Happy Halloween and final day of the One Out October challenge!

It’s been a fun, long, up-and-down journey but we made it.

And to celebrate the end of the road I’m giving you not one but TWO songs in TWO different formats, you cool ghouls!

At the beginning of this project I had a dream of doing an actual music video to the first song I’m going to share with you, The Devil Wants Waste.

But it turns out 3 weeks is kind of a short turn around for a music video project, especially when you’ll be in another state for 2 of those weeks. Who knew!?

(Maybe “One Out October, 2019?”)

Instead, I decided to share the first song in its recorded state, from my album “Skeleton Bones.” It’s always been one of my favorite recordings, and I think you’ll like it.

It’s a spooky, fun, Haunted-Mansion-at-Disneyland style tune about how the devil wants you to be mediocre so that you never accomplish anything good. Enjoy!

 Now that we’ve got that jaunty tune in our hearts, let’s get down to serious business.

It’s Halloween. And that means frights, costumes, and going door to door.

And what could be more terrifying than our current government—power hungry oligarchs in Christian sheep clothing, systematically going from house to house on Fox News, attempting to make us hate each other and ignore the needs of others?

Stay with me. I’ll be serious now.

Did you ever see that photo of the Syrian boy below? Who was found under a pile of rubble in Aleppo, and was so traumatized he couldn’t even cry?

There’s a video taken of him, where he absently rubs his face, and then stares down at the blood on his hand, not even knowing what to do with himself. It makes me want to sob, thinking about it. This is the face of what our President says is the enemy. This tiny body is one our government is refusing to aid and protect.

Or what about the picture of the child, face down and dead in the sand, whose family risked everything and fled persecution to come by boat to the US, only to be denied safe passage here?

Or the images of children being ripped from their mother’s arms and detained by ICE?

Or neighborhoods being decimated by floods, as gigantic church doors stand closed?

Or news stories about the current migrant caravan seeking asylum from violence in our country and being met with hatred and fear?

Or trans children being screamed at by adults about being “abominations”?

Or black men being gunned down in their own homes, and their murderers walking free?

Are we immune to these stories, these real-life horrors happening to our brothers and sisters?

Are we only going to hear and ignore the fearful and hateful rhetoric that our leaders are telling us?

Are we going to continue to turn away, claim we’re “not political,” stick our heads in the sand, live comfortably on the ease of our own safety and freedom, and not do everything in our power to stand for the equality of ALL human life–as our constitution demands us to?

Not to explain why you can’t help.

Not to judge if help is deserved.

Not to withhold help because someone doesn’t share your political or religious beliefs (and don’t even get me STARTED about making your sole issue to protect unborn life when you won’t even protect and support the lives that are already here).

Our job is to meet our fear, our pride, and our prejudice with cowardice banned from our hearts—to see it all, the messy and complicated power of our privilege—and to DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.

Now.

Last Saturday morning an angry white man, mobilized by a false claim spread by our President that the migrant caravan was funded by the Jewish community, went into the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania where members of the community were holding a bris–a celebration of life.

There he used several semi-automatic weapons to murder 11 people, screaming anti-Semitic words.

And in a community devastated by pointless violence and devastating hate, who were the helpers?

Was it our President, who said: “If there was an armed guard inside the temple, they would have been able to stop him”?

Was it conservative Christian leaders, who hemmed and hawed about how the killer was probably mentally unstable? 

No, it was members of the Muslim community, who raised over $200 thousand dollars in 4 days for the victims of the shooting.

“Here I am Lord, send me,” they said. And they went. 

We are at a time in our country where we can’t ignore the truth anymore: The helpers are helping, and those who are not choosing to actively help others with their daily lives, political positions, and financial means should no longer be allowed to stand in power.

Look for the helpers, those are our people. Those are our teachers and guides.

Anyone else—anyone who tries to convince you another human is less than and distract you from the purpose of helping someone in need— is using words of the devil, wanting waste of your good heart.

Don’t let that happen. 

This song is for anyone, but especially my brothers and sisters who proclaim to serve a God of mercy, love, and justice. Let’s be his hands and feet. NOW.

Ten years ago I went to a friend’s wedding in San Diego and I was struck giddy by a thought that buoyed my soul and lifted me up into fragrant clouds of peace. 

And that thought was this: I am going to find love in the next year.

I just knew it.

I felt it.

I believed it in my bones.

I was drugged by the morphine-like certainty of it.

I walked around that whole year with a restful sort of faith, secure in the awareness that my love was moving steadily my way with each passing season and that he’d be with me by the time that last November leaf fell.

And then that year passed, and then 9 more, and now I’m sad and old and bitter and still alone and blah blah blah THE END.

But at least I have something to show for all that hope (sob), because here’s a song about it.

I remember writing it with this whimsical joy, thinking “He’s out there…somewhere. YOU’RE out there somewhere! And I know one day you’ll find your way to me. And it’ll be before November, right? Right…? RIIIIIIGGHHHHT???”

I got a little emotional at the end of recording this. (SHOCKER I KNOW).

It’s just that sometimes I don’t understand why our paths haven’t crossed yet. I go to sleep on one side of the bed and I wonder what it would be like to have someone next to me.

And every year that passes, instead of that reality feeling closer and more likely it feels further and further away—like a dream I had once that was so clear but is now a hazy memory.

Do I remember expecting love? What was it like to be so certain? How did it feel to hope for November? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

Haven’t you seen the signs?

Here’s a song. I wrote it. I recorded it in my pajamas. Whatever. Blah blah blah. Words about stuff. It’s day 28. Send Help.

Honestly I am losing steam here. The other day I had my brother check to make sure the comments section on these blog pages were working because I thought they were broken because no one was responding to them but, no, it’s just that nobody is responding to them.

To be fair, my dad DID immediately respond “Comment, comment, comment” when I told him this AND there is a dedicated spambot who says “Thank For Information” every day, so I SEE YOU DAD AND SPAMBOT!

You’re my only fans.

Ok, I’m done whining now.

I’m sitting inside by the window on a gray day, watching the leaves fall and drinking coffee and life is good.

I’m constantly interacting with people I’m inspired by (Role call: Jonathan Merritt, my new friend Kit who shares encouraging words from random strangers on Instagram, my friend’s 3-year-old daughter Alice who refused to be anything other than Nacho Libre for Halloween, etc…).

I’m doing a work that feels fulfilling, and reminding myself for the bajillionth time that making things is about the making of things and that it’s TOTALLY OK to feel disillusioned with that making at times.

And if there’s anything I want my music to speak to people (aside from giving them ideas on how to get their husbands to stop cheating or helping them know what to say to people who talk about biological clocks) it’s that WE ARE TOTALLY OK BEING NOT OK.

I used to do this thing where I was like “If I can’t be good then I’ll just be as shitty as I can possibly be.” And I’d go down into a whirpool of self-destruction and then feel perversely justified at how bad I felt, as if sadness and self-loathing were the only safe harbor to tie my boat to.

It’s honestly a feeling of warring with yourself–doing things you hate and hating that you’re doing them, and thinking somehow that the best way to deal with the shame from this cycle is to shame yourself into changing it.

Uh…turns out you can’t grow self-love that way. Weird, right? 

I’ve learned that the best way to meet this spiral isn’t to burn everything to the ground and walk away in slo-mo. It’s to stop. Sit. Allow. Let things be, without judgement or deep-dives into negativity.

I’ve gotten better at just letting things be “ok.” Letting sadness be ok. Meeting anxiety as a friend. Telling perfectionism “Thanks, but no thanks–you know you are highly illogical, right?”

I hope this tune encourages you to do the same, and give yourself a break.

My first year in Costa Rica I lived in a cabina on the property of a jovial, giant druglord named Oliver.

To me, he was just my landlord–a large, friendly Tico with a mop of curly black hair who loved talking to his birds and sang along loudly to Beatles songs and just happened to have lots of random people coming by his house at all hours of the night.

Oliver was married to a Canadian woman in a union that continually perplexed me as he couldn’t speak a word of English and she didn’t really speak Spanish.

But apparently they’d made it work (sort of) for 8 or more years, and got along swimmingly unless Oliver was on a drunken bender, which happened about once a week.

During those times she would come seek me out in my hammock, hands wringing, saying with a sad look in her eye “Have you seen Oliver?”

I’d look up from whatever book I was reading at the time and admit I hadn’t. “I’m sorry,” I’d say. “I’ll let you know if I do…”

This was the time before Kindles, and as I have always bordered on “hermit reading level” I spent hours swinging away, devouring any worn-and-weathered book I could find in town. Red Hot Chili Peppers biopics, NYT best sellers, teen vampire books–nothing was beyond my literary appetite.

Somehow I came across a Raymond Chandler book called “The Big Sleep,” a detective noir novel.

At one point in the story, the grizzly detective Phillip Marlowe is scrutinizing a crime scene and this vignette takes place:

“I knelt down and squinted along the nap of the rug to the front door. I thought I could see two parallel grooves pointing that way, as though heels had dragged. Whoever had done it had meant business. Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.”

That was hit–PING! Those words hit my creative id and, that day, this song came out–a revenge-style song about a woman who goes to–shall we say– creative measures to make sure her husband knows she means business.

I love this song. I had to re-learn it for this blog post because I hadn’t played it in forever, but it will always have a special place in my heart.

I love the story of a woman finally deciding “Enough” and taking the man in her relationship hostage (literally) so that he’ll pay attention to her.

Sadly for Oliver’s wife, his benders got worse and she eventually had enough…for a few months. Then she came back. Then he started the benders again, then she left…and finally I stopped feeling anxious for either of them and realized this was just the cycle of romantic drama they had chosen to live in, Purgatory-style. In all honesty, it was better when she was there, since Oliver was less likely to shoot off his guns into the air at night…but that’s another story.

And you never know: there’s still time for whiskey and the ropes.

P.S The record track of this song is another one with insanely talented musicians. Check it out HERE!