

I hope that’s true.

But right now I’m reveling in the fact that I’m not dying. And I’m also working with an emmy award winning director. He’s making some videos for me and I am filled with gratitude.

And last thing: it takes me 15 minutes in a cab to get to Queens from Brooklyn. And it takes over an hour via subway to get there.

Something ain’t right.

But at least that something is neither my armpit OR the rest of my body, either.

And here’s me and Milan, editing.
Well, taking a picture of us, but still, Dez is editing right next to us.

“Really?”

“Yeah, twenty-one acres of Pennsylvania. That land and the trees and the stream–it’s in my blood. It’s family to me.”

“How far away is it?” Dez asked.

“Two hours. Maybe a little more with traffic.”

“I think we need to go there to shoot this film,” he said, decidedly.

“You’d go to Pennsylvania with me?”

“I want this video to be awesome. When you talk about your home, you light up. You become as dreamy as the land you describe. We need to capture you there.”

So tomorrow morning I am meeting he and my publicist in Brooklyn first to shoot some stuff in Williamsburg. And then we’re roadtripping to PA. And my parents’ don’t know yet.

But I guess they do now. 

This film is partly for a submission for a show that I can’t really speak about. The show approached me, wanting me to audition. But, we’re also gonna use it for general publicity. And the videographer has WORKED. He conceptualized, hosted, and filmed a music reality show in Dublin. And he’s worked for Arista Records, too. He knows what he’s doing and right now he’s doing me one heckuva favor.

“I don’t really know why I’m here, but I am. I guess there’s something about you,” Dez told me tonight in a loud bar. “When your publicist showed me that video of you on the subway, it won me over. I was all ready to say NO. No freebies, not now–not after everything I’ve done in this business. But there’s a story there and I want to film it.”

I am taken aback.

And grateful.

And excited to shoot this film.

And I need to get some sleep so I don’t look like a hot mess in front of the camera tomorrow.

And to my credit, I did not laugh. My smile might have widened, though, as I asked him to please tell me all about it.

“It’s just this thing that’s supposed to change your life.”

“How?”

“It helps you to read people’s body language specifically for the dating scene.”

“Can I come?” I ask.

“Why do you wanna come, Cisne? You don’t have a problem finding a date.” Leao asks, suspiciously.

“Because I want to hear this seminar…I think it sounds hilarious. And I want to write about it.”

“No fair! Me and my brother are going because we actually want to get better at dating–and you’re just coming to laugh.”

“I’ll behave, I promise,” I assure him.

So, I sign up for this seminar and that’s how I happened to spend tonight in a loft in Chelsea, listening to a guy mostly tell other guys how best to date girls.

Seriously, you guys have tons of pressure. I had no idea. I mean, you get to pee standing up and forego toilet paper some of the time and stuff, but really, that’s not enough compensation for what I now know to be true: THE ENTIRE HUMAN POPULATION HINGES ON YOUR ABILITY TO GET ONE OF US TO GO OUT WITH YOU.

But, no pressure.

And other than the fact that the speaker looked like my Ex, I really kind of liked him. He was smart and has some good ideas. It was a big ol’ pep talk and I found myself hoping that every person in the room goes out and scores a really good date sometime soon. Oh, also, I learned that if a guy is making eye contact with me and I look DOWN, then it’s a green light for him. But if I look sideways? Party’s over, boys.

Who knew?

And after about two and a half hours of listening to him talk to us about nonverbal cues and the horrors of dinner dates (no entertainment other than conversation! and you might be bad at that! and no chance for connection with a whole table between the two of you!), the speaker asked if he could rip each of us apart a little. You know, tell us what we can work on in terms of becoming more “dateable.”

Bring it, I thought.

And he did.

Bam, bam, bam–he told each person what they needed to work on.

“You need to stop fidgeting and look like you’re interested.”

“You need to get your confidence up.”

“You need to be more open, less closed off.”

And so on and so forth.

And then he got to me.

He looked at me for a while.

“You’re…FINE, actually,” he said. “What I really think, is that you’re just here to be with your two friends. And by the way,” he said, directing his attention to my friends now, “Bringing her out with you enhances your status greatly.”

So, there you have it. Apparently, I’m okay. At least, when it comes to being dateable.

Thank God for the groupon; otherwise, I would have spent much more than $39 to find this out.

Okay, so I pressed snooze, but that hardly distinguishes one day from the other round here.

And then I convinced myself that, of the long list of needs this world feels regularly, my showering isn’t exactly one of them. So, unanimously voting a shower in the “wants” category, I decided I could do without, and opted to sleep a little more. Of course my being tired had nothing to do with it. I simply wanted to show the world that I didn’t have to do something simply because I wanted to. Ahem. 

But, I went to the CBS building first thing this morning and sat in a big conference room. I met television executives who are planning some big promotional party event at Lincoln Center to wine and dine other tv execs and show how great their tv shows are and stuff like that. Which is where I come in. They need a few girls to wear the waitress uniforms from 2 Broke Girls and smile while they pass out drinks and cupcakes.

“Hi, my name is Jessica, and I have experience cocktail waitressing at a dinner theater.”

That’s what I said when it was my turn to introduce myself. The executives looked at me and nodded and, next thing I know, I get the gig and have to send them my measurements so their elves in LA can get to work on my uniform.

“Do you have a job, Jess?” my little nephew recently asked me.

“Yes…”

“What is it?”

“It’s a lot of things, Eli; a lot of different things, at the moment.”

And now one of them is passing out cupcakes and drinks while dressed like a waitress from tv.

LIFE! it’s a hoot.

Then I hightailed it up to my old stomping grounds, the Upper West Side, for rehearsal with my boys. They’re not really MY boys, but I like the sound of that. Dave and Dylan are so fantastic and rehearsing with them is some of the most fun hard work I’ve ever had. We’re gearing up for a show at Webster Hall on May 18th.

Speaking of Webster Hall, that’s where I saw Gavin Degraw and Vanessa Carlton tonight. And she was lovely, really lovely–but GAVIN DEGRAW, OHMIGOSH. His performance was just riveting. Honestly, I don’t really know his music, but you don’t have to, because he gave an amazing show. I was inspired. And fed free pirate’s booty, thanks to being VIP for the evening.

But really, we’re all VIP. Not just tonight and not just at Webster Hall. We’re all VIP every darn day and it’s about time we live like it.

And here’s two pictures, both by David Norbut:

Playing with The Paper Janes, Newark, DE.

It looks high on health and low on taste, but what do I know? Just that I’m hungry right now, after back to back classes in capoeira and yoga, and I’d happily have a snack, period. Even a seaweed one.

But this is part of the reason why I love this city. The variety. The differences. The varying colors of skin and lilt of accents. There’s nothing boring or tired about New York City, and if you’re feeling those things, it might be a good idea to evaluate whether or not you’re the one who’s boring and tired.

In fact, that goes for everywhere, I think. The list of things to do, see, touch, hear, think, and discover in general is longer than any one lifespan, I believe. So, get to it. I don’t wanna go all Jack Bauer on you with some kind of impassioned cry of “WE’RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME!”–nor will I accuse you of being a terrorist–but there is something good about living circumspectly. About keeping an eye on the moments and days and years. Realizing they’re a gift, so USING THEM.

(she says to herself more than anyone)

In fact, I’ve been making some goals recently. I’ve been talking to someone in the music business who’s been filling my head with all sorts of notions. Now I’m thinking plans and goals dreams and what do I want? Not just: what is the world allowing me to have, but what do I want?

Because I think the two are connected with this indelible thread. And far be it from me to pretend that the thread doesnt exist. I wouldn’t want the thread to ignore my place in the universe, so I can afford to give some respect where it’s due, as well, I think.

Yesterday, a new friend called me and asked what was up. “I’m making life goals,” I said, casually, like I was making a PB&J sandwich, or something. And he didn’t miss a beat. “I believe in that,” he said. “I try to make new goals every week or so, even. I write them on post-it notes and stick them in places where I’ll be sure to read them. Sounds silly, but it really helps.”

And yeah, as a matter of fact, I believe in that stuff, too.

So here’s to figuring out what our goals are and then making some kind of map to get there. Of course, in the end, it might look totally different than what we’d planned, but one has a much better shot of getting to Maine when they at least figure out which way North is and then point themselves in that direction, rather than never bothering to check their compass at all, right?

Compass, ha.

More like googlemaps, let’s be real.

What a beautiful book that was. And now I miss that story. It was a friend, really. And it kept me such good company on the subway. Now I am back to staring-at-people-while-trying-not-to-make-it-obvious-that-I’m-staring-at-them.

Like, for a hot minute on the subway tonight, there was this one person whose gender I could not quite distinguish. Not that it really matters. I mean, this person doesn’t owe me their story or anything. And man or woman, I enjoyed their style. And hair. I finally concluded that she is a woman–it was the soft, noticeable lack of a need to ever shave her chin that gave it away, I think–and then, while watching her kiss the woman beside her, concluded that she is a lesbian. Well, that they both are.

Yes, I am a genius. My powers of perception are off the chart smart. When two women passionately kiss each other on the lips, they are probably lesbians. This is something I’ve learned, anyway. 

And I just loved the artsy way they dressed, see, so I probably stared a little. Though, I tried to be discreet.

I know, I KNOW. I really need to get another book. So as to let the hipster lesbians of the subway have some privacy, if for nothing else.

But when I don’t have an absorbing book–and there aren’t any trendy lesbians to stare at–I sometimes write on the subway. Tonight I was working on lyrics. Turning words over in my mind, trying to match them to others. Basically, I was doing my own little puzzle on the train. Let me explain.

Every summer beach trip my family took while I was growing up always included my mom going to the bookstore and coming back with a huge puzzle for she and my brother Jason to piece together (every summer beach trip also included caramel popcorn, but there’s not much of a metaphor in that, it just tasted really good).

The rest of us would help with the puzzle from time to time, but really, they were the ones who solved it. They cared about completing the picture until we saw each of the kittens in a backdrop of yarn, or whatever picturesque setting was displayed. Me, I probably would have been happy with just glancing at the cover to see what it should be and then moving on to something else. Probably reading, to be honest. And the caramel popcorn, too, since I’m being honest.

But not them.

My mom and Jase methodically turned over every puzzle piece and fitted the perfect ones together until the picture was clear. They did this excitedly! Like the next puzzle piece that fit would show the X marks the spot on some treasure map, rather than just one more whisker on a sleeping kitten. They knew that everything they needed was right in front of them; they just needed to dig a little and be ready to make mistakes along the way, trading in no-fits for fits.

And for me, that’s how it is with writing. Every word that describes what it is I want to say already exists. My job is to find the right ones and then fit them together. That’s what I do with lyrics; that’s what I do with prose. It’s interesting and a good kind of challenge. It’s frustrating and takes time and patience. But it’s encouraging to remember that all the words are there; I just need to fit them together.

And it can also make subway commutes go by pretty quickly. Not that I’m wishing my life away–I try not to do this anywhere. And the subway is no exception. But, I don’t mind feeling inspired everywhere. And the subway is no exception.

Tomorrow, however, I will be wracking my brain for the places I like to shop and what I think about fashion in general on that old train. Cause I am being interviewed by The Examiner and, apparently, they want to talk to me about music AND fashion. And when they ask me about the designers I love, I hope they will accept American Apparel and The Salvation Army.

But I kind of doubt that they will. Plus, I think that answer could give my dear publicist a conniption. I am not sure what that is, exactly, but I certainly don’t want to be responsible for giving anyone a conniption.

And certainly not my publicist.

Finally.

See, my subway stop is about a half mile away–or, if I don’t feel like waiting for a train just to change over at the next station–I can skip right to the second stop, which is about a mile away.

And tonight, the evening air felt so good on my skin, that I just decided to walk to that second stop. It was downright pleasant. The trees are blooming, their scent doing their best to disguise everybody’s preparation for Monday morning’s trash pickup lining the sidewalk.  The bodegas were hopping and, from the looks of it, everyone I passed had more reason to smile than not. It felt neighborly, walking around in Jackson Heights tonight.

But the walk home at one am was a little different. The families were sleeping. The mommas had long since folded up their strollers and the kids had stopped playing basketball. The streets seemed to be lined with men and a lot of them had something to say as I walked by. Should I be afraid? I wondered. Because, I’m not. I’m really never afraid here in NYC. The city is kind and, as it turns out, I’m not the only one who feels this way.

“I am from Florence,” said the man in front of me at a coffee shop near Times Square. “And you are very lucky to live in such a beautiful and glorious city.”

I told him I couldn’t agree more. Very lucky, indeed.

“And everyone has been so helpful, so kind to me.”

Which made my heart happy. I am not the only one this city is kind to, it seems. Not by a long shot.