Self-written, self-recorded, self-produced (aka shitty) “album.” Enjoy, y’all. And my friend, Tyler, has ALREADY remixed a song of mine, which you can listen to here, which also means I’m famous already.
Carole King started playing in the coffee shop in which I spent my afternoon yesterday. It was her Greatest Hits album, and I knew all the words, and almost the order of the songs, because my mother is a big Carole King fan. I have vivid memories of our copper brown Honda minivan, smelling faintly of rotting tomatoes that had once been left under a seat for too long, cluttered and crowded because of how much space it gave us to fill.
I didn’t sleep easy as a child; I still don’t. I worry a lot, seemingly only at night, right before I close my eyes and lose consciousness for eight hours. I would think about tests on which I had done poorly and not told my parents, future tests for which I hadn’t prepared as much as I should. I think, though I’m certain I never confessed this, that I worried about everything—life, death, love, family—in those first hours of bedtime, and I’d often end up crying pathetically, hoping one of my parents would hear me and come into my room and ask me what was wrong, so I could say, “I can’t sleep.”
I think it’s true that, if we’re raised in a traditionally structured family, with traditionally structured gender ideas at the base of our parents’ existences and their parents’ existences, then our mothers (especially for women) become our idea of beauty, even if that idea should later be shattered. Nothing seems more gorgeous to me, more loving, more feminine, than the hazy memory I have of my mother, short-haired, curvy-figured woman that she has always been to me, in pajamas or oversized t-shirts, make-up free, singing softly “Get Here If You Can” in her not-quite-beautiful singing voice.