October 11, 2007. Candlelight, San Antonio, Texas.

People talk a lot about Austin. People love Austin. But I'm here to say that San Antonio is really, really cool. Living in the shadow of Austin's hip mystique with bumper stickers that say "Keep Austin Weird", the city has spawned car statements of a different sort: "Keep San Antonio Lame."

We love San Antonio. Especially the Candlelight. The patio this time was devoid of the legions of mosquitoes that hung out there in May, but that didn't mean I escaped without bites. Probably the mosquitoes that found my legs flew in from Dallas. I have an unlucky magnetism regarding those buggers.

When we arrived and began to set up, it really felt like a kind of homecoming. Everyone there is so utterly familiar, it seemed like we were there last week. The dishwasher stepped out of the back door and fed the nameless cat crying loudly before the show. "We're trying to come up with a name for him," he explained. Another thing: San Antonio has a lot of cats.

We ordered our complimentary drinks and began playing for old friends and new people alike. One of the new listeners really stood out. Father Eddie. Tall, with thick, dark hair and an extremely loquacious manner, he seemed to know everybody on the patio. The man of the cloth was celebrating a birthday with his cousin Juliet, and he wasn't a bit shy about the wine. Most of our friends on the patio knew him from their childhood, and were familiar with his way of making wisecracks that were very un-priest-like. "I'd marry her if she weren't too old for me," he announced. Juliet was clearly younger than he, although he absolutely did not seem 59 in the least. Then he added, "Oh, and she'd my cousin."

Father Eddie launched into stories of his wild youth, crazy concert experiences, and running days with Steve Prefontaine. He was nearly an Olympic competitor and ran against Prefontaine in Eugene back in the day. Shocked that we even knew who the famous runner was, we jawed on about running during the break, comparing marathon stories and training schedules. Soon, in our enthusiasm, he was asking me to pound on his thigh and test his strength. This of course led me and my competitive streak to reciprocate. "Feel this!" I demanded, flexing my quads. It wasn't until I was watching the priest punch Ji's brawny legs, shouting, "You could run the 1000 meter, man!", that I realized how weird the scene was. Keep Austin Weird indeed.

Father Eddie liked our music because he said it was "thought provoking," much like the music of the 60's. I felt that was a very fine compliment indeed, one of the best we have ever received. He said he clearly heard the heavy influence that Joni Mitchell has had on my ears.

The show went along it's lovely course, with no more punching, but plenty of stories and songs. Unity and Cristela were there with their wide clan of fabulous people that we now are honored to call our friends. Pin-pricked as the night was by little lights, reflections of the pond thrown up on the dense foliage surrounding us, and the eyes of constellations watching the scene below, we were all infused by that certain blend of silliness and magic.

Ji and I keep plugging away at this, and the adventures keep unraveling. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I wonder if the world has room for what we want to do. But nights like these and my belief that there is enough room for every one's music keeps me truckin'.

Fortitude. Flexibility. Patience. Riotous Joy.

And Gratitude.

October 7, 2007. Songwriting Workshop, The College of Santa Fe, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Of all of the shows on our tour, this event had me the most freaked. In part it was due to the fact that I had never given a songwriting workshop before in my life. But the main contributing factor to my nervousness was my imagination. I had these visions of scowling students, laughing openly at my awkward attempts to describe my process, derisive comments jettisoning from their mouths. This horror show was thrown into stark relief by the conviction that the workshops given in the past by my predecessors were wildly popular. There they would be, the students having turned out in droves, waving eager hands and looking up toward another much more qualified teacher with beatific adoration.

As with all new ventures, the predictions fell flat, and a wonderful thing took place: the unexpected. Of all of the events on the tour thus far, this was most certainly my favorite.

Quickly realizing that I had nothing to teach, and that I don't believe in any sort of defined method of songwriting, I knew this would be a great opportunity to learn from the best source possible - working artists. And so, beginning with introductions and Ji's great ice-breaker question, "What was one of your more profound musical epiphanies?" we launched into the workshop.

We were honored by the presence of several students that had attended the concert the previous evening, and others that had not. Also the chair of the contemporary music program, Steve Paxton, attended and participated, as well as our man, Paul Brown. Everyone had a chance to share their own personal process, and also describe the things that helped them out in dry spells. We all found it fascinating and powerful that The Beatles kept coming up for just about everybody. In terms of inspiration and a plain and simple love for the music, we all found a common bond with the legendary band.

Next came my favorite part. The songs.

I was utterly amazed at the musical ideas and level of performing that we witnessed by these students. Ji runs an open mic called The Sonic Forum back in Portland, and as he told our group, he sees a multitude of singer-songwriters, as well as bands. Their material was by far more intriguing and original than what he hears on a weekly basis. This cluster of creative kids really impressed us. But I wasn't surprised.

The measure of success we agreed upon was the universal truth of teaching: we certainly learned far more than we "taught". But mostly, I am just glad that the workshop, which naturally ran much longer than our allotted time, seemed to be enjoyable for everyone involved in a relaxed, trusting, and illuminating way. I was also relieved that my insane visions had not a chance of coming true. Here is the most unexpected thing of all - I can't wait to do another workshop again!

Thanks to all who attended, and thanks again to the marvelous CMP and the astounding people who make it happen.

October 6, 2007. The College of Santa Fe, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

In keeping with the weird magic of coincidence that seems to infuse the air of this town, Ji retrieves a startling message from my phone as our trusty Luna heads into the Santa Fe city limits. "Michael Borrelli... says he's in Portland... got cast in New York for a play..." Ji relays to me in bits and pieces the call. My old friend I hadn't seen in 9 years rings from our home turf just as I drive into the town where we last met. It doesn't surprise us in the least. We're back, and glad of it too.

First thing's first. We check out the new contemporary music building for the second time this year, wanting to pop in and find out the haps for the evening's concert. If you'll forgive the lengthy ramble following this, I'd like to give a bit of history. But I certainly wouldn't hold it against you if you skipped ahead.

The Contemporary Music Program is a far cry from when I first entered college as a sprig of a human - 17 years old and from a 70's suburb where no one behind you in the supermarket commented "Look at you lining up your groceries on the belt, you little Virgo you!" I had no idea how that woman knew I was a Virgo, but I knew I wasn't in Tualatin anymore. My first encounter with the CMP was through the wild and steady gaze of Kevin Zoernig, beckoning me into his office to talk about the particulars of taking piano lessons if music wasn't my major. Kevin's office turned out to be the broom closet off of the foyer of the Greer Garson Theatre. In that dim, cramped space, with it's dust and filtered light, I took a piece of chocolate from a man who would end up being one of my finest mentors, and left bearing the optimistic load of "double major." Such was Kevin's charm. I just had to agree, if I want lessons, why not major? And yes, he was right, Sharon Shaheen turned out to be the perfect teacher for me. Years later, with a degree in theatre, I find myself steeped in music, on the road once more with my drummer/poet husband and living a life that stems from creative roots nurtured in a shabby closet by a weird and wonderful sage. Thank you again.

The CMP grew from that closet and it's neighboring practice rooms, to the refurbished military barracks, and now finds housing in the beautiful and well-kept renovation of Benildus Hall. As Ji and I pass through the quiet carpeted hallway, with it's gateways leading to fantastical recording studios, piano labs, the Gamelan Orchestra room and other such wonders, we come upon the atrium that we must necessarily pass through before entering O'Shaughnessy Hall. "Necessarily" is an awful word to describe our passage. In reality it is an anticipated treat. From the low-ceilinged hallway, we break into the double-story open space in which natural light plays first rambunctiously, now softly, now in a manner like syrup as the clouds outside dictate. Our footsteps ring on the tile and some other sound, barely noticeable at first, seizes our attention.

Former CMP head, Steven Miller, has done an amazing thing here. He has set the Atrium Sound Space. This is a place for sound installations created by various artists to weave a sonic environment in a public space. It is never intrusive, and the effect is one of living in your own movie, where the composer has done such a stellar job making the aural tapestry that the listener/viewer does not see it as separate from the whole. The current installation creeps up on us gently, eerily, and with a surprising tenderness somewhere in the sounds and the spaces between sounds. This is all I can say to describe "The Language of Ghosts" (2007) by sonic artist Kim Cascone, other than that I am inspired to write a piece based on the emotion I felt standing still and "hearing" about me.

Pulling open the doors of O'Shaugnessy Hall, we find our man: Paul Brown. Paul is a treasure, a talent, and we burst into grins as hugs pass around accompanied by pats on the back and the sort of shoot-the-shit type comments that happen when you haven't seen someone in a while. "You drove in from Denver... today?" he asks wide eyed. "Just got out of the car." I reply, adding, " Forgive us if we're a bit rummy from the road." And so on. We leave our equipment with the good-natured fellow, (happily a light load because I actually get to play a real, shiny, sleek grand piano tonight - yes!), meet a student who positively shines with youth (was I really that young?!), and head out again.

Second things second... and for all intents and purposes, this should have been first, but for our time constraints... Horseman's Haven!!! After shoving perfect heaping forkfuls of burrito and green chile into our eager and burning mouths, we motor out to Madrid. Staying with Carol in this artist's community is always an adventure, but this time no dogs attack our car. We get about a ten minute reset-button nap and then change to go back to Santa Fe and perform.

Oh to play a real piano. Ji and I exchanged looks of mutual elation through the opened lid of the grand, and tried out a couple of tunes on the intimate and attentive crowd. No one threw anything, so it can be said to have gone reasonably well at that point. The highlight was probably when I used my extraordinarily suave stage tactics and announce to the listeners that I had a terrible runny nose I couldn't possibly disguise any longer and would they please excuse me while I lept from the piano bench and fled to the restroom? Before my tidy exit however, I explained that Ji would tell a joke while I was away to help pass the time. Good thing I zoomed out before catching his amazement and subsequent murderous look.

"Why are there no jokes about Jonestown?"

Silence.

"Because the punchline's too long!"

From inside the hollow-sounding bathroom I discerned a riotous drum-fidgit. "Drum-fidgit" is the term Ji and I have given to the nervous, unconscious action of a drummer when he or she has no idea what to do and feels either uncomfortable, bored, or simply "looked-at." All of a sudden it seems like a surprise and a relief to have something to whack at handily nearby. The drummer then helplessly bangs out a pattern on the nearest playing surface.

Far from unconscious, Ji exercised in a forthright manner his lucky circumstance of being his own drummer for his own awful joke, and smashed an ending in the place of would-be laughter. Since every member of the audience secretly wished at some point that they had their own drum-set after a floundering joke, they immediately burst into the best kind of recognition laughter.

After the "fidget", I walked into a room of the giggles and chuckles that followed Ji's incredulousness that he even told such a sinker.

"What happened?" I asked everybody.

"Nothing," Ji firmly replied.

In editing this, he pipes up from his deep immersion in a National Geographic article on memory and insists the this joke still has all of the elements of greatness. Namely, supreme irony and coarse shock value. I think so too, but don't tell him I said so. Also, he remembers that he warned them"I don't know why this just popped into my head, but it did, so it's 'the one,' and it's probably totally inappropriate right now." he explained, and launched into the joke. When a drummer is as undeniably brilliant and unpredictable as Ji, the audience can be very forgiving.

The show eased up considerably from that point on, gliding through anecdotes, melodies, laughter, and of course, growls. We even answered the call for an encore, so the overall performance couldn't have been as bad as I had dreamt it would be the night before in my anxiety. I've never learned the trick of losing that anxiety; even if I play nights and nights in a row, for one person or a hundred people. But I do know that if I just talk, or ask a question, or simply own up to what's really going on and jet from the room in search of a kleenex, things come out glowing in the end.

And it's true, Ji and I glowed from face to familiar face. Greeting old friends and teachers, standing in amazement at their individual paths of artistry, Ji and I glowed even more with the flush of enthusiasm and inspiration. Striking up acquaintances with new folks and students, we glowed still more. And it can be said that these little musicians glowed free, free, free all the way home.

October 5, 2007. Capuvino, Denver, Colorado.

At Capuvino we literally tasted our first homegrown generosity on the road. In between songs, we asked the audience if they knew where we could go buy some lettuce. People commiserated with our desire for fresh greens while travelling and we were told several places to go. While several hands were hovering in the air, pointing us in various different directions, a voice halted everybody's advice.

"Do you like Swiss Chard?" a woman asked, cutting off the competing compass points. We nodded emphatically that we did, and the speaker, Holly, informed us that she would just go pick us some of the garden greens that very moment. She had finished her wine and her hubby was slurping up the last of his delectable milkshake, and off they went.

By and by, when Ji had done with tapping on light fixtures and using the blinds as percussive elements to my spontaneously mutating songs, our last set came to a close. As we stood chatting over wine with the two lovely hostesses of the evening, Kristen and Sara, the door opened. True to her word, in walked Holly with a bag chock full of greens. Not only was there a great quantity of chard, but fresh cabbage, yellow tomatoes and lettuce. "Wash these really well," she warned, "they were just picked and they're organic." This, as you can guess, sent us over the edge with gratitude. We were so excited and honored by this nurturing gift! Thank you Holly!

To hear Kristen and Sara tell it, this was not an unusual occurrence for those parts of Denver. We had won these two over earlier with "Cynthia", a song dedicated to all waitresses, bussers, and baristas alike. The lyric "I wish more waitresses were like Cynthia, she won't put up with your shit, she's a horse out of the stable. And she won't clean it up if you manage to puke on the table, table 23," held particular humor and significance to these two sassy girls.

We were now in the throws of their own personal tales of college escapades and travels to other countries. Sara ribbed Kristen like a sibling, and Kristen shot back with her own retorts like an old hand at the game. The pair seemed like they'd known each other forever, so easy was the flip between moments of mock outrage and symbiotic laughter. So it came as a shock to learn that it was their first time working together, ever.

Closing time came on, and the verbal boxing, boasting, best friend-duet that was our bad-gal barista-ship for the night cried out loudly that the crepe batter would just be thrown away, and didn't we want something to eat? Being as the time between meals was not going on ten hours or better, and with wine sloshing about in our empty bellies, we quickly seized upon the menu in Sara's outstretched hand.

Dude. Two lovely, warm, perfect portobello mushroom savory crepes with roasted red peppers and brie. Yes, yes, yes. Thanks to Kristen's circular smearing of the crepe batter and her deft handling of the ingredients, we came home that night to a feast! Also, Sara demanded that we sample four of the miniature gourmet cupcakes that she had helped her friend make, each complete with it's own individual liquor frosting. Chocolate with Creme de Menthe, angel food cake with Amaretto, cirtus cake with Grand Marnier, and the last one must have been so good, that it was wiped clean from my memory. Either that or the liquor to sugar ratio was higher than we suspected and had taken full effect. In any case, we slept soundly that night!

October 4, 2007. Coffeemuggers, Grand Junction, Colorado.

After settling in to our hotel, we retraced our path to downtown Grand Junction. The wind coursed around late 19th century buildings, rattling leaves that noisily and resolutely clung to the trees, and shoved us in through door of the empty cafe. We found ourselves face to face with a short, handsome youth with tidy dreadlocks. "Those remind me of my old dredlocks," Ji whispered to me later, adding "they look clean."

Our host, Torin, was gracious and most accomplished. As we sipped the fine, hot beverages offered, we learned that he works in about 5 of the restaurants downtown, and gets demands for more hours all of the time. "I'm pretty organized," he admitted without a trace of ego or it's subtle counterpart, self-deprecation. Apart from the work-a-day-and-night business, he plays music and has been apprenticing with a glass blower for quite some time, and intends to open a shop in the near future. We applauded his resolve and enjoyed the company.

Noticing the lack of patrons, he apologized for the wind that drives people away from downtown. But every town has its peculiar dour assault upon business... rain, snow, football games, even the blooming sun - "It's too nice a day," and so on. So we understood. However, Torin refused to give up, and went to calling his considerable network of friends. From there he started stopping the few passersby, who promised to come by after dinner. He explained that they've only had a few concerts at Coffeemuggers since they changed locations, and it's been hit-or-miss, and weirdly unpredictable. All in all, if you are going to blame anyone for a lack of an audience, I find it is best to blame Ji.

It's true. It really was Ji's fault. He cursed us during our orientation-walk earlier that afternoon.

"Well, we can be glad that we've never four-walled it," he commented as we peered into the windows of little galleries and knick-knack shops.

"What does that mean, 'Four-wallin' it'?" I innocently inquired. Well, that's a lie. I secretly knew and dreaded what he was going to say.

"It's when you're only playing for yourselves and the four walls around you," he explained and began chuckling in his peculiar, silent way. I decided to cut those chuckles short.

"Shut it!" I cried, "You're going to jinx us!"

He admitted that the jinx might possibly happen, and we quickly turned to rapid verbal visualizations of tons of people showing up to a coffee house on a wednesday evening in a quiet town, as if these hopes could band-aid the unsettling picture of four empty walls.

But the walls were not so empty as all that. They were adorned with brilliant artwork, reverberated with sound, and housed a fantastic rehearsal of some old and underdeveloped material we longed to bring to our road repetoire. And later, after taking Torin's advice and soliciting other clubs, where the owners readily accepted our press materials, ( I swear that kid knows every soul in town - to their uniform delight and admiration), Ji and I admitted to each other that strangely enough, we'd both felt positively rich and successful while performing. Basking in the glow of this odd and wonderful truth, we settled down to watch "A Rebel Without A Cause" while eating grapes, resting up for the drive through the Rockies the following morning. Thank you, Grand Junction.

October 3, 2007. Mondo Cafe, Moab, Utah.

Once the fiery glare of the brilliant red dirt cools across the corneas, Moab can be taken in, but only slightly. The beauty of this place is hard to photograph, let alone fully appreciate.

Swooping in from Motel 6, we assemble our music equipment , black and insectile, in the corner of the sleepy cafe and its bookstore counterpart. At first we nearly call it an early night, but are led on to keep playing by the arrival of many newcomers intent on strong coffee and gelato as an after dinner delight.

A highlight of the evening revolved around four young girls, two perched on the laps of parents, and two peeping around bookshelves and legs of other parents, who raised the bar to a new level for audience participation during my song "Growl, You Muddy Nymph!" Those little ones could make a grown Sasquatch shudder!

And did I possibly say "sleepy" cafe? Baby Noah refused to fall asleep, even during the lullaby serenity of "Unita", but stayed quietly alert and attentive, preferring dancing to a stroll into Slumberland.

We also appreciated the attention of the adult-type people, among whose ranks a man gave us a Lilliputian rendition of a good running trail in town, scrawled in black ink and adorned with perfect landmarks. I don't know how much running we managed between ogling the gorgeous landscape, but we sure got these purty pictures!

And the best, I save for last. Willie, resident of Moab and artist extraordinaire, showed up to Mondo Cafe, plunked down on the couch next to his friend Dave, and promptly offered chocolate. "Here, give some to him, too," he urged, passing broken bits of a delectable bar, and indicating that Ji not be left out of the treat. Next came a painting of his own creation. "This is for you," he said in an off-hand way, and I took the proffered canvas with astonished thanks. I asked if he had a cd player. He did indeed. "Do you have our cd?" No, he did not. "Here then! We can trade!" I exclaimed, joyful at the idea that I had at least something to offer in return. His reply? Something that brought a smile to my mouth and reminded me again about the ture nature of gifts:
"Oh. Thanks. But the painting is still free."

October 2, 2007. Java! Twin falls, Idaho

I was deputized in Twin Falls. Yes, I received that star of honor, the Sheriff's Badge, straight from the hands of Emperor Nathan himself. What a way to start a month-long road trip! There's no way the law can mess with me now...

If you ever go to Twin Falls, you could seek out His Royal Highness for your own deputyship, or you could limit your search for the best coffee in town. I'd like to add that the reward of such a search would not be limiting in the least. Java always seems to be the hub of creative spirits and lovers of caffeine alike, and as the two are often the same, there is never any shortage of kind and interesting people within its cozy walls. The welcome we received there exceeded last Spring's reception, and that's saying a lot.

Dylan, an accomplished songwriter and barista at Java, opened the evening with a fine set of tunes. His voice, reminiscent of Scott Weiland from the STP days, matched rhythm with his guitar and had people tapping their feet in concert with the perils of their current chess match.

Happily, our friend and official deputise, Emperor Nathan, filled in the slot between Dylan's music and our set. H.R.H. has been hammering away in the Wordsmith department by all accounts. He has also come forth bearing his crown regally in that tricky realm of "confidence while performing" while many pairs of eyes stare unabashedly at you from as close as 3 feet away over steaming mugs of chai. Keep it up Emperor, we expect to hear from you again, and remain ever your faithful servants.

In addition to reconnecting with the youth and vigor of T.Falls, namely Mandi, Andrew, Ben, Korrie, Erika, Luke, and others, we met an old sage called Zazoo. This fellow bestowed upon us the gift of Bear Medicine. Zazoo explained the properties of Transformation that such medicine carries. The Bear, hibernating every winter, is Master of this feat, and we would do well to learn from the powers of rest and rebirth. Snapshots of hand-carved totems grace our lovely vehicle Luna as she bears us onward.

Sadly, we always forget to take photos here. But before signing off, I'll try to explain. Twin Falls is like crossing a bridge over Eden. There it lies, a stone's lengthy plummet beneath the hum of wheels, in all of it's perfection. Green and amber, ash, mahogany and sandy hues cut through by the Snake River. Too bad the frame for such a work of mind-boggling artistry is the homogeneous row of strip malls we see everywhere. But when I come to think about it, what more appropriate hem for the skirts of Eden than these familiar corporations? They throw it all into such a dense relief, as we speed away towards the desert.