Decompressing from the weekend away, getting ready to do it all over again on Friday!

We are looking 4 a jump in nj near exit 7 on i78w. Anyone?

Listening to Randall Williams at a great house concert in NJ www.whereisrandall.com

On tour with troubadour Randall Williams through WV and NJ! The concert at Avelon Nudist Resort was quite the experience . . . but surprisingly NBD after 15 minutes that everyone was naked . . . :)

Ok, so i love the success fool!

um, I think I really want an iphone now.








Heidi Howes
Singer, Songwriter, Poet
Birth Doula
1427 Burnley Square North
Columbus, OH 43229
(c)715-209-0122

www.heidihowes.com
www.myspace.com/heidihowesmusic

Ok, I think I am sold on Ping.fm. For those of you who are sick of updating so many status', start pinging! It's da BOMB!

The Best Way to Start a Monday is with an Incredible Poem

The Real Reason

for Philip Levine

My love is toxic like an alkali dream.
—Ralph Dickey

I became tongue-tied
and didn't say anything
when Philip Levine asked why R and I
never visited him in Fresno in 1972.
It was at a party in New York,
in 1997, I think, and I couldn't,
probably didn't want to,
remember the real reason.

R was the king of pain,
he owned the most of anyone (he believed.)
It ran deep and pure and abiding,
a liquid essence concocted out of a natural instinct
for the sublime, the sexual, and the hopeless.
I had pain, too (goddamnit) but his was supreme.
His pain swallowed everything (I liked that)
and spat it out like so much cosmic glue.

He'd agonized over each chess move, pool shot, sip of beer.
He'd spin rhyme, music, laughter, and infinite affection
out of acres of his scalding black bastard pain.
He owned white pain, too (being half white),
but black pain was his right hand, his angel, his calling card.

Women were drawn to it.
To its musky, damp oily stink (I hated that.)
He'd pull magnificence out of a miserable piano,
make the floor and ceiling weep,
would sit there, glowering,
hating God or himself (or me),
for bearing witness. For enjoying the pleasure
of his music, for being alive.
He'd suffer each suffocating inhalation
of his cigarette, the swooning women,
exhale whole pieces of himself
into the hard blue sex of his smoke, hovering
over each delicious note. The way he owned
himself in our minds, owned suffering,
as if cool and genius alone couldn't survive
a white mother's abandonment,
the blackness of an anonymous father,
one annihilating foster home after another,
the lush irresistible hub of a white woman's rejection,
his own brutal righteousness,
the embryonic humiliation of making gay pornography
in order to hide from the Vietnam war,
in order to eat, stagger
the irresistible
burgeoning charm
of the razor's edge ...

Most of all,
he suffered me,
who couldn't bear the incandescence of his self-absorption?
The truth is
I loved him more
than I hated him.

The truth is
I can't stop hearing his tortured righteous riff
because it won't stop
echoing
in my memory of him.

The real reason
I flew to Oakland from Kalamazoo
is because he sounded skeletal on the phone,
as if he'd finally swallowed the last drop
of his mulatto night-blooming curiosity,
as if what was left had made up its mind, for keeps.
I was angry before I hung up, before I got there,
stupefied that he didn't look up but stared
at his filthy floor mattress, as if it had flown
2000 miles to save his skinny half-black ass.

The sonuvabitch looked like a corpse
and smelled antediluvian, his books, piano, job,
and last woman gone, all gone, as if all
his preceding suffering was only practice ...

"Why did you want me here if you are not going to say anything?"
"I never said I wanted you here."
"Well, fuck you."
"Well, fuck you too."

Then we embraced, good warm black Russian Jewish bear hugs,
just like we always did.

Under his shades his thoughts looked gutted,
bruised, Talmudic. Only the sheer drenched cloth
of him remained. And a poetry book, They Feed They Lion,
by Philip Levine, his favorite poet.
I decided to be clairvoyant. "Let's visit Levine!
You can depress two Jews at the same time!"
"Why would Levine want to see us, we haven't done anything?"

So I called Levine, who didn't know me from Adam,
and said R, a black poet, who was from Detroit,
had gone to Wayne State and Iowa, like him,
was friends with his friend, the poet Michael Harper,
really needed to see him. Breathless,
I shut up long enough to listen.
"Okay, sure, fine, come visit then!"

Maybe it was simple curiosity or my stuttering,
or his intuitive goodness, but the next morning
we packed our youth into the rackety old shell
of R's two-geared VW, and headed toward Fresno,
two prodigal sons seeking a furlough from the inevitable.

Either the campground in Big Sur we stopped at
was on the way or I was lost, biding time,
I don't remember how we got there,
but that night, smoking hash, watching me
cut potatoes over a fire, R explained
in excruciating detail how the face of the woman I lived with
surfaced out of the muck of his dreams
every time he fucked someone.
He said it curiously, somewhat bemused.
Watching me slice the throat
of each motherfucking potato.

We'd been friends a long time.
I owned his envy of my hopefulness,
his loathing of my faith in him.
He owned my awe of the beautiful music
of a soul so exquisite it'd given birth
to an implacable love of poetry,
of music, a born again love for what
lay hidden in him, a prayerful belief
in the fragile terrible equilibrium of his goodness.

I dropped the knife and walked off
into the slow perfect silence of the redwoods.
Shivering, shriveled, looking up
into the vast roof of the Californian night,
I remembered his telling me how he'd watched Detroit burn,
how he'd lain curled on a rooftop,
watching the flesh of buildings curl into a rage so fine,
popping, one by one, the black wax faces melting below,
the streets a cauldron of self-abuse,
of a rage charred beyond recognition,
a rage that rocked him in its cradle-like embrace
all the way up to God, for a moment,
one sweet moment, as his city burned,
his people destroyed what little they owned,
as his adopted black mother wailed three floors below,
beautifully, with infinite grace ...
that's the ticket he'd said ...
the secret of living in this world ...

You just had to give up everything
enough times to reach God.

In the morning, we sat watching each other
not look at each other. We sat in the gloomy wet fog
without a fire, without hope,
each knowing what the other thought,
what the other knew,
that it was time to give up,
that it was time to stop holding on,
that he had given up enough times
to reach God.

We returned to Oakland.
I didn't call Levine, I wanted to but couldn't.
What could I say—that death won?
That I'd failed without really trying?

Staring out the plane's window, unreleased,
I recited Blake: "If the sun and the moon should doubt,
they'd immediately go out."

R murdered himself eight months later.
And I keep remembering the first time I saw him,
in a bar in Iowa, playing a silky piano,
how I'd immediately recognized what sustained him,
not the music, or poetry, or his appetite for suffering,
but there, under all his drifting world of pain,
his desire to see how much longer
the black bitter tide could sustain him,
how much longer
he could live on nothing.

Philip Schultz

Five Points
Vol. 12, No. 2

Wild Geese

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
Love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
Are moving across the landscapes,
Over prairies and the deep trees,
The mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese,
High in the clean blue air,
Are heading home again.
Whoever you are,
No matter how lonely,
The world offers itself to your imagination,
Calls you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
Over and over announcing your place
In the family of things.

Mary Oliver

Random Acts of Kindness Revealed

Here is a letter I wrote to the editor of the local newspaper today, I have never done that before! I hope it gets printed but if not, here it is. I checked out a couple of neat websites as well and they are great resources for this sort of thing. Here is another one. And another.

Dear Editor and Community, November 23, 2008

I have lived here in the Bay area for most of my adult life, since I began attending Northland College in 1995. As a musician and music teacher I have met many people here and have a true love for the region’s community spirit and slow, simple pace.

About 3 weeks ago I received a surprising letter in the mail with no return address, no signature to identify the sender, and a Port Wing postmark. Folded inside the short letter were two $50 bills. The letter read:

“Dear Heidi, November 3, 2008

As a way of expressing our gratitude for a life filled with love, health, a beautiful environment, creativity, and every simple necessity, we’ve decided to begin indirectly supporting our community using the network of knowledge and compassion represented by people, like you, who have inspired us with their work, friendship, philanthropy, or spirit.

Thanks Heidi.”

When I got this letter in the mail, I was dumbfounded. Breathless. Delighted. Speechless. Giddy. Downright befuddled. And once again in awe of humanity! Such a sweet secret way of being told I have done something to inspire another and that they see me, my worth, my special something. Not to mention the glaring fact that just that day an urgent financial need had presented itself for which there seemed no apparent solution -- until your timely letter came!

Thank you with all my heart to my anonymous supporters, whoever you are. You give me hope for miracles and lift my voice to share the beauty of your act. You remind me that amazing, wonderful things happen each day and go largely unnoticed. May all who read this receive the blessing of such a loving gift as well and pass it on!

Sincerely,

Heidi Howes

Those Who Do Not Dance by Gabriela Mistral

A crippled child
Said, "How shall I dance?"
Let your heart dance
We said.

Then the invalid said:
"How shall I sing?"
Let your heart sing
We said

Then spoke the poor dead thistle,
"But I, how shall I dance?"
Let your heart fly to the wind
We said.

Then God spoke from above
"How shall I descend from the blue?
"Come dance for us here in the light
We said.

All the valley is dancing
Together under the sun,
And the heart of him who joins us not
Is turned to dust, to dust.

Sometimes by David Budbill

Sometimes when day after day we have cloudless blue skies,
warm temperatures, colorful trees and brilliant sun, when
it seems like all this will go on forever,

when I harvest vegetables from the garden all day,
then drink tea and doze in the late afternoon sun,
and in the evening one night make pickled beets
and green tomato chutney, the next red tomato chutney,
and the day after that pick the fruits of my arbor
and make grape jam,

when we walk in the woods every evening over fallen leaves,
through yellow light, when nights are cool, and days warm,

when I am so happy I am afraid I might explode or disappear
or somehow be taken away from all this,

at those times when I feel so happy, so good, so alive, so in love
with the world, with my own sensuous, beautiful life, suddenly

I think about all the suffering and pain in the world, the agony
and dying. I think about all those people being tortured, right now,
in my name. But I still feel happy and good, alive and in love with
the world and with my lucky, guilty, sensuous, beautiful life because,

I know in the next minute or tomorrow all this may be
taken from me, and therefore I've got to say, right now,
what I feel and know and see, I've got to say, right now,
how beautiful and sweet this world can be.

"Sometimes" by David Budbill

Sentient Stills

I have been enchanted recently by the photography of Christopher Berry, whose work is displayed at the Black Cat in Ashland this month, and there are some breathtaking shots up on the wall. I have been really enjoying photography lately and dreaming of owning a new camera someday. See Christopher's work here, and he is doing the photos for my new album! I am very excited, gotta give him a call soon. Happy Monday -- my habitual new beginnings day.

Day of the Dead Lake Superior Altar

This was Lake Superior magic at its finest. What a gorgeous altar, thanks to Janelle for making it happen. I felt my crown tingling all through the morning. Honor to my ancestors. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

In The Maze

the abnormal is not courage

The Abnormal Is Not Courage
The Poles rode out from Warsaw against the GermanTanks on horses. Rode knowing, in sunlight, with sabers,A magnitude of beauty that allows me no peace.And yet this poem would lessen that day. QuestionThe bravery. Say it's not courage. Call it a passion.Would say courage isn't that. Not at its best.It was impossib1e, and with form. They rode in sunlight,Were mangled. But I say courage is not the abnormal.

Not the marvelous act. Not Macbeth with fine speeches.
Not the marvelous act, but the evident conclusion of being.Not strangeness, but a leap forward of the same quality.Accomplishment. The even loyalty. But fresh.Not the Prodigal Son, nor Faustus. But Penelope.The thing steady and clear. Then the crescendo.The real form. The culmination. And the exceeding.Not the surprise. The amazed understanding. The marriage,Not the month's rapture. Not the exception. The beautyThat is of many days. Steady and clear.It is the normal excellence, of long accomplishment.-Jack Gilbert Gilbert has several books. One is *Refusing Heaven,*

letter to a student

Dear Scott,
I wanted to tell you some of my thoughts after our lesson, as I have been able to process over the past day.
I noticed a very big difference in your breath control, especially when you were singing Amazing Grace, and I hope you can see that this summer you did make a lot of progress. I realize now that I was indeed overlooking the bad breathing habit you had formed while focusing on other things like pitch recognition and repertoire for the recital, and it was time for you to move from building strength to focusing on subtler control. Jared was right on with the things he was having you work with, and I am so glad that he was able to point you in just the right direction. I noticed that your hard work of the summer truly paid off, and I hope you can see that progress more clearly as you move into the fall.
I can see why you are interested in continuing with Jared, he has so much to offer and you have also made great strides working with him. Mary mentioned that it took a lot of courage for me to send you to other teachers and that most people wouldn't ever do that for so many reasons-- I guess it just never occurred to me no to. You are so eager to learn and so disciplined, singing is kind of becoming a lifestyle for you. I would almost venture to call it a "practice". My thought was that learning different approaches or hearing what others have to say could only be beneficial to you, and if that means you move on to other teachers, well, I want you to find your way to your voice however you need to! I really mean that.
So then I started getting a little doubtful of myself. Asking, what the heck do you know anyway, Heidi? I don't have a PHD, I can't play piano (damn my parents! why didin't they force me? ha ha), I just had a baby 6 weeks ago . . . well, you know how these things can go.
But you gave me a great gift on Monday, I had an AHA moment that has continued over the past couple of days. I think I found the secret to my talents that I need to be focusing on, and I wanted to share it with you because you helped me put a finger on it with something you said. You mentioned something to the effect of yes, you learned a lot with Jared, but you have fun with me . . . and I said something about connection, but later on I thought more and realized that maybe you were saying I help you to be inspired .
I hope I am not sticking my foot in my mouth if that is not what you were really saying, but I realized that that is why I love coaching people to sing (I would rather call it coaching). I feel their inspiration, and I am also inspired in the process. You know that part I was saying about how nobody can teach you to sing, you have to find your own voice, and I think that is really true -- but you have to be continually inspired to want to keep going deeper. I don't want to say I inspire my students, but I think I help them find their own inspiration. What is it to "inspire"? Doesn't it literally mean "to breathe in"? (Okay, i didn't look it up, but let's go with it).
I realize now, as life becomes more work and less fun the older I get and the more responsibilities I have, that inspiration is the precious water we are thirsty for. When the well runs dry, I feel like I am not alive anymore. It is also harder to feel inspired because I have my head down in the muck of life and not up in the heavens where music and art and poetry and dance, etc live. But what is the first thing we give up when life gets too hectic ? -- the "extras". I see now that inspiration is food for the soul, and if we don't get it we starve in a very slow and harmful way. Perhaps this is the reason why so many people are depressed and anxious -- their souls are hungry for inspiration and we have forsaken the Arts in our culture as a needless extra.
All that said, I wanted to thank you for continuing to inspire me with your generosity and insight, and for helping me learn this important lesson in my life. I realize now that I must use my gift to inspire in every way . . . and I need to stop holding back wherever that may be happening in my life.
As for the scheduling of lessons with Jared and me together, I don't know how that might work, but I am willing to try it once and explore the possibility, see how it goes, etc. Please feel free to talk with me about anything, I am open to suggestions and I know there is so much for me to learn. Sorry I may not have left enough room to hear some of that on Monday. Let's keep talking.
Okay, thanks for listening to me ramble.
Heidi

gorgeous

Lament for the Makers
, , -->
Not bird not badger not beaver not bee
Many creatures must make, but only one must seek
within itself what to make
My father's ring was a B with a dart through it, in diamonds against polished black stone.
I have it. What parents leave youis their lives.
Until my mother died she struggled to make a house that she did not loathe; paintings; poems; me.
Many creatures must
make, but only one must seekwithin itself what to make
Not bird not badger not beaver not bee
•
Teach me, masters who by making wereremade, your art.
Frank BidartStar DustFarrar, Straus and Giroux

back to poetry

I would've written this one just this way, I feel so reminiscent all the time! And I am still so young . . .

Archaeology
The older we get, the deeper we dig into our childhoods,Hoping to find the radiant cellThat washed us, and caused our lives to glow in the dark like clock handsEndlessly turning toward the future,Tomorrow, day after tomorrow, the day after that, all golden, all in good time
Hiwassee Dam, North Carolina. Still 1942,Still campfire smoke in both our eyes, my brother and IGaze far out at the lake in sunflame,Expecting our father at any moment, like Charon, to appearBack out of the light from the other side, low-gunwaled and loaded down with our slippery dreams.
Other incidents flicker like foxfire in the blackIsolate distance of memory, cross-eyed, horizon-haired.Which one, is it one, is it anyone that cleans us, clears us,That relimbs our lives to a shining
One month without rain, two months, third month of the new year,Afternoon breeze-rustle dry in the dry needles of hemlock and pine.I can't get down deep enough.Sunlight flaps its enormous wings and lifts off from the backyard,The wind rattles its raw throat, but I still can't go deep enough.
Charles WrightScar TissueFarrar, Straus and Giroux

sisters

A poem in progress for my doulas:

This I know for sure:
many years from now
when all detail slips from this memory of my labor
like a young child quickly grows old
(and we forget the cloudy grey of their infant eyes)
I will remember these few things
you gave me in those short hours we stepped together
behind the veil that separates this life from that --
when darkness set her teeth upon me,
when pain cinched its rope around my chest
and squeezed the breath from my lungs
when loneliness crept like a spider into my heart
and threatened to overcome me --
and somewhere in that frightening world
I might've been lost forever.
In that darkness, I felt your hands'
firm touch, heard your strong voice
your breath in sync with mine
and there was dignity where none would have been
dignity before the knife, and your steadfast sisterhood
holding me up, keeping the door closed
on my deepest fear.


and another post-cesarean poem

I have been to this place before:
sweet baby's breath,
hot mother's tears,
slow, aching body
cut down the center.

I have been to this place before
(I remind myself again and again)
of loneliness and despair,
stark beauty and regret,
guilt for my body's sorrow.

What sacrifice a mother makes!
For surely I would've died to bring you here
as so many have before. Twice the knife
of a surgeon released these children
I would not otherwise have.
And who would this mother be,
otherwise?

I have been to this place before,
weeping for a torn middle self
smiling with the secrets of this precious baby
miraculous pleasure bleeding lonely pain.

I have been to this place before
only this time I know I will make it out alive.
I will not stay long.
This time I will turn quietly, gently
and make my way home.