And I just booked a show at Rockwood Music Hall that I will be playing this summer in none other than New York City.

ALSO! I am getting a looping pedal! Oh, the harmonies and beatboxes and all around awesome big sounds I can make with that thing. I CANNOT WAIT. I will lock myself in my room with it and neither of us will leave until we understand each other. Translation: I will google the heck out of youtube to figure out what knobs and pedals to push to make it sing.

But, anyway.

Oh, also–I have found a way to take free classes again! That’s the best thing about teaching–you get to jump into as many classes as you like without emptying your bank account. So between Monday and Friday, I will be taking seven classes.

(triple yay)

It’s really nice to have multiple reasons to put on pants every day.

I also wonder why people care so much about famous people.
About what they eat and what they wear to the gym.
I guess I figure that what I am going to eat for dinner tonight matters a lot more than what someone I’ve never met and who doesn’t know my name is going to eat for dinner.

Celebrity is an interesting phenomenon, right?

People who troll twitter in defense of anything said against Selena Gomez, defending her to the death with hurled insults of their own and ugly, ugly words–
Why do they care so much?
Don’t they realize that a). she’s just a person, b). she doesn’t know their name, and also c). there are probably people who do know their name who could also really use some defending and some care and some interest in what they wore to the gym and what they ate for dinner. Maybe even eat a few dinners WITH them. Love the people you know. Care for them. Take interest in them. It’s a fascinating world when you start changing your focus to what’s immediately around you.

And another thought.

I sat down in front of this video tonight.
It made me cry.
A lot.
It made the person sitting next to me cry, too.
And something struck me.

“Make people happy,” said this seventeen year old whose days were too few among the people he loved so well. “Make as many people happy as often as you can–when I do that, I know that I’m on the right path.”

*I am not going to get into the whole disclaimer about people pleasing; DON’T DO THAT; read Melody Beattie’s book about Co-dependency if you think that’s a good idea or if you think that is what that quote is suggesting*

What I am saying is that here is a simple, clearly defined goal. Live in such a way that is beneficial to others. The details will work themselves out, but there’s a life calling in there.

Here’s to Tuesday being full of just that.

Became possible.

Because I couldn’t stop smiling when an audience assembled before me; I was the candle and they were the match. Because it hurt too badly to think that life was nothing more than a series of accidents and random occurrences–me being one of them–and the depth and connection and story and transcendence of LIFE is, for me, felt acutely when I create and perform.

So pardon me for doing it as much as I humanly can.

But all this to say, it feels tiring to peddle yourself on facebook and twitter and all the other online haunts that we frequent in an attempt to ignore the dishes that have piled up ONCE AGAIN.

But then, there’s another angle, too. One that I try to remember. I am not selling snake oil. I am not promising that anyone will immediately become richer or thinner or healthier or happier or suddenly meet THE ONE by reading something I’ve written or buying my music or coming to a show (side note: maybe I should try that!). I am simply letting them know that these things are available. And people have told me that they like these things. That they find them helpful or beneficial in some way. Which is always so encouraging and incredible to hear, by the way.

But, my point is this: I have no hook with which I will eventually say, “GOTCHA!” I am an artist. I make stuff. People might like the stuff I make, but they certainly won’t know about it unless I tell them. And thank goodness for youtube and that viral video and facebook and other people who spread the word–THAT is amazing when it happens.

But still, in the meantime, or even during all that, I need to share. Nobody judges a doctor for ”shamelessly promoting” himself because he hangs a sign on his door that says who he is and what he does . Rather, we’re thankful that he’s clear about what he offers; thankful that we know where to go when we get hurt.

Artists need to realize that we provide another kind of place for people to go–both when they get hurt and otherwise.  And it’s a good thing to let others know. It makes for a less confusing world when we have clear definitions.

Now excuse me while I go remind twitter of what it is I do.

Let’s hear it for the team!

Team Blog Post With No Thesis Statement!

And No Improperly Placed Prepositions, Either!

(yet)

One thing I have to say is that my brother Jason Seth Latshaw basically does EVERYTHING I NEED HIM TO DO on the internet.

“I need a secret page!” I say, and voila! there is a secret page. “I need a cover for my album!” and he gives me a cover for my album. “I need a red label across the cover!” Bam, it’s done.

You understand where this is going. HE DOES IT ALL. I have no idea how to do the stuff he does. And also, he’s busy. He’s writing stuff–many many words a day–hiking all over the Santa Monica mountains with POISONOUS SNAKES and barefoot hippies, too (I’ve seen them, guys), fathering children (which makes it sound like he’s impregnating multiple women, Big Love-style, but that’s not the case; I only mean he’s an active, moment-by-moment father to his kiddos), and being a husband to an awesome human (not an alien, you’ll all be relieved to know). Plus, he’s been doing goodness knows what for Suzanne Somers (and he now proudly has the thigh master in his home to prove it. Actually, he has a few. Guys! I think she very well may PAY HIM in thigh masters!), but I highly suspect that what he does for Suzanne Somers has something to do with the internet and nothing to do with fathering children.

All that to say, he is very generous with his talents and whenever I ask him what his fee is, he flat out COMPLETELY ignores me like I’m spam on his Instagram account. It’s downright irritating.

And very kind.

And I am indebted to him.

Now, he is not the only person I am indebted to. There are many. But this is not an oscar acceptance speech, and I am not going to bore you with a yearbook long list of names shouted at you over a swell of orchestral music. I only mention him because, yet again tonight, I had to ask him for one more thing. And he took it in stride, ignored the whole fee section of the conversation, and just said to send him the necessary information.

He’s VERY annoying.

And very kind, like I said before.

And, again, I am very indebted to him.

I think, though, that you cannot live in this world for very long (not even for a second, actually) without being indebted to someone. It all starts with the person who carried you around for nine months in a belly full of essential organs that moved on over JUST FOR YOU. I mean, guys! She rearranged her large intestine for YOU!

And then it continued. Maybe you didn’t have the best parents in the world, but there was a teacher who was kind. My mom had a maid who loved her enough to teach her how to eat an orange and take her to her church. The other church. The fun one where they sing really loudly and are moved by the Spirit and there was my mom, the only little white girl in the pews, utterly entranced by it all. And feeling loved.

I am not sure how it happened for you, but I know it has. And it is probably happening right now, actually–a reason for you to feel indebted, to be grateful, to say thank you.

And this is how it should be. Good deeds spur on good deeds. If enough people feel indebted, then we will all be spending our lives trying to show our gratitude, and I think that paints a pretty breathtaking picture.

So maybe I do have a point, after all. And it’s this: take a minute to reflect on who it is that is making you feel indebted, lately. Thank them. Maybe with a note, if it’s just too terribly awkward in person. But do it. And then go and make someone else feel indebted.

And we’ll all be so grateful and we’ll never end our sentences with prepositions and the world will be a happier place for it.

Amen.

If you feel so inclined, you can purchase it here!

(and you can do that as many times as you’d like)

(but I am really not sure why anyone would do it more than once)

(unless you’re my parents and worry about me paying my bills)

(but there’s no need to worry, mom and pop!)

And here is a lyric video I made for the song, Lately, Darling.

Okay, now I am gonna try my very best to go back to sleep.

But oh! I started working on a new song that I am liking. It’s bluesy. It utilizes chords that I don’t normally write with. And it’s fun to sing.

Okay, good night/good morning.

Not like the Western Literature class I took at the University of the Arts. Western Literature, guys. Dickens and the Bronte sisters, I thought. That’ll be sweet. Maybe Shakespeare, too.

Well, it was further West than that. It was all the way over to Greece. Maybe it’s my terrible geography skills, but that came as a surprise. And not a pleasant one this time. I tried my very best to get through Euripides, I really did. But it was hard, hard work. Nothing I would be doing, anyway. He could write a whole lot of words and they’d all be stuck together like glue, those words. So dense, that you couldn’t see through the verbiage to even understand what it was he was trying to say. The point. The picture was difficult to grasp.

Ha, which might be how you’re feeling right now.

But that was my first C on a paper in my whole scholastic career. I went up to my professor with tears in my eyes–the only dancer among a sea of WRITING MAJORS (hello! That should have been my first clue!)–and asked him how I could improve my grades.

God bless that man, he told me. He broke it down. And I eventually pulled off an A. But I also almost pulled out my hair while wading through Greek literature. It’s much less Hollywood than the movies would have you believe, guys.  Much less Brad Pitt and Orlando Bloom and much more pages and pages of one sidetracked instance in a battle. And once you get through that, there is no real reward because YOU ARE STILL READING ABOUT THAT SAME BATTLE.

But all this to say, by comparison, the book Art & Fear was a gift from God. It was relevant and digestible and I totally knew what the author was saying. Imagine that!

One thing that author–who is a fine artist, and also teaches fine art at a university–related a conversation with his little four year old daughter. He was getting ready to leave for work in the morning, and she asked him where he was going.

“I have to go teach big kids how to draw,” he answered, simply.

She looked at him like he had told her the most shocking news ever. Her eyes got wide with surprise as she said, “You mean they FORGOT?!”

I love that.

I love how children live life so honestly. They don’t create nearly as many brick walls in their minds as we do. They haven’t mastered the art of conjuring up every excuse in the book for why it is they cannot do so-and-so. They draw and paint and dance and sing and discover everything and anything with abandon.

They can hardly imagine a world where there are rules why they can’t do these things.

Sometimes I need to remember that, yes, we should and will always be growing and learning and bettering our respective crafts–but the very best way to do this is by, well, DOING it. You won’t win any medals for the things you sat back and didn’t do.

On the other hand, if you do them–then you will grow. And you be honest and at one with your life, since you will be doing exactly what is in your heart to do, anyway.

And if you did forget how to draw–well, it’s not too late. You can start now. You can start doing just about anything now.

Though, if you’re thinking about starting a Western Literature class with a bunch of writing majors, you should realize that you will not be studying Dickens.

But I cannot draw for 24 hours straight. Other things must be attended to. Like, I have to play basketball games with TJ. YES, lately, we’ve been playing one-on-one games of basketball. And it’s hilarious, because neither of us are very good. But he is better than me, and now I fantasize about becoming really good at basketball, if only to beat my boyfriend at a game that nobody is watching.

It is good to have dreams, friends.

But sometimes I have to take breaks from my drawing project to work on other projects. Maybe even other drawing projects. Like last night. When TJ asked me to do something for his show. He handed me a whiteboard, and then he handed me lots of blue and black sharpies of all different sizes.

“Here’s a board for celebrities to sign,” he told me, “Can you put my logo right in the middle of it?”

Well, suddenly, I knew what my night was going to consist of.

(And I was really excited to have an assignment. A NEW one, at that)

A while later, I had done this:

(you can see Kelly Clarkson’s signature already on there from when he interviewed her last week)

And it’s funny, no matter what the project is, if I get to make something, I am generally a very happy and focused person. Hours will go by and I will forget that I need sleep and food and water, etc; all I see is what’s right in front of me.

And I found something today. I found it in TJ’s phone, and it’s over a year old.

When we first started to become friends, he took this picture of me. New York City is in the background, and you can just barely see a flower that I am wearing in my hair. I am happy in that moment; I can see it on my face. But I had never seen this picture until today. TJ is a ninja at taking photographs, I suppose.

Is officially HAPPENING.

May 14th, you can purchase it and put it in your ipod and then go running up hills and stuff.

Or just sit down, if you’re like me and don’t absolutely adore going up hills.

(but the hills are good for you, just like they’re good for me, so let’s try to conquer them, okay? okay)

Oh–I had to write something about my music for the music publication stuff. Thought I’d share it here, since I generally spread a lot of words around this place, anyway–I mean, what’s a few more?

Jessica likes to rap cause she likes to dance, and rapping is like dancing with your words. She started singing to her animals out in Pennsylvania when she was just a girl; they liked it so much, she tried people, and they seemed to like it as well. She’s been compared to Jesse J and Jason Mraz and most recently, The Spice Girls, but she’s pretty sure that guy was drunk. Besides, when pressed, he couldn’t name one Spice Girl, so she didn’t take the comparison too seriously. Most of the time people tell her they don’t know how to label her, so she says her name will do just fine. You’ll find her listening to artists ranging from Eminem to The Civil Wars, and if those two acts ever collaborate, she’ll certainly cover it and give the world a high five, not necessarily in that order.

Jessica has performed all over New York City, in Toronto, Tokyo, London, and LA. She’s played in clubs and living rooms and wooded stages with twinkle lights. The songs on this EP took a lot of living to make. The best songs come from hearts that have felt more deeply at times than is even comfortable, and her heart has done just that. Oh, and Rob Thomas tweeted about her, too, telling the world to watch out, cause they’ll see more of her. That was a moment for the journal, for sure.

Thanks for coming by here and being so kind and encouraging and supportive and interested.

It really really means a lot.

Just like it’d really mean a lot if you buy this EP.

You’re the BEST.

*photo credit:  Jenna Leigh Teti Photography

**album artwork: Jason Latshaw (I linked his instagram account, cause he’s really mad that I have more followers. SO GO FOLLOW HIM! He posts really pretty pictures that make you wish you were in LA.

Guy: “Hi,” he says with a smile, “I’m Ryan.”
(Or Tyler or Mason or Jordan or Evan or Insert Any Kind Of Cool Male Name That Hasn’t Been Unusual For Ten Years Now)
Me: “I’m Jessica.”
(I know, Jessica. I’ve no room to talk)
I return the smile. We shake hands. Someone is singing their little heart out in the background.
Guy: “You’re on your phone a lot.

*SILENCE*

Me, not quite sure what to say: “Yes…”
Guy: “I mean, A LOT.
Me: “And have you come here to rebuke me?”

I mean this honestly; suddenly, I have no idea why this guy has sat down so close to me, and I’m uncomfortable.

Guy: “No, I just noticed it…”
Me: “…Uh-huh…”
Guy: “I don’t mean to be…”
Me: “We have free speech.”

*Second round of silence cause the first one was so fun!*

Guy: “I guess you’re doing a lot? On your phone?”

My body language says IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

But I say: “I am.

*the silence is on a roll!*

Guy, ending the latest silence with: “I’m really not trying to be an asshole…”
Me: “I’m sorry if I distracted you.”
Guy: “No! It’s not that…it’s just well, I guess I noticed and thought to say it just because, well, see, I’ve been staring at you all night.”
Me: “Oh.”

Finally, the guy leaves.
But not until he tells me that I remind him of a cross between Anni deFranco and The Spice Girls.

THE SPICE GIRLS.

My friends, I think what I’ve just described to you here is quite possibly one of the worst pickup attempts ever.

The world was a window pane. I’d press myself close to it; my breath hot and white against it while being utterly entranced by the way my proximity changed its very appearance.

I liked what I saw.

I was a dancer.
I was a singer.
I told stories.
I felt things deeply.
I left footprints.

I was Anne-with-an-E and I cried when Matthew died; I was Lucy and I entered worlds where magic cost more than three dollars to watch in Venice Beach; it had nothing to do with top hats and everything to do with animals who talk, nobility, and a Good that–no matter how many layers you peeled–was still undeniably and comfortingly good. The kind that makes you realize that the bad doesn’t have a fighting chance. Not if you just wait long enough.

I had birthdays that made me happy and then sad, all in the time it took to have a party. The attention was dreamy, the games in my honor, and there was a cake that smiled up at me with whiskers made of licorice and eyes of M&Ms.

Inevitably, though, the party would end. Someone would turn on the tv and I’d wonder how it is we could watch Wheel Of Fortune when there was still half a cat cake on the table with at least three of the surviving letters of my name happily scrawled across it.

I wondered how it is that life can change so quickly.

I learned about seasons that way. I didn’t know what it was called just yet, but I could feel the way an ending has the power to leave you flat inside. How there aren’t always choices in life. How sometimes the one door in front of you is marked ACCEPTANCE and it’s all you can do to just walk through.

And then next year would come. My birthday again. I learned that, too. More seasons. Different numbers. Beginnings, they kept happening. Highs and lows and sometimes people watch Wheel Of Fortune, but it doesn’t mean that life isn’t exciting; no, it just means life goes on.

My childhood looked like me.
I am my childhood.
My hair is darker, my pop no longer trims it, but I still leave foot prints and I still like what I see and I still feel the seasons change with a sharpness; maybe it is pain or maybe it is acute joy, I am not always sure, but I still feel deeply, and I am still the girl with her face pressed against the window pane.

God, I like what I see.

You can imagine my excitement, then, at the prospect of GOING TO BED! It’s funny how when you are little, you spend your life trying to come up with new ways to get around that life sentence that caps off every day.

And then you grow up.

(Sort of)

And you find yourself looking forward to going to bed; you find yourself wishing your mom would tell you that you have to stop doing whatever it is you’re doing (see: trolling the internet for a chalkboard that has nothing whatsoever to do with kitchens written on it–not in English and not in Italian, either, thank you) and go to bed.

You’d look at her with gratitude. And then you’d ask her to help you draw the twenty or so pictures you have left to draw.

I’ve been working on this project that has me back to art class, basically. I’m sketching and sketching and loving it, yes, but man, it gets a little daunting when I think about how much I have left to do. Oh well, one page at at time, and pretty soon those pages will fill up, and then I will have a finished project, ready for the next step, and that’ll be a good feeling. Dare I say that feeling will last even longer than whatever happens to my back when I sit curled over my sketchpad for long hours into the night.

Anyway, all this to say: I am tired! And little eight year old Jessica would be SHOCKED that she would one day grow up and actually WANT to go to bed.

And little eight year old Jessica would also be quite surprised to see this picture.

And probably excited, too, cause, look! Grown up Jessica is smiling. She’s next to a wonderful person with wonderful curly hair.

Eight year old Jessica, as it turns out, has a LOT to look forward to.

I smiled, but before I could say anything more than thanks, she cut me off with, “I’ll be right back–I’m gonna go smoke a bone.”

And with that, she was gone and the conversation was over.

But not the night.

In fact, it’s 12:20 am, and the Lizard Lounge’s Open Mic is still going strong. I’m fading a little, but the night marches doggedly on.

It’s weird, walking onto an empty stage–armed with nothing more than a ukulele and a pile of lyrics–still feels new. I’ve done it more times than I can count now, but there’s still that adrenaline. Still that, “Please God, don’t let me forget the three thousand words I stuffed into these verses,” prayed under my breath.

And still just a ton of eyeballs glassily staring at me. Brains wondering if I’m any good at all.

“God, please help this to be good–my best…”

Yes, there are many hurried and hushed prayers that coincide with the soundtrack of my life. They seem to materialize especially when I’m driving or about to go on stage.

If I were to ever drive onto a stage, I’m sure I’d have to get every church lady circling up, praying for me.

I performed, and I have to say it was really fun! And the response was the kind that makes me feel like maybe I’m doing something right.

“You just moved here?” the MC asked, right after I finished my second song, with the audience listening.
“Yeah…”
“We’ll get you playing all over this town, girl.”

“Thank God.”

Another hushed prayer.

Perhaps the most important one of all.

Tragic.

I felt a lot of sadness, took a shower, and started singing this song while I was in the shower.

I got out and wrote it down.

I picked up my ukulele and it didn’t feel quite right–so I went to my keyboard.

Yes, better.

When I was in a very dark time in my own life, I remember a good friend telling me something. I had just received tragic news that was literally ripping out the very fabric of my life. Not just changing it–RIPPING it out. This friend is a pastor. His job is to share hope, to literally give people “good news.”

But that night he sat with me. He didn’t try to cheer me up. He didn’t even tell me that everything was going to be okay. He simply sat with me in my pain, recognizing it for the overwhelming eclipse that it was.

When he went to leave that evening, he looked at me and said, “I am not even gonna say good night, Jess. There’s nothing good about this night. Nothing at all. Instead I am going to say I am so so sorry and I love you.”

That was the perfect thing to say in that moment. There is a time for rebuilding and there is also a time to just stare at the rubble; this was definitely the latter.

Reading about Jeff Bauman and how his life suddenly and tragically changed made me think of this concept all over again. The thought of just sitting with someone in their despair. The act of being there is sometimes more moving and healing than anything one can say.

Anyway, I recorded the song tonight. Just rough. Me and a keyboard. No tricks and no studio. Though, you know I love the tricks and I love the studio. But not tonight, not now.

Here are the lyrics to the song:

I’ll Stay with You in the Dark

There aren’t always words, my friend
And on this road, there’s quite a bend
Oh, I hate to see the pain in your eyes
I want to assure you of the sunrise
But I know that feels so far from here
And here is where you are–
So, till then, I’ll sit with you in the dark
I’ll sit with you in the dark

Maybe someday you’ll find
A match to light, a way to bind
your heart that’s grown more beautiful
as you succumb to grief’s slow push and pull
And if you never ever leave from here
If time won’t stop your tears
I’ll stay here with you in the dark
I’ll stay here with you in the dark

When I look at you, I see
beautiful scars that tell a story
you never once anticipated
This isn’t the dream for which you’ve waited
but, look at you, baby, you’re still here–
until the shadows disappear–
I’ll stay here with you in the dark
Stay here with you in the dark

I’ll stay with you in the dark…

Because it doesn’t make a ton of sense. To use that as an excuse, I mean.

It’s like finding out your exam is rescheduled from tonight all the way till next week and deciding to just never study at all because of it. It makes no sense. The reprieve is temporary. It does not change the facts: you have an exam coming up.

See, my mom has always told me that a feeling is just a feeling. It’s not the truth. It’s not bad and it’s not good and it’s not the gospel and it will certainly change at some point. “Don’t let a feeling rule your life, Jess,” she’d say. “It’s not a fact, just a feeling–know the difference and then treat them differently.”

Which is why, when someone with whom I have the kind of relationship where I have the freedom to be blunt tells me that they don’t feel like exercising, I say that’s fine. It’s understandable, cause you’re tired, but it also doesn’t matter. What matters is that you make good choices, and the good choice right now is to exercise.

Feelings don’t change lives, either. Not really. What changes a life is all the doings with which we occupy ourselves.

So there you go. If you’re happy, GREAT! Now go do the right thing. If you feel uninspired or unmotivated or even just plain sad, I’m so so sorry.

But still go do the right thing.

And you’ll actually feel better as a result of it, too.

Love, itself, is a mystery.

How is it that little tiny HIV-positive babies are held and loved and suddenly healed? How is it that a young woman is at the Boston marathon and can say such a spirited, hopeful, determined thing, despite her loss?

She is a dancer, this woman, and, going into surgery, she repeats this to the doctors like a mantra, “I am a dancer! I am a dancer!,” just hoping that the force of her words will make them see that she must wake up whole. But this woman wakes up without a foot, not having realized it was blown off even before surgery; she grieves and she is angry and then she is determined–leaving me to wonder, How is it that this dancer who just lost her foot announces to the world that, not only will she dance again, but she will run that marathon next year?

That feeling, that buoying of her spirit, that’s got something to do with love, too.

And it is hard to understand. But it is evocative and we stare and we listen to it. And all this makes us feel glad that the Creator saw fit to make us whatever he made her. To make us humans. There is a glory in that. It is hard to be human and it is also the best thing that ever happened to each of us.

I also hear many things here in Boston. Some of these things do not buoy the heart. Some of these things don’t have a lot to do with love.

“I hope we torture the bastard,” the maintenance man tells me, referring to the second suspect who was captured this past Friday.

“I hope he rots in hell,” a friend says.

I understand this feeling. I’d probably understand it even better if it were my 8 year old boy who was killed. Or my 29 year old sister. Or my 26 year old brother, simply sitting in his cop car on a routine Thursday night. I’d probably be asking God to forgive me for feeling such things towards another human, to be honest.

But I don’t think continuing whatever it was that started this whole horrid event is the answer. It wasn’t love that lit those bombs; I know this. But it is love that will persuade people to act in kind ways towards each other. Hurt breeds hurt. Hate breeds hate. Love breeds love.

I am glad the suspect is no longer where he can hurt others. But I hope someone will show him something other than what he has shown the world. That’s our honor, our privilege, our blessing. The choice to show love where there is not love. The choice to be kind where there is no kindness. There is glory in that.

And there is love in that, too.

I am not saying free him, or anything like that–I am just suggesting the notion that we not choose hate. Not now, not ever.

And I know it sounds crazy, but, like I said, this universe was hung under the cover of mystery. The stars remain standing above me, and I have no idea how. I am sure others could explain this to you–people who did not matriculate from an arts university, I am sure–but I am also told that scientists are still baffled by the constant discovery of new creatures who live in the sea. Cannot even fully explain the phenomena of an itch! We don’t know everything; mystery abounds, and love is a huge part of that mystery.

But we know it puts out fires; we know it heals broken lives.

And we know it’s gotta be a better option than the one we saw so tragically at the Boston Marathon last week.

On a new project.

Something to go along with my new EP.

If it all goes to plan, anyway. I am relying on the kindness of others to help bring it together.

Anyway, here’s a glimpse.

Yep, just a picture.

There’s so much to do.

Always.

Yay.

I LOVE my husband; I MISS my husband; my feet HURT; rinse+repeat! #eightshowsaweek #livingthedream

Closing this tour and coming home. HOME. Now THIS is my #dreamcometrue!

Oh, God. #broken

Would like to hide forever. Forever is not available, so settling for my parents’ basement. #hurting #hiding

People are respectively kinder and crueler than I’d ever imagined. Lotta family and friends proving the former. #grateful #lifeline

Hey, California! I’ll take your cue and be a blonde, too! Maybe it’ll make me feel better. #itdoesn’t

Everyone tells me my new hair looks AWESOME! Everyone also feels sorry for me cause my husband left. #notacoincidence

Friends ask me what I’m up to. I say healing, conversation’s over. We’re all wishing there was something new to report. #thereisn’t #awkward

Writing songs and taking long walks at dusk. Oh, and abs class. It’s all I do. It helps a little, actually. #grateful

Singing lots of songs with a friend. I feel safe here. I’m starting to laugh again. I’m also in therapy. #lifeisbeautiful

Writing down everything. Otherwise, I might die. This isn’t hyperbole. Sometimes it hurts that bad. #truth

Feeling like a gypsy. Not the romanticized Disney version. The kind that has no roots and wanders. #imissmylife

Moving to NYC. I’m scared. I will miss everyone and the dogs. But what else can I do? #rockandahardplace

Letting go. I’m actually doing it! I’m smiling, too. Still crying at night, but definitely smiling, too. #babysteps

Meeting strange and fascinating ppl at open mics, the subway, every class the Y offers, and every free yoga class I can find. #NYC! #inlove!

Yesterday I caught myself feeling happy. Didn’t say anything, cause I didn’t want to scare it away, but it was there! #whoa #lookatmenow

I bought a ukulele. Mostly cause keyboards are heavy and these boots might be made for walking, but when you add a keyboard, the boots give up.

@ThisisRobThomas just tweeted a video of me giving an impromptu performance on the A train. #WHAaaa?!?

And now there’s over a million hits on that video. I repeat: #WHAaaa?!?

My song is on iTunes and people like it and they’re buying it and I’m like, thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you.

I met someone. I LIKE him. So naturally, I expressly tell him that I don’t want to date him. #awkward

I wish I hadn’t said that!!! He’s, like, COOL. #hepaidfordinner

Even if I say “I don’t have a boyfriend!” 100 times while standing on my head, I don’t think it’d change the fact that, in my heart, he’s my boyfriend.

We hold hands in public. He asks to see me every day. It was time: HE’S MY BOYFRIEND! #gulp!

Moving to Boston, another city-by-the-sea. Releasing an EP that I’m proud of. In love. & there’s a zillion things I wanna do and make. #grateful

Good always, always outweighs the bad. The lessons are probably more poignant, though, during the bad. Maybe the bad doesn’t end up so bad?

But I wanted to post these pictures.

And say that I am grateful I can sleep without fear of bombs tonight.

We went to Newbury Street after they apprehended Suspect #2.

And man, was there joy there. It was like joy was a person–a giant! And she greeted you and you could hear her laughter and couldn’t help but join in, too.

People were carrying flags.

And dogs, too.

That’s Schlomo, the Boston Terrier.

I really think I might have to get one.

I’m not even joking.

Good night.

Thank God for the people who keep us safe.

I should’ve known texting her with the calamitous news that the whole Easter season came and went without me having even one would end like this: a big and beautiful bag of them in the mail. AFTER THE SEASON. Meaning she has taken it from her own, cannot-be-replenished-until-next-year personal stash. She is very kind and generous like that.

(THANK YOU, CHRISTINE!)

Oh, and if you’re wondering what a Just Born Jelly Bean is, two things. Contrary to how they may sound, they are not actual baby anythings. If you consider factory made candy being born, then I suppose you could make an argument. But it’s not like they’re infant candies. So if you’re against eating baby candy, don’t worry, they seem pretty grown up to me.

They are, however, DELICIOUS candies. Maybe it’s cruel of me to tell you of them now–once the season is past and you can no longer make a run to your nearest drug store for a bag–but hey, at least I am telling you about them at all. And, God willing, there is always next year.  We cannot control the weather and goodness knows it hasn’t been warm nearly as early as I’d have liked this year, but you can certainly set your springtime clocks by the early release of Easter candy. Unfortunately, we cannot buy seventy degree days in CVS, but we sure can buy some Just Born Jelly Beans in March. Silver linings and all that.

I have been thinking of a few things, lately.

Other than I SAW A RATTLESNAKE!, that is.

Because, yes, I did. I saw it yesterday. It was crossing the trail my brother Jase and I were hiking. We were high up on one of California’s beautiful mountains, captivated by everything about it (“Look at its rattle!” “It has 8 rungs!” “He’s a big one!” “What if I’d stepped on it?!”) and it was just as ho-hum about the whole experience as it could be (*slither, slither*–not even particularly fast). Apparently, seeing a human is not nearly as exciting for it as seeing a RATTLE SNAKE! is for me.

I hate unequal relationships.

Which is just part of the reason why we didn’t keep in touch.

The other part being that he could kill me at worst, or at best, rot off my flesh with a venomous bite. And yes, maybe I’d finally get that leading role in The Walking Dead I’ve been eyeing, but that kind of method acting is probably not worth it, considering I would be typecast as a zombie for the rest of my life. Rotting flesh will do that to you.

But one of the other things I have been thinking came as a direct result to a game my brother Jase basically forced me to play.

“If you had to trade lives with so-and-so, would you mind it a little or a lot?” he asked me.

I told him a lot. Basically, for every person he presented. Even if they had a million dollars or a million talents or had been married for a million years to a man who had not done any one of the million things my ex had done to me.

I still just wanted to be me.

Finally, I acquiesced by saying I would mind the least being one of my nieces, since I imagine they are probably most like me in the group he mentally paraded before me.

But I still don’t want to be a niece. I LOVE the fact that I have their beautiful golden souls lighting up my life, but I don’t want to BE them.

I want to be me.

(which doesn’t make for a very fun game for my brother; sorry, Jase)

It’s just that I am pretty sure that I would miss the thoughts that I very much enjoy thinking. I’d miss the relationships I have with friends in which whole scenarios and memories are communicated in one look, and I’d miss all the things that I LOVE to create.  Creation comes from such an intensely personal place; it is so deeply woven into the fabric of your own story that the two become indistinguishable from each other. So much so that if I were anyone else at all–I wouldn’t be creating the things that I create.

Not to mention TJ and my family.

And the crazy thing is, I felt this way even when my life looked like a very hard and ugly picture that only a mother could love.

Maybe it’s because my parents have loved me well; or maybe it’s because I have this keen and penetrating sense of who I am; but it leaves me here, always here: as me. And I don’t want to leave this particular spot.

The other thing I have been thinking?

Just this: that letting go and holding on seem like two highly polarized responses to life, and yet can be equally appropriate and inappropriate, given the situation. I am trying very hard to realize which approach is right for me in each season. Because it is not crystallized. It changes, and the sooner I realize the change, the kinder life feels and the better the two of us get along.

Well, almost. Since coming here, there’s not a day that’s gone by when I haven’t hiked/ran less than five miles.

Five very elevated miles, mind you.

And today was over six!

Needless to say, it’s awesome. And I’m sore. There’s just nothing like navigating all those twisting and turning paths on a mountain side.

And this morning I snuck out on the deck with a ukulele. I sat humbly before the great sprawl of the Pacific Ocean and felt like a very small creature, indeed. It’s a good thing to feel small from time to time, I think. Not small of heart or purpose–but small because you’re surrounded by big and vast and beautiful things.

I finished a song I’ve been working on. I wore sunglasses and shorts and flip-flops that showcased how much I really do try every so often: ie, my painted my toenails.

I baked a loaf of bread and a pan-full of cinnamon buns. I also made dinner for everyone and my nephew Ollie took one bite of the grilled chicken, looked at me, and said, “This is really good; tastes like pizza.”

A compliment is a compliment, and I will take it.

It’s been a good day. And that’s not even half of it–I mean, I didn’t even mention the apparent summit of large dogs we stumbled upon in the mountains today. I was in heaven. And then there was Lucy the Chihuahua we met later in town. And Monkey, too. He likes to watch us swim in the pool. But don’t let his name fool you–he’s actually a dog.

Like I said, a really good day.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I said, that being the only intelligent response I could articulate while holding one of those needles in between my teeth.

There was a long lull in the conversation as my seat partner simply stared at me move the needle back and forth from one side of the fabric to the next, the thread showcasing my own little game of connect-the-dots.

“That’s a really small A,” he observed further.

“It is,” I agreed. But I didn’t, really. The A was fine, I thought, no smaller than any of the other letters.

And this, my friends, is how you pass the time on a trans-atlantic flight. By embroidering.  And by talking about it to the guy next to you.

———————————————–

Before the flight, I didn’t drink much water. Mostly because if I packed a water bottle, I knew they would just confiscate it at the security checkpoint. But also because I wanted to limit my trips to the bathroom while on the plane.

So by the time I actually got on the plane and we were at our cruising altitude of whatever it is, I was THIRSTY. I was also hungry, so was happily eating the snacks TJ had packed me for my trip.

“I’m at Whole Foods,” he had said over the phone, “What do you want for your flight?”

I thought about the last time he very kindly packed me some snacks. They were all vegan, organic, gluten-free, wheat-free, plucked from the earth, mashed together with seaweed, and well…very unpalatable. Though super kind of him, of course! 

“Um, do you remember the last time you packed a bunch of snacks?”

“Yeah.”

“They tasted like birdseed. Like birdseed that the birds might look at and wonder who put them on a diet. I’m all for healthy eating, but, would you mind getting me a mix this time?”

I heard the smile in his voice as he said sure, and that was that.

So, I was happily eating my organic fruit strips and was almost shocked to find a for-real chocolate chip cookie (gluten and all!) tucked away in the snack bag, too, and, well, all those snacks made me so thirsty. I patiently waited for the flight attendants to wheel their way down to my row, towards the back of the plane.

But then, TURBULENCE! Like, a lot of it. They were one row in front of us with their much sought-after beverages when they decided to retreat to their seats, seat belts securely fastened, seat backs and tray tables at their full upright positions.

Oh well, they’ll be back once the skies calmed down.

And they were. But they resumed serving with the row after mine.

And I was just getting thirstier and thirstier.

I watched them serve the entire plane, save the six of us in row 38.

Cry me a river, I know.

Finally, I stopped a flight attendant.

“Excuse me–did you serve our row?” I asked, knowing full well that he hadn’t.

“I did,” he answered, “YOU were asleep.”

Oh, but I wasn’t. I really really wasn’t. I knew this because I had been faithfully embroidering the whole time. Well, almost the whole time. A tiny part of the time was spent eating the very tasty snacks that TJ had packed me. And I don’t know if you’ve ever been accused of being asleep when you were definitely not asleep, but well, it’s an accusation that rankles the soul.

The lady next to me jumped in. She saved the day with a, “You skipped our row,” plain and simple, say it like it is, that’s all folks.

“I’m really thirsty,” I said plaintively, not even dignifying his accusation with a direct response.

He realized his goof. It’s okay, we all make mistakes. It was especially okay, because he came back with beverages! Beverages for all! Well, all six of us in Row 38, anyway.

I drank my whole paper cup’s worth of water with joy.

Then I went back to my embroidering.

The guy next to me went back to staring at my embroidering.

The only difference was, I was not so thirsty this time.

 “It’s a dangerous business…going out of your door; you step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.” –JRR Tolkien

Frodo said it right.

And this past Saturday, the dangerous business of stepping out of my door took me right to Marblehead, Massachusetts. Well, me and someone else who had promised me an adventure. An “anything you want to do ALL DAY LONG, Jess!” kind of day.

So I googled beautiful old coastal towns, and voila! we got in a car and off we went.

We did, however, stop for some organic cold-pressed juice on the way. TJ loves that stuff and is so sad to have left The Juice Press behind in New York City. It was maybe one of his favorite places to go on the whole island of Manhattan, so I tried to fit in something like it for him on the adventure–even though it was an “anything you want to do ALL DAY LONG, Jess!” kind of day.

I try to be generous with my adventures, is the thing.

And look! How New England is THIS?

(the answer is VERY)

I found a lighthouse on my adventure.

(it’s the skinny tall thing behind the other skinny tall thing in the picture)

And–the ocean.

It’s always calmed my soul. Reminded me that I have already been given everything I need. Reminded me to breathe deep and be.

We had a beautiful adventure, really.

And now I get to go on ANOTHER adventure to go visit Latshaw-West!

Feeling very grateful right about now.

Tonight…
My head hurts and I just finished covering buttons with fabric and it wasn’t easy (meaning I had to consult youtube, after a few failed attempts on my own) and FedEx is late with a shipment that I have been greatly anticipating (not just one day late, but TWO WHOLE DAYS LATE) and I made the biggest loaf of garlic bread ever (I left it rising for so long that it started rising OUT in addition to up) and I miss lots of people and even a few dogs and the weather is still bundle up weather and so, not only is FedEx late, SPRING is late, too.

See what I did there? I started using commas–just at the end of that running and running and running run-on sentence.

And you thought I’d forgotten about commas altogether. I hadn’t. I just didn’t use them till later, is all.

But, anyway, if Spring doesn’t hurry up, she’ll miss the boat altogether. And when she finally does come waltzing in, ob liviously late to the party with just-bloomed flowers nodding from her strewn about and wild someone-obviously-just-rolled-out-of-bed hair, she’ll stop in her tracks. She might even start to cry a little when she sees Summer, that bright golden lady who waves a wand and christens it Time To Wear Tank Tops!, sitting in the seat she had thought would always be open for her.

Because sometimes when we don’t make a move, somebody else sits in the chair we kept waiting for.

But that’s a lecture for another night. One when I don’t have a headache and I am not looking at FedEx like the ex who never did come through.

For shame, FedEx; for shame.

Oh well, at least I never married FedEx.

And tomorrow is a good day. A new one. A warm(er) one, too. I just checked. The temperature is slowly inching a little closer to 60 degrees every day! That calls for cake, I am pretty sure.

And look what I found today:

I will be visiting there tomorrow, if all goes according to plan.

And also, I just really like this picture a lot.

I walked by that peeling window pane with the glass that was doing such a good job of reflecting and felt happy to see it.

And now I must try to go sleep this headache away.

And reflect on beautiful things.

And forgive FedEx, I suppose; they do have a very big job–I am sure they are probably doing their best. I am also pretty sure that my shipment coming TWO WHOLE DAYS LATE is not a tragedy.

Yes, that’s right: a snow farm.

Peggy said so. She’s the building manager. She sat across from me in her office during an orientation. I tried to look interested as she rambled on and on about why you can’t throw anything that isn’t bagged and sealed down the trash chute and how PARKING! IS! LIMITED! I tried to make it look like I was doing something pertaining to orientation while continually glancing down at my phone, when really I was just looking up google images of puppies.

At one point, she even said, “I’ll wait,” and, after a pause wide enough to walk yourself and a dog through, I realized she meant ME. That she’d wait for me to put down my phone (and all those images of puppies!) before she continued on with her lecture.

Oh shoot! I didn’t realize that when you’re in a meeting with Peggy, you’re actually in grade school.

Sorry, ma’am.

(sorry, puppies)

Then she mentioned two words that actually made me listen.

“Snow farm,” she said.

Which is when I forgot all about the puppies. Because my mind had gotten caught on that adorable title. Probably the most adorable title I’d heard for a while, actually. I had to say the words aloud myself, quietly, under my breath, so as not to provoke another, “I’ll  wait” from Peggy.

That Peggy had quite an ability to wait; it didn’t take much to get her started, and I really didn’t want to make that meeting last any longer than necessary. No, Peggy, please don’t wait.

“Snow farm,” I said again, all whispery, liking the way the words felt in my mouth before hitting the air in front of me. I envisioned a place where they grew snow men. Trained them up right, equipping them with their own black top hat, striped scarf, button nose, eyes of coal, and a carrot nose before being sent to festoon the wintery yards of all the parts of America with yards that get good and wintery. I pictured hot chocolate bars and sledding races. Crystal ballrooms with frosted glass ceilings. Snow cones! As many as you’d like!

“What is a snow farm?” I asked Peggy, interrupting her with my only question the entire orientation.

“It’s where the city of Boston dumps all the snow,” she said, matter-of-fact while shuffling papers, already having moved on to the next issue at hand: “Every curtain that is visible from the outside MUST be white,” Peggy states.

White.

The color of the snow farm.

The one that is nothing like I imagined.

“Oh,” I told Peggy.

And then I picked up my phone once more, sneaking a few puppy images every time Peggy looked down through her reef of papers.

“But don’t worry,” she assured me later, “The snow farm will melt just as soon as the weather warms up.”

I’ll wait, Peggy; I’ll wait.

“The big blue sign on the north end of the Piscataqua Bridge, which connects New Hampshire to New England’s largest state, is as straightforward as the people who live there: “Welcome to Maine: The Way Life Should Be.”  Toss in its nickname, the Pine Tree State and license-plate moniker, Vacationland, and what more does a place need to recommend it?”

I am doing the worst thing right now by quoting this without remembering who wrote it. Okay, so maybe there are some worse things I could be doing–I am not, for instance, texting and driving–but still, this is terrible, and I deeply apologize to the author of that fine jumble of whimsy and words for committing such a crime.

See, I read the quote in a magazine last year. I saved it because I loved it so much, for some reason. And then I asked TJ to take me there sometime–to take me to Maine.

I know I am in Boston, not Maine–but still, NEW ENGLAND. It’s all connected. And I don’t think I’m that far from Maine. And also? The best bread I’ve ever had in my entire life was in Portland, Maine. Morning rolls in a little bakery by the sea. I think it was more pastry than roll, really, but it was the morning, so they certainly got that right.

And what else?

I am absolutely possessed with the notion of making things. I walk into a store and look at the pillows for sale and shudder inside at the thought of actually buying a pillow now. Because lately, I am a pillow-making machine. I am also painting furniture and stenciling and drawing pictures of apples in high heels (okay just one, but still). I am embroidering animal after animal, like the world certainly needs one more little grey fox to sit among flowers. But here’s the thing: I think it does! The world I want to live in is chock full of embroidered animals! And I love it. Making stuff, I mean. It is a beautiful feeling. It replaces the need for food when I’m in that space. Seriously, a whole day goes by, and then I realize it’s 11 pm and I never did eat dinner and hardly ate lunch BUT LOOK AT THIS EMROIDERED CHICKIE!

Also, my EP is near completion. Now there is the task of mixing it, which feels monumental, but the engineer does it, really. Still, I must give note after note and man, I wish I could snap my fingers and just have it done. But it will happen and then I can share these songs with whomever wants them and I am excited about that. It’s a project I am proud of, and that’s a good feeling.

And now it is late. I am hungry and tired and wishing my teeth knew how to floss themselves. Randomly, I will tell you that I ran out of a five pound bag of stuffing this past Sunday, but I have two new bags of it coming on Thursday, and I cannot wait. I have a pillow to stuff and then an elephant to make and, well, those two bags will come in handy.

Also, I found the most beautiful embroidery floss in a tiny, tucked away boutique between a Brooks Brothers shop (which, incidentally, sells clothes for girls as well as boys. I guess the term ‘brothers’ always had me assuming that the place was only for someone who could actually be a brother, but there were mannequins wearing dresses in the window today, so there you go; I was wrong) and a Starbucks. Most things are next to a Starbucks, though, so that is probably not very specific. The place is called Stitch Boutique which makes me love it even more–probably because I have always had a soft spot in my heart for that ornery alien with the same name, minus the “Boutique” part, of course. Considering that embroidery ranges from just thirty-nine cents to $4 a skein (that’s a fancy word for embroidery floss bundle), it’s a little dangerous for me in there. I feel like I can afford ALL THE SKEINS. I can’t, though, considering there are quite a lot. The store most definitely has more skeins than I have dollars, so I have to go there sparingly.

Remember when I said it was late? Well now it is even later. That happens a lot. Aren’t you glad you know so much about embroidery now?

Yes, yes, it’s okay, you don’t have to thank me out loud. I know what your silence means.

You’re welcome.

You may believe this, or you may not, but sometimes people pray and sometimes those same people get a sense for your life. Maybe your future, maybe your present, but what happens then is that they tell you what they feel.

Well, one time that happened to me. I was a young teenager, nervous to get prayed for by a man who was rather famous (in my small circle, anyway). And what happened to me felt like the worst case scenario.

As this man started praying for me, he said that he saw me grieving–that there would be a death–but then I would heal and move on and good things would happen, blah blah blah, he had me at GRIEVING and DEATH.

Hello! No thirteen year old wants to hear that. Tell me that I will be happy or at least content; tell me that I will marry a wonderful man and we will hold hands every day and twice on Sunday, but please, God, don’t tell me THAT.

But he did.

I ran out crying, realizing as I was doing so, that I was not only terribly upset about my future, I was also horrified about my present, as I was currently making a scene. Running out of a room sobbing will cause one, is the thing. I try very hard not to do those kinds of things, is another thing.

I went through my own little therapy session of sorts. I decided to forget about what he said, because really, how does that help me now? If someone I love dies, then they die. I would rather not live in the shadow of dread forever. I would rather not mourn when nobody has died. So gradually, this man’s words faded and my hope for a very good future, indeed, swallowed his prophecy up totally.

I even sort of hoped it was my dog the man was talking about. Since he died, I mean. I didn’t want him to die–but since all dogs die, Caspian notwithstanding, I figured maybe that could be okay and I wouldn’t be too crippled from the trauma of it.

But then I was sewing tonight, and yes, I’ve thought about this before, but it all came rushing back with a startling clarity. It’s like when your camera starts all blurry and then finally focuses in on that one spot you’re trying to take with you in a still forever.

“You will go through a time of grieving because of a death, but you will heal.”

I thought about my ex. I thought about how much of a death it was in my life when he left. You can’t get more dead than our relationship, I think. And I grieved. Just ask the stream and the hills and the stars and all the miles of good, clean wild Pennsylvania earth that I walked upon–they all watched me grieve. They drank in my tears and listened to my prayers. They breathed with me and didn’t judge when I said what many a child would call a bad word.  I was nomadic, left without a home, searching for something that looked like it, heartbroken that the home I knew was no more.

I grieved.

But today it struck me that I also healed.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

And the way those words spoken to me as a girl have taken shape in my life as a woman–well, I never would have guessed it.

Never ever ever.

But there was a death. I grieved. And then I healed.

That is the very, VERY abridged version of the story, anyway.

And it gives me chills to think about now. Chills and gratitude, for this life I am given to live.

“Does TJ realize what kind of love and sacrifice it is for a Latshaw to get up early?!” Darby, my sister in law, writes me last night.

And it’s true. It sure takes something to get me up early. There are three somethings that generally do it, actually:

–a paycheck
–a pancake (or two)
–a special person

In this case, it’s option C. Happily so. Though, I’ll never turn down the former options, either, of course (as I try not to make stupid decisions).

Anyway.

My point is, I have the radio turned on, because I’m listening to a dream come true. Literally.

A thirteen year old boy falls in love with talk radio. He walks to school every day with his headphones over his ears. He tapes (yes tapes! With an actual tape!) the radio while he’s at school, so he can listen to every word he missed once he gets home. He dreams of having his own show someday. He does everything within his power to make it happen.

Fast forward some years. Countless hours at radio stations. Fast forward to now. Cause I’m listening to that dream come true, like I said. His own show. And I’m so proud.

These are the stories that are tonic for the soul. Good things happen. Dreams come true. Usually after lots and lots of hard work. And sometimes they look different from how you hoped they would.

But sometimes they look just like you hoped they would.

And it’s really really cool when that happens.

Which is the conclusion I came to from the evidence I gathered today, anyway.

Exhibit A: a duck pillow.

Yes, I suppose you could say this is contrived evidence, seeing as I MADE it, but I like to think I was inspired by the season.

Exhibit B: this yellow next to that green.

I am in love. It’s very, very spring-ish, folks.

And this!  Exhibit C:

These were outside today. I touched their velvety petals and everything.

And last but not least, Exhibit D, which came in the mail today, courtesy of my parents!

A giant almost-the-size-of-an-iron porcelain cupcake.

And that’s not all, either, IT’S FILLED WITH COOKIES.

Hello, spring!

And hello, Easter (as it’s an Easter gift, which is the epitome of Springtime).

Because nothing says resurrection like a humongous glass cupcake stuffed with cookies!

Oh, how I love how non-religious my parents, the Reverends Latshaw, are.

Happy Spring, folks.

Now there’s a sentence that would not have made one iota of sense twenty years ago.

At first, he asked me where my cables were.

“Cables?” I asked, unaware that I was supposed to have any.

“They’re usually in the closet,” he said.

I nodded innocuously.

“This the closet?” he continued, while motioning to the bathroom.

“I don’t think I have any cables…” I finally said, after steering him away from the bathroom. I tried to let him down gently; tried to let him know that it was definitely me and not him.

“They’re usually in the closet,” he repeated, still looking for a closet, apparently.

So I showed him one.

No dice.

Then the other.

And then he found a cable, I guess, because he looked happy–similar, I imagine, to the way Christopher Columbus must have looked when first spotting North America (even though he thought it was India. It’s alright, Chris, I am not much good at geography, either. But all that other stuff you did–the genocide stuff–that was NOT alright).

I didn’t understand the whole business with the cables, which is why I asked him if he was gonna have to pull it from the closet out to where the tv was, and would it then be visible.

I think that’s when he, too, probably decided I didn’t understand the whole business with the cables.

He explained it (I didn’t pay much attention and am not gonna bore you with the details I would manage to patch together now after trying very very hard to recall them) and then we both got to work. Me, to the kitchen to unpack a thousand or so boxes of corningware, and Comcast Man, to fiddle with the cable that wasn’t gonna be visible, which is the only information that seemed pertinent to me at the time.

I will say that I learned how to open a knife that feels very much like a switchblade and, well, that’s a pretty cool feeling. I used that knife all day, opening boxes like I was a ninja and the box was my unsuspecting target. That knife was so quick in my hand that nary a box even made a sound as it met its quick demise, poor thing. Cause: that’s right, I’m the Unpacking Ninja. In fact, I greeted Comcast Man while clutching that knife. Considering I was a woman alone in an apartment, I figured that might not be such a bad effect, after all.

Finally, the Comcast Man gave me a quick tutorial on how to work the television.

“I don’t really watch it,” I told him, hoping he’d finish up.

“Well now you can watch it all day long!” he marveled, laughing at his newfound idea.

Oh joy.

He did that a lot, actually. Laughed after every sentence like it was a joke. It may have been a joke, too. Thing is, we never managed to get on the same page since the cable debacle. He spoke a language of cables and master controllers and this is your phone number now–

“For a landline?” I asked, interrupting him.

“You bet!”

“I don’t have a phone for that,” I said.

“Well now you might as well–you’re paying for it!”

And then hahahahahahahahahaha! he went, all over again, while I smiled and tried to look like I was actually considering having a landline again. It’s the same look I get when people ask me to consider going back with my ex. Only people never say that to me. And I never consider it. Or even look like I am considering it.

All that to say, I don’t think we got each other so well, me and the Comcast Man.

But then he gave me a wonderful gift. It was so out of the blue, and I am not quite sure he knew what he was handing me.

“You can name the network,” he told me, casually. Like naming a whole NETWORK is something you shimmy in between yawning and shifting from one foot to the other.

“I can?!” I said, suddenly–and for the very first time in the conversation–totally interested.

“Sure, anything you want.”

I don’t know what it was like to be Adam and Eve, walking around with God in the cool of the day, as it says. I don’t know what it was like to name every last thing on earth, the way they got to do. But here I was, getting to name a brand new Network. It’d never happened before, and I was thrilled. Something that had no name would, because of me, have a name. WHOA.

Something else about me, is that I LOVE words. I love their significance and I love their sound and I love the way they feel inside your head and then rolling over your taste buds right before they leap out of your mouth into the world.

I was ready for the challenge.

But needed a moment, because NAMING A NETWORK, guys.

Whoever was nearby, searching to join a network on their computer, would see this name, guys.

IT HAD TO BE GOOD.

“Whatever you want,” Comcast Man said again, this time a little impatiently, since I was poised over the keyboard, but had yet to actually type one letter.

Don’t rush me, Comcast Man.

“Hmmm…”I said aloud, buying time with my musing.

And then! I started typing. One word. One word to embody the fact that I am now living in Boston (WHAT?!). That there’s water nearby. That I just made a pillow that may or may not have inspired me. I took a deep breath and finished it.

“There,” I said, satisfied that I had named my network well.

“Whaleboat?” Comcast Man asked.

“Whaleboat,” I answered, smiling now.