Right before I walked away from my first house, I walked away from my first house. Carried my baby down the street in the snow: dry flakes, whipping sideways past the neighbors’ houses. We were going to the liquor store around the corner to buy milk and a newspaper.

I guess it was a shitty liquor store—gritty, anyway—I’d never thought about it before. You could smell the ocean from the front steps on windy days and that was all I cared about. When I put a carton of milk and a newspaper down and began to count my money, the quiet, elfin man behind the counter waved at my quiet, elfin baby (“Quiet Wyatt”) and threw in some free orange juice just because he was a good guy – and ‘cause it was past its date. We told him we were cool with that when we moved there, so he gave us slightly used orange juice and eggs while Twinkies and Wonder Bread gathered dust on the shelves.

I’d stopped buying alcohol there about a year earlier, switching to pregnant lady groceries, and he’d been very patient with me. This man was a blue collar wine connoisseur who knew absolutely everything there was to know about wine. It was nuts. But he could no longer discuss Spanish grapes or Oregon vineyards with me, or even how cold the beer cooler was that day, so there wasn’t much for us talk about. And the poor guy small talked for a whole year! Finding his wine-centric worldliness useless, he focussed on the immediate: weather and my big stomach, then the tiny face who gazed at him from underneath my winter coat.

“Hope we get a big snow,” he smiled and I smiled back, ‘cause I hoped so, too. “After I get home,” he added. “Got stuck here once for two days, no electricity. Slept in the stockroom.”

I blinked. “Geez…”

“Nah,” he shrugged. “It was just boring.”

Not going home is boring, I thought, that’s so true. People always said the opposite. I traveled for a living, which was often romantic, sometimes exotic, and almost always boring. When I finally got home at the end of a tour, I was thrilled – giddy even – knowing full well that I wasn’t supposed to feel that way.

I thanked the nice elfin man whose name I had never learned, left the warm liquor store and stood on the corner, watching powder spin in the gray air. I knew that the World didn’t value the blue collar connoisseur, as he attracted no attention and sought none. He never tap danced, just quietly knew everything there was to know about his chosen subject. He lived his life peaceful and engaged; only people he could reach out and touch looked at him.

Our neighborhood didn’t make noise in the world, either, it wasn’t cool; we knew this because our tawdry houses, full of real life, carried very low price tags.

My shabby little house up the street was full of snow days and beach days and thunderstorms, our kids sat on the kitchen counter there and planned their Halloween costumes. We’d raised two puppies into dogs in that house, fought and kissed there, had quiet dinners and rowdy birthday parties. I wrote the songs on “University” and “Limbo” in the garage and planted an herb garden in the sandbox that grew taller than our sons.

Dave Narcizo spent a thousand afternoons in the kitchen, planning tours and records, eating bananas and drinking tea. Dark or light, our mood seemed to make more sense over bananas and tea. We fed a family of squirrels on the deck who raised another family of squirrels in the maple tree near the fence. After that, we had to double our output of squirrel food. The squirrels all hated my cooking and would swat homemade baked goods off the deck, then knock on the door, begging for more sunflower seeds.

Vic Chesnutt slept on the living room couch we’d bought in a New Mexico furniture store ‘cause they were giving away free coffee that morning and we felt guilty for drinking it. We toasted in bittersweet New Year’s Eves on that couch, too, the children asleep in their bunk beds upstairs.

Our friend David Kelley shot goofy videos for the Muses’ songs “Shark” and “Ruthie’s Knocking” in the dining room, and we shot even goofier home movies of the kids playing in the yard, wearing hand-me-downs from Murray the chimp I brought home from David’s “Bright Yellow Gun” shoot. Trina Shoemaker, the Muses’ engineer, sat at that kitchen counter on a spring afternoon and painted irises. And from our bedroom window, we could see the huge Christmas star on top of the hospital where Wyatt was born.

All these treasures amounted to nothing in the eyes of the World, of course; as they were small world events. Private and more valuable for that, if you ask me, but our little house wasn’t worth any actual money – the World’s favorite measuring stick.

My band also carried a very low price tag: the World didn’t value our world. Not enough people cared enough about our music to allow us to play it for a living any more. This was confusing, as our band was ubiquitous to us. It was like someone telling you that your left arm wasn’t cool enough.

Sometimes you believe the World’s price tags, take the World’s opinion as law, because its flighty, shallow ability to shine light on a trend is so very influential. Its voodoo packs a wallop (remember, voodoo works only when people believe in it). So, sometimes—frighteningly, dangerously—we believe in it, too. That’s what makes people agree that we all value the same things. Which of course, we don’t.

Like my cheap band, my cheap house made me happier than I’d ever been before. I could barely sleep in it, because when I shut my eyes, I couldn’t see it any more – the back of my eyelids couldn’t compete with its majesty: my very own doorknobs! My friend Ivo laughed when I told him this. “Sleep!” he said. “Your doorknobs will still be there in the morning…”

So I shut my eyes and when I opened them again, my little house and my little band were gone, and I’d become a ghost, wandering in the Mojave desert, hoping I’d blow away.

We all know what the World values: things that makes noise, “expert” opinions, sales, charts, hype, lists, awards, trends, tap dancing, self-promotion…it hangs high price tags on what it says the herd wants. And it is true that there are people who only like to look at what they think other people are looking at, who only want to live where other people want to live, who watch, read and listen only to what they’ve heard that piles of other people are watching, reading and listening to, who buy the voodoo, who never stop asking, “What’s happening? What’s the best?” They suck down that Kool-Aid.

Sometimes we try to keep up with this by making noise, by tap dancing, pointing at what we’ve done, trying to get people to turn around and look…show it off. But passionate work and showing off are not in the same sphere. Passionate work is private, focused, contemplative and selfless. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that showing off is the opposite. No one should be asked to do it. If you never stop tap dancing, when do you do the work?

Believing in showing off is when you lose Eden, whether you are the creator or the consumer. It’s the first clue that you’ve slipped off the path. Billy says, “It’d be much less boring and way more honest if we shared our flaws, frailties and uglinesses.” It seems like a contradiction, but the quiet way is more social. We share what matters, ego-less. The tap dancing ego obscures what’s real.

I don’t care who you are, the World is not your world. Movie stars imitate you, not the other way around. Movies and books and songs are about small worlds because that’s where real life happens. You have passions, your loved ones are your stars, your stories are true, your opinions are valid, you are the only expert when it comes to what you love. That’s what’s happening: your life. It’s what’s best. Because it’s the only thing that’s real.

And like that little bimbo Tinkerbell, fake comes to a crashing halt when we stop clapping.

Soon after I walked away from my first house, I spent a day in a pop star’s house in LA, wondering how many rooms a person can be in at once. One room led to another, in a long, long chain. Up stairs, around corners and down hallways…room, room, room, room, room. What is it that makes a body want so much building? So many wide-screen tv’s?

The answer, I guess, is showing off. Without passionate work, we seem to want to grow bigger, to grab the World’s attention, make faces in its face, flirt, stockpile money, etc. Rooms, rooms, rooms…a mansion without a foundation. This person was arguably one of the most famous people in the world at the time. And if anyone’s gonna think the World is their world, it’s someone with big price tags on both their house and their person. But to me, no small life means you have no life at all.

Suddenly exhausted, I leaned on a statue next to the enormous pool and decided it was time to go home. Like the blue-collar wine connoisseur, my worldliness had become useless. I needed to focus on the immediate, to breathe life back into my small world. After all, not going home is boring.

This was many years ago. I never got home. Or I haven’t yet, anyway, and I’m not alone in that. Lots of people never get home; I guess that’s why they say you can’t go there. Life conspires, changes direction, starts over again and again. Ocean air isn’t cheap anymore anyway, even in front of shitty, gritty liquor stores. I still feel like a ghost who could blow away on a desert wind because I lost my life.

This is sad for me, but what I figure is: I don’t buy price tags, I don’t believe in voodoo, I don’t watch tap dances, I don’t drink the Kool-Aid. I don’t know anyone who does. Nobody I know cares about “stars,” except for the ones in the sky. My friends are all blue collar connoisseurs who celebrate the moment and the timeless, while Twinkies and Wonder Bread gather dust. Some of my loved ones I can reach out and touch, some are scattered across the globe, and some I’ve never even seen before; we’re just like-minded spirits talking across the ether. Or being quiet across the ether.

Snow is still falling somewhere. This is what’s happening, this is what’s best, this is home, this is Eden.

Really, we know New Year’s eve is just another day, an arbitrary marker. But we figure that it makes us sit still enough to begin walking backwards through the last few seasons, and when we do, it’s natural to reflect on what happened when they turned, wonder where we’ll all be the next time that happens. This links us wherever we are, it pulls past and future into the now: threads. So many of us seem to be hanging on by one lately, which is hard.

We feel fortunate if things are ok but we’re hyper-aware that those who are sweating it out right now have been us, could be us…no one is sure what the hell the new year is going to bring. Threads again; we’re all connected. The subgroup of you that form our Strange Angel subscribers form a very definite lifeline. You all are a bright thread that runs through the fabric of the entire process: bringing music from the air to people’s ears.

For years and years, our attitude toward music was colored by the influence of a big business: labels, agents, radio stations, record stores, press, promoters. We knew better, but we have to admit, the industry interfered. It interfered by telling us that we could succeed if we would just be willing to suck. Dumb it down, fashion it up.

These days, because they are entirely listener supported, our ventures feel more like fine art projects or CSA’s than anything in the entertainment industry. It is only our obligation to you and the song that we care about. The way we see it, your financial support obliges us to not suck. (Yay!)

You wouldn’t trust the results of an experiment published by scientists beholden to corporate interest more than to the public commons of knowledge — and rightly so. Follow the money (duh); that’s just basic critical thinking. We wouldn’t expect you to trust our results either, if we were constantly vying for the attention and approval of gatekeepers in the entertainment industry. Instead, we’re fortunate enough to now be in a position to serve the listener by serving the song and to share music in the public commons of knowledge.

We’re not entertainers. We don’t like to be looked at. This music could be made and kept in a drawer and we’d be cool with it. But songs don’t seem to feel they’ve done their work until they’ve resonated with you, become part of your soundtrack. Music takes personal experience and turns it into something universal by making it personal again; personal to you. As financial supporters, Strange Angels also give us the wherewithal to give some music away, so that those who can’t afford to buy it may still make these songs part of their soundtracks.

We’re so grateful for you being a part of our world. Love and medicine, good science, fine art, kindness: bright threads, woven together, unraveling, weaving together again.

Love,

Kristin, Billy, Throwing Muses and 50FootWave

p.s. Strange Angels should look for an email in the next day or so, with a bit of news in it.

A Throwing Muses memory: we were playing a club in Texas–a late show on a stormy night–where everybody was high except us. Everybody was really, really high except us. And not high on anything recognizable. Like Extreme Ecstasy plus acid or something, we guessed. And beer, of course. A roomful of dancing, lovey, noisy loons. “Wasn’t acid invented here?” asked Dave. “Or was it ecstasy?” So we played the show, rolling our eyes at each other and hoping the crowd settled down (they didn’t–they only got nuttier) and made it to the second encore. As Dave was counting the song in, the promoter jumped on stage wearing metallic silver pants (which I know is not a crime, but it was still…funky). We waited, watching him. He then stood on the drum riser next to Dave and removed his glittery silver pants (this might actually be a crime…especially in Texas).

Dave was looking like he wanted to be somewhere else when the promoter grabbed a microphone and invited the audience on stage. The lovey loons were only too happy to oblige. They clambered up, swaying, shouting and hugging, as we backed into the wings. Then the promoter with silver pants around his ankles announced into the microphone that we needed help loading out–that everybody should grab a piece of our equipment and take it outside into the rain.

Dave and Bernie objected, but since neither had a microphone, the happily befuddled audience members focussed on nothing but taking apart our gear and putting it outside. Like psychedelic cattle, they grabbed whatever they could and lumbered out into the rain with it, some people wandering off with our stuff, others carefully placing our equipment in puddles on the sidewalk. As band leader, I took charge by hiding on the bus. “I have to put the baby to bed,” is how I put it to Bernie. This was true, but I also felt strongly that I was not equipped to deal with the loons.

Our bus driver was still at his hotel, sleeping, so that he could drive through the night, so my son and I were alone on the bus. Tucking him into his bunk, I felt the tour bus begin to rock. At first, I thought it was the storm, but there was so much shouting outside, I left the baby in order to peek out the window in the front lounge. What the hell’s happening out there? A whole bunch of loons were rocking the bus and chanting my name: “KRISTIN! KRISTIN! KRISTIN!” –the entire audience was on the sidewalk. I saw Dave Narcizo, who was voted “Everybody’s Pal” in high school, screaming at a laughing hippie in the pouring rain. They were both holding his cymbal stand and sort of…struggling over it. Then I saw Bernie, the other nicest person I know on planet Earth, doing the same thing with a guitar case. He and his own laughing hippie were engaged in a slow, wet struggle of yelling and pulling, both drenched to the skin. Mr. No Silver Pants was dancing in his boxer shorts. Jesus christ.

When the bus door opened, I was relieved that Dave and Bernie had escaped their hippies, figured that when our driver arrived, we’d just leave, with or without our equipment. But the people who stepped into the front lounge were not my band mates; I had forgotten to lock the door behind me. It was like Night of the Living Loons–the psychedelic cows stumbled around the lounge, silenced by the change of scene, picking up our belongings, looking in cabinets, bumping into stuff.

Deeply exhausted by this, I backed into the hallway and shut the door between the lounge and the bunks, crawling into bed with my son, thinking he might need comforting. This was not true at all; it was me who needed comforting. Mail carrier, I thought, fire fighter, baker, cop, teacher, veterinary assistant…

Then I heard our bus driver’s voice swearing and ushering the cows outside. Soon, his voice was joined by my bandmates’ voices, also swearing. I chuckled. Then my son started to giggle. We lay there, hidden and laughing together in the dark, as the bus pulled away from the curb, then came screeching to a halt. Drugged-up loons were throwing themselves into the street in front of the bus. I knew this because of my bandmates’ and the bus driver’s continued shouting and swearing. I laughed harder into my son’s hair, and he, understanding nothing of what was happening, giggled uncontrollably.

So anyway, I see this Texas night whipping across my bandmates’ faces all the time. I figure our loved ones’ memories are always racing across their faces; shared memories the most vivid. I know Dave and Bernie’s faces are coated in thousands of stories. Brutal or funny or brutally funny, our stories help when we’re frustrated in our attempts to move through time by, say, moving through space. And it’s soothing to watch these home movies which leave a residue on our skin. We’re left with shit-eating grins and shit-eating grimaces. One of my favorite universal phenomena is that everybody’s gotta eat shit sometimes. So we wear the movies for ourselves and for each other, hoping against hope that we’re all lucky enough to be condemned to repeat our bewitching histories.

Love,
Kristin

A special note of extra thanks for another unbelievable year of support and build-it-together-ness. I’m so moved by – and grateful beyond words for – what we can accomplish as a community. xo K

This month’s Throwing Muses demo – our last in this series – Film is here. Find this demo and all my recent work, in multiple formats – including lossless, free for download on my CASH Music pages. Information on how you can support my work by becoming a subscriber is here.

If you watch your friends carefully, sometimes you’ll notice their features beginning to change; curling up into themselves, looking within rather than without. Hurt feelings or a distracting life event may precede this – sleepy disappointment, confusion. Sometimes your friend will accomplish something really impressive and then their features fall into themselves because the person feels finished. Or would like to before he or she gets boring or fucks up again. This would never happen to, say, a seagull. Seagulls don’t stop looking around with their shiny opaque discs. God knows what they see. Everything, I guess. And bags of McDonalds. If a seagull stopped looking without, it’d starve to death. We like to feel more complex than seagulls, though this allows for a host of icky ailments to take root.

Anyway, snapping your fingers in front of a friend’s face could wake them up. “I’ll snap you out of it!” you think and grab their face with a Welcome to Earth grin. Show ‘em something majestic, play ‘em a big, fat song. Make ‘em think you like ‘em more than you do ’cause you actually do as it turns out. I love it when this works. I hate it when it doesn’t. When it works, it’s because you were sharp enough to call their bluff; when it doesn’t, your friend’s face melts in your grasp and their blurry features begin to resemble those of a blind cave fish. “Seagull’s better,” you murmur helplessly, as your friend slips away.

Love,
Kristin

This month’s Throwing Muses demo, Bluff / Blurry is here. Find this demo and all my recent work, in multiple formats – including lossless, free for download on my CASH Music pages. Information on how you can support my work by becoming a subscriber is here.

Hi…

Here in the US of A, it’s Thanksgiving. And regardless of how trite
it may seem, today most of us Americans tend to reflect on those
people and things for which we’re truly thankful.

Hopefully, like me, you’re lucky enough to be grateful for meaningful
work and loved ones. Of course, you make my work meaningful and many
of you make my work possible. I’m not sure I can adequately express my
thanks for this. But I can honestly say, there’s love going on.

The fact that we’re truly in this together is so touching. It’s scary
and happy-making and hard to believe, but there all of you Strange
Angels are, making music happen with me. The fact that you then do the
hard work of listening – and now, reading – is such an honor.

And I’m so thankful for you.

xo
Kristin

In Palm Springs, California, we inherited a sad, little tree. It came with our rental and it was more like a stick with branches, but it was stuck in the ground and didn’t seem quite dead yet, so we called it a “tree.” After a few months of cremating sun and no rain, a wrinkly little fruit appeared on our sad stick. Colorless and shapeless, the fruit continued to grow into a slightly bigger wrinkly, colorless blob. Which, on careful inspection, revealed itself to be a pomegranate. This seemed magic to us. Pomegranates are…well, fancy. Our stick was not.

One boring afternoon, we decided to pick the pomegranate. Figured it was just gonna fall off anyway. And ruby red jewels that taste better than jelly beans could only help us be less bored, right? So we hacked the pomegranate off it’s sad, little Giving Tree and then chopped the fruit in half. Inside were not ruby red jewels, but clear baubles. Cubic zirconium pomegranate seeds. We were bummed. Then we tasted them. They were better than better than jelly beans. In fact, they were better than just about anything.

We looked it up. White pomegranate is a thing. A good thing.

We felt we’d wronged the little stick and swore never to be so shallow again. In fact, we planted some of the magnificent seeds nearby, in the hope that another Giving Stick might make a future renter’s afternoon less boring with white pomegranate seeds and a lesson in small.

Clark’s Nutcracker is a grayish bird that is capable of planting entire forests. It can stash 30,000 seeds in one season; a huge surplus that, if not eaten by something else, will eventually germinate and grow into trees. This bird, like your children and your flowers and your kindnesses, is not wealthy or famous or attention-seeking and yet it sure seems more important than a lot of the crap we humans pay attention to. We’re ephemeral, brief moments of will. “Us too shall pass.” We have no time to waste.

Love,
Kristin

This month’s Throwing Muses demo, Clark’s Nutcarcker is here. Find this song and all my recent work, in multiple formats – including lossless, free for download on my CASH Music pages. Information on how you can support my work by becoming a subscriber is here.

“Palm” is an itchy kid. Twitchy, fidgety, changing outfits so many times you wonder if maybe the problem is with his bone structure. I haven’t yet been able to make him work. “Palm” is a slacker, I guess. He’s a California song, which may explain why he’s never been happy in New England or New Orleans. I lengthened him, shortened him, rearranged him, picked up his tempo, then slowed it down, and still he refuses to shine.

But I figure, if anybody can help a wayward child, it’s the Muses, so I’m sending him to Dave and Bernie camp. Most of the other kids at Dave and Bernie camp are happy, well-adjusted success stories. I’m very proud of them. But “Palm,” as much as I like him, well…I’m just hoping he doesn’t get sent home.

On the phone the other day, I warned Bernie that he was gonna hate me soon. “How soon?” he asked.
“Well…in, like, a minute.”
Bernie laughed. “Kris, I could never hate you.”
“Ok. The Muses record has 40 songs on it.”
Bernie sighed. “I hate you.”
I sighed, too. “I know.”

It could be that there’s no room on this record for a troubled song. Or it could be that summer camp magic will turn “Palm” around, show it a good tough-love time, teach it to play nice. “Palm,” is a good kid, I think, just a little prickly. And I’ve seen prickly beasts turn around before. I’ve seen ‘em fall flat, too, but I always give ‘em a chance.

Love,
Kristin

This month’s Throwing Muses demo, Palm is here. Find this song and all my recent work, in multiple formats – including lossless, free for download on my CASH Music pages. Information on how you can support my work by becoming a subscriber is here.

A couple of guys spilled off their motorcycle in front of us and died instantly, under a full moon. That desert moon that still shines on LA through the light noise.  It actually seemed extra dark right then, even with the neon and the streetlights glaring and that crazy moon. The men crumpled to the ground and then froze in two homunculus heaps as their motorcycle spun away and crashed on its own against the sidewalk.

When we saw that the cops were gonna leave the men lying there, we realized they were no longer men, but bodies. All us traffic people who were still alive took a minute to feel sad and then we drove on. Our car was headed for the real desert, the unspoiled one, the one that gets so freakishly dark, you can’t see your own feet. Sparks and sparklers and stars light up the stuff that really matters there.

And when the sun appears, it opens everything up to squinting eyeballs. No secrets in the daytime desert. You cook and blister in its expansiveness and freeze in its contracted shadows. This is rising to an occasion, though, so it doesn’t hurt.

Keep driving. Cross the bottom of the country and watch the landscape green up and wet itself down. Rain seeps through everything in the American south, whether it’s raining or not. Just the memory of past rain soaks the trees, whose branches hang heavy and drip mystery moisture. Sparks and sparklers light up the day here.

And rising to this landscape’s occasion means clean dreaming, swearing off parody, soaking in wicked memories that drip off the branches like so much forgotten rain.

Love,

Kristin

This month’s Throwing Muses demo, Cherry Candy/Dripping Trees is here. Find this song and all my recent work, in multiple formats – including lossless, free for download on my CASH Music pages. Information on how you can support my work by becoming a subscriber is here.

Ugly couches’re like ugly dogs: they’re everywhere and they have a certain quirky charm. Maybe you’d prefer a pretty dog or a clean, lovely couch…you don’t know; it hasn’t come up. You feel lucky to rest your head on something – in a dressing room, an apartment, a hotel lobby. You tame squalor by allowing it to suit you.

Musicians know that, like tamed dogs, a tamed couch will follow you around. “I coulda sworn I saw that couch in Milwaukee,” I think, staring down at a stained hunting scene stretched over a seat cushion in Denver. And then again in Santa Fe. This particular couch followed me all the way to Nottingham, England. I squinted at it suspiciously. So it can swim, I thought, placing my backpack strategically over an ancient, gray wad of gum.

The filthy couch that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, of course. Not true of the bottomless coffee cup you try to fill up the next morning. Not with coffee necessarily. You’re hoping that the big waitress in the sky’ll deem you worthy enough to pour a hunk o’ liquid love into your fragile, china cup. Which she often does. However this fragile china, like I said, is bottomless. You may have tamed a gum-encrusted seat cushion, but it is unlikely you will ever tame the draining vessel that is your heart. It is voracious. “How many sugars you want with that?” she asks, refilling your empty cup. “How many you got??” you ask her, panicking.

She does her best to keep you full of sweetness, because the waitress is good at her job when you can catch her eye. So you begin to feel a little stronger, a little less panicky. Skating along on this temporary lift of enough, you begin to notice the fragile china hearts gripped by white knuckles all around you. My god, they’re everywhere! Then you remember the packets of sugar you carry around in your pockets with other people’s names on them and count them, hoping you have enough to ease their pain. You do, of course. This love, the kind that fills draining, fragile vessels, is, of course, bottomless.

Love,

Kristin

This month’s Throwing Muses demo, Curtains / Triangle Quantico is here. Find this song and all my recent work, in multiple formats – including lossless, free for download on my CASH Music pages. Information on how you can support my work by becoming a subscriber is here.

I had a seizure one night, when I was a teenager, on the front step of Store 24 on Thayer Street in Providence. I was talking to my friend Mark and drinking a Coke, watching cars drive by, and then I was looking up at Mark’s face in the glaring fluorescent light and Thayer Street was sideways. “What happened?” he asked me. I didn’t say anything, ’cause I didn’t know exactly and ’cause I was busy feeling the sticky fluid on my face and in my hair. I hoped that I’d cracked my head on the cement step and that the sticky fluid was nice, dramatic blood, but my Coke can was empty and Mark wasn’t looking at me as if I was covered in blood, so I figured I’d not only embarrassed myself by having a seizure in public but also poured an entire can of soda on my own face. Swell.

“Lazy Eye” thinks this is a pertinent moment. It then goes on to describe ways in which our brains spend time in other places and the embarrassing frustrations that can cause us. Another eye in another place, out of this world, can set off our balance and poke little holes in the beautiful masks we wear in public. We make these masks out of psychological glitter and glue, ’cause we think we can fool people, or maybe we got our feelings hurt one too many times, and a thoughtfully constructed persona starts to seem important. They’ll think I’m so cool! But friends, lovers and well-wishers whose hearts are not made of stone always seem to be around when our weirdnesses shine through the eye holes like so much bright light.

Love,
Kristin

Find this song and all my recent work, in multiple formats – including lossless, free for download on my CASH Music pages. Information on how you can support my work by becoming a subscriber is here.