the Q gene

Don’t get me wrong - I love the cold. I mean, really love the cold.

But loving the cold and longing for the cold - well, are two very different things. At least in August.

Waking up to see snow capped alps outside my window - while beautiful, is not exactly what you are hoping for at the end of August.
I realize the Fall isn’t all that far away - but if it’s one thing I clearly remember about life in San Francisco, it was the warm and sometimes hot Septembers.

Ok - I know. I can’t even begin to compare the two.

But when you are living life against everything you know, you are searching - however small and meaningless - for the slightest similarity. Nostalgia is the strongest tool in the fight against homesickness.
Sometimes, all it takes is a trip down memory lane by way of a smell or sight, a word someone spoke, to snap me out of it and get on with life in another country. It’s really hard sometimes.
And let’s face it, snow capped alps don’t exactly cut the mustard in the way of similarities to California.



They say familiarity breeds contempt. Probably.
Ok - yeah. When you’re living in it, it’s an entirely different beast. Yet another kind - unlike the homesickness one - to contend with.

When I lived at the Grand Canyon - I kid you not when I tell you I used to call it “the pit.” Seriously.
I know, sad huh?
Seeing it everyday, after a while, was like second nature - so to speak... i.e not so exciting after seeing it the hundreth time.
Luckily, I hiked to the bottom, camped and came back up - at least once, before leaving the pit.

Perhaps that is the secret - or more like drive - to the eternal wanderer, journey-seeking, modern day hobo, globe-trotting, itchy-footed traveler. Familiarity I mean.

Perhaps we are trying not to be full of contempt.

Although, admittedly I am not sure why exploring your surroundings is breeding contempt.
I suppose it’s like a lover you never expect to leave - you just get used to it after awhile - it’s familiar.

Maybe that is why I have never been one to stay long, bury my feet and plant myself.

Really?
I have absolutely no idea what is in my blood and my fellow tumbling comrades that keeps us on the road, on the trails and running like hell down paths we aren’t even sure why we took in the first place.
And even when we do stop - we are plotting, planning, skeeming and scheduling our next take-off.

Someone told me last year in England, after a show, he had heard that morning on BBC there was a study that said they found a gene “travelerers”universally possess.
I’m not so sure how they discovered this one or exactly who got tested (where do I apply? Does it include a round trip ticket?) but it sounds good to me.

I think it was called, the Q gene. Or something.

Anyway, what began as a gripe about the weather then a foray into homesickness - has ended up, as usual - nowhere.

But one thing is for sure - I aint’ stickin’ around to find out what will come out next.
My Q gene, or something, tells me it’s time to get moving before this cold paralyzes me and keeps me glued to this computer forever.

wine and women

I have joined yet another website (which you all know about I'm sure) flickr - and in the process, discovered the whole world of photo blogs and groups.

This is great but can I cry uncle yet?

I am curious, how many websites do you all have? Including ones you design and ones you join i.e myspace, facebook, flickr etc... because even those to some extent require upkeep and designing.. yikes.
I have, if you really include everything - 10 I design and run (most for my music - I'm a songwriter) and about 30-40 in all I am on, do html on, add blogs blah blah blah... :)

The link to his flickr acct. is under the links portion of this blog. I highly recommend you visit him and his photo's.
This is the photo I took last week he included in his wine and women photo essay;

"he can see me..."

I received an email from Austin, Texas today.

Reminding me of a life I have all but gotten over - well...
Anyway, they asked me about Henry - a blind man I had worked
for and become friends with, just after Katrina.

So in honor of that email and the Katrina Anniversary
and my town of Austin, Texas I miss so dearly - I am reposting
this journal.

Austin, Texas



Wednesday, October 12th, 2005
12:55 am
"he can see me..."



It began as an errand ... a quick needed buck.

Drive to Houston, pick up two musicians, drive them back to Austin.
Easy.

I try my best to close my eyes tight and sleep soundly
straight through the morning.
It's 4am.

I knew I had to wake by 6am if I planned to meet the
10:47am flight from Chicago.

They were Leslie Sims and Joseph Carter.
Two displaced New Orleans musicians, now scattered about the
United States, making their way to Texas for a special DVD/CD
to benefit hurricane katrina victims.

After meeting Leslie at the airport ... by way of cell phone,
we tried for almost an hour to connect with the other musician,
Joseph - who now, after losing his entire home and life as he knew
it in New Orleans, is with his family starting over in the suburbs of Houston.

After what seemed like forever, and a drive past more neon fast food
signs and construction than I care to admit to the world, we found
each other.

We were on our way to my new home and for Leslie and Joseph, a short
pit stop in an already long, long journey toward the unknown.

After a brief stop for burgers, sodas and gum, I managed to lose myself
in thought, conversation and music and drive past the turn off from
Brenham to Austin and continue heading not toward Austin but North.

Fortunately, it only took a half an hour or so of realizing 36 was the
WRONG highway and managed to stumble rather quickly on a short cut to 21
and head toward Bastrop via Austin, on get right back on track.

We made it to the studio with a few minutes to spare.

By then, we had become familiar with one another and in the end,
me a bonified, informed and now completely overwhelmed NOLA
(New Orleans) cheerleader.

The studio was full with all the greats from NOLA.
Sitting on leather couches, with bottled water, hats pulled below
the eye brow, dark glasses worn without a hint of coolness.
Assistants and producers, a documentarian and an intern - all
with smiles, all in synch and all there for the same reason ...
to make music.

I was welcomed beyond what I could ever imagine and hours later,
found myself the driver picking up the late BarbQ dinner from Austin's
finest BarbQ, Artz Rib House.

I became familiar with cell phone rings for everyone and knew immediately
when I heard the Rolling Stones it meant Ivan Neville was being called.

And when it came time to lay down the hand clapping, Ivan talked me
into joining, only to jokingly convince me I was in better time than
him.
As the camera circled, I spent more and more time, staring at the
clapper next to me, praying I wouldn't be the one to lose the beat,
slam the last hand clap out of time.

I had to pinch myself, literally, over and over to see that I was not
only amongst the greatest in music but what I found quickly to be the
greatest spirits I have ever been lucky enough to find and to find me ...
It was a feeling similar only to my time with the Willie Nelson Family.
Pure, 100% uncomplicated, unpretentious love.

Henry wore dark black ray bans, much like the ones Ray Charles wore
and with a walking cane and more importantly, confidence, determination and
a smile, he filled the space bigger than anyone else within a mile radius.

His laugh was deep and when you felt it coming, it resonated in anyone
and everyone nearby ... in slow increments of one-one thousands, two-one
thousand...

He moved his hands in front of him and excused his way across the room.

"Chris, can I talk to you?"

"Of course!"

"Listen, I was wondering what you are up to this week. Do you have a
pretty flexible schedule?"

"Definitely ... what's up Henry?"

"I'd really love for you to be my assistant while I am here."

"I'd love to Henry!"

"How about we start tomorrow, Sunday?"

"Great, what time?"

"9:00?"

"OK."

So 9:00am Sunday at the Omni it was.

We started the morning with coffee and scones and I began by
answering email and typing FEMA documents.

I thought I would be okay. I thought, 'I'm working, this is work,
this is just something you have to do for Henry Chris ...'
But as time went on, and paperwork read, "total loss," "new start"
"FEMA," "insurance," "relocation" and "loans" I began a pattern
of coming and going little, secret cries.

Henry was strong and outspoken, handsome and sure of himself.

We spent the following days, with our coffee and uncommon lives,
me, typing away as Henry dictated letters, Henry.. pacing the hotel
floors with his triple espresso in a 16-ounce cup of dark roast,
giggling in between sentences.

And when it came time to run errands, Henry held my shoulder with
one hand and his cane in the other.

As the valet pulled up my Ford "Exploder," I laughed and told Henry
my car was really a limousine in disguise.

We talked about his 56 years, his new start away from
life in New Orleans search for a new state to call his home ...
his music and his luck (or lack thereof) with women.

We spoke in awe of our accidental happiness in stumbling upon
one another in such a great big world.
He tells me the universe brought me to him.

I have another secret cry.

I can't even see myself because the entire hotel room is still dark.
As if, someone was still sleeping the day away.
There is no need for Henry to open curtains and turn on lights
and for a moment, I too, forget and linger in total darkness.

There is a strange freedom in hanging out with someone you know
can't see the outside you. The dirty hair, ragged clothes and
now, new laugh lines that seemed to come from nowhere.

He says he can hear I am strong.
He tells me he can hear when I smile and when I frown.
He asks me if I am okay when I change positions in my seat.

He says my heart if full and lovely and not to change a thing.

An they keep telling me Henry is blind ... he can't see.

But I know the truth because he can see me.

realization? observation?

I realize living abroad usually means you have some
realizations about yourself or the new place you are living.

And I suppose this can be one of them... realizations about
yourself I mean.

Because where I am about to go, gave me a peak into a new
way of thinking I had NO idea I would embark on.

And this is american men.

As some of you know, my husband is from a small village
in a region called Tirol, in the Austrian alps.

I'm not going to getting all cake icy here and say I knew the
minute I saw him, it was love at first sight...or even that I knew
the day I walked down the isle it would last forever.

But I did know one very important thing.
He is by far the sweetest, kindest man with the biggest heart
of anyone I have met, man or woman really.
And that was enough. As it should be.

However... yes, there is one of those.
I won't lie and say I didn't mourn (even if just a little bit) my
now 'off the market' self and lifestyle.
Um, not that it was so active before Helli anyway...
but just the thought that I was going off the radar, left me
with a nostalgia I knew looking at an old photo or googling
an old boyfriend couldn't fix.

And then I started to run into a certain kind of American man
in Europe.

Mind you, there are all sorts of men...people, from around the
world..of course, I know this.
But that certain kind of American man I am speaking of is the
one you want hit the boob bars with, a mans man.
But so much so that you wonder what goes on behind closed
doors.

But how on earth this kind of man ended up in Europe, is beginning
to bewilder me.

I realize this isn't the most politically correct topic or how I am
presenting it and I am prepared to take the heat. Even though, ehem,
this is my blog.

But I just had to say, get it off my chest, lay it all out if you will.

This man I am speaking of was in my presence tonight (names
will be withheld) and albeit in the military, at first glance, not
what I expected.
He was quite small really, shorter than me.

The thing is, he had a nice, long tirade about immigrants and
how much he loved Bush and...well do I need to go on? I mean
really?

Ok, I will.

And he held onto his wife (local Austrian girl - quiet) pretty tight
I might add, just as he drank his third beer in the first half
an hour.
The minute he started talking, from the get go and as the night
progressed and he ranted, interrupted, talked over, ignored, proved
aggressive points he clearly did not need to prove, I realized
how hard this man just made it for me to hang with American men
while I am in Austria.

Don't get me wrong, I have some good American (as well as many
other cultures) friends here. Men, women. And all over the world
of course.
But this certain kind of male, I guess...I just wasn't expecting 'him'
to pop up on my Austrian screen. You know?

I suppose I have been acclimating (without even realizing it)
to the slower-easy paced European lifestyle.
And along with that -although admittingly not always easy
'life as an expat' - the sensitive and calm nature of the European man.
At least the Austrian man.

I am already so far gone in this rant, so I'll leave it up to your
imagination what I would...could and want to say next about
this very buffed, loud, arrogant person.

I almost never rant, especially in my journals.
I like to keep away from negativity...especially 'the geared to anyone'
else kind.

But seriously, if I don't stop running into this kind of man here, I
think I will start looking at my brothers funny next time I go back
to America.

This guy is representing American men here and it's really just
downright frightening.

Admittingly, it is changing my impression of men from my own
country and this can't be a good thing.

Like I said earlier, realizations.
One, I realize not all men are like this man.
And of course, American men.

But two and last realization? Even so. Just running into enough of
them while abroad (and not having all that much to compare them
to these days) gives me a new appreciation for my sweet, humble Austrian
with nothing to prove.

If only he could have stood up for me just a bit more though.
That's about it.

I wouldn't trade my man for anyone and I love him deeply for the sensitive
man he is but if it didn't cross my mind, I'd be full of..well, you know.

Schwester Urlika ist von Romania

One constant since my arrival in Innsbruck is at least once a day, somewhere in the city,
I see, pass or meet a nun.

So today as I began my first of many 4-hour days in German class, I wasn't the least bit
surprised to be seated next to, you guessed it, a nun.

Her name is Urlika and she's from Romania. Schwester Urlika ist von Romania.

She's the perfect antidote for my seemingly frustrated self these days.

Being sick in general is well, no fun. Being sick and in hospital in a foreign land, ups the ante quite a bit.

I've been less than, let's just say ecstatic lately as I go in and out of hospital to have unspeakable, yet necessary and as dignified as they can make it, "procedures" performed
to with, around and near, my colon.

My usual smile and sunny disposition has been replaced by a new kind of aggression and well, depression I have yet to feel in all of my travels.

The kind of anger I get while touring and dealing with bookers and agents, rental cars, online ticket buying, airlines, travelers and "customer service." I know this kind.

The kind of anger I get for getting grief carrying my guitar (in a soft bag!) on the plane (which weighs and takes up less space than most carry-on's & sometimes pay for a seat and still get trouble) is a 'kind of anger' I am more than familiar with.

The I've been alone, in too many hotel rooms, in too many foreign lands, singing far too much, for far too little money, for much too long 'kind of sadness', is one I don't wish on anybody but know.

But this kind. The... my life full-time in a foreign-speaking country, feeling as if I am starting from scratch...again (even more so than any other time) seeing and feeling the affects of aging (away from what I know is somehow disturbing) ...realizing I had to stop eventually.

The kind of sadness I get knowing I am ill an in and out of hospital and all my family & close friends are not here and really, not even an easy phone call away, is a 'kind of sadenss', I can't quite get used to.

Which from what I gather by the way Schwester Ulrika looks at me, is a good thing.
Getting used to a void and empty state of mind, can't be a good thing no matter how
you look at it.
You gotta' cry uncle eventually.

Then today, as I was setting up my new blog, I came across a travel writer who in fact
was touching on this very thing.

How did he put it, "Spiritual fasting; How to appreciate life through deprivation."

And I knew from the title, instantly, it was all meant to be... the class, the nun, his blog... even this still unknown illness currently the forefront of my life.

The premise being to experience, sometimes even seeking it or more to the point - forcing it upon yourself... the suffering - with the idea it will teach you to be strong and live through it... live without and remind you what you have and what you don't need.

I agree with this, I do. Really. In fact, deep down I have always known this in some way.

But when I look back on my teens and twenties, the later being the most trying in my life so far, I can't say I was aware of this "state of mind" while suffering.

Granted ... because of it, I have gathered the wisdom, experience and keen eyes needed
to function normally (mostly) and carry on through life, a pretty happy little survivor.

There will always be someone with far greater woes...bigger problems and fish that will never actually get fried, never mind the term.
I do not pretend my life was or is some big tragic tale.

Of course, I come with my share of stories, tribulations, let downs and bags so heavy they wouldn't put them under or on any plane... but then part of the beauty of all the muck I dragged, slashed and dug my way through, is the very fact I did not know that at the end of it all, I would come out mostly unscathed and a wiser, more interesting person.
Really, I had no idea what was happening most of the time.
They say you have a selective memory when it comes to pain and or painful memories.
I agree with this too.

In fact, I think I kicked and screamed a good majority of the time. Literally peeling and prying my fingers and hands, dragging my feet, dangling my arms and forcing my body to go along for the rides I managed to take it on throughout my life.
A lot... most of the time, having absolutely no idea how much I needed to suffer nor now much pain I was actually experiencing.


A lot of the time, my instinct was to plant my feet on the ground and cry uncle. Swear I wouldn't make one more move, take one more step, until I was sure it...I .. was safe.

But as it always happened and still seems for the most part, the universe had and has
bigger plans... some better than others and admittingly, not always what I wanted, want
saw or see coming.

I went with it, them... believing that if followed my path, the wind, the road... however you see that, that one day, it would get me to where I was going.
Perhaps a little more rough but a shiny stone from all that tumbling.

I am clear that it's not the end so much as the journey getting there. I know this.
We all know this.

But it doesn't stop us from carrying on searching for that one thing, that one person,
that one place or all those things and people and places, that will tell us everything is
A-okay, we are heading in the right direction... that life is good and suffering is ok. We will forget the pain.

It does take however, as life does, a new deprivation. A new struggle or pain... to realize that all those years of clawing, kicking and screaming and still despite it all, carrying on... wasn't for the things or the people or the places...but for the people it made us. Made me.

This I know. This is something not new to me.

But today, as I sat next to Schwester Ulrika and the very act of looking into her eyes, just
about sent me on a crying binge for a better part of the day, reminded me what a big, fat
baby I am, was being.

For me, right now, being sick well..for lack of a better term, sucks. Being sick in a foreign-speaking, foreign land, sucks even more. And for lack of intelligent articulation, well, this whole adjustment and new life is somehow a repeat of my twenties and sorry..
but it sucks too.
Let's be honest, life is damn hard no matter how you look at it.

Only this time, I am armed with the years I have lived and the roads I have strolled and sometimes, ran like hell on.

I have earned that and this tread and along with it, the physical and not physical, scars I have collected along the way.

My scars, both internally and on this now older, heavier and sometimes tired body, are my souvenirs.

Souvenirs that despite the mess I was sometimes forced to travel in, I am a survivor and at last, a better, more interesting person for my troubles.
Happier? Mostly, usually...sometimes.

Who is it that said, "This too shall pass?"

And do I need to remind myself...apparently so, that maybe I don't need for it to pass
so much as let it be. John Lennon knew what he was talking about.

Perhaps now is the perfect time to take full advantage of this new opportunity.

This new chance to once again go kicking and screaming, clawing and cursing, all the way to the end... wherever that is.

Only this time, my eyes are wide open and I can see exactly where I am going.