You Laugh

I forgive people body language most of the time. Even when I get mixed signals, I am willing to do the math and factor it all in. I figure it’s up to me to decide whether to take them at their word or take them at their gesture, and sometimes I have to compute the two together to get closer to the real story.

An example would be a typical situation like seeing someone you know and consider a friend at the grocery story. They are in a hurry. They greet you welcomingly, yet their body language suggests they are busy and really don’t have time to chat. They have either broadcast intention gestures of sprinting off to complete their errands or they have greeted you with palm out wave which tells you they see you. It says “hello,” and “I must be going.”

But what about when people betray their feelings about you with a brief or suppressed laugh?

There have been times I think I understand that kind of laugh to mean nice things, and there have been other times when the laugh signals deeper issues. Absorbing the meaning of someone’s unconscious snort or ridiculing bark of laughter might hurt, but in the long run, if you have the heart to parse it all out, you should be grateful that person showed you how they really feel – as hard as it may be to swallow.

Let me describe the last time I was aware of being laughed at in this way. It’s not a funny or nice story, and I’m trying to tell it as if it really doesn’t matter to me in the least. Those who really know me will know I am lying. These laughs torment me, and I really wish I would stop. That is why I’m writing it here. Instead of telling this story over and over to anyone I think might be sympathetic, I am laying it out here and I hope I am able to deflate it, murder it, or at least, move on.

I was at a party. It was at a friend’s house. A birthday party, and there were a lot of people I knew by reputation and Facebook, and some I knew from my long history of being here. There was a couple I was just getting to know because I had applied for a simple, part-time executive assistant job.

This job was like several jobs I had applied for during that time. I felt I didn’t get them because of my age and over qualification. In fact, two executive assistant jobs came and went and my interviewers even revealed they were going to hold out for a younger person. That sucked, but there it was.

I won’t go into how soul-killing all that is. I will also decline to outline all the other slights and bumps I experienced trying to make up the deficit in our family income and outgo.

So, at this party, this couple is reeling off a list of reasons why I was not suitable for the job. One of them was they decided to go with someone with more digital and visual experience who was much younger. But, in my mind, how can you have more digital experience than someone who has been doing it since the beginning? I mean, I’d been doing it for a decade before the person they ended up hiring was even freaking born.

So I wondered how hard to press my case as a visual and digital creator. This was a party, after all, but for two people who had been leaving me dozens of texts and messages about the job (and some of them even texted for my husband to deliver, which seemed inappropriate to me) had suddenly gone dark and this was my first time to see them.

But, I soon realized they weren’t interested at all. I detach myself from the conversation because I feel my defensiveness rising and I need to keep it in check. Then someone handed me their camera and demanded I take a picture of a group of people.

As I look at the back of the camera and am surprised by how grimy and greasy it is, the man who had handed me the camera says, “It’s easy. Just press that big button. Want me to show you?”

Before I realize it, I blurt, “I know which button. I’ve been a professional photographer before.” And that was when I heard the laugh.

It was short, derisive and perhaps only meant to be heard by the ones doing the laughing – the couple I had tried to work for – but I heard it. And now, I could not unhear it.

I handed the camera back to the man because now, I didn’t want to touch the camera, let alone hold it near my face and look through the viewfinder. I wanted to take it all back. All of it.

I went out onto the patio, hoping to get my breath and cool off, but I ended up leaving right then without saying goodbye.

Why have I tortured myself with this memory? Maybe it’s because nearly every time I leave the house other than to go to the grocery story, I have an experience like this. Why? I have no fucking idea.

Face book shared a stupid-assed memory with me the other day and it was all I could do not to start up shit about that too. I tried to help another friend by giving them a headshot photograph on a rainy day because she needed it right away. I scored a breakfast burrito and $20! But then I heard, out of her mouth and to me a week later, “Well I got this guy down in Santa Fe who is going to do it. At least he knows what the fuck he’s doing.”

I have to say, it can be crushing. And if I have ever said things like that to people and they torture themselves with it like I have, I am so sorry. You have no idea. Or maybe you do.

I have been a visual artist and photographer long before I fell to using my words for a living because pen and paper are not expensive, compared to darkrooms, Nikons and rolls of film. Because I have my words and no one can claim I haven’t earned a living with them, although there are some who think I should just stick to being an editor’s wife and not try to reclaim my own place in the world of … what’s the word all the magazine writers like to use now? … “Makers.”

So. Now my story is all told. Now I need to STFU about it, not only verbally but in my head, because, you laugh, but you have no idea.

I entered the “Seven Day, Seven Black and White Images with No People and No Explanation” challenge on Facebook, but I was not challenged by anyone, and I did not challenge anyone. I challenge myself to be quiet, now, and just make.

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The neighbor’s creepy grandfather

A young couple moved in across the street when I was 14. It was a small town in Ohio and the street was just like so many fly-over streets in the fly-over states American mid-west of the late 1960s. There were sidewalks. There were jobs. Kid’s played “Red Light, Green Light” and “Mother May I” in the streets at dusk and the counterculture was something off in California, still.

A house was moved onto an empty lot, and a new family moved in. The circus-like atmosphere of a house being moved onto the property was pretty big for our neighborhood street. If I remember correctly, the house was either two or three floors. It was large and kind of old. Lots of woodwork inside but the outside was asphalt shingles. A typical small-town Ohio house.

The woman in the new family was the daughter of the couple that lived next door. I imagine that is how they made their entry into the neighborhood. There was a toddler boy and an infant boy in the family, and since both parents worked, I ended up nearly a full-time babysitter for them. That summer of 1969 I will remember for many reasons. Not the least of them is my introduction to hard-core pornography and other events of the summer.

We sit in the wake of the Pussy-grabber Presidential election, the revelation of Bill Cosby’s true nature, Fox News firings and now, Harvey Weinstein’s scandal which will only deepen more and more every day. I find I am thinking about the events of that summer and wonder how I managed to get through my teens, young adulthood and even later years without something worse happening to me.

creepy grandpa.jpg

What happened was pretty simple and not tremendously confrontational. It comes to mind because of the depth of the activity I now realize was part of these people’s lives, but also, I wonder about those two boys of theirs. They are adults now. Perhaps with children of their own.

The grandfather was working on the house and in the yard nearly all the time I was in the house babysitting. As time progressed, over the days, I thought I would help the couple by doing some tidying and cleaning for them while the boys slept. As I cleaned up the living room I kept coming across a lot of hard-core pornography. Much of it was photographic, from the 1940s and 1950s and mostly black-and-white. Other items were printed material. This material, I now understand was pretty hard-core, and in most cases fetishistic. Some of the activities described are taboo and illegal.

After a couple of weeks of cleaning, suddenly grandpa was everywhere I looked. I didn’t realize at first, that the muscular and bald old man with the wife-beater T-shirt and hole in his pants would give me a full view of his penis, but when I did, it was a shocker.

I didn’t say anything to the daughter and her husband. Because of things happening in my family dynamic I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up at home. I stayed quiet, and I am lucky, I guess, after his first attempts at approaches, he decided to leave me alone. I already felt a little soiled by my own curiosities in the reading materials and photographs I now realize they were left for me to see. I can only imagine how I might have slammed into adulthood had this old man persuaded me into something or maybe even assaulted me.

And I hope those two boys made it ok. Whatever their parents or grandparents were into, maybe they were spared. Maybe, if they were not spared, the boys decided it all stops with them and they chose not to have children.

Most of all I deal with the guilt of having not said anything. I was only 14 and on shaky ground with my family context at the time. But still, I feel guilt and I wonder what would have happened if I had spoken up?

original photo by David Siglin on Unsplash – alterations by yours truely.

 

I’m with the band

Lonesome Town Large

It took a few years, but Robert Parsons finally persuaded me to join the Western Swing band Lonesome Town. The photo was taken a couple of weeks ago, but a couple of the members have dropped out and we’ve added new ones.

When I first got turned on to the two-step dancing scene in Taos, I wanted to be in a swing band, and I always felt a Tenor banjo was something essential and now, all this time later, I am playing Tenor banjo (inherited from my daddy, rest his soul) in a band that is shaping up to be really really tight. The core members have been together for five years and it really shows.

The core members have been together for five years and it really shows. We’ve recently welcomed Rick DeStefano on keys and Russell Latino on percussion.

Here’s a photo of a recent gig at The Sagebrush.

Lonesome Town 20170722_1

M. Elwell Romancito at Black Mesa Friday, Mar. 10

maam“Howl” is the theme for M. Elwell Romancito’s Friday (March 10) 6-9 p.m. performance at Black Mesa Winery’s Tasting Room, 241 Ledoux Street.

Because the moon will be full just two days after her performance and with the current political atmosphere, Romancito said she will open with a brief excerpt from the famous Allen Ginsberg poem “Howl” and keep up a running musical conversation about politics and the personal landscape.

Romancito is a singer-songwriter who performs original and what she terms “classic Americana,” which covers a lot of ground – from Bill Monroe to Tom Waits, or, Mavis Staples to Ani DiFranco. Usually only accompanied by a nylon-stringed guitar, Romancito’s arrangements of covers and originals strip them down to their most fundamental form. Her smoky, jazz-inflected vocals and stylized renderings make each song new, even if it’s been a part of the pop music fabric for a long time.

Romancito has performed as part of musical groups and combos for decades in Taos and has begun performing solo. She also participates in the Creative Commons which helps creators legally share knowledge and original materials, plus uses the internet to drive collaboration, development, growth and productivity. Creative Commons provides free, easy-to-use copyright licenses to make a simple and standardized way to give the public permission to share and use work.

Hope’s Dimension

NOTE: This content originally appeared on http://everything2.com under the screen name Fargus. I include it here to make sure it doesn’t get lost.

agence-producteurs-locaux-damien-kuhn-97731It was cold up in the attic. Naghe huddled in the shadows, glad for the little heat that seeped up from the dwelling below.

He could hear them making dinner. The sounds of pots and pans found him and he was glad the family below had returned to their regular rhythms and that the special days that happened every year at this time were over.

Naghe pulled the pilfered blanket closer around his neck and shoulders and wished he could develop enthusiasm for the food they were preparing. He knew their food was un-absorbable. He’d have to take his nourishment from the photosynthesizing plants in the yard and hope no one saw him before he was able to grab enough calories to keep him alive – holed up in an attic in a miserable little house at the edge of the universe. Nowhere.

The hollow feeling nested in the pit of his being was more about companionship than it was hunger.

It was his own fault. He knew it. He had traversed a no-crossing zone. It was rather like skiing or snowboarding out of bounds, you only have yourself to blame for what happens.

Naghe watched the last crimson ribbon of sky uncurl before night enveloped the mountainside. He watched the stars reveal themselves and knew exactly which direction he imagined home to be.

“It’s been so long,” he thought. I wouldn’t even know what to do with myself at this point, he thought, shaking off the last vestige of hope for rescue ages ago. “I am no longer from my home. I am here and this is where I’ll die – a dried up twist of space/time junk, holed up in an attic on this stupid rock.”

He knew the people in the house where he lived thought he was an apparition – and this explanation worked, for the most part. Once, the smallest human in the house had wandered up to the attic looking for forgotten treasure. Seeing Naghe standing upright in the apex of the attic’s roof scared the little one so much he nearly fell backwards through the opening. Later that day the child’s father had come halfway up – swinging the beam of a flashlight and that was the end of it.

How long had it been? Naghe lost count. There was local time and then there was his own time which was reckoned in a much different way than the diurnal pump and grind of earth time.

It was impossible to do anything here. He realized there was something about the polarity of the planet which prevented him from traveling as he might usually. The physical mechanism that allowed him to teleport to the places he needed or desired to go were not available to him here. This is why he was stuck. He got here, but he could not leave.

He imaged others, like himself, who had wandered off the path of known places and energies, too, found themselves huddled and hiding, cold in an attic, basement or other lonely place, hoping for a miracle rescue or at least a diversion from the loneliness that solidified around him like he was encased in stone.

Naghe listened to the other sounds in the surrounding houses. If he strained, just a little, he could hear for quite a distance. It was a result, he guessed, of the planet’s heavy atmosphere. The biggest problem he had was actually screening the sounds out. There was no use listening to the hum of a well drill pounding and vibrating the ground a mile away, when he simply needed to keep his ear trained nearby, to keep track of the people below his little hiding hole.

During the night time, Naghe would climb through the small opening in the ceiling of the pantry to the kitchen floor below. He’d slip, like a shadow, down the hall, and out the front door. Crossing the front yard, his footprints would leave the grass dry and brown. He was grabbing nourishment as he stepped. Then, it might take quite a while before Naghe could lift himself into the big tree in the front yard.

While straddling one of its branches, Naghe sucked a little of the life out of it. The tree was pretty old and very strong, and Naghe was careful not to feed too long from one branch for fear of doing real damage to it. The tree and he had become old friends, of sorts. He was touched by how readily the tree participated in Naghe’s robbery of energy.

Then it was back through the front door and up the hall before the sun gave any notion of rising because this family was made up of early risers.

And this is how Naghe occupied his time every day and night. Sitting still and looking out the little-vented window in the peak of the roof, and slowly easing down to the front yard and up the tree at night. He sang to himself, at least he thought he was able to keep the song within his head, but sometimes, he’d catch himself actually humming along.

No talking. No singing, he reminded himself. No drawing of attention unless he wanted to be exposed and then, he’d lose the little bit of control he had on the future and outcomes.

He knew hope as both a killer and a breather of life. He held out hope for rescue, but he really, truly knew there was no help for his situation.

He had strayed off the path and he was doomed to haunt this attic in this house in the middle of this nowhere until he died, which would probably take a very long time – not only in earth time but in his native time.

Tonight, he’d have to take his meal from an evergreen that stood 100 feet away from his friend, the old tree. The ground was covered with snow and it would take Naghe a long time to make it through the heavy atmosphere to the deep green triangular-shaped tree. In seasons past, the tree had not been as welcoming as the old deciduous tree to yield up its life force. Naghe found the energy it held to be a little ragged in comparison and he didn’t care for these long stretches with little sunshine.

He wished he could process the light himself, and if he had brought the right gear with him when he slipped into the out-of-bounds zone that brought him here … ” but what’s the use of ‘what ifs,'” Naghe scoffed.

Ingestion of a simple symbiotic organism would have allowed him to process the sunlight during the daytime rather than have to sneak it from unsuspecting plant life or receive the shared sunlight from his old friend.

Of course, finding a way to hide in broad daylight, along with the slowness of his movements, brought with it a whole new set of limitations and problems.

Naghe felt doomed sometimes, and other times, he just felt glad to have a little hope left to pull the blanket closer and dream of a day when he either found another being from his time or place or was rescued – either by flaming chariots from space or death.

He pulled the blanket closer and listened to the sound of snow falling outside. He counted snowflakes until the humans in the house went to sleep.

Two upcoming Black Mesa gigs

I have two upcoming gigs at Black Mesa Winery Tasting Room at 241 Ledoux Street in Taos, New Mexico.

I’ve been working on visuals for the two concerts and I have one for the March gig that chimes in with the full moon and the sense that Spring is not yet with us. I also plan to read a couple of stanzas of Allen Ginsberg to begin the evening.

gig-poster-3-10

I’ve been working on new material featuring open tunings, slide and more blues. We’ll see if I’m ready to bring any of the new stuff out. Meanwhile, I’ve been working on tying up a few loose ends on songs I’ve half-finished for decades. Again, we’ll see if any of these are going to be ready in time.

ASpril’s gig comes at the end of the month and while I was making this graphic I was having a pretty intense spell of spring fever. Can you tell?

gig-4-29

 

Multiple identities? Nah.

day-of-dead-wo-earringsI didn’t realize I was confusing people.

As usual, I’m roaring around thinking people are keeping up with my BS when in fact they are bobbing in my wake, saying “WTF?”

Even if they like me and grant me all sorts of dispensations, I’ve left people confused.

Recently someone asked me if I could keep all my AKAs straight. But instead of “also know as” they were thinking they were entirely different personas. Maybe they are and I just don’t know it but in my mind, all this time, I thought it was clear.

“M” is the first letter of my first name, Melody. When I was in highschool, one of my friends noticed I signed my artwork and personal writing with “M. Elwell,” with Elwell being my last name. She shortened it to “Melwell,” and that became one of the names I was known by.

I never cared for shortening to “Mel,” although I allowed a few people to refer to me as such. Calling me “M” was ok with me and one of my old boyfriends called me “Mel Gee,” which was the way a little kid would say Melody if they got lost on the way to that second vowel.

When I married my husband, I acquired his last name, the beautiful and Italian “Romancito.” The spelling and pronunciation are pretty straightforward with the only real issues being telemarketers who stumble and say “Roman-ti-co.” Rather than irritating me I am grateful that the telemarketers are announcing who they are right off the bat.

Some of the old timers here in Taos like to say Ramon-cito and have actually corrected both my husband and me, mainly because they think the name is a diminutive form of the name Ramon, not knowing the name actually means “Little Catholic.”

When Rick and I got married, I decided to lose my drab middle name and use my maiden name as my middle name. I understand this is very common now, and I am happy to have my maiden name as part of my legal name.

When I was working for a local radio station, I rolled back to my maiden name so the connection between myself and my husband who edits for the local newspaper wasn’t so apparent, although, to anyone who knew, it really made no difference.

When I started publishing my own books, I decided to drop the “Melody” for a variety of reasons I don’t find necessary to discuss here, but it was a simple decision and I decided to pick up and resonate with my youthful self … and I started signing my name M. Elwell Romancito, which gets shortened to Melwell Romancito.

I thought it was a pretty easy progression but I was a little stunned that it seems like I have diluted (or deluded!) my identity with all these names.

Now I will say I create music under the “alter-ego” of Calling Sister Midnight, or CSM, but that is because I am using materials that are part of the Creative Commons, sharing of material and working with collaborators. This is to distinguish singer-songwriter materials from more collaborative electronic work.

I apologize for the confusion and for those of you who are think, “Who gives a damn?” I am surprised you got all the way to the end!

Oh. And Greasy Adams http://greasyatoms.com is a brand name for fractal images.

It’s not funny: Trump’s Locker Room Talk

shutupWhen Republican Presidential Nominee Donald J. Trump said the words he used in an old videotape that surfaced Friday (Oct. 7) were essentially locker room talk and that he was sorry if anyone was offended by his talk, I could not help myself but I felt hot tears rise in my eyes.

It was a kind of visceral reaction to this clown’s idiocy I had not expected. Yeah, I had heard his rough words about Rosie O’Donnell, and yes I was aware of his deep-seated fear of the bleeding from the “where ever.”

But listening to the blistering nastiness of the words he was using about women he wanted to fuck simply because they were attractive and in front of him and that gave him the right, not only to desire them but also “when you’re a star, they’ll let you do anything.” What he was saying is, if he was suitably inspired, he would not only tap that, he would fuck it, then piss on it and move on to the next.

I made myself a cup of coffee as the late-breaking news played the video over and over. I realized my hand was shaking as I poured the boiling water over the ground beans. Why was this so upsetting? I wondered.

With my newly made coffee, I went to my computer and opened Twitter, which I knew would be swarming with news, jokes and innuendo about the breaking story. This Republican and that Republican were making statements tooled to distance themselves even further from this flailing orange buffoon. Paul Ryan said he was “sickened” by what he heard today and Reince Priebus said that no woman deserves to be spoken about in such terms.

Yes, guys, you are right, but something you don’t know is any woman who goes out or speaks out in public is thought about or even spoken about in just such terms, every day. And if she is homely, that’s a component to the inner or outer chatter about her. If she is attractive, she can expect the chatter to have an extra measure of praise and shame heaped onto it. If she is old, she can expect her sanity and her ability to comprehend simple things to be questioned. Last of all, her dried out, no-longer-interesting, superfluous “whatever” might even become a part of the conversation depending on how crude the talkers are.

shame-on-oldThis is every day.

Donald Trump may be sickening, it’s true. But the real sickening part of all of this is that women live in a strange half-world where we are expected to be attractive, yet we are berated for being attractive. If we are not attractive, we are called pigs or worse. If we give you what you want from us, we’re bad and if we don’t give you what you want we’re fucking cunts.

Maybe we find ourselves in the companionship of good men who don’t think of women like this, and that’s wonderful. But we all know guys who are like this. Showing them your tits after being pestered won’t make them leave you alone. Telling these men they will never ever see your tits, ever, is just permission for those same men to punish you at every turn for having a … “whatever.”

And don’t think having a well-grounded opinion is going to save you. You’re hysterical. Calm down. Etc.

After about 30 to 45 minutes after the news broke about “Trump’s locker room talk,” I stopped shaking. I eventually stopped thinking about all the times I had been exposed things like this during my career. The times I unknowingly entered a room still echoing with the words “cunt” and “pussy.” Even during activities that were supposed to be fun but turned into a referendum on a woman having a “whatever.”

Earlier this week I had made a joke about being a man in past lives and how “great it was for people to listen to what you had to say, hang on every word. So imagine how disappointed I was this time around.” The whole room laughed.