i'm_not_sleeping tender square “you should hear these bros,” i texted michael. “they’re not that good.” i was at a friend’s backyard party, and two of her coworkers were sitting around a campfire singing with an acoustic guitar. “well, maybe you should get in there and show them how it’s done,” he shot back. “i can’t do that!” i put my phone away and lingered, listening with my beer in the dark. judging. * jealousy can be a useful tool; if we’re willing to poke around at those feelings, we may uncover what our true desires really are. * my parents tell me that when i was five, i used to put on my movie star sunglasses and sing madonna's “lucky star” to my neighbors. all the time. * there’s a black and white photo of my grandmother from 1978, where she’s standing with an old condenser microphone on stage, her eyes staring at the camera, and a man behind her is strumming a guitar and looking off into the distance. it was taken at the paris tavern in tecumseh when she was pregnant with my mother. my grandma was known there as “the italian that sang country and western.” whenever i think of my grandmother’s house, i see her standing at the sink, her back to me while she washes dishes, her voice rising in the air: “put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone, let’s pretend that we’re together all alone.” the drawn-back window curtains flank her frame, and her head lifts as she sings to an audience of birds outside. * lama and i rehearsed for days in my apartment. she had convinced me to go to an open mic with her after wearing me down. she was going to play guitar while i did the vocals for “we are going to be friends” by the white stripes. on the day of the open mic, i texted her to say i wouldn’t be going; i was too scared to try. * mr. lewsaw asked me to sing annie’s “tomorrow” to close out the school’s entry for the sears festival. in the skit, all the shakespearian characters would die tragically and then i’d enter the scene to sing, “there’s no show tomorrow, it’s only performed today.” his request surprised me, as i did not study vocal in the arts program—there were plenty of other people he could have approached, our school had no shortage of talent. i think i was the only tenth grader included for the project, the rest of the cast were seniors, people who intimidated me greatly. in that first rehearsal i couldn’t get through the song without laughing, i was so nervous having all of their eyes looking at me. i felt the air in the room shift, the posing of the silent question, “why did she get picked to do this?” * i’m not a trained singer by any stretch. i can mimic many notes by ear. same as my grandmother. * our middle-aged seventh-grade teacher, mr. damphouse, was a great guitar player. he always led the songs in church service and had a steady voice that carried us through the verses. i asked if we could start a girls choir before school, just to sing, and he agreed. we’d cycle through various hymns and secular songs like the animal’s “house of the rising sun.” a favorite that sometimes comes back to me: “beginning today, my mornings are yours the hopes that dawn in their light, beginning today, my evenings and dreams, my gift to you is my life.” * recently, i had an epiphany about why i’ve always been so romantically drawn to musicians: i kept hoping that they would coax a voice out of me that i had to find for myself. originally, i believed this idea of a “voice” was metaphorical, that once i found my footing as a writer in the world this desire would cease. but i’m learning this voice is also a literal one. my heart has a song that is waiting to be sung. * i don’t know what my vocal range even is. sometimes my voice has surprised me. there was my thirtieth birthday, where i had party at a korean karaoke place, and i sang christina’s aguilera’s breakdown in “lady marmalade.” when the song finished, phil said, “holy shit, that was incredible! i’ve never heard you sing like that.” we had karaoked together quite a bit before this night; i don’t know where the voice had come from either, it was a growl from deep inside my belly. about a month after this incident, i wrote my first song, a track called “sea lanes,” using music that michael and i had previously recorded together, while i was on a lunch break from work. there was a bridge in the song where i held a note and switched to a higher octave. listening back to the recording, i had no idea how those notes were realized, i didn’t know my voice was capable of doing that. michael was in austin at the time, and i was missing him; the song came quick as a way to bridge the distance between us, it had burned right through me. * i moved from the outskirts of the fire and into the light, took a seat in one of the open chairs, hesitating. finally, i asked one of the bros, “do you know ‘landslide’?” the guitarist said yes, and began to play. i started at my cue, closed my eyes and pretended no one else was there. after the song ended, he said to me, “you should be in a band. you have a great voice.” i thanked him for playing and then stuck around as he launched into a cover of u2’s “bad,” one of my favorite songs. he let his voice crack in the same way that bono’s does towards the end of the song, at the lyric “i’m wide awake, i’m wide awake.” it gave me chills. when the guitarist finished, he recounted that when brian eno was recording bono’s vocals for this track, he told him to push beyond his limits, to let all the emotion of the words come through. i lie in wait to seize this moment. 210911 what's it to you? who go blather from