Music Lovers are Going to Love my New Project!

A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day with Giselle Renarde

In case I haven't mentioned it lately, I'm a pretty isolated person. I'm working on being less isolated, but it's not easy--especially when you live alone and work from home. I've never been great at making friends, and it's only getting harder as the years go by.

Lots of social agencies organize friendly visits for isolated seniors, but I'm hearing that younger people are living increasingly isolated lives. There isn't really anything out there for us--at least, not that I'm aware of.  

That's why I wanted to start... something.  I didn't know what, at first.

I wanted to start a new project that involved reaching out to other humans. I wanted to do something for my own benefit as well as the benefit of others. And I knew it had to be a daily something. When I'm experiencing a bad depressive episode, I need something to look forward to every single day. 

But I also knew I shouldn't overcommit. Creating original content every day of the year for goodness knows how long could cause big-time burnout, and who would that help? 

A couple weeks ago, I was tweeting about the song that was stuck in my head when I realized how often I find myself doing just that. I love music and I have lots of associations with the songs I like, and I could pretty much talk about them endlessly.

That's when it hit me: A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day. It combines the concept of a friendly visitor with MUSIC, and it's accessible to anyone with an internet connection. 

I just launched my new site this week, and part of me worried I'd get like 3 hits and be super-bummed  (that's what usually happens when I try something new), but the response has been great and I'm only 4 days in. 

If you love music or you're socially isolated (or both) or you just like reading what I have to say about anything that pops into my head, you are definitely going to enjoy A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day.

Check out the site.  At the top of the page, you'll see a little SUBSCRIBE button. Hit that and Google will email you every day after my new post goes up. The one annoying thing is that I embed YouTube videos in all my posts and those don't seem to get emailed, so you'll still have to click through to the website in order to actually listen to the song of the day, but at least if you're subscribed you'll get that reminder every day to check it out.

I'm really excited about this new project. It has lifted my mood tremendously. If you know anyone who's feeling low these days, or who needs a little internet visit on the daily, please tell them about A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day.

I hope you'll join me as I share music and memories!
Giselle

https://friendlymusicvisitor.blogspot.com

All's Well That Ends Well/Time to Say Goodbye

by Giselle Renarde

There's a radio program I've been listening to for the past ten years. It's on from 10pm until midnight. The host has the perfect voice for that time of night. She shares the perfect anecdotes for that drowsily contemplative space of hours. Better still, she plays the perfect music.  Over the years she's introduced me to music from Bjork, Tanya Tagaq, Owen Pallett, Anohni, and so many other artists whose talent I've grown to crave and adore.

Over the past month or so, there's one particular song that kept making its way onto the playlist. I noticed it sticking in my head. I heard myself singing it around the house, and I didn't mind because I liked it so much.  The song is by Blood and Glass, and it's called Punk Shadows. The first lines in this song are exactly what you see as the title of this post:

All's Well That Ends Well

Time to Say Goodbye

Two weeks ago I was at the cottage ("the cottage" = someone else's cottage), staying in a room without a radio. For me, for someone who would chose music over food, being without a radio at night is like... I don't even know what. Tragic.

The owners of this cottage are family friends, and these people are very choosy about who they invite. My mother had warned me not to use "too much internet" but there was one night when I couldn't help myself. I knew I had to tune in to my radio show. An imperative. Something was telling me I couldn't miss it.

I listened online, time-shifted, because it was already past midnight.

That night, the host announced she would be leaving the show. The show would be leaving the show. The radio program I'd been listening to for the past ten years would be no more.

How do I describe how I felt, hearing this news? Gutted. Yes, gutted. There's no other word for it. I found this out two weeks ago and I'm still in mourning.

I don't begrudge the host her choice. I'm not mad at her for leaving. It's not personal in that sense. I just feel a deep, deep sense of loss in knowing this show will be coming to an end.

Maybe part of the reason the news hit me so hard is this:

At the beginning of my relationship with my girlfriend, we chatted for hours every night via instant messenger. We still do, but nine years ago I didn't have a wireless modem. Every night, I chatted with her on the Mac in my bedroom with my radio right behind me. This radio show I'm telling you about--it was the soundtrack of those early chats. I associate the show with my relationship. The idea of the show ending automatically triggered panic: is it foreshadowing things to come? When I left for the cottage, Sweet and I weren't on the best of terms. Time apart helped a lot, but when I heard the news of my show ending, I didn't feel that I was on the firmest footing with my girlfriend.

The other thought that popped into my head was this:

I need to tell my readers I'm not going anywhere.

Loss is a part of life, sure, but like Cameron said the other day--I'm not catching a fad wave with my writing career. Some of you have known me a good long time. I've been doing this job for more than a decade. I plan to continue. Forever. Or at least until I die. You can count on me. There's not much in life you can count on, but stick by me. I have been there. I will be there.

The only real commitment I've ever made in my life is to my readers. I don't know if that's sad and pathetic, or if it just goes to show how highly I value the people who read my books. I treasure this writing career. When I think about dying, I don't wonder who will take care of my cats (that's a no-brainer: my brother will do it), I think, "Who will take care of my work?"

There's nothing I can do to prevent the inevitable end of my favourite radio program. That's going to happen whether I like it or not. But hopefully this post will set a few minds at ease. As Cameron mentioned, lots of authors bolt when the coffers are running on empty. I'm not one of those.

My coffers have always have been empty. I'm still here.

If you'd like to commune with me through music, I created a playlist to accompany my novel In Shadow. I hope you'll give it a listen. A lot of these songs came to my attention through the radio show whose praises I've been singing in this post.

Songs and Stories

By Lisabet Sarai

The screen door slams
Mary' dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch
As the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey that's me and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face myself alone again

Bruce Springsteen – "Thunder Road"

It's one of those summer nights when I just can't sit still. The air's soft as a whisper. The smell of Ma's roses filters in to the kitchen where I'm washing up. Cars rush by out on Highway 9, rumbling like a faraway storm. There's an ache in my chest, a sweet pain that swells whenever the DJ puts on a slow song.

Pa's in the den, snoring already in front of his game. In the front room, I pick up my book, put it down, pick it up again. I can't concentrate. I turn up the volume. The music burrows into me and takes me over. I twirl on the worn old carpet, until I'm gasping and dizzy, but I can't dance away this restlessness.

A breeze wafts in the front door, ripe and full of secrets. I don't believe in magic but I feel it anyway. I remember Ma's warnings, months before the cancer took her. Keep yourself to yourself, gal. Don't you go falling for some fast-talking kid who fancies he's a poet.

The porch light's dead again. The night calls me. Still swaying, I answer. I step outside, close my eyes, take in a lungful of summer perfume.

I see him then, huddled under the street lamp. Spindly, all angles - not grown into his height yet – and full of rebellion. Fists shoved in the pockets of the jeans that hug his narrow hips. Too-long hair, the color of sand, falling into his eyes. Scuffed work boots and a tee shirt that's none too clean. A book tucked under his arm. Shoulders hunched up and lips pressed into a thin line. Staring at me like a man who hasn't eaten in a week.

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. I know who he is – I've seen him at the car wash where he works, and in the diner, blindly shoveling bacon and eggs into his mouth, lost in the pages of some novel. I know what he wants.

The breeze stirs my hair. A shiver runs through me, as if the night weren't warm as bathwater. It turns to a tingling, a vibration, a hum, like the engine of the world turning inside me. Keep yourself to yourself, gal, my mind says. Go back inside. You can write in your diary later.

My body says something else, and for once, I'm tempted to listen.

For him? After all the nice boys I've refused? Skinny, without a dime to his name, nothing but that souped-up Chevy he spends all his free time polishing? Those hungry eyes, though, drill into me and rip all my reasons to shreds.

Why not say yes? I can almost hear him, that gravelly, power-filled, self-confident voice of his, so at odds with his half-baked appearance. He has a band, I've heard. I can imagine him making music.

Say yes, his eyes plead. Haven't you waited long enough?

My cheeks burn. Sweat stains the armpits of my blouse. Blood pulses in my secret places, hot as July, overwhelming the chill of fear.

He pulls a hand from a pocket and dangles a set of keys. They glint in the street light. He grins, half mocking, half embarrassed, and jerks his thumb toward the alley running behind the house.

The liquid night tugs at me. The wind sighs. The song ends. He holds out his hand.

Say yes.