In which it’s good to be home. In other words: I’m back, bitches!

Oh, people, I had so much fun in Vail! It was, on the surface, a really lovely little jaunt. The surroundings were awesome, the gig went well, I did some knitting, I bonded with the other players in the band, we pre-sold some CDs. (We’re going into the studio next month to record a second album.)

But because it was a spiritual retreat and one of the people in the band is totally not into the Eastern trip, there were a lot of other currents for me as well. I may write about that after I’ve processed it, but I think the long and short of it is this: missionary-ing is hurtful and unproductive. There’s just no point to it. No one is actually qualified to discuss spirituality as long as they still wish to discuss it; only after the drive to talk it out is gone is one genuinely qualified to speak on what is possible to achieve with a human nervous system. I will gladly discuss my beliefs with anyone who asks, but after seeing the discomfort suffered by my fellow backup singer as she struggled through a weekend with, as she saw it, a cult, I may never offer anything unsolicited about my own spiritual path again – outside of a medium like this, where one can simply skip any post not interesting.

I sang my ass off with the pipes I had, which were in poor condition, and the saint, Sai Ma, told me I sing beautifully*. I’ve always had problems with my ears at altitude; they don’t pop like normal people’s do, and I spend a long time suffering violent stabbing sensations in my skull and hearing muffled as if my ears were stuffed with wet cotton. (For example, on the drive home from Vail to Fairfield my ears still hadn’t popped when we drove past Des Moines.)

It occurs to me that I could not do a gig immediately after arriving in the mountains; I don’t think I’d hear well enough to be able to sing in tune. Also, the dry air dries my voice out terribly and makes it soft-edged. I drank lots and lots of water but still sounded like I’d just smoked two packs of cigarettes. (Which I hadn’t. I smoked less than a half pack the entire time I was gone.)

The morning after the gig, at breakfast, three people told me I sound like Janice Joplin! (Before I had my fuckin’ coffee!) Which I don’t! (I smiled and thanked them, and then gave them the Evil Eye as they turned their unprotected backs to me and walked away. They’ll all have crabs before the month is out. That’ll teach ’em to be fuckin’ cheerful at me and call me Joplinesque at the asscrack of dawn.) (Hah!) TB said, “You don’t sound like Janice Joplin. It’s an energy thing.” Thank God. He is now and forever my favorite pipes player, just for saying that.

If I had a dollar for every time someone says I sound like Joplin… yeah. I’d be loaded.

I knitted during the drive; the pile of yarn I’ve been referring to as ‘my sweater’ is now a bona fide garment! There’s a front, and a back, and a collar! All it lacks is sleeves. (When I tried it on for AmmZon, she giggled and said, “Dude, that’s, like, a muscle sweater!”)

On the drive home, we stopped at the Applebee’s in North Platte for dinner. Their sign advertised a “steak & Angus” special. So that’s, what? Beef AND beef? Because your colon isn’t clogged enough?

I ordered a side salad. They brought it to me smothered in bacon bits. Because vegetables really need pork on them, especially at a chain like that, where you might not get enough fat calories without that bacon. Oink.

Road food is complicated. For a vegetarian. Especially in the Midwest.

Dog love, however, is not complicated: when I got home, Miss Bindu gave me the bestest happy-to-see-you dance ever. I love that dog so much. If you’re ever curious about what unconditional love looks like, and about whether it can be a joyful condition or not, try living with a dog for 9 years. I want to be more like my dog.

In other news, I’m pissed off because the author of the book I’m reading fucking killed off my favorite character!

I don’t care if he brings it – it’s not male or female, but third sex – back later, either. That’s how bummed I am. Now I’m thinking I might just light the fucking thing on fire rather than finish it. Rar!

Now, did I use the F word enough in this entry, or should I indulge in a rewrite?

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* When I went up for darshan from Sai Ma, I said, “Singing the song O Mother, Take Us There was hard for me, with You in the room. I wanted to cry. It’s hard to sing when one’s crying.” She said, “I was crying.” It was a sweet little interchange.