It’s my birthday…

“I love you”

I can’t even begin to describe how those 3 words hurt me. Over and over and over. I just don’t have the words to explain. Only tears that flush my eyes everytime I hear them.

You were the one who were supposed to restore my faith in those words. You were the one who said you were gonna make it all ok. That you were gonna heal me.

You said “I love you”. I cried and I said I don’t believe you. But I secretly wanted to and was hoping it was true. And all that is has brought me… is worries.

“I love you”, you say, but you can’t make a commitment and tell me when I’m gonna see you again.

“I love you very much”, but you can’t even tell me when we are gonna talk again.

We fight. You leave because you have to. And you don’t call me to make it all okay. You don’t call to make sure that I’m ok. We text. I tell you that I’m not ok. And you don’t call anyway.

It’s been a week…

 

“I want you to be happy” you say. But you can’t even make a commitment to be there on my birthday, and it’s on a f*** SUNDAY!

I have not gone this far in my life without someone by my side, to end up being second priority.

Last time I had someone “special” in my life on that occasion was in 2007, exactly 10 years ago.

I’m not the kind of person who loves big crowds and big parties. I love intimacy. I love hanging out with just a handful of my favorite Looney Toons. Maybe just one if he’s special enough.

Guess I’m just gonna have to get used to the fact that my birthday sucks!

You say you can’t read my mind… but you don’t ask either. You just make assumptions. How are you gonna heal someone if you don’t even know what you’re healing them from ?

Anyway.

Happy Birthday to me, my fucking pride, and my disillusioned Happy Ending fantasies!

 

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From Heaven to Hell

I did it again

I made myself feel sick again

I made myself get filthy, oh yesss

Self-pity is my best friend

 

No, I don’t love you

I made myself go home with you

I let you play with me, oh yesss

I made myself be abused

 

Ohhh don’t I love it, I love it, I love it when

I can hurt myself

Through someone else

It’s like I want it, I want it, I want it then

I don’t, and I go

From Heaven to Hell

 

Guess I need the pain,          oh yesss oh nooo

Guess I need reasons to complain,         oh yesss oh nooo

To make sure my heart’s alive,          oh yesss oh nooo

How to stop this silly game,           oh yesss oh nooo

 

Ohhh don’t I love it, I love it, I love it when

I can hurt myself

Through someone else

It’s like I want it, I want it, I want it then

I don’t, and I go

From Heaven to Hell

I seduce you then I cry

When I can’t hold you back

I know I should enjoy it but

I’m  fucked up, I don’t know why

 

Ohhh don’t I love it, I love it, I love it when

I can hurt myself

Through someone else

It’s like I want it, I want it, I want it then

I don’t, and I go

From Heaven to Hell

Being “myself”

Genuine… what is genuine ? this singing workshop is a big slap in my face!
So many questions spinning around my head…

Be yourself… be natural, use your speaking voice… but am I not all that I do ? all my choices are they not me ? they come from my brain after all
Is my voice not mine when I tweak it here, place it in the back there, and add a rasp or a breath? it does come from my body

Just use your speaking voice… but so many artists sound nothing like when they speak… Adele doesn’t talk with an American accent and a crying rasp, nor did Amy, yet when they let out a growl and pronounce their “r”, no one questions them. And I’m pretty sure Maria Callas didn’t ask to pass the salt around the table with an operatic tone, yet when she sings, although it’s not jazz, everyone connects emotionally, no one doubted that that was her.

Be natural… but… don’t we become what we practice the most ? can’t we change ? can we not work on ourselves and shape ourselves to become what we aspire to ?

Are you saying that I sound like a joke when I open my mouth and don’t sound the same as when I pick up the phone ? Ok, I am brilliant at making fun of myself but I don’t aspire to be a parody, for some strange masochistic reasons I keep rejecting what I am good at in life, to pursue the things I can’t seem to have.
Do I need to work on “being myself” – whatever that means – and sing you lullabies, or just practice more and conquer every dimension of my voice so that I am so committed and confident with my choices of styling that no one will dare to doubt me?
I can’t answer that question…

I know I need to go through this, these are all fricking amazing teachers, this is for my good but it hurts… Listening to Brel, he understands… they all thought he was a joke until… I don’t drink so he will be my wine bottle for tonight, a replay for another glass…
Keep drowning me with your words, keep pouring them onto me, and maybe just maybe, I’ll sip some of your courage, Brel, to continue believing just like you did.
I just want to let go of it all, just… let me be

Easiest deep dish pizza recipe e-v-e-r !

When you are an artist, your creativity knows no limits, it overflows to all areas of your life.
Perhaps I should one day attend a culinary class ’cause let’s face it, I really don’t know what I’m doing when I open the spice cabinet. So I usually stick to the basics (salt’n’peppa) plus some safe bet (cajun seasoning mix).

I don’t waste my time figuring out a name for something new I’m doing, I consult my taste buds after to see if it deserves one.

This time, it came as a big surprise : I impressed someone else so much with this totally improvised pizza experiment, that this person made a special order for another one a month later, apparently vividly remembering how exquisitely she enjoyed it the first time (kind of like a catchy chorus that’s stuck in your head lol). What I like about this particular instance, is that, to be honest, I didn’t put a ton of effort into it. No, it was nothing like my weird creations throwing maple syrup, mustard and/or peanut butter in the pan. In fact, this recipe is so fricking simple, it’ll make you choke!

And I’ll happily share my luck with you, so here is my random recipe for a DEEP DISH HOME MADE PIZZA.

Winning team of ingredients :

nice big flat focaccia bread (reads olive oil in the composition, can include even olives inside, whatever appeals to you)
marinara sauce (a.k.a spaghetti sauce)
salt, pepper, Italian seasoning (+ crushed red peppers for the fire aficionados)
toppings such as chopped onions, fresh tomatoes, olives, ham, chopped green pepper… random clearance items in your fridge
cheese (I use Swiss, but American mozzarella works)

Your 9 ridiculously easy-cheasy steps :

1. Turn the oven on at around 360°F, I promise you’ll be done before it beeps.
2. Sprinkle a few drops of olive oil in the bottom of an oven platter, cut the focaccia bread in half along the length and lay flat.
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3. Spread some marinara on top. Be generous with your layer as part of it will get absorbed into the bread.
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4. Season with some salt (very lightly – remember your marinara already contains some), black pepper, Italian seasonings (you can be generous with that), and other optional additions (crushed red peppers).
5. Decorate tastefully with the toppings of your choosing. You can also save some of the black pepper and Italian seasonings to put on top of your veggies.
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6. Cover up with a reliable layer of cheese.
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7. Stick in the oven for about 15-20min.
8. When the cheese has completely melted and the bread has become a little crusty, turn bake off, and broil on normal or low so your cheese gets crusty too. This should only take a few minutes so don’t go anywhere so you don’t end up with a blackened version or a pizza on fire.
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9. Take out of the oven, let it cool down a little bit, and LET YOUR TEETH SINK INTO A NICE CRUSTY BITE!
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Now you tell me… how hard was that ? What toppings and variations did you come up with ? Did you get a special “thank you” from your kids, roommates, lover, dog ?

Become a touring artist – Plan B

So… Plan A didn’t work out that well… (as a reminder, plan A was to stumble upon Cinderella’s Godmother, who would wave her magic wand over my face and bring out the best of me instantly for the world to see)
So I guess I gotta come down to moving on to Plan B.

In Plan B, I’m setting out for myself to start playing out live, even though I am a terribly clumsy musician and quite an odd singer.
So what!… When I decided that nothing could hold me back, I meant not even my clumsiness, nor my lingering shyness. And by writing it down here, publicly displayed, I better stand up to my plan. That’s how you majestically kick yourself in the butt.
So… playing out live this summer, hu! Well, gotta put some songs together, gotta practice.

Playing out starts by playing on your front porch. Nooo she didn’t… Oh yes I did.
I also pulled out my guitar outside of Kroger, at a random isolated street corner, and at a bus stop.
What would be even better is if my own songs were finished so I could play those, but hey, sometimes in life you just can’t get everything in the order you wanted.

And of course keep on co-writing, networking, workshops, events, etc.

Gonna keep you posted on how Plan B is coming along. After a few more Krogers, I should be heading out to an open mic night. If you out there reading this have experienced starting out playing out, I would love to hear about your advice.

It’s a Filthy World

The world is so filthy I could spend my life in a bath tub
Friendship is a political game, a networking strategy to turn yourself into a hub
People don’t care, people don’t give, people don’t give a shit

I’m out of fresh air, I can’t breathe, this cloud is intoxicating
It doesn’t matter if the values of mutual respect have been buried under our feet
It’s about leadership, power, conquering those who surrender, those who do not want to fight
The addiction of feeling needed, the addiction of expanding your territory at the expense of others

The world is so filthy I could peel my skin off and still feel dirty
Every word is like a poison, an illusion, a drug with momentary relief
People don’t care about deep loving bonds, they just want to dominate, render you dependent

Thank you !

Thank you so much…

Without your jealousy, your words, you telling me that I’m stupid and incapable and unworthy, I would have never been able to gather my courage and fly away and escape into a life of solitude like I did.

Without you telling me that I’m fat and ugly and that no one would ever want me, I would have never ended up in abusive arms that pushed me to become the person incapable of loving blindly I am.

And without your hate, daily humiliation, abuse, you making fun of every step I took and every word I said, I wouldn’t be fighting for survival and fighting against oppression of the minority, the unheard, the misunderstood, the revolutionary thinkers.

You made my life so much more interesting.

You telling me that I will never make it, that I don’t have a talent, that I can’t sing… well guess what.

It doesn’t matter if I can’t sing because these words are mine, and this voice is mine, and that’s all that matters. No they don’t care about your obsessive absolute pitches, yes I got sh*t tons of truths to say.

You were never able to say you’re sorry, you just said it’s all over and now you can only be a better person, but even if it didn’t change what I feel in my heart, a ‘sorry’ is the least I expected and you’re a coward for not being able to utter one!

Tic tac toc

Le temps passe sournoisement.
J’essaye en vain de transformer mes larmes en notes.
Plus le temps passe, plus les souvenirs s’engouffrent au plus profond de mon antre.
La tempête a laissé place à un brouillard épais et dense. Je ne distingue plus rien, je ne vois plus mes pieds, je m’enfonce dans ce monde qui m’englouttit.
Je ne suis plus que l’ombre d’un doute. Oui, le temps passe. Tout se mélange, tout s’entrelace.
Des bancs d’écoles aux bancs des rues. Ne laisse pas la vie t’avaler tout cru.
Je tente de lire entre les lignes. Je contemple mon reflet dans ma guitare. Je lui demande “sais-tu seulement ce que tu veux dire?”
Oui, je veux dire que la victoire n’appartient pas à ceux qui blessent par manque de connaissance de soi, par fierté, par domination, par égoïsme, par monopole, par jalousie.
Je veux dire qu’on peut être soi-même et être apprécié et respecté.
Je veux dire que même si la vie est loin d’être un conte de fée et qu’on t’a assomé de mensonges, et bien on peut quand même construire quelque chose de magnifique et s’élever au-dessus des nuages, snober la pluie, les éclairs n’atteignent pas ceux qui ont trouvé le calme neutre dans la sagesse, la connaissance du monde, l’acceptation de soi.
Comment donner quand on m’a tant volé?
Les jours s’écoulent, toujours les mêmes, donner, aider, contre l’argent qui permet de vivre et profiter de ce que le monde a à offrir.
Je me pensais dotée de 1001 choses à réaliser. Parmi elles, changer le monde oui mais par où commencer.
A l’aveugle, à l’inconnu, téméraire je me suis lancée.
Je suis peut-être en perte de vitesse mais je ne compte pas m’arrêter!

Why FANS are NOT fans anymore

I never bought into the whole hysteric screaming pool of people that seem they wanna rip the artist’s clothes off and feed off his flesh.
Have I experienced insane love for an artist, his words, and all the world that s/he creates ? Yes, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t be so passionate about what I am doing myself!
I am not here to judge anyone personally but many times I felt that the infatuation around an artist stemmed more from an obsession for his success and status as an iconic trend, rather than his actual words or music, the actual meaning of his actions and stance.

So, I was thinking, the other day… and this is what came out of my thought process.
(* the academically inclined shall be warned that I will do a couple oversimplifying statements)

Back in the day, as an artist you interacted with the people out there through old school media appearances, on TV & Radio. It was like a one way street.
Today, your “fans” are now engaged in your everyday life: you share with them the place you ate at noon and they comment back to you on the food they saw you had in the picture.
Very much like you would have done with a friend who lives at distance, with whom you try and keep in touch. They know you “personally” but without ever having given you a hug.
The relationship with your “fans” can be of a better quality, you don’t have to wait for and carefully structure a media interview, you can go ahead and express yourself to your fans through direct connection. They love you for who you ARE in everyday life, not only on stage. And you love them for who they are, as you can check out their world too, randomly click on their facebook page, answer back to their comments, thank them for their support and encouragement, compliment them on their own (artistic) endeavors.

For this reason, I think the word FAN seems outdated as it was born in and refers to a pre-internet time where the music industry was structured differently. You don’t want to consider them as a hysteric unaware crowd manipulated by the old school mogul mass media. But you can’t put them in the same bag as the handful of people you grew up with, who know first-hand how grumpy you are in the morning or how you smell after a night out.

So, as usual, I got a silly idea and decided to make up a new word : FRANS, a hybrid mix between “fans” and “friends”.
Haha I don’t know about you, but it makes me laugh and a laugh is always good to share. Point made.

When the ship sails away

You’d think, after all that time spent just dreaming about it…
You’d think, after all that courage that it took to gather for it…
You’d think that once my ship was ready to sail away, that I’d be cutting through the waves, like the favorite of the race.
Filled with the joy to admire the sea at every sunrise and every sunset.

But after building my ship all alone, in the backyard of my head, I didn’t think I’d still have to blow into my own sail.
It also takes some doing to get the wind to be on your side, to have the wind in your sails.
Some clever manipulation. Some ingenious strategy. An adapted itinerary.
Seems like I can’t read the map. Like I can’t find out how to get where I want to.

Tired. Need someone to blow me offshore.