Recalibration is part of my show The Vestibule (which is available for benefit performances and touring– please contact me.) Thanks to one of my listeners, I discovered this favorite piece never got hooked up quite right when the site went through it’s transition–so here it is in a new recording. It’s timed about right for folks sending their “little ones” off to college. What a process–Congratulations to you. It’s also In Print.
In the world of self-help, failure-to-dream seems almost unimaginable. But for some of us, this got squeezed out early.
Every time I confront some aspect of the Holocaust, or Shoah, some part of me understands more, and most of me understands less. It waits there for me to wrestle.
It all seemed such an important zero-sum game. What a lot of unlearning I had to do.
It’s only recently that the past has stopped haunting me and instead, serves as an inspiration and sometimes even, a release. Backlighting hails the collective and individual past. It notices the voices trapped in air currents and richness of the future that harvests old tubers, shines weathered patinas and fills the song with a new voice. This is the opening piece of my one-woman show–The Vestibule: Life, love and tears through the midlife lens
Memory, gratitude, sadness, and perspective are so often lost in the shuffle of the day, in the need to be strong and unwavering. But every now and again we get a cue to listen, feel and be. The Saltwater Tap drips in The Vestibule.
One week it seemed like everyone I talked to told me about someone who had too close a call with mortality.
Our babies grow up, move away and we try to remember that that’s how we always knew it was supposed to be. In the meantime, we can buy gadgets to console ourselves. And guess what, we can grow up too. I’ve performed Recalibration at open mics and in a number of shows and it always changes–so do I. In The Vestibule it emerges out of Saltwater Tap.
Overwhelm, overload, apathy and cynicism and no end in sight; sort of like gutting a fish on the installment plan.
Where did I get that slap in the face? Traditional routes of childhood and loving Sunday morning of stinky dead fish. Ah….
