I heard some great, great music tonight. Jazz makes me so happy. I love the way music affects me. What have I to be afraid of? Only myself.

at the jazz club...

While crossing my leg and dangling my shoe over the barstool, the old Italian bartender asked to take my drink order. Shouting over the bustle of people and music, I said, "A Frangelico", to which he responds, "I will need to see some ID". I laugh at him, but he doesn't laugh back. I give him the 'Are you serious?!' face; he gives me the 'I'm perfectly serious' face. So fine, I pull out my wallet. But what teenager orders a Frangelico anyway?

The man standing beside me at the bar turns to stare and smile at the young pubescent being carded. He is amused. He smirks at me, and I flash him my debonair smile and exclaim excitedly, "I'm being carded!". Only later do I realize, as fate would have it, I just brushed shoulders (literally) yet again with another remarkable jazz drummer. See, the man at the bar -- goes by the name of Archie -- not only performed in the combo this evening, but belongs to kollage, one of the (if not the only) last all-Black jazz bands in Toronto. More interestingly, he is chums with the previous jazz drummer who befriended me and offered to teach me the language of jazz. So, to all my cynic-friends, his credentials, tying him to Charles Mingus, are legit. And just perhaps my child-like reluctance to suspect that every kind man has hidden motives is not so ridiculous after all. Just perhaps people are generally good. Just perhaps the act of trust is liberating -- like great music.

Fear makes us unattractive human beings.

Red lanterns raised around my room, once a novel ecstasy, seem to be but a facade for a despicable worthlessness of the self...And perhaps happiness would have found me had the lanterns never been lit.

Anecdotes with C.

My getting us in trouble...

Since Christine and shopping go hand-in-hand, and since Christine and I go together like peaches and cream (!) ... naturally, we go shopping together. Only, for some reason this day, Christine lost her usual vigour in the shopping mall, while I only gained enthusiasm with each purchase. Luckily for her, clothing stores have caught onto the phenomenon of the Boyfriend Chair. It really is brilliant. Boyfriends can now rest their feet instead of follow their girlfriends around the store like idiots; girlfriends can now shop to their heart's content without a whiny boyfriend hanging off of them. So Christine found a Boyfriend Chair in every store, and slouched with the other boyfriends -- while upon being finished with the store, I'd walk by her, snap my finger, and we'd be off to the next store.

But come 9:30PM, and the tables turned. We left the mall, Christine gained a new energy, and me? Once the stores closed, I suddenly realized that my feet hurt. Funny I never noticed the pain before. What's worse is that we made plans to visit our friend, Sam, at his condo -- and we had to walk. (Granted, when downtown, every destination is a mere fifteen-to-twenty-minute walk away. But still, my feet.). So Christine navigated and walked briskly, briefly pausing every now and then to wait for me as I lagged two feet behind (why again, what striking resemblance to a boyfr -- nevermind).

We finally arrive at Sam's condo (I, limping), one among three inter-connected condos, and he buzzes us in through the telecom. The walk really did me in. I rode the elevator in sweet anticipation of throwing off my shoes and throwing myself on Sam's couch, as it neared 10:00PM and I started to get groggy and grouchy. I thought I would die as we, at long last, reached his door. Instinctively, I turned the door handle, but the door only bounced back as I heard the chain rattle inside.

"Well, knock before you go in!", Christine scolds.

"What? It's just Sam. He's expecting us!", as I roll my eyes at her and start banging on the door. "Saaaaam, open up -- my feet!"

The door swings open. Oh. Last I remember, Sam wasn't Caucasian. Ah! And he's only wearing his boxers! Wide-eyed and petrified, my jaw drops and I cover my mouth with my hand, completely staring. We look at the number on his door. 708 -- that's the right number. We stood there, with our brows furrowed, with this man who isn't Sam -- wearing only his boxers. We start giggling, while apologizing profusely.

Only later did we learn that we had the right door number, but wrong condo. And my desperate door-banging didn't help the situation.

_________________________________________________________

My getting myself in trouble...

Only those who really love you will sit through your university convocation. So naturally, Christine came to my convocation.

While waiting in line to rent my gown before the ceremony, the man in front of us struck up conversation. Hm, he's quite chatty. He appears to be a mature student ... I wonder what he did at our age instead of pursue a degree ... oh, he's new in town ... hey cool -- he's graduating from English as well? ... what? he's only pursuing a degree now because he's a published writer? ... hey cool -- he must know about freelancing ... what? he's offering to hook me up with freelance writing? ... wow! ... oh, contact information? ... "Email?" ... oh, he isn't computer-savvy ... my number instead? ... oh, ok -- here it is ... hey cool -- he's going to help me with writing! ... "Ok, nice meeting you too. Bye." ... Writing!

"Rebecca!", Christine scolds. Oblivious, I turn to her. "What?"

Christine rolls her eyes at me. "That was like, the easiest pick-up!"

"Huh?" (She must've missed out on the conversation -- I'll set her straight). Condescendingly, I say, "No no, he's going to help me with my writing, Christine."

"Noooo he isn't! Think about it. He says he isn't computer-savvy, so he asks for your number instead -- but if he's a writer, wouldn't he use the computer to write, or use email to send his writing to editors, etc.?"

I pause and think. "Oh." I pause again and look at her, skeptical. But he really seemed like he wanted to help me with my writing?

"Rebecca." Now it's Christine's turn to condescend. "This is just like that time the hotshot jazz drummer offered to teach you jazz. Remember?!"

I pause. Then came the dreaded feeling that an old and gross guy just picked me up. "Oh yeh."


(For the record, I ended up checking into this jazz drummer although I refused his services, and he is every bit of the hotshot drummer as he claimed. But this writing guy remains a chump until proven otherwise.)

So my piano and I have made up, after a stony silent treatment on my part. I haven't taken an axe to it, nor have I taken a blade to my wrists -- although truly, such thoughts become a sick comfort in times of pathetic artistry.

My teacher always warned me not to let the industry dictate my worth. But then again, she also warned me that the industry is not worth it: "Musicians give this their Lives -- and often get nothing in return." Ironic, isn't it, coming from the woman who instilled musicianship in me.

Music is for lovers; the music industry is for warriors. And the weak-spirited have no business being in it.

I curse the day that i met Music. Who wants my piano. Take it.

Maybe it's like a car -- better to chop up its body and sell it by part.
And you can slice off my hands while you're at it:

Hang them up to dry, until all trace of life has dripped away. Or better yet,
Nail them to a cross.