Indecipherable

The CD release show came and went, all in all quite successfully. Except for my guitar battery giving out after the first song and an unexpected eternal span of minutes in which I was left to my own indecipherable sense of humor to charm the crowd until I could get my hands on another guitar, it went well. (Yes, the battery in my guitar gave out. Yes, silly me for not replacing it before the show.)

This whole endeavor has been a lesson in faith for me--trusting my community, trusting my own ability, trusting that things will come together. We took on a massive project by deciding to organize a plant sale as well as an album release. Oh, and not only a plant sale, but a plant sale and art show. We collected, painted, and prepared the pots. We dug and split and planted the plants. We assembled the "planted music" packages (hardly an hour before the show). We wrote and performed and arranged and produced the music. We showed up and sang. 

By "we," I mean specifically these people, but many, many more: Dan Zamzow, Jake Staron, Rachel Price, Bethany DeLine, Maya Dahlberg, Garden Harbor, Mother Earth Gardens, Colin McDonald, Thomas Kivi, Kjersti Rognes, Meg Stinchcomb, Henry Allen, Emily Pflugi, Sean, Ryan, all the boys and girls of East Terrace Road, etc. So, so, so, so many people contributed to this effort. 

I have been struck, repeatedly, by my luck at finding myself a part of such a generous and willing community. Out of nowhere, people have volunteered to donate their time and talents. The "Planted Music" event could never have happened without all that outside energy spilling over. I meant to gush about how grateful I was on Saturday night, while I had the microphone in front of me. 

However, it turns out I am not so graceful in front of a microphone if I'm not singing. 

That span of eternal minutes without my guitar was brutal. You wouldn't believe how scary it is to stand in front of a room FULL of people (disproportionately populated by unfamiliar faces) without a guitar in your hands. 

Standing there without anything to hold onto, without a song to sing, I felt literally naked. It was the first time I have had so much attention directed at me, all at once, all in a hushed, anticipatory waiting game, as everyone stood there, their multiple pairs of eyes resting on my nervous body as I tried to think of something funny to say. I felt required to entertain these people who had scoured the city to find Corner Coffee (not even on the corner!) on the edge of downtown in the middle of Pride weekend in Minneapolis. Unfortunately, I'm really only funny to like three people in my life, and those include my sister and brother who only think I'm funny because they remember the origins of certain quirky mannerisms.

I think I told some half-funny joke about working with kids, but only those three people laughed. Actually, I can't be sure if the people out there in the audience-o-sphere were as uncomfortable as I was, but it seemed to drag on forever. Thomas (who can't decipher my humor but sometimes laughs out of pity), thankfully, let me use his guitar, which is identical to mine, and I told another half-funny joke about how Thomas only got a Taylor 110E because I did. 

And when I finally had a guitar in my hands, I relaxed into singing. I could never be a stand-up comic or a improvisational actor. I love performing, but I seem to do much better with pre-constructed dialogue, or at least a plan. Songs, music--that's easy to perform. You know what to expect. Even if you are improvising while performing music, you're working within a system. You anticipate chord changes, melody line, harmony. 

Those lucky people (my sister is one), who can pull out ten character parodies on demand, baffle and amaze me.

At least I know my limitations. However, I should really study the art of improvisation as a precautionary measure. If I am ever in a situation again where I have a roomful of people staring at me, expecting me to perform, and my guitar gives out, what will I do? Next time I will be prepared.

Maybe it's time to take that juggling class?

Seriously, I was the Prom Queen.

Part of releasing a CD includes self-promotion. This is such a ridiculous and difficult task. I have been laboring over a bio for myself, and here is all I can come up with. I can't seem to take this seriously!

Bio #1:

Sometimes your formative years are a forecast and sometimes they are not. I really was the prom queen.

Bio #2

If you took two parts bitter arugula and one part sugar maple, you wouldn’t quite have my back.

Bio #3

Liz: Can I please include my love for puns in my bio?

Dan: This is why you’re not in charge.

Bio #4

Liz Rognes is a singer/songwriter based in Saint Paul, MN. She grew up in rural Iowa, surrounded by cornfields, prairie, and her father’s eccentric love for miniature animals. Santa brought her a piano at the age of two, and she has been playing ever since. She is classically trained as a soprano and has studied music theory and composition. She has a B.A. in Music, 2005. Her business plan includes implementing a first-date intervention service for incompatible lesbians. She is also about to embark on the lucrative task of attaining an M.F.A in creative writing. Red Flags (Deep Sea Productions, 2009) is her first full-length album.

I made an appointment with someone who would alter my bridesmaid's dress without making me feel like I was completely clueless about such womanly things. She said she had plenty of time to make the alterations, but, she said kindly, "please do bring in your shoes and bra."

This meant that I had to buy shoes and a bra.

I have at least enough to sense to comprehend that I can't wear my Mary Jane styled Earth shoes or strappy, rubber-soled Tevas with a satiny periwinkle gown. Nor can I wear the flimsy cotton thing I wear that masquerades as a sports bra for women who are still waiting for their breasts to appear.

So yesterday (when one student canceled because she was striking the set of a play and another student canceled because she happens to attend one of the schools currently shut down to prevent the spread of the ever-so-mysterious Swine flu--oh, whoops--H1N1 virus), I grabbed the opportunity to devote some time to preparing myself for this venture as a Bridesmaid.

First stop: Payless Shoes. Yes, I decided to go for sensibly priced shoes (which, in the end, means not-so-sensibly cut around the awkward shape of my small, wide foot). I deliberated for what seemed like hours, trying on this pair, then that pair and attempting to walk in skinny heels. I toppled over not once but at least three times, nearly taking out an entire display of Airwalks. The woman behind the counter was filing her nails and eyeing me suspiciously. Did she think I was going to jack a pair of shoes? What, me?!

I finally opted for a pair that seemed to fit me the most comfortably but that also sported an impressive height. I don't think Payless even sells dress-up shoes without dramatic heels.

Then I remembered that I happen to own an actual bra--one with all the busty details: a push up wire, padded cups (because I don't think they even make bras in my size without padding), and maybe even fancy lace. I managed to find the bra, tucked away in a drawer with other things I never wear.

And on I went, to the kind women who agreed to alter my dress, un-sensible shoes and busty bra in tow.

When I arrived, she had me slip into a dressing room to put on the dress, with the vital shoes and bra. I carefully put on the dress, shoes, and busty bra, then told her I was ready for the pins. She came in, took one look at me and said, fervently, "Oh, you're not wearing that bra are you?"

She must have seen the disappointment on my face. Now I didn't have the right bra?! Why was this entire process so difficult? Navigating the dress-up world leaves me feeling completely lost and ridiculously frumpy. I stammered something about it being the only bra I have.

She must have felt sorry for me (either because I was so clearly clueless or because I was so clearly in need of a bra that actually fits me, I can't be sure), because she put her hand on my arm and said, "You look lovely. You just can't wear that bra."

She had me slowly turn in a circle while she inspected the lines and contours of the dress, then she said, "You can't wear any bra at all with this dress. No bra. No bra!"

This created a number of challenges, because without the padded bra, the chest of the dress drooped drastically. "Why don't they make bridesmaid dresses that fit women with the body of a twelve-year-old boy?" I asked.

"I will sew you some cups into the dress," she said matter-of-factly.

She asked me to slowly turn in a circle while she pinned the dress for the hem. And that's when my bitterness about the whole process turned a bit softer. As I stood there, in my un-sensible shoes and partially fitting dress, with this warm and unfamiliar woman at my feet, holding pins in her teeth and gently folding the excess fabric that spilled onto the floor, I realized that (antiquated and patriarchal as weddings may be) this process of women tending to each other in preparation for the union of friends is part of a long tradition. And I felt beautiful, standing there in satin periwinkle, even though the dress fit funny, and my hair was mussed in long, tangly pigtails.

And I have had the honor of being there with my friend Nicole as she goes through multiple wedding dress fittings. She stands in front of a full-length mirror, another warm and unfamiliar woman at her feet, pinning, folding, gently smoothing out the long pieces of soft white, while another bridesmaid and I sit, awed at the sight of Nicole's dark curls cascading over her shoulders. She is stunningly beautiful, and we, a roomful of unlikely grouped women, gathered in a small room surrounded by fabric tape and mirrors, are all mesmerized by the intricacy of the inlaid beading, the detailed stitching and draw of the waist, the long, billowing arcs of silky white textile brushing the floor.

So in the end, I am grateful to be a part of this. I may be clueless about how to apply make-up or how to shop for shoes, or even that one needs to have her shoes before getting her dress hemmed, but I still find some loveliness in the tradition and careful attention that goes into this whole thing. There is this unexpected intimacy, an inherent sweetness, about the care and fuss and gentle handling of fabric and folds.

Shoes and bra kerfuffle aside, maybe this stint at being a bridesmaid (just this one time, for Nicole) isn't so bad.

Dress Stress

"Hello?"

"Hi, I am going to be a bridesmaid in a friend's wedding and the dress needs some alterations. Can I make an appointment with you?"

"You have your bra and shoes, of course."

"Well...I hadn't really gotten that far yet."

"I can't help you unless you have your bra and shoes."

(Fidget, sigh, annoyed.) "Ok. I....I guess that makes sense. I just don't have them yet. Can I come in next week?"

"When's the wedding?"

"May 30."

(Horrified.) "OH NO! NOT ENOUGH TIME!"

"Ugh, well, I can come today but I don't have shoes or a bra."

(Snippity.) "There is nothing I can do for you. That's how it works. You have to have shoes and a bra. I can't do anything."

Angry. "Fine! I'll do it myself."

Click.

Ring, ring.

"Mom? Do you think I can alter my bridesmaid's dress on my own?"

"On your own?!"

"Yes. On my own. I have a sewing machine."

"I wouldn't even try. You might mess it up."

(Embittered, pouting.) "Ugh. I hate this process!"

(Judiciously.) "Honey? You have your shoes already, right?"

all in a day's work

I am only beginning to wrap my head around the fact that in three months, I will be leaving Minnesota. I am moving to Washington state to pursue an MFA in creative writing, which is incredibly exciting and exactly what I want to be doing, but it's also very sad to imagine leaving all of my students, friends, and favorite coffee shops. And the Minnesota Opera. And Summit Avenue in springtime. And the Ecopolitan. And, you know, many many things, kids, and people that I love.

It dawned on me yesterday, as I was teaching and encountering a string of write-able events, that when I leave piano teaching, I may not have anything left to write about. Which clearly defeats the purpose of pursuing an MFA. Of course, this just isn't true--there is always something to write about. But this stint as a traveling piano teacher has given me immense opportunity for storytelling.

For example, one of my young voice students, an excitable eight-year-old who loves High School Musical, said to me at the end of her lesson the other day, "Liz, I actually do have a question for you."

"Sure," I said. "What is it?"

She wrinkled her nose. "The song, 'I Won't Grow Up' makes me think of...popcorn."

I raised my eyebrows, not surprised at all that her "question" came in the form of a curious opinion. "Popcorn? That's interesting. Don't you like popcorn?"

"NO," she said definitively. "My mom has wheat allergies, and popcorn makes her tired. So any song that reminds me of popcorn just isn't fun to sing."

I smiled and told her that was just fine, we have plenty of other songs to sing, and that was that.

-------

I left her house to teach a longstanding piano student, an eleven-year-old who (not that I pick favorites) is one of my favorites. She has, however, taken to exhibiting lax practicing habits, which has put a bit of strain on our relationship. She is currently learning about major scales, which is incredibly exciting material for me. I speak in exaggeration exclamation points when teaching her about tetrachords and the circle of fifths. "And there are two tetrachords in every major scale! It's always the same! Just like puzzle pieces! Look, here is a song practicing your major scales!"

At her lesson the other day, when I went off into frantic scale-happy (ionian) mode, she rolled her eyes. "I don't want to play that song," she said.

"But it's called Jumpin' Jazz Cat! Using your Major Scales!"

"Liz," she said, disinterestedly and sounding quite annoyed, "I know this song has nothing to do with jazz or cats."

This same kid, however, quickly became animated when it was time for me to leave. Her mom and I were discussing my upcoming move to Washington, and out of nowhere, the kid stole my keys. "Now you can't leave!" she said, grinning devilishly.

"Lisa, I need my car keys. I'm not leaving for a few months. But right now I have to go to my next lesson. I'll see you next week."

Dejectedly, she looked at her watch and stared at the numbers and the ticking hands. "I'll be watching the clock, "she said.

-----

Lastly, I have one more story, from that same day. I have a five-year-old piano student who doesn't give two shits about playing the piano. He really, truly just doesn't care. At first, I took it personally and expended massive amounts of energy trying to get him to love piano lessons and learning to read music, but after a while I just gave up. I show up once a week to sit with him and encourage him to sit still long enough to find C Position, and that's about as far as we get.

This week, we were attempting to read some below-the-staff notes. Very, very slowly, he recited the note names by taking complete guesses each time. "Uh...G? C? D?"

I sat still and stared out the window. "No. Nope. No. No, not C. Nope."

"F? E? Um...C?"

"No. Nope."

This continued for a while, and finally I grew irritated. "LOOK at the staff," I growled in angry teacher voice. "THAT'S middle C. One below it is B. One above it is D. It's in ALPHABETICAL ORDER." I was gripping my pencil and smacking his book with the tip. The poor kid was clueless and now also feeling terrible.

Furiously, I scrawled out a worksheet for him on a piece of notebook paper. "HERE," I said, "Practice identifying the notes. Write in the note names."

The kid, with his gigantic brown eyes, silently took the paper and the pencil and stared at it blankly. I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair, a vague feeling of guilt tapping at the soft pump of my heart. I mean, poor kid. He really doesn't care about piano lessons, and here I was, giving him a hard time.

I turned to look at him, huddled over the impromptu worksheet, as he began to tentatively write on the page. I sighed, thinking, "Ah, now he knows what he's doing. That's all it took!"

Then I looked a bit closer. This kid who really truly doesn't give two shits about piano, was starting to write on the page...but as I inspected his markings further, I realized that he was drawing nonsense characters! Not A, B, or C. Not D, E, or F. No! He was drawing these bizarre symbols that weren't letters at all! (By the way, I know that this kid CAN read and write--I have seen it many times before.)

Suddenly, I realized how funny this whole argument was and started to laugh. "What the heck are you drawing, Joey?"

He looked at me with his big eyes and started giggling too. "I don't know," he said.

"Alright. Sorry I was impatient with you. Do you need some help?"

He nodded, and together we worked on the worksheet. I don't think he learned anything, or even that he cares any more about piano.

But sometimes the line between teacher and student is a blurry one, isn't it?

Absent: me

Recently, a kid I know said to me, "We have two cats here, Liz, so you should never bring over your dog."

I used to have a dog. With Stacia. That was last summer, in another life, and this kid would have no way of knowing this.

"What do you mean...my dog?" I asked, carefully. Had I mentioned Luna at some point? Perhaps in a mourning blackout? Or did this kid get the juice from the other, older kids at the pre-school, who knew me when I really did have a dog? Maybe there is an underground gossip circle among the five-year-olds. ("Jimmy, did you know that Spanish teacher Liz used to have a dog? Yeah, and then she left her lesbian relationship and lost all her parental rights. Now she can't keep the attention of her part-time undergraduate lover and has placed her cats in the care of a bunch of pot-riddled bachelors. She's really going downhill..")

"Your dog, silly," the kid said, as though I should know exactly what she was talking about. "The one you told us about!"

I tried to remember when on earth I had mentioned Luna. I have been very careful not to mention her over this past year because kids love animals and they love identifying outside-of-school family life, and the prospect of explaining a lesbian break-up to other people's children seems really complicated to me. How could I sufficiently explain that Luna is not my dog anymore, and that I never see her but that she still exists?

As I considered all of this, of course I felt that old pang of sadness rearing her weary head. I miss Luna. I miss Stacia. I miss that life sometimes. I miss the predictability of a puppy, of a partner. To make it all the more pertinent, I had recently discovered an issue of Animal Tracks, the Animal Humane Society's quarterly magazine, in which Stacia and Luna were featured.

Surprise! There is my old life, plastered on the glossy pages of a magazine.
Absent: me.

The article detailed Stacia's process of adopting Luna. How she chose her. How she named her. How she trained her. Indeed, in the real story, I was there for all of it. We chose her. We named her. We trained her. But of course, I was blaringly absent from the article. I mean, of course. Why on earth would Stacia mention me? (Oddly enough, though, her ex-ex-partner in Australia got a mention in the first paragraph!)

In any case, I stood there, trying to decide how to respond to this kid. I still, for the life of me, couldn't figure out how she knew that I used to have a dog.

"I told you about my dog?" I asked, confused.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Your dog. You know, Bingo!"

Then she burst into a rendition of the song Bingo in Spanish. "Un perro grande tengo yo, y ya se llama Bingo...." and I burst out laughing.

I teach that song in Spanish class. In Spanish, the words are a little different than the English version. Instead of the farmer owning the dog, the narrator owns the dog. Therefore, since I teach the song, I am always saying, in Spanish, "I have a big dog named Bingo."

This kid took it literally. She had no idea about Luna at all!

The encouraging part of this story is that I have never directly translated the meaning of that song. She understood the literal translation quite well! Next time I sing, "I have a big dog named Bingo," in any language, I will be prepared to end with a disclaimer about how the "I" in the song is actually a fictional narrator, not Spanish teacher Liz.

And if all those kids believe that I actually embody the narrator of these goofy songs, I must appear to have quite the enchanting life! I wonder what they think when I sing Puff the Magic Dragon. Or the song about dancing vegetables. Or the one about bear who combs his hair!

Evening Prayer (Mojo)

Sacred choral music will always, always make me think of Catherine. Tonight, in the stillness of a sanctuary surrounded by howling wind, I listened to a day's end prayer service with the Minnesota Compline Choir. A friend is a member of the choir, and when I was trying to decide whether to go to the bar tonight or to the compline service (it actually was a toss-up), I figured, what the hell, let's go with introspective instead of sloshy open mic night.

It was lovely. And it made me miss Catherine. She was so incredibly different from me but we both loved choral singing--that's how we met, really. It's been almost two and a half years since she died, but her phone number is still in my phone. Because I am so aware of her tonight, and because there is this whirring wind outside, stirring up the leftover leaves from last fall now that the snow has melted away to exposed earth, here's an excerpt from a bigger piece of writing about her/me/our friendship...


In college, I would stroll across the Quad, taking my sweet time, watching the ground for the best leaves I could find from the maple trees that surrounded the campus. I was especially drawn to scarlets and oranges that erupted into each other, unabashedly crossing fragile veins on such a tiny palette. When I found a perfect leaf, I would pick it up, straining to juggle the weight of the books on my back and the inevitable choir folder in my arms, and I would tuck the leaf inside the black pocket of the folder, safely burrowed next to Ralph Vaughn Williams or Francis Poulenc.

I was chronically late, divided between a life of consumption and daydreamer dawdling, and I would slowly saunter, weighted down by the mass of my backpack, around to the back of the music building. Liltingly, I would descend into the lower level where the women’s choir would already be rehearsing.

I would try to make my entrance as swift and silent as possible as I trudged, the sound of my bright pink rain boots impossible to stifle, to the second row, where I would find my seat next to Catherine. Predictably, I would set my things on the ground, shuffle through my folder, with its loose papers and coffee-stained sheets, and, as I pulled out the Poulenc, I would also quietly find the vivid maple leaf and hand it to Catherine, wordlessly, as we joined in the vocalises.

I don’t know how or why I picked up the habit of handing off autumn leaves, but it seemed to be a token of friendship. I gave leaves to lots of my choir friends—maybe it was a sort of clumsy apology for my chronic tardiness, or maybe I just wanted to share the tiny pieces of beauty, abundant but so often passed over, that I encountered on my sluggish walks.

Catherine would smile as I handed her another leaf, and she would tuck it into her choir folder, which was crisp and sturdy, her sheet music securely fastened into its bindings.


And one more. This one is in honor of hair. I am going to be a bridesmaid in my friend Nicole's wedding this spring and recently announced over lunch with Nicole and another bridesmaid that I am going to do something crazy and actually shave for this. Of course, I meant body hair. The other friend, not realizing exactly what I meant, said, "Your head?!"

I shaved my head when I got sober. I decided to do away with everything—the alcohol, the depression, the shame, and shedding my hair was a sort of living metaphor: a new beginning, shedding old skin. I loved the way the sun felt on my naked head, just like I loved the way the world looked through crisp, unaltered eyes.

Catherine didn’t have the choice. Losing her jet-black curls wasn’t about a new beginning.

One fall Saturday, when she was recovering from her first round of chemotherapy treatments, Catherine, her brother, and mother, and her aunt pulled up in front of my brick apartment building to pick me up for a day at the Renaissance Festival. I hadn’t seen Catherine in months, and I wasn’t sure what to expect about her energy or spirits, but when I plopped into the car next to her, in the backseat, she grinned and said, “Do you like my haircut?”

Laughing, I touched her bare head. “I love it!” I said.

Inside my brick apartment, in a wicker basket on the floor, there was a hat made of the softest lambs wool I could find that I had been knitting for her bald head. I hadn’t finished it yet, but I imagined her wearing the striped hat, red because it was her favorite color, the soft yarn gently resting on top of her head.

We drove through a rainy morning, the colors of the trees brightening against the backdrop of gray clouds. I sat, snug, in between Catherine and her brother Pat, who looked exactly like her, with his dark, dark curls and big brown eyes.

“I am going to shave my head in solidarity,” I announced, suddenly.

Catherine smiled and said, teasingly, “Again?”