Well, here we go: take 2.

After yesterday’s failed attempt, today I succeeded in my mondo Tour de Nashville on foot. I kept my eyes open for anything that might catch my attention; here are some of the many.

Immediately, I was reminded that spring is almost here.

Did you know that there is a full-scale, exact replica of the Parthenon in Nashville? I KNOW. Can you say ran-dom? It’s kind of cool, though. I wish I had a toga or some olives or something.

I found a little pond to walk around. It’s not exactly Green Lake (which I miss like the bullseye on a dartboard – i.e. “often”), but it has a slightly similar feel.

Every time I see a little duck pair, I think of them as Opal and Willard. Don’t they look like an Opal and Willard – an old married couple that’s just living their every-day life? As comfortable with each other as they are with themselves?

Another sign of life.

I walked past a Methodist church with it’s doors wide open and it’s sanctuary empty. It had been a long time since I had seen stained glass and grandeur in a sanctuary, and I liked to think that the silence was pregnant with the prayers of those who had worshiped there this morning.

I-40 East / I-65 South. Glamorous.

Empty railroad tracks close to downtown.

I cannot tell you how happy I was to see these flowers blooming in Nashville; it reminded me of Seattle. Can you tell I’m missing Seattle these days?

Here are some of the honky tonks on Broadway downtown. To witness them in their full glory, you kind of have to see them on a weekend night: neon lights flashing, and twangy bands in the windows, and cheap beer flowing like milk and honey. They are magnificently tacky.

Speaking of tacky…

This is the AT&T Building downtown. It’s the most prominent building on the Nashville skyline, as it bears a striking resemblance to Batman.

What century am I in?

I wanted to get another Americano at Crema, but it was closed.

This cracked me up.

Downtown Nashville is full of murals, and while a lot of them are cheesy and gaudy, this one struck me as harsh and solemn.

I logged 8.11 miles (check out MapMyRun.com – it’s a great resource), and then came home to eat a ham sandwich. You can bet that I’ll do this again – but maybe next time, I’ll go somewhere dangerous or dilapidated. I’m thinking Nolensville Pike. It will be The Walk: Rated R.

You can take the girl out of Seattle, but…

It started as such a good idea. On New Years’ Day, Greta had done a mega-Seattle walk, 10+ miles with her digital camera, taking pictures of noteworthy things. So, I decided that today, I would follow suit and take several hours to explore Nashville on foot, using my new camera to document the things that caught my attention.

Above is the only picture that I took.

The first hour of the walk, I talked on the phone and ignored my surroundings. I wound up at Crema, a new-ish coffee shop with the best Americano I have had in Nashville to date. At this point, the sky was getting darker and heavier, and my Seattle instincts told me that rain was on the way.

As I weighed my options – brave the rain or stay at Crema forever – I perused the art on the walls at the coffee shop. They are currently featuring works by Aaron Grayum – delightful, whimsical paintings based on his childhood. Particularly, this one stood out:

It was a sign, right? I should brave the storm, right?

I did.

There comes a point in every girl’s life when it is simply impossible to be any more wet. And at that point, you boldly stand on street corners, embracing the fact that the passing cars will send tidal waves your way. You do not avoid, but rather, walk straight through puddles, allowing water to slosh into your sneakers. You smile at your fellow man caught in the same storm, bound together by your drenched circumstances.

And when you get home, you peel the 10 lbs. worth of wet cotton off of your body and take the most luxuriously hot shower known to man. And you know that that? What you just did? When you let your mascara run and didn’t care that your hair got ruined and accepted the fact that I am powerless over this situation so I might as well enjoy it? Is liberation.

I’m no poet.

In the past, I have fretted over the fact that I am not a poet. How can someone who loves words and beauty and communication and emotions so much not have a poetic soul – a deep spring of sparkling and devastating words, words that cause others to pause and reflect and absorb? How will I ever write a good song if I am not a poet? For the life of me, I cannot write eloquently or metaphorically or artistically. I can only write simple, tongue-in-cheek, authentic accounts of what I know to be true – which, I suppose, can work in country music and, well, blogging.

But I appreciate when other people craft their words in a way that makes me stop and think, and to emerge on the other side with a certain familiarity with myself that I didn’t have before.

Today, I got an email from my friend Miranda. Miranda occasionally offers these zingers of sentences – words that stick to my ribs and cause me to return to the idea again and again.

This is what she said:
“When part of what is in your deepest fabric is silently remembered by what is in another’s deepest fabric, you are so much more at rest.”

What a beautiful idea: silent remembrance.

That is love.

There have been times in my life when I have thought, “I wish I could get stuck on a desert island.” Don’t get me wrong – only for a month or two, and always with the assurance that a yacht would come pick me up on a certain day.

I could have time and space to myself. I could spend endless hours with no sound, no voices, no human interaction. I could think and read and write. I would be forced to deprive myself of sugar, as there would be none around. When I finally left, I would be so breathlessly ready to re-enter society.

And then, I thought, who needs an island? That’s just my desk job.

Growing up in small town western Colorado, country music was always playing. At the grocery store, in restaurants, in everyone’s cars – this music created the backdrop for my childhood. However, as is often the case, eventually the cool kids decided that country music wasn’t “cool,” and I followed suit. I assumed that in order to affiliate myself more closely with the cool kids rather than the hicks, I should listen to Green Day and Alanis Morissette (whose “Jagged Little Pill” album, let it be noted, remains one of my most formative musical experiences – I still love it*).

But when I was 13, through a variety of circumstances, I heard three songs that captured me and, although I didn’t see it at the time, literally changed my life. And they were all on country radio.

Brooks & Dunn’s “My Maria” was full of harmonies and awesome background parts, and was one of the most feel-good songs I had ever heard. Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine” exploded from the speakers, and was sassy and fun and different – a lively, cheeky, boot-stompin’ ride. And finally, Deana Carter’s “Strawberry Wine” tugged at my emotions like I had never experienced until then. Written by Matraca Berg, who turned out to be one of my favorite writers, the song is intensely autobiographical, and tells the story of one girl’s loss of innocence. It’s a song, but even more, it’s a story; I love that country music has retained the craft of story-telling.

These three songs opened up the door for me to learn the rich history of country music. “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” “’Til I Can Make It On My Own”… Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline and Tammy Wynette and George Jones… My spirit was fed by these songs, and they set me off on a path that has led me to where I am today: living in Nashville, attempting to write better songs, and just maybe, good songs. I want to write truthful music. Sometimes I succeed, and sometimes I crash and burn, writing things that are so banal and cheesy that I would never share them with anyone. But I keep trying, so inspired by the writers of good music.

Which is why Toby Keith’s latest song, “She’s A Hottie,” feels like a kick in the back of the knee-cap. Haven’t heard it? Hmmm, let me give you a sampling of some of the lyrics:

Hottie! She’s a hottie! Got a smokin’ little body!
String bikini and a barbed-wire tat,
She’s a rockin’ that cowboy hat!

Hey mister! Yeah, I kissed her!
Son, you oughta see her sister!

Toby Keith is huge. He’s HUGE. People love him. And I don’t get it.

It’s writing like this that helps me to understand when people tell me that they don’t like country music. OF COURSE you don’t like country music, when this is what’s represented on the radio.

I challenge us all to expect more from our music. There are amazingly talented people out there, full of musical depth and craft, and just because they aren’t readily accessible on the radio doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t go digging for them. Good music is enriching and transporting and, as I can attest to, potentially life-changing.

And if you have any suggestions of songs/albums that I just need to hear, regardless of genre, I want to know what they are.

*Perhaps you remember Alanis’ song “You Oughta Know.” Jonathan Coulton did a cover of this song, and you can access it here. It is one of the most remarkable transformations of a song I have ever heard, and proves that there are no bounds to a well-written song. However, please note that this is a very raw and adult song, and there are some vulgarly honest and potentially offensive words (yep, including an F-bomb). If this might affect you, don’t listen. But if you’ve been jaded by exposure to harsh words and years of hard livin’, like I have, then check it out.

Him: “I’m studying geology.”

Me: “Geology rocks!”

Him:

In the spirit of the ever-elusive hottness, I have decided that I have gone long enough without exercising. It is time to recommit. Never would I have guessed that this was going to be the last time I ever moved a muscle, but sadly, I have been confronted with the truth that deep down, in my corest of cores, I am positively slothful.

The Big Trip, which encompassed the days between September 10 and January 4, was a glorious lethargy, a near-4-month hiatus from all things health related. Drink wine at least 5 nights/week? Check. Eat nothing but cheese? Check. Quit exercise cold-turkey? Yes, please.

The result was a gaining of 12 pounds, and I know that it was precisely 12 pounds, because I keep an eye on the scale. I watched each pound as it schmooped itself onto my body, and before I knew it, I didn’t have a single pair of pants that fit me. This didn’t stop me, though, because believe it or not, it is quite pleasant to do nothing but consume wine and cheese. And there are always skirts, right?

Eventually, I landed here in Nashville, and for the past 2 months, have been getting myself back onto a healthy diet. I’ve been calorie counting, and eating from the food pyramid, and trying not to eat too many brownies. This has helped get the number on the scale back down to where it should be, but ultimately, my body has been crying out for a challenge. My muscles have atrophied, but more depressingly, my spirits have been at a low that can only be attributed to a lack of endorphines.

So, when I found out that there is a gym in the building at work, I told myself that now was the time. I signed up.

It’s an amazing thing to feel muscles begin to work again. They remember! They remember how to be strong, even if they’re not back to fighting form yet. My bum hip is crying out, but as I stretch it and work it, it’s feeling better. My lungs feel positively mighty. My heart can’t quite keep up with my will yet, but the day will come when I’ll be back to my mega-workouts.

This is the only body I get, flaws and all. I choose to treat it well. This is my recommitment.

Today was a day for things that needed doing. Sleeping. Drinking coffee. Cleaning. Laundry. And yes, the moment you have all been waiting for: making a video of my new little home.

I present to you: Chez Hootenannie.

New home in Nashville from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

I love it! Don’t you love it? It’s so me! And so… feminine. Woe to the man who someday weds and thus, has to share a home with Annie Parsons. I’m never getting rid of my flowered chair – you can be sure it’ll be in my pre-nup.

And now, a few things that I could not highlight in the video, but would like to call your attention to…

1) This is the wicked tile on the bathroom floor.

2) This is my random, largely functionless collection of bright colored dishes.

3) This is my oh-so-organized, color-coded closet.

4) This is my bright, pleasantly arranged medicine cabinet.

And no, that is not zit cream on the top shelf. I’m 25 – of course I don’t still get zits. Of course I don’t. Of course I don’t.

Last year, when I moved away from Seattle, I gave up a lot.

I know that things weren’t perfect. But in my 7 years in the Emerald City, I established quite a life for myself. Friends who became family. A home that I loved. The opportunity to do music on a regular basis. The knowledge of a city that comes only with time and experience. The feeling that I belonged.

Seattle was home. My little studio in Wallingford was home. The people made it home.

When I moved out of my apartment last June, in the last frantic moments of trying to pack everything up before I had to turn over the keys, I took my canister full of flour and dumped it out into the trash can. I hate to waste anything, but it didn’t make sense to move something like flour along with me; I knew that someday, I would root myself somewhere else, and refill that canister at that time. I hoped for that day – anticipated that that day would someday be a reality.

Fast-forward 8 months to where we are right now. I spent a long time living out of boxes, and even when I moved into my apartment here in Nashville last month, I was without furniture. I have basically had to start over, building a household almost from scratch. This has been a challenge, especially with no budget and no grown-up friends to give me their hand-me-downs. It’s funny what we take for granted…

But it amazes me that no matter how old I get, it still feels good to know that I have parents who will drop everything to help me out. Earlier this week, my mom and dad drove the 9 hours from Kansas City with a truck-load of boxes and furniture, and spent 48 hours whipping my home into shape.

They were rock stars. They hung curtain rods and pictures, and moved in a couch and a bookshelf and a table and chairs, and put my new license plates on the Honda, and took me shopping for some necessities. They loaded up my pantry with soup and salsa and chips, and my freezer with chicken breasts and loaves of bread. They bought toilet paper and allergy medicine and a trash can for my bedroom. And yes: they got me a bag of flour.

As I was transferring the flour from the bag to the canister, I was filled with this strange sort of hope – a feeling that everything was going to be okay. Life is not always going to be stable and comfortable, but no matter how uneasy I feel, I know that it won’t always be that way. Someday I will have flour in the can again.

So while Nashville doesn’t exactly feel like “home” yet, my little apartment does. And it’s amazing how much that buoys my spirit right now.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. Even at 25, it’s times like this when I am so thankful that I’m still just your kid. And I don’t know that I will ever understand your selfless acts and gifts until I’m a parent myself.

I’ve run across some fantastic things that simply have to be shared.

For starters, we have this. Disturbing, yes – but the reviews are fantastic!

Secondly, are you having trouble waking up in the morning? This is such a brilliant concept, I wish I’d invented it.

And last of all, I had seen this before, but my friend Mark sent it to me again last night. It makes me want to have British babies, or at least just point and laugh at them.