an arm is off
an eye is missing
a face is cracked
a mouth is rusting
a dress is ripped
a hand is stuck
this mechanism seems to be broken
but pull the string
still it can talk
So I’m taking the time to listen to the Dresden Dolls again and again. Same for Jill Tracy. I’m branching back off into cabaret music. I say back, because I’ve long adored cabaret music. From Kurt Weil, Edith Piaf, Van Dyke Parks, Lotte Lenya to even, I’d hazard some Jane Siberry. I took a long detour (from the early 90s I guess) to the swoopy goth music of Dead Can Dance and the quasi celtic stylings of Loreena McKennitt. Right now, this feels like the inside of my head.
Which is strange, because I’m happier than I’ve been most of my life. Or am I? I’m certainly happier than the late 80s, early 90s. That was just insane. The time living alone and going to school was good if chaotic and dramatic. The time with R was good too, at first. It never really got bad until it became obvious we wouldn’t be spawning and even then it wasn’t bad.The year after R was the most horrid, painful thing I’ve had since childhood. The time with James and the wedding year were great–really magical and amazing. The year of being pregnant was surreal. The years in Illinois were, well we did our best and made the best of it, but they were hard, bad and wrong. The saving graces were The Bean, not being in the city (at least for part of the time) and having a good enough friendship with my husband to survive a huge amount of difficulty (some internal to our relationship, most external with his work and growing pains).
And now? I’m in this weird place that I don’t quite understand and I’d like to be done with it.
I see the lusciousness of the Dresden Dolls. The Beauty of Jill Tracy. The flamboyance of the The Verdalet Vixens und der Wiener Schnitzels and I feel suddenly drab. I’ve never felt such before. I’ve always been the outré one. Not as much in SF, but enough.
I am pleased being the Bean’s mom. I am pleased to be Jam’s wife. But, BUT I need more. I cannot reconcile my creativity to cookies. It pains me no end to admit this. I thought that this would be enough and I still feel it should be.
And it isn’t just the lithe beauty of the white faced dresden girl. But it is the smoke and mystery of Jill Tracy. I was, in a way the former. I would like to approach the latter.
I’ve been told it is in me, I just have to address this.