Amy Raasch

CHRISTMAS, 4 A.M.

A little background on the inspiration for this song as we barrel toward the Solstice.



CHRISTMAS, 4 A.M. was recorded live at a charity show I created called the "Wild Nights Holiday Bash." The show was the culmination of a six-month residency, which I had dubbed "Wild Nights," after one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems.

Christmastime is full of love and light, and it is also the darkest, most intense time of year. Days are short. Extremes are rampant. And so it is that some find themselves at the "happiest" and "most beautiful" time of year feeling lonely and sad. Maybe a loved one has been lost, life has taken an unwelcome turn, or it's impossible to be anywhere that feels like home. Everyone is festive and joyful, and faking it just makes the heart hurt. I have seen loneliness like this in people, and I have felt it myself. I wanted to pay tribute to this experience, acknowledge it, give it it's place among the tinsel and fake snow. Because honesty shines, too. It is the guiding light at the top of the tree.

The actual impetus for the song was physical. One 4 a.m. toward the close of the year, a particularly cold night drove me to pile on the blankets before going to bed, and I awoke sweating and yet seeing frost on the windows. This melancholy dichotomy instantly inspired a character in my imagination: a lonely woman in her fifties who awakens to a moment of truth at the hour of the wolf. Consumed by sadness over a long-lost lover who never came for her, she has wasted many years, dulling her pain with drink and "little blue pills;" merely surviving. Yet in this crucial hour, she becomes nonetheless determined to be at her sister's home in eight hours for Christmas Day festivities, hair done and looking nice. She decides in that crucial hour that she is fed up with being haunted by the injuries of the past. All she wants for Christmas is "another chance at now."

And so it is that our deepest sorrows invite our greatest bravery and ultimately, transformation. On our knees and at our breaking point, we are nonetheless asked to step forward and fall in love with life once again. Having felt the brutal chill of disappointment in our bones, we emerge stronger, clearer and more determined than ever to squeeze every possible drop of beauty and meaning from each moment. So winter takes our green, and delivers us to spring.

I hope you enjoy the song. I dedicate it to everyone who has ever felt out of place or alone during this or any season, and tried to rise above. Wishing you truth, peace and light. If I were rich, I would also get you a pony.

Love,
Amy

52 Songs

I've given myself the challenge to write one song a week for the next 52 weeks.

I'd like to elaborate, but I'm off to Sundance first thing in the morning, and I have to pack. Yes indeed, it's Week Three, and Song Three is written, but I don't have time to tape it before I go. I'm going to bring my video camera to Park City. Hopefully I'll be able to find a quiet corner to record it, and will be able to borrow someone's computer to post it (my laptop died a final death last summer).

Thanks for tuning in! It really does keep me going.

THANKS

thank you we are saying and waving

THANKS

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
standing by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
taking our feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
thank you we are saying and waving
dark though it is

--W.S. Merwin

June Bugs and the Pinball Moon

Excerpt from a play by Amy Raasch

June Bugs and the Pinball Moon

(NOTE: In the following section, the male actors will double as PETE and DAD, as appropriate.) The CHILD bursts through the upstage curtain.

CHILD: June bugs, chestnut brown and big as turtles, trace opposite diagonals on the sidewalk. I hear sizzling, think of bacon strips. I pretend I’m a famous archaeologist discovering the link from June bugs to dinosaurs. I’ve observed them enough to know that their traveling in tandem is extremely rare. Like me, I think, they’re solo birds. I was going to say, “they like to travel solo,” but it’s not a matter of liking. It’s just how they are.

Don’t they mind being exposed like that? Hot sidewalk, speeding cars, boys… Maybe the armor on their backs makes them feel invincible; but this very same protection attracts boys like a beacon. Lumbering up to the June bug threshold, the boys anticipate the CRUNCH several seconds before it happens.

I despise the boys for this. Usually I play a lot more “Bigfoot” with the neighbor kids but I just feel like being alone this summer for some reason. Maybe it’s because Mom took me into a room all quiet and serious and told me some things I didn’t understand about her and dad and where babies come from – babies like me, she said, except I was special – Then she cried real soft and kissed me and I don’t think I understand but maybe I do and I just don’t want to think about it.

ROSE: Although my vocabulary is quite impressive to my 11 year old self, the feeling inside me is not about the words at all. There’s something soaring inside me; something eternal and radiant and full of joy. It’s a sense of total ease, of knowing exactly who you are and what you want. Why is that so much clearer when you’re 11? You have to go back and remember what you knew when you were a baby, before it got taught and criticized and disciplined out of you. You have to go all the way back.

CHILD: The best thing about the little store –

ROSE: --my dad named it --

DAD: “Nash’s Grocery” --

ROSE: -- but everyone called it “The Little Store” –

CHILD: -- is the pinball machine. I always have the top score. Big 18 year old boys saunter in, maybe dragging a June bug on the bottom of their shoe, and pass this little brown girl hanging out on the steps. When their eyes bug out at the huge score flashing atop the Led Zeppelin machine, they fail to make the connection. I observe my prey; act all innocent, then go in for the kill. There’s only this one bandana and jeans kid who’s ever beat me, and he’s the best I’ve ever seen. His name was

CHILD/ROSE: Pete --

(Enter actor doubling as PETE, bandana on his head.)

CHILD --and he never wore a shirt. When he first came up the stairs I was pretty scared, because he was messing around with a switchblade and he had the wildest blue eyes. As he got into the game, I counted the muscles on his arms. Matted and sun-bleached, his hair reminded me of cornhusk dolls and I watched it move in and out like the tide. One quarter and forty-five minutes later, he’d killed my score.

ROSE: Nobody’s ever beat me before!

CHILD: -- said my mouth from the floor. He tuned his shy eyes to mine and said,

PETE: Do you wanna play doubles?

CHILD: “Okay,” was all I could say but it didn’t matter. Quarters fell in slots. We rode the music and the lights and we were dancing and the numbers were skyrocketing and we never said a word the whole time.
Two hours later our score was higher than even the numbers on the machine. We just stopped and looked at each other for what seemed like forever.

CHILD/ROSE: Then at the exact same moment –

CHILD: -- we burst out laughing so hard tears were streaming and Pete’s face got all flushed and his laugh sounded like dolphins. Inside the store, my dad let me give him a free Banana Flip and a root beer even though he had no shirt and we sat on the steps and watched the sun go down. I told him about the June bugs and he told me about long-legged flies on the water near his old house. Like June bugs, they too were solo flyers. But that summer, we were together every day.
Pete taught me to toast. Raising his sweaty bottle to a sliver of moon that had snuck into the sky, he said,

PETE: Here’s to the pinball moon.

CHILD: He nodded for me to do the same, and it became a ritual. After a marathon pinball session, we’d mosey into the little store like weary gunfighters, clink our cold ones and say, “Here’s to the pinball moon!” And we would always laugh and share Star Wars cards. I even showed him my Charlie’s Angels sticker collection.

Sometimes he looked real tired and worried, and I thought maybe it was because he had to take care of himself. Once I asked him if he ever felt lonely. Wild blues flashed then looked away. I took his hand and we drank our root beer as the sun went down. It was cooler now.

PETE: I don’t feel lonely when I’m with you,

CHILD: he said. Gazing up at the burning pink sky, we held eternity like bottomless quarters in our hands; and I let my head rest on his shoulder. I hope it was okay but I’m not sure, ‘cause the next day came and went and then the next, then weeks. I haven’t seen him since. And nobody else -- to this day -- has ever beat me.

Many have tried. Boys wander in, cocky as young bulls, and after I beat them I stroll nonchalantly into the store where my dad asks,

DAD: How’d it go, babe?

CHILD: I give him the thumbs up, he smiles -- and shoots me a root beer and Banana Flip. Outside, I sit on the steps and think how proud Pete would have been. It’s getting chillier now, and the boys bumble off toward one end of St. Mary’s parking lot, pushing each other around. Standing guard at the other end is a huge cornhusk moon; and I can almost see Pete there with his flying hair; watching to make sure they keep moving away, far away from our little castle, our stronghold of pinball royalty. Just then I drop my bottle cap, and there on the ground, lit by the moon, is one more quarter. I raise up my root beer -- just like Pete taught me -- and say,

ROSE: Here’s to the pinball moon.


- FIN -

pomegranates, chocolate and jane siberry

the unbelievable truth of how my idol re-did my myspace page

once there was a plain, white myspace page. it was not a bad myspace page at all -- it was just a simple workhorse that pulled a cart in a white field beneath a white sky with little blue bugs. after a long day, the workhorse dined upon a simple repast of white apple and milky white water. chewing slowly and thoughtfully with wide white teeth, her thoughts wandered to a kaleidoscope world, filled with color she could only dream of: a world "where i can eat pomegranates and chocolate -- at the same time if i want to!" groggily, she crumpled gently into the white hay of her white barn, and fell asleep beneath the still-white sky.

as she slept, a message came to her from her friend jane, who was busy sorting seeds in brussels. like a fairy godmother, jane knew the secret desires of the little workhorse, and said that if the workhorse wished, jane could utilize her powers to add color to her world, and get her "out of the neutral range."

well as you can imagine, the little horse was so excited that she began galloping wildly through a sea of periwinkle dreams, where pomegranates dangled from every tree, and chocolate balanced regally atop the lovely large stones against which she cooled her neck in the heat of the day. sometimes the chocolate melted, and this made her laugh, for it was fun to lick from the smooth surface of the stones. if you were watching the horse dream at that moment, you would have seen her legs gently hoofing the air, and her neck reaching for imaginary pomegranates in slow motion, as if she were a very seahorse.

when it came time to begin the new day, the horse scarcely wanted to awaken. she loved the colorful world of her dreams, and became sad thinking of the whitewashed world.

but when she gingerly opened one eye, she could hardly believe it: the neutral world she'd always known had turned to the colorful world of her dreams! even from the faraway kingdom of brussels, jane's magic wand had transformed her waking world overnight.

the next day, jane stopped by for some pomegranates and chocolate, which from that moment forward, were always in good supply.

thank you jane!

Hello Raasch's

Do we have the same last name?

If so, sit down and let's have a cup of tea. Do you take honey? I've got soy milk, too.

I'll bet that growing up, there was absolutely no one around with your last name, right? And like all self-respecting kids, I'll bet your classmates teased you and your siblings with clever monikers such as "diaper" and "heat." (It's amazing how the way in which the last name is actually pronounced is not important, isn't it?)

I don't know about you, but like all kids who had kind of a weird name and wished to be like the popular kids, I fantasized about changing my name. "Suzanne" was in favor for a little while, after a very pretty and popular girl in my class. Thanks to Leonard Cohen, the name now drapes evocatively from a hook in the coat check of my past. Every once in awhile, I put it on. And like all things Leonard Cohen, it just feels right.

But I digress. We were talking about our name. You wanted to know its origin. Well, it's Germanic, mostly. Danish, too, I hear. My Grandpa lived in Minnesota, where much of my family still resides. That's the short story. There's much more to tell, but I'll save that for another day.

What I did want to tell you is that the Raasch's have been coming out of the woodwork to say hello. I've heard from Jeff Raasch, Raymond Raasch, and just today, I got an email from Any Merino Raasch, in Chile! That's right, CHILE. Thank goodness for that online translation page, because my Spanish is...well, nonexistent.

I've gone through years of wondering about my name, wondering whether I should change it to something more catchy, spell-able, memorable for the sake of show biz. But somehow, without me noticing, it's just become - my name. Whether it's the right "show biz" name, I have no idea, but every time I get it back from the coat check, it fits just fine, thank you.

Now, tell me about you. Kettle's on.

I wonder if the bells were enough

The French poet Verlaine wrote (I paraphrase): ‘one
vision per day is all you need to survive.’ I’ve
lived on a lot less. So I look for ‘visions’ daily.

One day, it was a tiny red shoe lying in a gutter in
Venice, beneath a cotton candy sky.

Years later, it was a little girl in an angel costume
presiding over a bench near Arthur’s Seat, with
bottomless Loch Ness eyes.

Today, it was a vision of sound.

After days of meticulous listening to mixes at Orange
Whip studios, and before the drive back to L.A. for
the most grueling stretch of album work yet, I stole a
moment of peace at the Santa Barbara Mission circa
high noon.

‘Course I didn’t know it was high noon, as I sat
meditating in the front pew in the one patch of dusty
sunlight. The bells told me.

Now I love bells. Almost all bells, actually, but
especially church bells. And if you’ve never heard
him or her, the church bell ringer at St. Barbara’s
Mission is especially eloquent. I’m going to imagine
it's a her, because I would be her if I were a church
bell ringer, and I would wear long, white gowns and
otherworldly flowers in my hair and my body would be
see-though -- or else I would dress like a chimney
sweep circa 1920 and live on bread and water. But
this she, this Santa Barbara she, uses bells that are
probably the size of my apartment to play you like a
violin.

She starts out subtly, as they all do, with single
chimes to signify the hour. Then comes the expected,
escalating cacophony. But the combination of sound
gradually becomes as lush as an aphrodisiac, and
teases you like a dance of seven veils. You find
yourself hoping that the patch of sunlight means that
God is smiling, and that He’s kind of turned on.

…and on and on, royal elephants in earrings stampeding
through your soul. The last one rounds a corner in a
glint of gold as the impossibly gorgeous crashes fade
to a single, lingering tone that hangs in the air.
You start to write a song that begins with this note.
And just as you’ve got a little melody going, a couple
of baby elephants creep back in and tap you on the
shoulder, until they get excited and dance a tango of
earth, rock, force and sky that wraps your ears in
cashmere.

You realize you are starving. You say to yourself
that you’ll stay just until the bells stop.
Forty-five minutes later, you’re still sitting there,
eyes closed, feeling the patch of sunlight moving to
your feet. You finally have to shake yourself out of
it and go for the dolmas, bread and tomatoes
dangerously unrefrigerated in your car, but you can’t
quite bring yourself to leave. Instead, you stuff it
all in a sizeable ‘40’s handbag bearing great aunt
Genevieve’s monogram, steal into the garden, and look
for a spot to keep listening.

The garden is of course a labyrinth -- no sacred
building is complete without one -- and it’s roped
off. So you settle for a sunlit corner on the rough,
cool stones next to the upright one decorated by the
Chumash. The whole missionary scenario basically
destroyed their culture, but they put their hearts and
souls into building the place anyway.

I wonder if the bells were enough.

the aroma of toast

by craig cotter

there's nothing I don't like about toast.
but there's something I don't like
about everything else.

NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE

by Ernest Dowson

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bow'd my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fasion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses, riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finish'd and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

The Journey

- Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save. 

Ithaka

- C.P. Cavafy (1863-1933) written 1911

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon -- don''t be afraid of them:
you''ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon -- you won''t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors you''re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you''re destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you nch.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn''t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won''t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of expenence,
you''ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.