At band camp At the café I work at, I had the honor of connecting with one lesbian bartender who works there, and is the daughter of one very-notable-previously-huge-alcoholic-dude-who-abandoned-the-daughter-who-he-claims-to-be-the-love-of-his-life, New York City author by the name of Alan Kaufman.
Rude. YOU post no bills! (All photos taken by ME unless otherwise noted)
Nostalgic for NYC
Although I have no idea why, I am positive that said encounter with said lesbian bartender is obviously happening for a reason because I am from NYC also, and the world works in mysterious ways, and she is complex and awesome, and I am complex
and awesome, and we all our complex. And awesome. Big breath. I know what you’re thinking.
“Didn’t this girl’s mother ever teach her not to use run-on sentences?”
Well, let me tell you something. Firstly, no my mother did NOT teach me aforementioned grammatical faux-pas. She’s foreign, OK?! And no, I am not a lesbian. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, relax. Gay pride all the way!!!
But back to what’s important, here. Isi, my bartender friend, is a phenomenal songwriter/composer. After work this Friday, we were having a nice chit-chat whilst closing shop when she asked me to stop what I was doing and listen. She started to sing a song she wrote, and I couldn’t believe how easily she was able to perform it, even though singing/performance is not even her forte. In all honesty, I kind of wanted to laugh because the entire situation was outright awkward and unexpected
and I am an eleven-year-old child; but from a professional standpoint, woman was amazing! I immediately began to question myself and my poor, yet ever-improving performance skills. Isn’t this supposed to come naturally to me? After all, it is what I love, isn’t it?
Me trying to look like a natural. working?????
Obviously, I have trouble deciphering which parts of a story are important to write about, and which are completely futile. But I’ve learned throughout my 21 years of living that I shouldn’t blame my erratic story-telling on ADHD. Perhaps they are these random elements that our brains choose to hold on to that define who we are. And maybe, just maybe, time will tell how all these seemingly unconnected facts are meant to come together; because surely they will. They must.
In the meantime, I leave you with a piece of yet another Adele cover, since the world has obviously not been exposed to one, too many of these, already. It’s a video of a jam session I had with a peer in preparation for a class performance. Yes I was hungover. Yes Gavriel’s (the guitarist) socks are cool. And yes, I fucking love Adele.
CLICK HERE TO SEE COOL GREY SOCKS AND GAVRIEL, THE HAWT GUITARIST!
Sitting in one Cafe Noir in the bustling, internationally versatile, middle-of-a-f***load-a’-political-troubled city of Tel Aviv, I forage my ADHD-infused brain for an opener for this here journey. This city that I hold so dear to my heart,and I, are relatively young and surrounded by voices that are trying to shatter us to pieces. Before you question my sanity, let me clarify: I do NOT hear voices. Although I can’t seem to validate that I am a hundo percent sane. It is a metaphor, people. META-for. We both share a struggle that is difficult to face, yet impossible to ignore: the urge to be the best that we can, amidst the turmoil that is undeniably present around us, and sometime, even worse, within us.
TLV sky being its ill, TLV sky self.
My goals and aspirations of becoming a successful performer burn brightly in the forefront of my mind, yet the means of achieving them seem to be ever-changing. I have no connections into the music world; I am trying to find the musical mold into which I fit;
I still can’t seem to get on a stage in front of my own peers without the pressing urge to piss myself. You know. Standard stuff. Similarly, the tiny city of Tel Aviv is filled with aspiring artists, musicians, and gifted people who already have enough to worry about, yet still need to be aware that they can go from having a peaceful morning stroll one Saturday, (or a walk-of-shame in six-inch heels…however you roll is A-OK by me), to being told by a police officer to cross the street because of an “unattended piece of luggage,” which is actually Israeli for:
“SHIT, SON! WHERE THE NEAREST BOMB SHELTER AT?!”
But on a more positive, and uplifting note (did you catch that little musical innuendo, there?), the most important thing we both share is that there is always an excuse to celebrate. They don’t call
me it one of the World’s Top Party Cities for nothing! So let’s make the best with what we’ve got!
Step Numero Uno: Hone in on your passions and goals, even if they seem impossible to achieve. CHECK.
Step Numero Dos: Find the strength and courage to follow them. SEMI CHECK.
And last but not least,
Step Numero Three (language switch. ADHD can have that effect on me, sometimes): Stay positive and party, even if the party is being held in a metaphorical bomb-shelter in your mind. Or in
my your pants. Or in the pants of some big-time producer who promises you fame and success. Just kidding, I have morals you know.
Click the link adjacent to the word adjacent!
ADJACENT First Cover- Hiding My Heart By: Lee Eller
And most importantly, stay tuned. The journey is only just beginning!