And then. . .

On Friday, I woke up to a set of text messages in my family's What's App chat about Anthony Bourdain. I quickly Googled his name and saw a flood of information about his death. I say death because I don't want to say suicide. If I say it, the many memories of all the shows I shared with him get watery before my eyes. The ballsy man from Jersey who I wanted to be when I grew up becomes human and frail and hurt.  The days following his death, I stayed away from social media as much as I could. My habit of scrolling through Instagram was a brief reminder, then I would shake my head and close the app. Brief glimpses showed me photo after photo of him with one of his many quotes and a caption about resting in peace.  I had the similar gross feeling of disdain that starts in the back of my throat after countless thoughts, prayers, and needs for God after a school shooting flood my social media. My stomach turned. I found something vulgar in all the shares and social media se...

This summer, I am not teaching. While I love my job, I also love writing and it was time to take advantage of being able to take the summer off to return to my first love. Last week, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself though. In fact, since the semester ended, I've been restless. I can't shake the feeling that I've forgotten to do something. I have to stop myself from checking my email several times a day. Instead, I've been reading about music, watching movies, YouTube videos, and documentaries about music. I made a questionnaire for listeners and a target one for women lead singers in bands. I am even attempting to learn the guitar. While I haven't spent a lot of "butt time" writing, my brain is churning, thinking, putting things in order, creating ideas and bridging others together. Even as I've made to do's to keep me busy, folding the-I-never-want-to-fold-laundry or cleaning out my closet, I've been thinking about music. Bu...