S.K. Waller's Blog, page 12

Guitars, Biscuit Cans, and Champagne

Restringing my guitars has always been my least favorite thing about being a guitarist, especially when the guitar is a 12-string. It's not only time-consuming, it's stressful. It can even be dangerous. On my personal anxietyometer it scores even higher than opening a biscuit can or a bottle of champagne.

You know. Those biscuit cans by Pilsbury. The ones that require you to peel the paper label off and you never know when the cardboard can is going to pop open. Sometimes they do, if the pressure is higher than usual, and sometimes they don't and you have to press the edge of a spoon into the seam to force it open. Used to be, they never opened until you banged the can on the edge of the kitchen counter, but these days nothing's consistent.

Champagne bottles are the same. Most corks won't pop out until you twist the bottle a bit. (I learned the trick to perfect bottle openage from a pro years ago: tilt the bottle 45 degrees, cover the top with a cotton dish towel and twist the bottle, not the cork, slowly, and gently ease it out, allowing the pressure to escape a little at a time, thus, no spewing, no waste, no mess.) But sometimes, the cork will go flying the second you loosen the bale. I've seen this happen any number of times—the ceiling of our house on James Place probably still bears the mark of one cork and on another occasion I saw a friend receive a black eye from one. And on her birthday no less.

Life is dangerous, people. Shit happens.

Yesterday, I got a new set of Martin Silk & Steels for my Luna 12-string. It being my first time to restring this beauty, I had no idea what to expect. The scariest string is the 6th string—the octave G, which is actually just an E tuned up to either F, or, in my case, G. That's a lot of pressure to put on the most delicate string of the 12. I can't count how many times in the past, on other guitars, this string has snapped while I tuned it up. I used to buy an extra just in case, but this being a high-quality, custom instrument, I exercised a little faith. The only real mishap was when I removed the old 10th string (octave A) and the curly bit that came off of the tuner lunged into my thumb like a fish hook. No matter what I did, it wouldn't dislodge and my thumb is still bruised. After putting a Band-Aid on it, I got back to work and everything went really well.

My usual method of restringing a 12-string is to remove and replace one string at a time so as not to  release too much pressure on the neck; a 12-string bears up to 200 lbs. of tension and if a string snaps, it can do a lot of damage if it connects with a sensitive body part...like an eye. I start with the bottom strings—the heavier ones, E, A and D of which there are two each, one high and one low—then go to the top E and B (also two each, but the same gauge), saving the Gs in the middle of the neck until last. I don't know if this is the right way or not, but it's always worked for me when the time came to confront that tiny little 6th string.

They all went on great and they all tuned up smoothly with little to no slipping beneath the pegs, but to be safe I decided to tune it to D and let it sit overnight before taking it on up to E. Because of the superior truss rod in the neck of this guitar and the fact that the strings I bought are light gauge, I don't foresee any problems. Luna makes excellent instruments. Pilsbury, as well as a couple of champagne labels, could take a few lessons.

Dancing On the High Wire

Perhaps it's due to the trials I've faced from an early age and that I learned early on that we each live life principally alone, regardless of how many friends and family members we have. Almost from my birth I was put into situations from which I learned to take care of myself because there was no one else to do it for me. Consequently, asking for help has always been difficult and receiving help unbidden has been no easier. My mother always liked to tell the story about the time I uttered my first complete sentence. We were getting ready to go somewhere and when my grandmother tried to pick me up to carry me to the car I crossed my arms and said, "I can do it myself!" I don't remember this, so I must have been pretty young. And this has been my stance ever since.

The problem is, through the years, when I've been at my lowest and most needed friends, no one was there. I've always had a lot of friends, but no one ever popped by just to see how I was doing or to say, "Hey, you need to get out. Let's go have lunch." When I'm upbeat and sunny my Facebook comments run into the 30s and higher, but when I'm in crisis or am down and I say so, there are no comments except on those posts that are more upbeat. I get "Likes", but few if any comments. I understand why, though. It was I who created this Clown Effect, as I've always called it. I even wrote a song about it ("Big Top") when I was 16.

This is my Big Top,You've all loved my show;But oh, can you love meAfter you go?When the makeup comes offAnd the curtain goes down,Can you love meWhen I'm not your clown?
I'm not casting any blame on anyone, including myself. It's just what it is, what it always has been, and what I've grown used to. But in extremely trying times I have trouble. If someone says to me, "If you need anything, just let me know" or "I'm here if you want to talk" I'm probably not going to take them up on it. Sometimes, what I need is someone to impose themselves on me, to ask me how I am, to say, "Get dressed. We're going out."

I think that I've always projected myself as someone who's self-possessed, strong, and capable of handling things alone, but while I am all of those things, I'm not tough. I'm really pretty fragile and I'm more emotional than people believe me to be. If you see me wearing my red rubber nose, it's a pretty safe bet that I'm masking my feelings of hurt, depression, fear, or loneliness.

So what's the point of this entry? I don't know, but I'll delete it if I don't post it quickly. This is all pretty embarrassing for me and I certainly don't intend to place any guilt feelings on anyone. I'm just sharing, I guess, whispering, "I'm hurting and I feel alone."

One of my best friends back in the 1980s once said to me, "The egg is the strongest natural shape in the world. You're an egg: able to withstand tremendous pressure and stress, but also extremely fragile. Yeah, Kaye, you're an egg."

What Fresh Hell is This

We're experiencing a terribly difficult time just now with the bizarre disappearance of our daughter, Heather. I'm not going to flood this blog with photos and info. Instead, I've created a blog dedicated to our ongoing search, which has now been picked up by not only the police in both Oklahoma and Texas, but also by the FBI. Please click Heather's picture in the right sidebar to go to that blog, where we make updates whenever there's a new development. There's also a photo gallery and an anonymous info email link.

Please keep our family and Heather's friends in your thoughts and prayers. We all sorely need them. To say we've been gutted and are finding it increasingly hard to exist in Limbo (which I've discovered is its own kind of Hell), is too obvious. All I ask is that you keep Heather, and us, close to you during this time.

Thank you so much.

Help Us Find Our Daughter

If you've seen or heard from our daughter, Heather Weaver, please contact me immediately. She's been missing since Friday and disappeared under mysterious circumstances. We're quite literally devastated. Possible locations include Memphis and Oklahoma City.

The Secret to Great Writing

I'm fed up with all of the writing rules and tips people post all over Facebook, Twitter, and the web in general. It's art. It's craft. It's personal expression. It's called INDIVIDUALITY. When that 30-Something is me and has walked in my shoes (or even their own, for that matter) for six decades, maybe I'll listen. Until then, I'll write my way, according to my rules and my own internal prompts. The magic key is a myth, people. There is no secret formula, no rule or ritual that will make you a great writer. Quit allowing these would-be geniuses to make you feel like you're not "doing it right" and just frickin' write. That's the only advice you should listen to: "Just write."

When Old Farts Marry

I've been married twice before. Once when I was 18 (which ended with my being widowed eight months later) and once when I was 23 (which ended in divorce after three and a half years). Since 1977 I've shied away from marriage; the cruel realities of it had visited themselves rather harshly on me far too early in life. When I met Lynette marriage just wasn't in the realm of possibility so I never even considered it. I never needed that "piece of paper" to strengthen my commitment to her and our blended family, or to ourselves as a couple and our life together. In 2001 we had a Holy Union ceremony and that was good enough for me. It had to be. Then, earlier this month, Marriage Equality was passed in our state and we decided to take the plunge. We already felt married, but making it legal would grant us all the privileges and protections other couples take for granted as their inherent rights. I know. I did too when I was younger. It wasn't until I realized I'd forfeit my equality that I appreciated all that was wasn't open to me anymore. So two weeks ago we began planning a wedding ceremony to be performed here at Bookends Cottage in the presence of our closest friends and family members.

I don't care what anyone tells you. To plan and prepare an in-home wedding and reception is hard work and it's expensive. Unless you're under 50 and can afford food caterers and a team of people to come in and clean, rearrange furniture, decorate, and then undo everything afterward, my advice is DON'T DO IT. If you can afford a catered affair at a restaurant, a hotel, or some other place, do that instead. But that wasn't practical in our situation. We simply couldn't afford it. Instead, I did all the cleaning, Lynette decorated and did most of the errand-running, and we had a friend who volunteered to help with the food, including the gorgeous cupcakes she and her daughter made. But there was furniture to move, clutter to remove (books, plants, dog toys, etc.), and the house to clean from top to bottom.

On Friday morning we went to the courthouse to get our marriage license and on the way up the sidewalk I tripped and fell flat on my face. I mean, on my actual face. I had scuff marks on my nose and chin, my hands were bloody and I wrenched my right shoulder, but I was damned lucky. Lying face-down on the sidewalk in shock, all I could think was, "Oh, man, I hope I didn't break a hip or something and we'll have to hold the wedding in the hospital..." Lynette helped me up and, fortunately, everything except my dignity seemed to be intact. Makeup covered the scuff marks, some bandage took care of my hands and, later, champagne took care of the rest and everyone had a wonderful time. Until the next morning when I could hardly move and I knew there was no way the house was going to get put back in order anytime soon. Then, while moving the TV into the bedroom and plugging it in, Lynette gave herself a mild concussion. What a pair! She was dizzy all day and I hurt all over. Still, we had a restful, enjoyable day napping, nibbling on leftover party food and drinking champagne. In fact, we spent the entire weekend in bed, but oh, how these things change when age sets in.

The house is somewhat normal now, but moving the furniture back, hauling boxes in and out of the garage, vacuuming, and putting all the gifts away is going to have to wait until my shoulder is better. Honeymoon? What's that? When old farts marry the closest we get to a honeymoon is rubbing Icy Hot on each other while cooing, "Don't worry, sweetheart. We need to conserve our strength for the cleanup."

It's All About.Me

Unlike almost everyone I know, it took me a while to warm up to most of the social networks I now use. Twitter especially made me scratch my head. I'm still not sure I get it, but I spend a little time there every day, although I feel sort of alone and isolated, like I'm standing on a mountain top shouting only to receive echos in return. This weekend, however, I discovered a new one that I'm really enjoying, although I don't really know why. There's no chat, no feeds and no status updates, no games, no photo albums and no 20 gazillion birthday greetings to read and respond to.

It's called About.Me and you can check it out by clicking the ME button over there on top of the left sidebar. I think what I like about it is that it's so uncomplicated. Big background photo, bio, links, and linked screen captures of all the other MEs who like your page and whose pages you like for whatever reason. I admit I kind of wish it could be customized a little more, but they may get around to that in time. Its purpose? It's a place for people who don't want to be bothered with the labor, knowledge, and expense of either building their own site, or contracting a web developer.

We'll see what happens with About.Me. I like getting in on the ground floor of things like this if only to witness either their success or their demise. I remember BBS, Qlink, AOL, Prodigy, Compuserve and MySpace. I can't remember the names of all the SNs I've tried. Will About,Me make it? I don't know. These days, people look for the next Facebook like people in the Seventies looked for the next Beatles. I don't think About.Me is it, but it seems to be gaining popularity very quickly.

Making the Cut

Sometimes, you just have to make a change. I've been a particular person—perhaps I should say I've been in a particular phase—for the past five years or so, one during which I saw my 50s sliding away, taking middle age with them and forcing me to look my senior years in the face without flinching. This isn't easy for some people. It wasn't terrible for me, but I did have a hard time adjusting to no longer being attractive in a younger woman sort of way. I'm quick to add, however, that when the five year phase began I was seriously ill and my creativity had been dried up for well on 15 years. Hanging onto my youth was all I had left. Fortunately, over time, a combination of writing and taking the right meds fixed me up, an improved physical and mental state that really took hold just the past year.

With that emergence from my dark period came a new sense of self-esteem and turning 63 last month was a breeze. A celebration. Still, I needed a physical change to commemorate that emergence. Being "attractive in a younger woman sort of way" gave way to simply wanting my physical appearance to match the changes I've come through, the strides I've made, and my newly discovered sense of self. So today I had my waist-length hair cut off.



Hairstylists love to see people like me walk in their doors. They live to cut off long hair. Today, as I sat in the chair the stylist at the next station said to my stylist, "You got the fun cut today!" She then apologized to her client, saying she didn't mean her cut and style wasn't fun.

Life is changing all of a sudden and I find myself standing on the brink of an exciting new future. Don't let anyone tell you getting older sucks. Even with health issues it's what we make of it.

Don't Lift the Lid

At some point over the summer I came to the conclusion that blogging about my personal writing process wasn't really all that interesting to people. I don't mean the cool things about writing—the source of inspiration, the origin of characters, et cetera—I mean the nuts and bolts of my current project. This would be entirely different if I were a famous author like, say Rowling or Gaiman, but let's face it. Until one reaches that level of popularity in this celebrity driven world, nobody really cares. One still has to prove one's writing as interesting enough to attract the curiosity of readers who ask, "What made her write that?" and "I want to do that. What's her secret?" I have a long way to go.

Every writer I know wants to be taken seriously, to be fascinating and to draw readers to their blog. We write to be understood, after all, and it's completely natural that we should want our blog to be the vestibule to our house of creativity. The problem is, I can sometimes get so focused on decorating my front steps that I neglect my parlor. Pretty welcome mat, dark and untidy  living room.

Many years ago, in 1971, when I was a professional Hollywood musician performing in concerts and television, I came up with a great idea for an album. It was a new idea at the time, one that Linda Rondstadt's people came up with a few years later: an album made up entirely of covers from the late Fifties and early Sixties. There was nothing like that out there yet; people were still creating new stuff and no one was looking backward at any kind of glory days. There were no glory days, they were still being made. I went to my manager and began to tell him about it.

"I've had a a great idea! I want to make an album of nothing but old songs from—"
"Don't tell me about it, just do it."
"But—"
"Show me."

At the time, this came across as rude non-interest (maybe it was), and it shook me up a bit. Being of a sensitive, self-conscious disposition in those early years, I took it to mean that it was a bad idea, so I dropped it. Enter Rondstadt with Tracks Of My Tears (1975), That'll Be The Day (1976), Ooh, Baby Baby and Just One Look (1978), and string of other Oldies. I missed out on a great opportunity because what I really wanted was his validation for my idea and his praise for having come up with it in the first place. Instant gratification. Instead, I should have given him a proposal complete with budget, desired musicians and suggested cover art. But it was a different world back then. The record industry wasn't yet the corporate monster it is now. We had managers, not lawyers and accountants. And I was just a baby with no one to teach me the ropes.

I've since learned that people don't care about your ideas, really. I mean, friends may show a lukewarm tolerance for how much you go on about your book and other writers my seem interested, but until you have something to show, meh. They don't care that you've come up with the most romantic hero ever dreamed, or the most fascinating detective with the most absurd quirks. They want you to show them, not tell them. If the "show, don't tell" rule is true in the actual writing, it's certainly true in all other aspects of the craft.

But there's something in it for us, too. Our ideas, schemes, and the intricacies of creation are energy that's swirling around inside us. If we dissipate that energy—like lifting the lid on a pot of steaming rice—the real substance lessens. It loses something. that steam needs to be kept contained if we want to come up with a really tasty dish. In western paganism this is known as "building the magik" and that conical hat image is merely a symbol of how energy is built and stored and then, when it's reached its maximum power, is finally directed up the cone to a pressurized release through a tiny little hole, into the universe. That's much more powerful than being bareheaded and blasting off willy-nilly at the very first sign of steam. We must resist the need for a little appreciation if we want the applause of many. As I've said for many years, "I'm not settling for Hamburger Helper when I know there's a prime rib waiting."

So, unless I have something important to report to you about my latest book project, I won't be lifting the lid for anyone. No news is good news.

__________________
Throes of Creation by Leonid Pasternak

Let Freedom Ring

After 14 years of shacking up, Nettl and I are finally getting married.

When I first came out in 1976 I never even considered marriage as an option. It was so far out there (and I was still such a hippie), I never considered marriage to anyone, female or male. But at the end of the millennium I started reconsidering things. Marriage? Yes, I was ready for that whole pipe and slippers thing... well, not the pipe, you understand. But even the idea of marriage wasn't open to me. Never had been, never would be. It wasn't a deal, I just accepted it like I accept that I'll never be able to publicly smoke a hookah in Cairo. It didn't bother me, it's just the way it was. That changed, however as the 2000's progressed and now, guess what? Marriage equality has been passed in Oklahoma.

What? Me surprised? Hell, yeah!

We had a holy union ceremony at College Hill Presbyterian Church in Tulsa on May 25, 2001, officiated by an ordained minister and everything. Family, friends, flowers, cake, attendants, the whole deal. Problem was, the papers couldn't be filed because for some reason we were not as equal as other natural-born citizens. Funny. I'd been equal all my life, but that equality was suddenly revoked when I fell in love with the wrong person. We got over it. We paid our taxes and paid into the system, we raised our young and we buried our elderly, but we were never entitled to the rights and privileges other Americans received. We simply weren't "created equal" anymore. But all that changed today. We are at last honest-to-goodness Americans, by golly. For me, it's mostly about taking care of that 14 year-old paperwork; I couldn't feel any more married than I already do.

Do you see that little bulge in my cheek? That's my tongue.

Anyway, the point of this is to announce that we will be heading to the courthouse on October 24th, after which we will come back to Bookends Cottage for one hell of a reception! If you're not on Facebook (where we created an event page) and would like to attend, email me via my Contact page and I'll send you the particulars.

If your marriage suffers on October 24th I'm truly sorry, but really, we have nothing to do with it. If we had that much power don't you think we would have used it by now?