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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, lovemonkey.
Swirling 14-Feb-2005 4:13 a.m.
Happy Valentine's Day, you beautiful thing. I am exhausted today, but it's not the giddy, enjoyable kind of exhaustion where you feel a little high and not particularly emotional about anything. No, this is the oh, look, I died a few hours ago and nobody bothered to tell me kind of exhaustion. I'm cold all over and even my clothes hurt. The pending rain is showing me a solid lack of kindness.
The old upright piano needs tuning, and the quiet pedal was broken during the move. I miss playing it. I wrote on that piano for the first 16 years of my songwriting life. I have to call a tuner. Yesterday I brought out the Roland keyboard and played and sang out here for hours. It felt amazingly good. Something is happening to my voice: it's opening up again. After all these years.
I remember when I was a young girl just discovering my voice. I would sing, at times feeling taken over by the energy in my chest. It started lower, in the abdomen, and made quite an impact when it would reach my heart area, moving up through my neck and hitting the roof of my mouth as it flew out. I recall once during a performance thinking where is this coming from? It felt more like an entity residing inside of me than my own voice. It felt completely alive, and I was in awe of it.
And I remember when it crawled back inside and required coaxing to bring it out. It would hide, like a bashful child, until the night of a performance. And there it would be, ready to take me along for the ride. I was 15 then, and too sensitive for my own skin. I had miles of heartache scribbled into my resume by that point, and years of being told not to rock the boat, which to me translated into "don't stand out." The previous year in school when kids found out I could sing, I had instant friends based on that ability. The following year, a bunch of them decided I must have grown too big for my bloomers, and started to gossip and throw attitude in my direction. That was the year I decided it would be better to disgrace myself verbally for anyone within earshot than to have people believe I actually thought well of myself. That was the year I decided to blend in rather than stand out. And that was the year the physical pain began.
The self-deprecating comments became a habit, and before long I believed every lousy word. As the years went by, I felt less and less connected to my voice. That beautiful whirling energy in my torso when I sang was gone, it seemed. Singing no longer felt effortless; it was as though I had to think to make it happen, as opposed to just letting it happen on its own. It felt forced. I was out of balance and began to feel like a stranger in my own body. I have often suspected that the pain I've endured, which has since become chronic, is actually the real me inside there, trying to bust out. I am spirited and strong, so trying to stomp out that intrinsically powerful fire—which has no intention of being quelled no matter how hard I try to blend in, kick dirt on myself, or keep my mouth shut—can only serve to anger the fire and make it rage out of control. That is most likely where much of my anger originated. I am the fire, and my harsh words spoken about myself have created an internal inferno which seems to be retaliating against my best efforts to recoil and refrain from boat-rocking activities.
So, yesterday when I was singing, my voice felt open and alive, and it was effortless. Energy buzzed through me, and although not as powerful as the swirling energy in the past, it was strong enough to make me want to scream at the top of my lungs to be heard. I didn't, but feel confident that if I had, I would have put the lead singer of AC/DC (either one) to shame. Rock on, twisted sisters.
I'm going to try to stay awake for dinner, and The Saddest Music in the World, and some fine company. Last night I dreamt I had five ants in my eye, a couple of them dead and soggy, the rest just standing there on my eyeball. I think it means I'm going to write a successful book of short stories and win the coveted Writer's Wig award. Oh, I hope. Also, what's another way to say "I hate hazelnut"?
Have I mentioned my undying love for Agnes Moorehead? It's true. Different thought: guitar lessons start Thursday evening and I can't wait. I am honestly looking forward to the painful fingertips. I bought a book called The Guitar Chord Wheel Book, which is supposed to be one of the best, most revolutionary guitar chord books in the history of guitar chord books.
Quote From My World
"If I could have 1973 back, I'd sing like a bird."
I love and am loved. I wish the same for you. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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