You know how sometimes, a long-forgotten memory will make its way to the surface for no apparent reason?  All of a sudden, the scene is playing in your mind – like a film projector on an old bed sheet, nostalgic home video remembrances of life before you knew the things you know now.

The other day, that was happening for me.  I was seeing our Dalmatian, Princess, and games on what must have been the original Apple computer, and Otter Pops from the freezer in the garage, and the orange tree in our old backyard, and trips to the Dairy Queen on our bikes, and summer nights in the backyard, and getting beaten up by the deaf girl in 1st grade…

WAIT A SECOND.

It totally threw a wrench in my gears, a hitch in my giddy-up.  I was beaten up?  In 1st grade?  By the deaf girl?

(Let it be known that these days, I would absolutely, 100% use the term “hearing impaired.”  But remember, I am being transported back to 1989, when I didn’t know anything about being politically correct.  I also didn’t know that you shouldn’t swallow toothpaste – but I digress.)

The last time I checked, I do not have multiple personalities… yet… and so I’m not quite sure how this memory got repressed for all these years only to surface two decades later.  But just like that, in the middle of my work-day, I was transported back to recess in 1st grade, on the playground at Oster Elementary, scared every single day that the deaf girl from 2nd grade was going to beat me up again.

She had pigtails.  She had hearing aids.  And she had it out for me.

I never got up the nerve to tell anyone.  I just went on being afraid every day.  And I don’t know that I’ve ever been so relieved as the day when a playground aid caught the little shrew in the act, and made sure she never touched me again.

Hey, if I was forced to re-live this story, then you can be sure that I would subject you to it, too.  What else is a blog audience for?

And two more nubbins:
-    I fly to Seattle tonight.
-    My East Nasty of the Week column will be resurrected next week.

Sometimes, I need help.  But I don’t like to admit it.  And if there is anything that I hate, it is feeling indebted to those around me – or, worst of all, a burden.  I value independence and cleverness and resourcefulness.  I like being in everyone’s good graces, and will do anything to make sure that I’m not asking anyone to go out of their way for me.

I am extra sensitive in this area because one time, several years ago, I took some friends up on something that they originally offered.  But something went wrong in the process, and I wound up being an inconvenience.  And rather than responding from a place of grace, they took a rather shame-based approach – pointing out each mistake on my part, blaming me for the disturbance, and even requesting me to write an essay about what I had learned from the experience.  They called it an “exercise.”

I still have those email exchanges, saved in a folder called “Hard Words,” to remind me to try to be gracious with those around me.  Words like that last for a long, long time.  (Incidentally, I also have a substantially larger folder called “Good Words,” so don’t cry for me, Argentina.)

Tomorrow night, I am heading to Seattle for a very, very quick trip.  Trips like this, where I want to pack in as much as I can without skimping on the people who are important to me, can be really stressful.  I want everyone to be happy.  I don’t want to spend 48-hours inconveniencing the people that I love.  I don’t want to leave, and arrive back in Nashville to an email that says, “Thanks for coming – YOU SUCK.”

But I should know this by now: my Seattle family welcomes me with open arms.  While many of my relationships have changed due to distance, it is silly for me to assume that my closest friends wouldn’t go out of their way to give me rides and host me and help me out; they would give me a kidney if I needed it.  Why is my natural assumption that I’m all alone in this world?

I’m not.  And I am grateful.

Seattle, I can’t wait to see you for a second.

Yesterday, I got some fantastic news.

Tyler got the Red Ribbon at preschool!

I can’t really remember what that means, except that only one kid gets it at the end of every day.  It has to do with some sort of virtue, I think – like sharing, or listening, or helping, or being kind.  And the Red Ribbon is a very big deal.  It’s an honor.

This was Tyler’s first time getting the Red Ribbon.  He was so excited and proud.  And this auntie’s heart is bursting.

I can’t wait to see him in Kansas for his 4th birthday at the end of the month – especially to watch him ride his tricycle with his short little legs.  (SQUEEEEEEE he is so cute!!!!)

- – - – - – - -

I don’t quite know how to segue between a preschooler and an R-rated movie – but has anyone else seen “Atonement”?  I watched it over the weekend, and cannot stop thinking about it.  A raw and brutal story set to the percussive rhythm of typewriter keys, it has left me speechless.

You must see it – that is, if you’re okay with some very sexual scenes and graphic violence.  Which… apparently, I am.

I dare you to try to convince me to see “Star Trek,” you nerd Joey.

Recording a song can be like architecture – you lay a foundation, and then build layers on top of it, one by one.

Yesterday, Josh and I made a scratch track, or a “shepherd,” as I like to call it – a single guitar track that will serve as the guide for the rest of the instruments of a particular song.  Everything else will be built around this track.  It’s an important first step.

But on its own, it’s a little bit sad-sounding.  When I have a certain final product in mind, full and dynamic, the small effort of a single guitar can make me doubt my efforts.  How could this lone track possibly be of any value?  It’s simple.  It’s rough.  It’s not even close to what I envisioned.

And yet, little by little, one piece at a time, we are able to add to that little shepherd track.  And with every layer, we get one step closer to the goal I had in mind.  Before I know it, I am listening to a full-bodied song – one that sounds like what I had hoped for all along.

While listening to that scratch track yesterday, I had the distinct thought, “Remember this.”  When you are aiming at the target but have no idea how you’re going to hit it.  When you have the destination but no roadmap.  When you have the dream but no way of knowing how to reach it.  When all you have is the first step.

“Whatever you do, or dream you can, begin it.  Boldness has genius and power and magic in it.” -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Last night’s catfish and collard greens isn’t sitting so well.  Since when have I been an eater of collard greens?  Sheesh.  I don’t know.  It strikes me as odd that I would willingly order something that people would only eat if rummaging for food in the forest.  It’s practically chard.

And yet, last night, it sounded so good.

I woke up this morning at the crack of dawn – although I’m not sure that it counts as the “crack” if the sun hasn’t come up yet.  After driving Mel to the airport in an outrageous thunderstorm, I hydroplaned home, used Julie’s expired inhaler, and crawled back into bed.

Bad idea.

Now, several hours later, I can barely type.  Albuterol does it to me; I am shaking like… a leaf?

Oooooh, it makes me so sad that I didn’t come up with a better simile.

Which reminds me of a fantastic list of similes, metaphors, and analogies I once saw – found in high school essays, submitted by English teachers across the country, and compiled into one glorious list.  They’re the best of the worst, and the worst of the best.  Here they are:

- – - – - – - -

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

- – - – - – - -

And just because it is fabulously senseless, here’s one of my favorite similes, brought to you by Patrick Swayze:

“She’s like the wind, through my tree.”

There is only one thing that would be enticing enough to make me skip “Lost” and pay $36 to go on a date with myself, by myself.

I mean, barring an NSYNC reunion tour.  Obviously.

Last night, I came home from work and changed my clothes.  I reapplied makeup.  I fluffed my hair, and wore my cute shoes, and took myself down to the Belcourt Theater.  I ordered a glass of wine, found a seat toward the middle, and proceeded to wait for the show to start.

If I’m going to take myself on a date, I am definitely going to be punctual.  Excessively punctual.  BECAUSE I’M WORTH IT!  (I might have been an hour early.)

But the show was worth the wait.  Matraca Berg (wrote a little ditty called “Strawberry Wine”), Gretchen Peters (wrote a little something called “Independence Day”), and Suzy Bogguss (looks as good today as she did in 1995) played a round.  Matraca is coming out with her first album in 10 years, and she played some of her new material; it was heart-stopping.  Suzy’s voice was effortless, strong, and true.  And Gretchen… well, in recent days, Gretchen has been my favorite writer (a position continually jockeyed for between Patty Griffin and Lori McKenna and Matraca and Gretchen).  When she sang “You Don’t Even Know Who I Am,” I couldn’t breathe – and didn’t realize it until the end when I finally exhaled.

Songs like these are my heart and soul – moments of definition in my often nebulous life.  Per Heather’s recommendation, I watched this fascinating piece, and loved hearing that “the mind of God is music resonating” (“…through 10-dimensional hyperspace,” but let’s not pretend that I know what that means).

It reminded me of this, which I had totally forgotten that I ever wrote.

I hope that you can do something that you love today.

If I were a nun, I’d be so happy
And sad.

Confession: I haven’t written a song since November.

GAH.  I don’t want anyone to know that!  I am such a fraud.

I feel like a snail – one that has been left out in the brutal sunshine, shriveled up inside its flimsy shell.  I feel no inspiration.  I have no ideas.

Oh, sure.  One might argue that I’ve had a few other things going on in recent months, taking a lot of my time and energy.  But still.  When I’m not writing – not outputting in some way – something important inside of me feels dead.

All I feel is tired.  Craving time alone, or maybe just an old dog, or a little toddler to snuggle.  I don’t want to have to explain myself to anyone.  I don’t want to have to find words to voice anything – because how can I possibly express what I’m feeling?

Huh.  This is an inconvenient stance for a so-called songwriter to take.

But I’ve been here before.  Remember?  And so I’m taking the same approach as last time, and giving myself the grace of filling up my mind with other stories, other songs, other ideas.  It worked last time – I wound up writing some new songs that I’m quite fond of, a few of which you HAVEN’T EVEN HEARD YET.

(Annie Parsons’ EP, coming soon someday to a website near you.)

So I need your help again.  What should I fill my mind with?  It can be a song, a book, an essay, a website, an article, a movie… what do you feel inspired by, or just plain enjoy?

I just finished season 1 of “Heroes,” and in spite of a ridiculous plotline and an often painful script, that was some good entertainment.  Destiny!  Purpose!  Exploding humans!  I’ve been listening to some great songs – Julie Miller’s “Give Me an Ocean,” and Kasey Chambers’ “Nothing At All,” and Vienna Teng’s “City Hall.”  And it is difficult to make me much happier than to turn on “This American Life” or “The Moth.”

On the other end of the spectrum, I’ve been reading “The Catcher in the Rye” for TWO WHOLE MONTHS, and have recently decided not to finish it – because it is depressing as hell and let’s be honest: if I haven’t finished it by now, then I really don’t care at all about Holden Caulfield (case in point – I had to Google the book just now to remember his name).

Let’s all kick-start our hearts, shall we?  What do you love?

There have been a lot of times in the past several years when I have needed courage.  Between the ending of relationships, and a solo cross-country move, and feeling so alone I could barely breathe, and being relatively destitute, and getting roommates, and starting to share my music for the first time, and introducing myself to hundreds of new people, and continually putting myself out there… I have been through a lot of big, dramatic, grandiose transition.  Change is scary.

But for me, change is not the scariest thing.

In recent months, a lot of things have fallen into place for me.  I’m on stable ground.  I have a home, and a Tennessee family, and a great job, and a feeling of belonging.  I know my way around the city, and I’m involved in my church and various other groups, and I feel very much a part of the fabric of my Nashville community.  Things are steady.

Then why is my first instinct to run?

I’m finding that staying put requires a lot more courage than leaving.

I don’t even remember where I was, or how I got there – but there I was, cyber-stalking a stranger.

Sadly, this is how many of my stories begin.

And I came across a random crowd picture of last Saturday’s half-marathon.  Taken by a stranger, and uploaded in another stranger’s account.  A sea of hundreds of people.  What are the chances?  But guess who was in the middle, in her bright pink East Nasty shirt?

Looking back on these pictures, it’s hard to believe that the race actually happened.  But it did – and now it’s over – and I haven’t run since, making this the longest stretch I’ve gone without a run since November.

And I’m totally fine with that.

Wednesday night was Talent Night at work.  We rented out the Basement, a local venue, and 14 acts proceeded to take the stage.  We had singer/songwriters.  We had a bellydancer.  We had a girl who could “woooooo” like a siren.  We had a guy in a sandwich costume.

I played.  I was only going to do one song, but you get a couple of Long Islands in me, and I’m sorry, but I’m not going to stop.

But here’s the coolest thing about this week.

Remember Little Annie Parsons?

She came to Nashville.

And last night, I met – as my friend Matt calls her – my very own Muppet Baby.

The Other Parsons are wonderful, and we ate with chopsticks at P.F. Changs, and talked about homeschooling and honky tonks and Sarah Palin and the difference between “flirting” and “stalking.”  Oh, to be 13 when Facebook existed…

Annie and her younger sister Katie are two of the most poised, comfortable, intelligent, interesting girls I have met – a product of good parenting, and homeschooling-gone-right, and a delightful cocktail of genes.  I would choose to hang out with them over a lot of people my age.

At one point, Mr. Parsons said, “Annie?” and we both looked up and said, “Yes?”

They’re coming back in October.  We’re hanging out then, too.

I love the internet, and I love The Other Parsons.