By Any Other Name (a big decision to make)

wpid-20140719_163024_20140720144052585.jpgI remember a long time ago when a publishing company wanted my mother (author and artist Ginilou DeMarco) to write her books under a non de plume (for the slightly less aware, an alias; for the just plain stupid, another name), she didn’t want to do it, and I couldn’t blame her. Part of having talent and sharing it is getting the credit for it as yourself. But, more and more I’m thinking that maybe, just perhaps, that is our ego talking: our bodies have these names, but our souls do not. And, so… I am considering releasing my next album under another name.

I love my name.  I always have.  My name is cool. It used to be very unique.  It isn’t anymore.  Unique, that is.  It is still cool (but, of course, I am biased).  I was proud of my name even back when people never got it right because only a very small handful of people had named their child “Autumn” (much less “Autumn Dawn” – I believe, I was the first…I may be wrong.  But, of all the Autumn Dawns I have subsuequently found out about, I am the oldest…making me the original since 1974) and I got called every other name starting with A instead of my name. Or, worse (and this still annoys me to this day, because I still get it occassionally), they would call me only by my middle name.  Ugh.  My name is Autumn Dawn.  Or just Autumn. It is NEVER “Dawn”!!!

In learning soul consciousness versus body consciousness (the internal and eternal as opposed to the external and temporary), I know that while this is my present name, it is not, however, who I am. This body’s name is Autumn Dawn, but I am a soul. And, the thing is, my music has never been successful under this name.

Now, the talent maybe associated with my body, I know.  But, creativity is a spiritual quality, an aspect of the eternal identity, the being or soul. And, specifically, music is definitely a spiritual thing.

So, these are my reasons for considering a release in another name.  Authors do it all the time (when they want to), and look at Prince, or the artist formally known as, Symbol, or whatever he is calling himself and releasing his music under these days.  And, many musical artists chose from the first to go by another name.  Of course, I know, Prince may not be a perfect example here, because he was successful as Prince…  but, yeah… anywho. Hopefully, you see my point.

While I am proud of my lovely name and proud of my gift (music), it isn’t much of a gift if it isn’t getting the exposure and getting out there.  A gift should be giving.  I have tried.  I have failed and failed and failed.  Well, “Autumn Dawn” has failed and failed anyway.

Thus, this serious consideration to release an album under another name (not sure what just yet).  I would really very much like to hear what other people (you, my readers) think about this.  Talk to me.  I’d appreciate some feedback here.  It’s a big decision.

 

 

 

Observations

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I don’t know if it was turning 40 or what, but I’ve had a couple of observations, realisations, revelations – whatever you want to call it – come to me. And, I’ve been thinking I should write them down, for whatever reason. Posterity, maybe. Thus, I sit here, tablet and stylus in hand, pondering…

First off, as a child, all I wanted to do was grow up. I suppose that’s not terribly different from the desires and mistaken ideas of many children; I was under the impression and assumption that adults were strong and respected. They appeared to be respected, even if they weren’t all that intelligent. I wanted respect.

I saw in the eyes of adults a disdain for childhood and the foolishness of children, and I wanted to be seen as I was. Even then, I had a hatred for stereotypes. I wasn’t the adult I wanted to be, but neither was I truthfully totally a child…

I didn’t always understand that my brain worked differently from other people’s.
What I did know was that my advanced vocabulary and unusual interests kept me isolated (and incomprehensible) to my peers, while my age kept me locked away from a true association with the grown ups I so wanted to be included in.

I was lonely. I learned both to dislike everyone while craving to be liked by everyone.

It has just dawned on me recently that the disdain I saw directed at children by the “high and mighty” adults was, in fact, a mask for jealousy. Oh, they thought it was disdain, but what they really were was jealous of the freedom (the freedom I saw as a prison) of being a child.

They knew what I didn’t (because I didn’t know they were wearing their carefully crafted masks) that age doesn’t bring respect, it doesn’t make you any more likable – or capable. Age brings responsibilities you may or may not be able to handle. It brings knowledge but not necessarily wisdom. It brings a loss of innocence which may at first seem exciting but is really very sad and empty.

I thought I’d be happy when I grew up. I didn’t know I wasn’t made that way. The lonely child, with her strange interests and over developed vocabulary, is the lonely adult who still struggles to find someone to talk to and with which to hang out.

A lot of my problems, I know, stem from mental illness as well as being slightly autistic. I was never going to fit in this world. But, I wish I had enjoyed being a child more. I wish I had known, old is just old, and it’s filled with all the insecurity and pain that childhood is…and worse. And, respect, validation, appreciation – all those things I wanted – are still not there like I was made to believe they would be by the adults who were trying to believe their own bullshit…but, really, knew better.

That’s the first thing…

Observation (or maybe realisation and acceptance) number two: even if I hadn’t married my first husband who did everything in his power to undermine my self esteem, I still would have ended up making bad, destructive, choices with my life. Because, I was that child, that incomprehensible, mentally and emotionally wrecked child who belonged nowhere but longed to be desired and adored. If my ex-husband hadn’t been there, there would’ve been someone else I would’ve gone out of my way to ruin myself (more than I already was) with. One way or another, the damage would’ve been done because I was already the damaged.

For a long time I wished I could’ve escaped – I even thought that I could have had certain things been different, but… it’s like H.G. Wells’ Time Machine… I’d still be here in the condition I find myself, regardless.

What’s the point of this? Not sure. It’s simply something I’ve come to realise. Maybe it’s just the acceptance, another moment to reflect on the insanity of life, and the fucked-uppedness (it’s a word now!) of it all.

The broken child, the wounded adult, the fucked up world.

I wanted to end this on a more positive note. I’m struggling… but, I’m hopeful these observations, and especially the self-discovery, will help me in some way. Sigh…

A Picture of Freedom

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Eyes closed, wind in her hair, a look of…relief on my daughter’s face, as she spun on the spinny-see-saw-thing at the park; I could tell, this wasn’t spinning; this was flying. This was a moment of blissful freedom. I watched her, remembering that feeling.

There is a school of thought that I’d like to adopt that says that everything that happens is an opportunity to learn, to grow. This is that optimistic thinking which asks in any situation, “What can I learn here?” This is the type of attitude that clings to the hope that there is a reason – and a benefit – to everything.

What I know is: Life is hard and, ultimately, no matter your philosophy, it is unfair. Even with the balancing of everything through karma, the fact that I exist and have to go through these lessons, whether I want to or not, is unfair.

Yes, I want to cultivate a learning consciousness, a more positive outlook… it’s either that or sink deeper and deeper into despair and hopelessness.

May I find and nurture peace within myself, may I actually learn the lessons I’m meant to – let me find a purpose for the pain and struggle that is existence. But, please, please, please…let me also have moments like these, pockets of freedom, my eyes closed against the world and its sorrow, the wind in my hair…give me relief. Let me fly.

When I say that I want to get into your pants…

Today I had the extreme pleasure of seeing my biggest woman crush – seriously, if we weren’t both married to totally wonderful men, I’d marry her…if she’d have me – I am unashamedly in love with her.  My friend Tracy is from this isle, but she lives and works in Thailand, so I don’t often get to visit with her in person (more’s the pity), and it is always lovely to see her. My afore mentioned wonderful man and I travelled into Nottingham to spend the day drinking coffee and wandering ’round the shops with Tracy.  It was a great time.

I’m getting to the pants part…and, this is where this tale will equally disappoint some while it will relieve others. As I was standing in front of my wardrobe wondering what to wear for the day, I decided on a long summer dress. This presented the problem of chafing thighs. Sorry, I’ve lost a whole bunch of you now, I know…

For those still with me, I will continue.  So, yeah…I love wearing skirts, but in the summer (the heat and I don’t get along), when I am not going to wear tights or leggings underneath, I have discovered that I need something to prevent chafing.  I wanted to wear the dress… but I had yet to be able to purchase something like bicycle shorts to wear underneath (which would keep my legs cool while preventing the, um, OUCH! I know… those of you who are size zeros, with thighs that aren’t even in the same postal code…I’ve lost you, too…anywho)!  So, I was considering just putting up with the pain, even though I knew there might be a great deal of it, since a lot of walking was going to be a main activity of the day. Then, inspiration struck!

“JAMIE!”

“Yes?”

“Any of your boxer briefs clean?”

“Uhh, yeah…”

“Good.”

And, voila!

Hey, if men can secretly wear women’s underwear – not that I am being secret about me wearing men’s – why not? 

And, as we were walking to the train station (in much more comfort than I would have been otherwise), I started laughing. Whenever I’ve talked about getting into my husband’s pants, I’ve never thought how literally that would one day be.

And now, I do apologise for those of you who were waiting for something steamy and saucy, well…

         maybe next time Tracy comes for a visit. ;)

Pieces

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So many pieces.  Sharp edges.  So much beyond repair.  So much that doesn’t function at all.  A few breathtakingly, achingly beautiful pieces – maybe too few, yes… but, beautiful all the same – truly beautiful.  Those pieces DO make a difference.

I must believe, THOSE PIECES MAKE A DIFFERENCE.