Roy Orbison - Indian Wedding

(note: minimal linkage in this post as it is a little too intense and i don't want distractions)




Most of my childhood memories until the age of, well, until I wasn’t technically a child anymore, are centered on my father. I am a daddy’s girl, this is well known. My dad is without a doubt my best friend. When shit goes down, when I have a funny story or something amazing happens, I call Pop first. This, however, isn’t intended to say I have no memories of my mother during my childhood or that her love or presence in my life is diminished in any way. It’s complicated. It took a lot of therapy for me to work it all out. Sometimes I think I have it all figured out, Sometimes I don’t, most times I assume it doesn’t really matter too much at this point. We are all who we’re going to be now.

When I think back on the things that stick out the most to me as child, the largest memories; vacations, Saturday errand runs, playing in the woods, etc… there is a large unexplainable gap where I always thought my mother should be. (NOTE: There is a part of me that hesitates to explain my mother in this light, because words cannot fully express how much I love and truly admire her now, but I am comforted in the fact that there is literally no actual connection between this blog, my true identity, and therefore her identity. Best thing about mom, really, and best trait I got from her is that she literally wouldn’t give a shit if you knew anyway. She knows who she is and doesn’t care what you think of her. My mom is life’s biggest mystery to me. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully understand her.)

My mother slept through the majority of my childhood, as I can recall. I may be wrong. My memory may be skewed. I am entirely open to the possibility that I have over-exaggerated this fact. But to my best recollection my mom was not present. She only worked at the shop Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Somehow, even having the majority of the week with her and then having a year or two of just me and her together while my brother had started school still eludes me. I know now that she was suffering from a deep depression. Mom was severely overweight until the early 2000s. Now she is thin and gorgeous, after much work, a hysterectomy, and a lot of self actualization. I am extremely proud of her, but back then I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t play with us and got so angry when we were loud or destructive.

I spent a lot of time in my early teens and 20s acting out against my mom. She was “against” me. Everything I seemed to say and do was somehow the exact opposite of what she wanted from me and what she expected. I still am not sure if I was simply rebelling against her or if that’s just the way things turned out. I know that it doesn’t matter now, the past is the past, but I think about some of the things we would argue about back then (and sometimes even now) and try to piece together who she is. There are aspects of her personality that I know I have so clearly adopted. One of the biggest jokes in my family is that I spent the first 30 years of my life looking just like my dad and suddenly now my mother and I could be sisters.

My father and my mother are so complete opposites from each other I wonder sometimes how they even spoke to one another after their first date. Quickest explanation: dad is very extroverted and needs a lot of attention and reassurance (he was an only child); mom couldn’t care less if she didn’t speak to another human being that she wasn’t related to for the rest of her life (she is the youngest of 8.) I spent the majority of my life trying to be the opposite of everything that my mom was; misanthropic, quiet, a loner, and quick to anger (I now know I misread anger for her passion and intensity.) Now in the past few years I feel her coming out in me. That fierce dedication and love for family, the passion for creativity and beauty, the revelry in quietness, the irritation at interruption, and the need for solitude; I am honored to have this part of her.

In my teens we would fight incessantly. My hair, my room, the choices I made for my future, the way I dressed, my grades; I thought she was just being impossible back then, now I know that need for the ones you love to do better than they are doing. I know that on a very deep familial and personal level. I can remember when I was first learning to drive and we were riding in her white Volvo back from church and we were being vicious with each other. I said something spiteful and teenager-y like “you don’t care about me, you just want me to be as miserable as you.” or something. God knows. She stuck her finger in my face and screamed at me to never say something like that again. That there was no one on this earth she loved more and that she would fight the devil himself for me. I’ve never forgotten it. I literally think about that moment all the time as being one of the first moments I truly felt what love was, beyond the normal every day shit you take for granted from your family…

Digression (because I’m a very rambly/long winded mood today): I often think that this moment defined a lot of who I am and what I believe now. Perhaps so much of my belief in love as a living breathing thing is tied to my faith and devotion to my family. I know I have this deeply compulsory need inside me for reassurance and feedback. I need to know I am not fucking up at every turn. Sometimes I need to know that mom still feels that way. Or dad, even though he’s never said it and I know he feels it. Also, even, from my brother. Mom taught me about the ferocity of true love; willing to fight through hell for someone because you can and you will. Mom and Jesus both taught me that for the sake of the truest love, there is no greater gift than to die fighting for someone you love. I (luckily?) somehow learned to translate this ferocity outside of my family. This moment with my mother in the car is what taught me that for true love to exist, you need someone who will face hell for you without the promise of ever turning back. So far I’ve only found this through a very select set of people. And I know in my heart, when I say I am looking for “the one” or the man I will marry, I am looking for the man who will lay down everything and defend me; always have my back, loyalty beyond all my stupid mistakes and poor decisions; just like family. This is why I want to be married. I want someone who has CHOSEN to be my family, someone who has chosen to face the devil for me. That is a love *almost* more powerful than blood to me. Sometimes I think about how close I was once to being married and I wonder if I let that chance for that kind of love slip through my fingers. Then I think about friends that have been through divorce; to tie yourself to someone to that level of intensity to be betrayed by circumstance or your own heart. How do you survive it? How do you divorce your own mom? (It’s almost the same level to me.) Sometimes I think I am so ready for it, for that kind of love and loyalty to someone. Sometimes I can’t imagine why anyone would ever be that crazy or vulnerable as to tie themselves to my level of love. Sometimes I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t.

…end of digression, back to memory:

…Not to say there are no memories of my mom at all in my early childhood. They are there, but for some reason I mostly remember being ignored until I was irritating enough to be punished. I do not want to paint my mother in any sort of negative light, but I am only speaking the truth. She knows all this. She was there. I can remember strange beautiful moments with her in the old house… lying in bed in the dark while she drew circles and infinity symbols in the air with the lit end of her cigarette (she quit smoking when I was still young.) I remember her driving me to piano lessons, taking care of me when I was sick, climbing out of the pool and running to her for change for the snack stand. This song brings up one of my very favorite memories of my mother.

In the living room of the old house, the ceilings were white with large oak beams leading to an A-line point in the center. Along the wall behind the laundry room was the entertainment center, which I spent many an hour lying in front of the Kenwood with my father’s records and headphones. Across from the TV were two corduroy, cornflower blue lay-z-boy recliners. I can’t remember a time when these twin recliners weren’t worn on the arms and I’ll never forget the springy pop and click-click-click they would make when you opened the footrest and tilted them back. They sat in front a large bay window that looked out of the front yard. The bay window had a small window seat, large enough for tchotkes, one of which was a conch shell as large as my, then, head.

Mom always sang. Both of my parents taught me a deep and reverent respect and love for music. They both sang all the time. Dad sang along with the radio, mom dad not. Mom would specifically turn off the radio at home or in the car to sing to us. Mostly old honky-tonk like Hank Williams or Ernest Tubb, but sometimes and more often than not, she would sing Roy. There is rarely a time I hear a Roy Orbison song and don’t think of my mother singing me to sleep with it. This song specifically was one of her favorites.

I can remember very vividly being around 4 years old, having been sick (I had thrown up I think,) and mom was holding me in her lap in the recliner to the right of the window, rocking us back and forth. I was wearing a cotton nightgown and clutching my favorite blankie. No TV or radio was on; it was a bright sunny day. Mom sang this song. Mom doesn’t have the best voice but she is always in tune. There is a weight and throaty-ness to it that makes it one of my very favorite voices to hear. I wonder one day if she would let me record her singing this song.

Unfortunately I know there will come a day I will need it very badly.


PS - here is another quick story about Roy.

Christopher Cross - Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)

I am 4 years old. My grandparents (my dad’s mom and dad) have made a rare trip from Mount Airy to Raleigh to visit us. All 6 of us are packed into my mom’s burgundy Cutlass. I decide the logical place for me to be is lying behind the back seat, on the ledge smashed between the backseat headrests and the window. I am lying face down, on my arms, staring out the window. It is night time; we are on Tryon Road heading east, about to turn right onto Yates Mill Pond Road. This song is on the radio and i can feel the music vibrate my knees. My Grandfather reaches back and tousles my hair. I am happy and i feel loved. I fall asleep before we get home.

Soul Coughing - Is Chicago, Is Not Chicago

1995. Stupid year. I was 17 going on 18. I had dropped out of college for the first time already (graduated HS at 16, btw) and was spending the majority of my barely employed, anxiety riddled, coffeeshop-supergenius days wandering aimlessly with my best friend Summer and lying around one of my newer closest friends, Josh Bradley’s, house. I’m not clear on exact dates and timelines of events around this time period of my life. I wish I could say it was because of some rockstar reason like I was so busy being wasted on drugs or doing sex to the world, when the truth is something closer to the fact that during those days my panic and anxiety was so bad, I was popping Ativans left and right and spent the majority of the ages 17 through 20 in a benzo haze. Some of you were there, some of you remember.

There are a few significant events which occurred during this time, although as previously stated, I am not entirely certain of the timeline.

- Had my first boyfriend. Frank. He is crazy (diagnosed schizophrenic at this point.) we dated about a year, I broke up with him because he was, obviously, crazy. This was about 15 years ago. He still follows me around, always finds my phone number and where I live. This is one of my Raleigh legacies of which I am the very most ashamed. I was the girl who dated frank. 15 years ago.
- Met Josh Bradley, who would become one of the most beautifully influential and greatest friends of my life, via this teenage relationship with Frank
- Spent the majority of my time with this new group of friends, who would eventually become my lifelong (so far) friends… the MLP (Meredith Lesbian Posse), hippies, punks and Goths. Josh Bradley’s, (also known as PX), house was pretty much known as the hub of all things ridiculous and awesome in the Raleigh misfit scene. Somehow we ‘freaks’ always wound up there. Me on the floor playing dj, people always wound up naked. I don’t know how to describe these days. My friends could do a better job. “Meatloaf parties” eventually somehow became the name of these gatherings.
- Met the girl who would become my truest and best friend in the whole world, my sister and duprass-mate, El Jeanniño, Queen of Casinos.
- Started working at the Courtyard, my favorite job ever. Got all my friends jobs there eventually.
- Met Rob Roy. Life came to a grinding halt as he became the center of my shit universe.

Somewhere in all of this, as stated, all social functionalities of my life revolved around Josh Bradley’s house. (Note: all of my friends have nicknames in one way or another. PX was a nickname given to Josh Bradley by himself or others, not sure. I don’t adopt other people’s nicknames; it feels like cheating, so I never called him this. Sometimes I am lazy and people’s “nicknames” become their entire names, i.e. – JennyWood, ChrisCarroll, NancyBrown [note: ironically, Nancy’s last name isn’t Brown] and JoshBradley. Just realized this group of fullname-nicknamers is all in the same circle of friends in my mind. Odd.) Every night when I would get off work at the hotel, or on free days, I would head straight to Josh Bradley’s and just… hang out with whoever was there. Even if it was just Josh and he was asleep (as he is impossible to wake up. Trust me.) One would still hang out. Many a “party” was held at Josh Bradley’s while he was sleeping.

Lots of the types of things that would happen at Josh Bradley’s were entirely dependent on who was there and how many of us there were. (Note: old timers. This at University Apts, off Avent Ferry when he lived with Rich through when he lived with Wes.) If there was a large group, there would just be lots of shit talking, chain smoking and me sitting on the floor in front of the CD player, forcing my music on others. If there was only a few there would be 12 hour monopoly marathons, French braiding of Wes’s hair, being treated to a lovely rendition of “Mike Seaver is Gay” by Josh Bradley on the bass, or basically sitting around listening to music and smoking lots of Tareytons. Back in these days, Josh Bradley was still a V-card carrier, basically as straight edge as you can get except for the Dr Pepper and Tareyton addictions, and none of us really drank or did drugs. We were lame. I think some people did. We didn’t.

These times are when I discovered a few bands that would become necessary staples in my musical diet. I don’t remember when it was, but I do know it was at Josh Bradley’s house the first time I heard Soul Coughing. (Side note, I remember exactly where I was sitting and where Josh Bradley, Summer and Evil Erich were sitting the first time I heard Ani DiFranco. Talk about a life changer!) Anywho, Soul Coughing. I hadn’t ever heard anything like them. I fell in love almost instantaneously. I got (made) a mix tape copy of Ruby Vroom, ASAP and played it to death. TO DEATH. Literally until the tape itself warped and snapped. I played them for anyone who would listen. I was a one-woman Soul Coughing PR machine.

Working at the Courtyard around this time, there was a kid named Matt. You know those people who, at the time, you think you’ll never forget or lose touch with? Yeah I’m barely sure this kid’s name was Matt. I say kid, but at the time he was probably 22 and I was maybe 18. I remember thinking he was so much older than me… ha! Matt was a show-goer. This is how we bonded. I’ve always been a “who is playing? Fuck it, let’s go” kinda show-goer. This guy taught me how. I was with this Matt guy the first time I met Beck. Also the first Lilith Fair when I met Juliana Hatfield, Emmylou Harris, Susanna Hoffs, Jill Sobule, etc. Matt wanted to road trip to Richmond to see Soul Coughing… did I want to go? Uhh, durr?

Reminder: this was around the peak of my, as of yet undiagnosed and life controlling, panic disorder. I always had this obstinate urge to push myself past whatever anxiety I was feeling. I let it control me, but I didn’t. It’s hard to explain if you’re not inside this head. I would intentionally put myself in risky or spontaneous situations because my anxiety forced me to face my own death on a near constant basis, so I had to carpe diem as hard as I could. I am a conundrum, or so it would seem. My first panic attack ever was when I was 15 in an auditorium type situation. Ironically, my biggest trigger for panic attacks has since always been theaters, clubs, auditoriums, or concerts. (To understand me best, please know I knew this about myself but decided to go to school for theater. Try and understand the type of person I am that I would do that to myself. On Purpose.) To spontaneously wander off 5 hours into Virginia to see a rock show at a crowded club was probably not the best decision for me at the time, but I did it. It was my first show road trip. It was my best.

The show was at a club called the Flood Zone. Being inside that hot crowded club, hearing these songs I had loved and played so much, seeing these guys right in front of me. I knew I was hooked. Not just on them, but on the idea of live music. I was going to do this again and again, at whatever the cost. And I just remember being there, my heart beating out of my chest and being so sure I was going to pass out and die and my hands and feet going numb and just thinking, “Fuck it! This is awesome!” As predicted, it was an incredible show, this song being one of my favorites off Ruby Vroom that they played. There are 14 songs on this album and I have 14 favorite songs on this album. Ruby Vroom is a Karla-staple, and holds a permanent residence on my iPod at all times.

Side note: upon returning to Raleigh, several months later, I discovered the internet to an extent more than I had before. Found the 'official' Soul Coughing website. Sent the band a short email about how I fought through my anxiety and made it through the whole show and thanked them for making it worth my while. I got a response from M.Doughty himself, from which a correspondence that lasted randomly off and on for several years was born. Last email I got from him was about 8 yrs ago, but still, a small claim to fame for me. I saw him do his solo show about a year ago at the Pour House, still just as excellent. Love that guy.