They are around me all the time these days, in my head and in my heart. They’ve torn me open and put my insides on display on facebook and on stage. They’ve left me so marred that, at times, that I’m no longer recognizable to my closest friends and family. They toy with me as though all the years I’ve spent writing about strength and power and personal responsibility have meant nothing. They show me what it is to feel whole, then rip me in half. They fill me with a sense of faith and belief, then drain me until there is nothing left. They give me prophecy, then make me painfully aware that I know nothing. Who knew demons could be so very Zen? For me they have embodied everything and nothing.

I hate them.

I can’t imagine my world without them.

To be sure, I have not become a zealot, or a newly-religious girl. This has nothing to do with Hell or Satan or any other fairy tales other than the ones I am made of. To be sure, this is what happens when you are not true to yourself, when you fight the things that linger in your heart, when you lie to yourself about fear and pain. These are the doors you open, and when you do, you invite all manner of creature in. And goddamn, do they ever come in. They come like a fucking army, like a flood.

But the doors are open, the wounds that I carelessly stitched up years ago are open, and my heart -such as it is- is open. I’m letting them in, letting them through, to do their worst. Because I know it’s the only way I will ever be unafraid. It’s the only way I will heal.

The only way out is through.

And if my flood took you down, I can only tell you how sorry I am, and that it took me down, too. The sea that remains is deep and rough, it is filled with loss and demons and monsters and myth, but it will teach us to be strong. It will teach us what to fear and what to disregard. It will teach us what matters and what means very little.

My demons are teaching me, and though the lessons are ugly and brutal, they are lessons still, and I will listen.

I will learn.

I’ve been touring regularly since 2005, so this wasn’t my first rodeo by any means. It wasn’t the longest tour EL has done, but it did span the country, which is always preferable. I sure do love driving through the desert.

I could take a few moments now to outline the ins and outs of touring, but Martin Atkins already wrote that book, and his anecdotes include things like Japan and John Lydon, and mine do not.

Instead, I figure I’ll just share some of the key observations and learning experiences of the past month. If you are in a band, and are hoping to learn a thing or two about touring from said experiences, you will likely be disappointed. I would suggest you purchase Mr Atkins’ book, or even better…stop fucking around on Facebook and book yourself some shows.

Anyone else…enjoy, or something…

13 THINGS I HAVE LEARNED ON TOUR WITH BELLA MORTE AND VERSAILLES, OCT-NOV 2009

1. I love being the driver of my van for many reasons, but mostly because it means I also get to play iPod DJ. And if that means we segue from Foetus to Justin Timberlake to Toto to Clutch to Leonard Cohen to Whitesnake to Apop to Cheap Trick to IAMX…well then, I suggest rolling with it lest you find yourself on the wrong side of the velvet rope outside my club.
And by ‘outside’, I mean ‘outside’ and by ‘velvet rope’, I mean ‘ the door’ and by ‘club’, I mean ‘of my van’.

2. Little known fact: Interstate 10, which is the southern most route one can take across this great nation, coast to coast, was engineered by The Devil to test man’s physical and mental fortitude. The highway is peppered with various challenges and pitfalls, including The Never Ending Construction Zone, Nearly Fatal Monotony Corridor, The Molasses Swamp, and Texas.

3. Tony: He doesn’t fuck around. He gets shit done.

4. Best cell phone game ever when you are bored or driving? It’s called ‘BZZZZ’ and it involves your front pants pocket and a few equally bored friends who have your number and unlimited text plans. The more players the better, and that’s all I’m saying about that.

5. When Andy asks if you want to see his new ‘belt buckle’, ALWAYS say no.

6. Awesome mirrored cop sunglasses are awesome because you can’t see in, but I can totally see out. Live with that.

7. Everyone has a price. Mine floats somewhere between $35 and $17,000, depending.

8. Next time, Tetanus shot FIRST…THEN drunken pole dancing on the rusty water pipe in the laundry room of your friend’s apartment building in Hollywood.

9. I would not only frequent, but would totally consider working at a club called The Rusty Pole.

10. Drinking an $8 bottle of rum with the grounds keeper in the parking lot of the San Antonio motel under the freeway that gives you black lung?
Eff yeah…cheaper than your hi-brow “Bacardi” or your so-called “Captain” and waaaaay more anecdotal for cocktail parties or at Thanksgiving dinner.

11. Speaking of tequila…you can order a margarita in San Antonio larger than your head. That’s 60oz, 11 shots of tequila, my Chickens! This isn’t some mythological being like Chupacabras or Polar Bears…it’s real. I’ve seen it. Tyler saw it, Dianna saw it, hell…we all saw it…right there, at the river walk in San Antonio TX. Turns out you can procure one for a hefty price and 90 minutes later you’re roaming the streets of downtown SATX (which I still don’t know how to pronounce) randomly riding the elevator at the Hyatt and getting dirty looks from the night watchman at the Alamo…which, ironically, I did not remember the next day.

12. Dear Sketchy Hooker Motel in Kansas City,
If you REALLY don’t want people lounging by your stagnant, sludge-filled swimming pool, drinking beer at 3AM, might I suggest something that is slightly more obvious a deterrent than your CLOSED sign, padlocked gate, and iron perimeter fencing. That was SO not hard to scale, even in the dark, and even after all that whiskey.
Thanks,
A Concerned Guest

13. When you tour with other bands, and the stars line up just right, you get close really fast, and that is exactly what happened here, at least for me. So it’s really jarring that first day after a tour ends when you wake up and the 7 or 12 or however many people you were living with everyday for an extended period of time are gone, as though they all died in a freak coal mining accident or something. It’s quite an adjustment, which is why I’ve found that if you steal something really valuable from each person, it makes the transition a little easier.

And as a side note to Andy…I honestly did not know your insulin was in your suitcase when I took it, so if you want it back just text me. Quickly and repeatedly. And in the subject line, just put ‘BZZZZ’.

(Miss you guys!)

UPCOMING EVENTS

11.25 Steven Archer DJs at Assimilate, The Chameleon Club, Lancaster PA

12.06 NITZER EBB, EGO LIKENESS, ANDERS MANGA at Jaxx, Springfield VA

Early 2010 EGO LIKENESS’ 4th full length album BREEDLESS (Metropolis Records)
and the final EP in the Compass series EAST

More to follow…

I don’t have eyebrows.

There. I’ve said it. Now you all know.

I mean, I have eyebrows, but they are so blonde and weird and noncommittal that they aren’t worth fooling with, so I shave them off and draw them back on in black.

It freaks people out to see me without them, especially my husband, who says he can’t tell if I’m happy, sad, or angry until I draw them back on. I find this amusing…but of course, you’d never know to look at me.

So, this post is about make-up, because I love make-up. I don’t claim to be a professional, but a lay person with years of experience crafting my face to look the way I like. I like the way it smells, and the way it feels. It hurts my soul when I see people with poorly applied make-up. I once saw an interview with Dolly Parton where she said that whenever she’s in Hollywood, she sleeps in full make-up just in case there’s a fire and the paparazzi show up. This is just one of the myriad reasons I love Dolly Parton. But I digress…

We went to Philadelphia on Friday to shoot the cover for the North EP with one Mr Kyle Cassidy. After years of friendship and numerous photo sessions, I still can’t believe our good fortune in knowing and working with Kyle and Trillian. I see them as one of those couples that everyone wishes they were friends with- the sort of couple that F Scott Fitzgerald would have written about. Not the screwed up protagonist couple, but the stable couple who is always throwing fabulous parties or inviting you to their beautiful cottage on the French Riviera for the entire month of July.

So, make-up…photos…Kyle. Yes.

We needed the cover to be cold, of course. Frozen, actually. Downright frigid. So Kyle enlisted the help of Vince Miles, an incredible make up artist, to come and freeze us up. And with his airbrush and skillful hand, that is what he did.

Vince airbrushing me. Photo by Kyle Cassidy

Steven getting frozen. Photo by Kyle Cassidy

Kyle and us.

And finally…

The end result…

Ego Likeness - North EP. Photo by Kyle Cassidy. Make up by Vincent Miles. Graphics by Steven Archer

This is why I love make-up.

And for the record, I did my own eyebrows.

For interested parties, the EP can be ordered here.

For more on Kyle and Vince-

www.kylecassidy.com

www.facebook.com/visualinsanity

So between packing and moving and writing and recording we have been busy bees. Speaking of bees, I was stung by one yesterday. He got me right on my middle finger, which is now considerably larger than my other fingers and incredibly itchy. I don’t think I’ve had a bee sting since I was about eight, and at one point I was trying to decide if they really hurt as much as I remember, or if the pain was magnified by little kid glasses. Well, I can tell you now -it hurts like a mother. Steven said, “Well, if it’s any consolation, that bee is dead now.” But to me, all that means is that the bee is feeling no more pain (or whatever sort of suffering it is to be a bee), while I still am. But I can’t really be upset. He was just being a bee, doing his bee-y things. Viva la bee. And now I’m going to stop saying bee.

The new album is nearly done. It’s dark. Darker than I expected, darker than our previous material. But I trust our instincts and I trust our audience to be open to what we’ve done. It’s been a difficult labor in many ways, but well worth the pain. I recently had to come to terms with the fact that I do not like writing songs. I love performing them, and I love that they are ours. I love touring. I don’t even mind recording, though it’s not my favorite step in the process. But song writing turns me into a fire-spewing demon, and I pity my husband or anyone else that may ever have to work with me. It’s odd, since I enjoy writing just about anything else. But songs do not come easily to me, and that -in the past- has made me question if I’m doing the right thing.

Which of course, is a ridiculous way of looking at things. Steven pointed out that it would be silly to believe that you need to love every second of every step on your path in order to know you’re on the right one. I’m not sure why I didn’t see it that way before. I mean, I love touring. Just love it. I never questioned if it was a good use of my time and my life, because I knew in an instant that it was. That said, I do not love the napping-nights, as I call them. Those nights where you have just enough time at the hotel for a shower and a brief nap before the day starts all over again. I am a sad, pathetic creature at 5 AM, especially when we only got into the room two hours before. I do not love being exhausted and malnourished for weeks at a stretch. I do not love when our van starts making a noise I am unfamiliar with (and when you’ve driven one vehicle across the country eight times -I logged 50,000 miles last year alone- you know every single noise). I especially do not love it when that happens in the mountains or desert. I do not love driving through the Rockies or the Sierra Nevadas during blizzards, or through the Mojave in a dust storm, or through midwest ice storms and tornadoes, or southern tropical storms where the rain is coming in horizontally. I am a relatively skilled driver, but these were some terrifying moments.

Yet I wouldn’t trade them. And I wouldn’t trade the song writing either. I’m proud of the work we do, no matter how difficult it is to produce at times. But it’s all part of the process. Years ago I had a process cross tattooed on my shoulder to remind me of this very thing, well before I ever imagined myself traveling around the world performing songs that we wrote. Sometimes I forget it’s there, but most of the time it serves its purpose. I’m remembering to accept and enjoy the process more and more.

And speaking of bees touring:

Tour Dates- Autumn 2009

9.25-27 Steven Archer & Donna Lynch will be reading and vending books, art & music along with Raw Dog Screaming Press at HORRORFIND WEEKEND, Hunt Valley Marriott, Hunt Valley MD

9.30 Ego Likeness w/ NEW MODEL ARMY, The Rock n Roll Hotel, DC

BELLA MORTE w/EGO LIKENESS &
VERSAILLES

10.24 The 2nd Annual Vampire Ball, The Masonic Temple, Flint MI
(feat. Voltaire & The Hellblinki Sextet)

10.25 The Nite Light Cafe, Berwyn IL

10.26 The Darkroom, Chicago IL

10.28 Davey’s Uptown, Kansas City MO

10.29 Teatro Scarpino, Fayetteville AR

10.30 The Stafford, Bryan TX

10.31 Atomix, San Antonio TX

11.5 Uncle Paulie’s Pub, El Paso TX

11.6 Mardi Gras, Scottsdale AZ

11.7 Bar Sinister, Hollywood CA

11.10 Elysium, Austin TX

11.11 Rocbar, Houston TX

11.13 The Howlin Wolf, New Orleans LA

11.14 The Rutledge, Nashville TN

We are still in the midst of moving. It will be a slightly drawn-out process, but that’s probably for the best. I’m hoping the days between now and when we are settled will buffer the strangeness I feel every time I go to the house and remember that my grandmother is no longer there. It’s been nearly three months since she died and I have been waiting and waiting for it to stop taking my breath away, but it hasn’t yet.

I have also been waiting to write this- to write about her- and now that I’m here I’m not sure I’m ready. But I’m going to try.

The night before she died, we were on stage in Charlottesville, playing the last show of the Bella Morte tour. It was May 16th. My mom called two days before to say that Gran was in the hospital with pneumonia, but she was hanging in there. In her 90s, she’d already kicked pneumonia a few times, and I suppose we took it for granted that she’d kick it once again. But that Saturday, before the show, my mom called again to say that the doctors weren’t sure if she was going to beat it this time. Fluid was collecting around her heart and lungs and it was a waiting game to see if they could get it under control. I wanted to come home then, but mom suggested we just play the show and come home in the morning. Gran was still holding on well enough.

That night, on stage, I did something I’ve never done in the ten years we’ve been performing. I cried. My voice cracked and I had to force my mouth to form the words to a new song called ‘Thirty-Year War’. And I simply could not stop the tears. I knew then, despite the little bit of optimism everyone was trying to muster. I knew because that was how it was between my Gran and I. It always had been.

We drove home that night, and arrived at the hospital around 7am. By noon she was awake and aware, but it had become clear to her doctors that she wasn’t going to be able to get rid of the fluid that was suffocating her. Her organs were failing and, after 93 years, wouldn’t be repaired. We could keep her alive on machines or we could make her comfortable and let her go. I’m still so grateful that there was no argument over the decision. She had always been such a strong, sensible woman.

Around 1pm, the machines were phased out, as the morphine drip was turned up. She and I talked, but not about what was happening. We talked about The Young and the Restless. We talked about the miniature horse farm we’d driven by in Ohio a few days before. We talked about the cats, and how lovely the Mississippi River was on the day we were in Lacrosse, and every other little thing until the morphine carried her away. Initially, I didn’t think I could be there when she died. I was utterly terrified. But as the minutes passed, I did not leave. I laid on the bed with her, kept my hands on her back and on her head, smoothing her hair back from her face. And this was how we were until she took her last breath. It was almost 4:30 in the afternoon.

Maybe I shouldn’t have written all of this. Maybe it’s too indulgent. I don’t know.  I’m resisting the urge to delete it right now, but something is giving me pause. I want to go on, I really do.

I know how lucky I am to have had her for so long, when some never know, or never have a deep connection to their grandparents.

I know she was 93 and had a life full of wonderful and terrible times.

I know everyone loses loved ones.

I know these things. But in the end, it doesn’t make me miss her any less. I’m not asking why, I’m not cursing any god for taking her, nor am I consoled that she’s in a better place. These things don’t matter to me. What matters is that the woman who raised me along with my mother is gone from this world, and I miss her.

When we were careless in the woods, and the wolves would catch our scent and we’d lead them right to the door, Gran would be there waiting for them, unafraid. Even when they got in, she held her ground, and eventually they’d run off, and she’d help us pick up the pieces.

I’m older now, and the threat of wolves is not as great as it once was, but when I get to grandmother’s house, she won’t be there.

She won’t be there to remind me to stay on the path she cleared. She won’t be at the top of the hill with a flashlight to guide me when I come home from the creek too late. She isn’t there to tell my mom and I that things will always be ok.

But I won’t let what she taught me be in vain. I intend to stay on my path, and I will carry my own flashlight in case I stay at the creek too long. And I will know that no matter what happens, things will always be ok.

And as for the wolves…

Well, let’s just say we have an understanding. I am my grandmother’s kin, after all.

HWW

July 28, 1915 – May 17, 2009

My husband Steven is happy to be moving; certainly for the space and the art-related possibilities living in the woods affords, but mostly because the house and property are ideal in the event of a zombie apocalypse. It’s a very old and sturdy house that sits high on a hill, surrounded by densely wooded cliffs, making it difficult to access, but easy to defend. It also has its own well, and could easily go off the grid, so Steven says. He’s probably right… after all, the house was built before there was any real grid to speak of. The land is rocky, but fertile enough to garden, and there is a fresh water source at the base of the hill.

Also, it has a hot tub. A modern one, too, not just a metal trough that you fill with water and let heat up in the sun like mom had when she was a young girl. And not like my “swimming pool” either, which was just me in the bathtub, in my bathing suit, sitting in about three inches of cold water after 45 minutes of whining. I probably could have used more than three inches of water, but I didn’t want to be the reason the well went dry. And according to my Gran, that is exactly what I’d have been.

So, yes…hot tub, seclusion, safe from zombies…I’m happy to be going home, too. The house is part of our family, but its more than that. In an ironic way, it is an exercise in non-attachment. Now, I know I just personified the house, like, two seconds ago, but that’s just the sentimentalist in me; the girl that used to name the rocks in the driveway and the multitude of squirrels in the yard. But it’s that very sentiment that has brought me to this place of resolution. See, I love my house. And I love my family. And I love every single happy and ambivalent moment I spent there. I love that my grandfather designed it and built it. I love my memories of holidays celebrated there, all the years I had with my Gran, all of the things I made there with my mom, the animals we had, the way the woods looks when it snows, the red-tailed hawks that nest there, the foxes, and the colts that play in the neighbor’s field every spring. I remember all of the drawings I did by the fireplace while Gran and I watched The Young and the Restless. I remember the games I made up and my playhouse, and the black snake that lived in the shed for years. I remember mom and I taking care of our goat, and picking blackberries. I remember so many wonderful, wonderful things.

But I also remember the terrible things. The fear I felt, the anxiety, the shame…consequences of deeds done when I was too little, or later, too helpless to stop it. The house was the witness and there were times I hated her for betraying me. Why did she let those people in? Why did she ever let them stay so long? I’d thought we’d had an understanding. I loved her, and she’d protect me, shelter me, as any good house should. But in they came, slipping in through the cracks the way the mice and salamanders do. And it seemed she could not stop it.

But it’s a house, you may be saying. Isn’t this blame just a tad misplaced?

Of course. But when you are young, you blame the constant, because the constant won’t leave you. I had some constants, and regrettably, I blamed them all. The house was no exception.

I have since made peace with my constants, recognizing now that even the things that would never choose to leave you, will, in fact, one day have to leave you. Knowing this, it seems silly to waste even one moment ever being bitter.

So, I have forgiven the house. And I am pardoned for ever being so angry at her. I can not erase what we saw and felt there, and I no longer need to try. I will simply do what one does in a house. I will make things, and write music, and read, and sleep. When we want to go south, we will take what we need and go for a while, then we will come back to her. When we want to go to the desert, we will leave what is not essential and we will go for a while, then we will come back to her again. We understand each other now, and I am ready to live there once again.

Plus, you know…the zombie thing.

In fact, other than the occasional, but inevitable, sabotage by faulty brain chemistry, my life is exactly what I want. I have a very strong and loving marriage. I write books, and make music and travel with my partner. When my life settles into a routine I’m not pleased with, I work to change it.

Well, goody for you, jerk, you might be thinking.

But it’s not all rainbows and tiny magical ponies made of gold. You see, the reason I don’t often complain about the world around me is because the worst offender of all lives in my head. Years of therapy and currently, Lexapro, have worked wonders, but the storm is always brewing; the tape is always looping. This is my OCD existence (colloquially- crazy brain). I know now, at thirty-five, that I will probably never be able to function properly without medication, and I am ok with this.

So, here I am. I take my pills and do my best to keep the loops focused on things that I love, because if I don’t, the tapes will play some very ugly, very terrifying things. And they will not stop until I have become ugly, too.

Consequently, I am compelled to love many things. Some, very lovable (baby goats). Others, not so much (abandoned quarries). But these things are what save me. I weave them into the things I make, and around me like a blanket. My husband is a gracious soul because he agreeably lives in this nest of maps, and mines, bizarre animals, fairy tales, books, hidden rivers, haunted places, biological anomalies, and varied religious icons with me, and seems to feel quite at home with it all. Our mythologies, it turns out, are not so different. We drink from the same well.

So, in writing this, I’d hoped to figure out exactly what purpose this blog will serve, and I suppose I have. This will be the place where I write about the things that keep me sane and happy to be in the world. There are many, so there should be no shortage of words here. I just hope there will still be enough time for me to post obsessively on Facebook.