November 8, 2001

sitting in this little house on sunset blvd.
anybody remember 77 sunset strip?
i can't believe i live on sunset blvd. well, for the moment...

now, tonight, I feel a part of many people. the moon and I are being towed by the meticulous windows and plugs and streetlamps all around the world, towed in from the sea, to sleep in warm and nod off in gold light. towed by these large wheeled come and getcha where ever ya are fans, by these all-wheel offroad golden hearts that bring ya in from where ever you are and put a blanket over ya and give ya a warm drink.

that's the birthday message tonight.

i am reminded of two things. one is when i was riding a horse in san antonio on a vacation with my brother and mother. we went there to see my grandfather who played sax in paul whitemans big band. and i rode a horse on the horse trail in the park. it was cold, autumn, and i let the horse run back into the stable. but the stable hand didn't sinch up the saddle well, and the saddle came loose and just started slipping off the side of the animal, but didn't come off, and i was holding on kind of upside down, then i fell off, and the animal kind of ran over me.

they came and walked me back to the stable and covered me with a blanket and gave me a warm drink. I was very puffed up having so much attention.

i kind of feel like that now.

the other way i kind of feel is in the first grade, one of my favorate years, when i had my first birthday party, and I invited school friends and waited with great anticipation for their arrival. and then they came, one by one, down the path to my front door, in their birthday clothes, organdy dresses and bowties. or maybe just cotton dresses and ironed shirts, but all dressed up, and with presents in their hands. it was so cool.

thats also how i feel.
thanks for the great party, my friends. a real surprise party. ha.

and people hiding in there from around the world.

satellites.

thanks also for sending this gift, with our friend Barry, and Lee.
I am pleased, and rather, well, pleased in many colors.

god Bless yous.
RICKIE LEE JONES

February 24, 2001

Being very sentimental, not only today, yesterday too, but today more so, so full of sorrow and hope and filled with the vivid images of my life, i have particular oleander bushes sticking out of the air here, where are they from? Phoenix, so long ago, that dirt road where i fell in love, (as if there was one) or some house i passed, anywhere, really, here in the west, the poison oleander with its little sour flower, the heart aching dove call, so delicate, a bugle call, or gun fire, to tell the others it is here, here, that i am today.

Here i am today. The fences i was describing seem lifted, but still i wait for a place to go, the prison gone, but i still stand here in the circumference of my old safe cell, and which way do i go, why go anywhere?

why not sit here in the sage and the sagebrush and the dirt and the wind and the coming rains and stars that send out freezing prickles of unleashed, frying, cruel distance. How are we supposed to live, knowing that there are stars? Knowing that there are rocks in distance we cannot shape or know or remotely project ourselves into? How can poor mankind just go on living, knowing that there are stars, and galaxies, and that god is unimaginable, even though we have imagined it? What are we to do, here in l.a., Irish actors, ugly angry cars, skies like mother, remote, and perfectly inverted, blue, untouchable, desirable, the sky that finds the sea.

What's the use of trying to be something that you're not. Some of us are not meant to live in a house, you can tell by my house, it is always throwing itself down into disorder, it does not want to be there. Some people are filled and operate to the maximum in order, with little shreds of disorder tapping on the yard and trees but i am from disorder, and order bounds me and leaves me empty. i am made to camp outside the reservation in a little motel. Velvet paintings are my constant companions. Men leaving taverns are the orchestra i carry, and the brass and the strings are the cactus, the freeway sign, the longing for somewhere.

The longing for somewhere is why i came. This is the sign i carry, the peddle i push. There is nothing to be done.

i cannot make her house for her. She should have to be drug along this
Yellowstone, this dashboard at night, this bear in the headlights. She
should have to come on my road and then make her house from there. For me to make the safe house for her.... and yes, she is her mothers daughter. What is the point of trying to hide a history of outrageous women, of trouble, orphanages, drugs, fighting, and great poetry? She is my daughter. She is not going to teach at Colombia.

Here we go then. i cannot see the reason to keep trying to maintain a status quo. it is so arbitrary. i understand for the reckoning of having boundaries. i have not worked that out yet. but there is the little room, the refrigerator humming, the warm air and the flies are leaning against the beach and the screen door. i am there, even as i am here, even as i am up there.

rlj

ashcroft is going to legislate MORALITY How will his personal spirituality affect his role as attorney general? For one thing, he disagrees with those who say we shouldn’t legislate morality. “I think all we should legislate is morality,” he says. “We shouldn’t legislate immorality.”
from an aol article by J.lee Grady

January 19, 2001

Interesting that he challenged the result of this election...until... amazingly... his "divine intervention" called and said you have a better job here. calls this divine. divine republican intervention. You will all remember that GW said, on t.v. Ged said he would DELIVER florida. How can Ged deliver the votes of a state? Well, it was certainly delivered, though not won...
check this out...

Ashcroft’s most unusual test of faith occurred in November 2000, when he was defeated in his bid for re-election to the Senate. In a fluke sympathy vote, Missourians chose Democrat Mel Carnahan to represent them in Washington, even after the governor was killed in a plane crash on October 16. Carnahan’s widow agreed to serve in her husband’s place, and Ashcroft gracefully accepted defeat. While George W. Bush and Vice President Al Gore were fighting over election results in Florida, Ashcroft refused to contest his loss to a dead man, even though some of his supporters urged him to take legal action. “I'm a servant in this enterprise,” Ashcroft told Charisma last month. “For me to try and grab the reins from the people I serve, and say, 'Your will will be set aside because I have legal rights,' would have been inappropriate and wrong.”

But....isn't that what GW did?

January 12, 2001

we have no KING but JESUS

check out how quickly you will wish you voted for Gore....

According to a transcript of his commencement address at Bob Jones, Ashcroft told students that ''Unique among the nations, America recognized the source of our character as being godly and eternal, not being civic and temporal. And because we have understood that our source is eternal, America has been different. We have no king but Jesus.''

Barry Lynn, executive director of Americans for Separation of Church and State, fired back in a statement on Friday, ''For a nominee for U.S. attorney general to say that this country has 'no king but Jesus' is completely unacceptable. In the United States, it is the Constitution that serves as the
basis for laws and national life, not one faith tradition.''

I believe this is only the beginning of what i feared Bush and his dad would bring to our nation.

I hope you will join me in writing every congressman you can to protest Ashcroft's statements and his nomination for attorney general. No Christian should feel hopeful or glad that a man such as this would represent the Christian community. I am adamant that no American should ever feel like a
religious outsider, and a man with this radically intolerant and fascist point of view has no business overseeing the climate of law in our country. This is a guy who has annointed himself with crisco, in a kind of religious fervor, like the kings of Israel, before political functions.

When I wrote that abortion and forests would be the first to go if the republicans got in, I should have added that they will be followed quietly behind by religious freedom, who will be pulling a little red wagon full of the last meager benefits of health care for what used to be the middle class and has now become the poor. They will keep spouting socialism to evoke some knee-jerk response among those Americans who jerk their knees, and so keep the billion dollar industry of insurance the ones who decide who lives an dies. Who would have thought this would be our fate?

I read on one of the posts on my site a comment by some naive voice that it was ridiculous to think that abortion could be retracted or hindered in any way. I wanted to ask that guy (who obviously did not have to fight for this right) to watch now, as the dignity and safety of this medical right is chipped away - starting the day this Ashcroft is made attorney general.

Gale Norton, a puppet for industry, in charge of the environmental protection agency. I tell you, when this blatant disregard for glib derision of the laws we have worked for thirty years to create to protect what little is left of our land from business who will sell it out from under us and our children to put a little (or alot) of money in their pockets must not go unheralded. Herald it everywhere. Because you better believe that it they don't care about that, soon they will get to you, too, even you republicans,
and if they want to get rid of it, or take it, they will. Because the kind of person who does this kind of politic knows no religion but greed, and the fury they felt at losing so much money and power while the democrats empowered, as best they could against such a wave of ceaseless republican
antagonism, the individual, the concept of peoples vs. the concept of business. God help us. God help us now.

Rickie Lee Jones.

December 2, 2000

Moon Town

i am in a hotel in detroit, in some part of town where nobody lives, and it's so cold outside it's like we're closer to the moon here in detroit. The couple next door introduced themselves with big sex sounds through the walls...i hate being privy to that stuff. I wish the cheap hotels weren't so cheap.

They've been talking rather loudly ever since. laughing too loud. It's an ok room, i moved here from a rather depressing suite, worn out rug, cushions turned the wrong way, smelled like car deodorizer, cherry to be exact. But man, I feel like I'm sharing the room.

Yesterday our flight was delayed, we missed our connection and an already long day turned into about nine hours of travel to get to Austin to do a little radio thing, celebrating KGSR, a very hip station down there. I did my thing, Paul helping, then met some of the other musicians, a nice girl from Nashville who I gave some champagne to because someone took her bottle of beer. It was her birthday beer. She had already played. I liked her. she just turned 44. Her name is Kim. Then i went and played with Taj Mahal, one song. a joyful noise. i was embodying smile. that is, i smiled with foot, posture, head and coat. it was nice. then i ate cake and went home. thank goodness for amc, because out here it's the only thing to hang on to, old black and white movies, gus kahn, or jimmy stewart being some kind or other hero, and cool clothes, i look good in 40's clothes, can't find them anymore.

The crew all holds up in their rooms. Tom duct taped the dnd sign to his door, permanent like, and Paul went out, as usual. he knows somebody in every town. Rick may and i went down to a bar and ate a burger. but this place, where are the people? i see cars, lights, but where are all the people? It's like a movie set. i think we are in a strange part of town. the pods have not finished growing.

rlj

December 5, 2000

Actually I have never done a commercial. I have been imitated and definitely ripped off. I wonder, back in the eighties, was there something in some other country? Can't remember, I was running out of money. McDonald's and Dr. Pepper were the first to really blatantly rip off my voice, and the particular production of woody and dutch, finger-snapping quips, and the 'hey mister' of it all.

The Orb used my voice for a record or four or five and they allowed v.w. to use their recording for a big fee. so you heard me talking about all the beautiful colors while the new v.w. swirled around. I could not have stopped them.

Just got a request to use easy money in a bank commercial. Lot of money but, no, that's not why I came here. The record company asked me as well, someone wanted me to sing a commercial, a Frank Sinatra song. I am sure you will hear plenty of Rickie Lee Jones type singers in commercials for a long time, just as you have.

I liked that particular posting about black songwriters, understand his/her worry. I think, though, the writer missed the point. The point is, music comes from god, We sing, we gather joyfully to make a joyful noise. Being on the receiving end of the good and bad of interest in me as songwriter, I encourage the listener to enjoy the song for its sake, and refrain from idolatry of the writer. For whatever we song writers may suffer, woman, man, many colored head, the thing is to hear some one, some where, singing some song we wrote, Then, we know we live, in a way, among, within, and that we have served, that our idea lives on. That is the thing we do it for. Well, that is the golden fleece, anyway, as far as I can tell.

But a roylaty check doesn't hurt, either.

and a little glory, that's not bad.

rljones

December 9, 2000

Recovering in GHOSTYheadLAND

Now I am leaving Philly. I had a good time at this club last night. It seemed pretty full. The audience didn't clap alot, but they were pretty glued to their places, so I think they liked it. You know, it's never bad.
Sometimes we connect in such spiritual ports that we are lifted, all of us. Other times, it's more tactile, and still other times, it's like, what where you thinking? But the depth we work in is lovely and true, I think, and even
when we Try, I believe people get some good out of it.

Trying is ok. The audience takes on a collective movement, it has it's own identity, and you have to move with it, and take it along with you. It is very physical, and of course a spirit that manifests...but also we do a lot
of living in that hour. We all leave knowing each other in unexpected ways. I think the audience, individually, lets go, opens up, surrenders - or not, and that action is a lot more interaction than most of us have with people in the course of even afew months. So, you know, I take it very personally.

It's a good crew, good band, I am having fun again.

I have to get on the bus, but I am going to write some on the trip to New York.

rlj

December 12, 2000

Notes from New York

It's noon, I'm finally waking up. I love new york, all the horns honking and trucks backing up and garbage being thrown around, and the machines of all kinds determined to make all the noise they can. The people in motion. No where else is there so much activity, so many ants on their way. I like to walk around and look in the windows. There is a gallery around the corner selling photographs of a long dead photographer, a big portrait of Einstein in the window. There are old jewels, tiny women's shoes, and silly amazing new fashions from famous designers everywhere. There are furs again - guess the mink population has lost it's lobby with the animal rights people, or with the rich, or whoever, and ahhh, the decadence, the extreme wealth, it radiates heat on these chilly afternoons. Lots of euro trash up here. They smoke on the non smoking floors, they don't
answer you when you speak to them, they wear outrageous furs and hats and I love listening to them, the cadence of their languages, their secret ways. Show business kids. Not so different, in the end, than the stocking capped tattooed anorexic children of movie stars and their friends making movies of themselves down in LA froo froos of wealth - no, status, that become the popular local trademarks, subtle though they might be. The status game never ends, does it. I wonder what it means? Power? Power means survival. Intelligence? Cunning?

Now comes the last show of the year, an amazing year. It started with people anticipating the apocalypse. Imagine the collective sigh that has taken place as life has gone on, on as usual. Making the record here last year, manifesting that work, envisioning the people and the occasion. One never has time to stop and say,
wow, amazing manifestation, good job. My friend was saying that to me the other night. All this, around you, rl. All this sprouting up around you. I was thinking, all those people at the record company planning ways to bring a song I recorded to radios, ways to take me around the world, ways to sell records, dispatching platoons of people to work on something I thought of and then made. And people coming from their homes to sit in rooms and listen to me sing. To wade in the thick atmosphere of the words I create, of the air of
my vision of a show, to willingly and benevolently participate. And ultimately, for me to come through, to not turn against myself, to stand tall and take it, and give it back. Imagine, this little girl from Phoenix, and
all the things that happened to her, good and bad, comes to this place to be part of this garden. How blessed I am. Sometimes some body comes in and aims some nasty fruit in my direction. ok. Sometimes I feel like I am swimming up stream. Sometimes it seems like the minions of evil gather together arbitrarily to tangle up the delicate lines of the web I weave. Sometimes I wake up and I hear them laughing in the shapes of lumber and screws and geometric relief meant to remember fear, warning, desertion. The images hover in midair, unwilling to dissolve into the dream world, and I must wake in layers, here, and again, and again, to return to this waking dreamless state, safe from the ultimate terror that watches from the maze of dream rooms.

Anyway I don't feel exactly well today. I bought a bottle of champagne last night, but I think I drank most of it. Alcohol is such a potent drug.

I leave early tomorrow, so I am off to take a walk in the park. This will be the last post on the journal of the road, at least from the road. The show was very fun last night, and one more tonight, more big fun. I had a couple guests join in last night, but I think I won't do that tonight.

goodbye.
rlj

December 16, 2000

Looking over my shoulder, and down the hillside at the sea.

I am so glad the tour is over. I like it when I'm out, but that's because i have to like it. And of course it's cool to play, but it's terrifying, every night wondering if you'll perform, in this limited space, according to your and their hopes and expectations, wondering with each step if it will take you where you hope to go, then leveling that and saying, no these are not taking me anywhere, there is only here and now, and all this psychological drama one goes through is just to create the theater for the living fiction of the performance to take root in. I am working with reality (a kind of taxidermy) and with the imaginary (a kind of seabed of creation) world, and they are replicating in this little dish of the theater, fused, making our own play, each night different, out of the words and emotions of the singer and the listeners, dreamers, watchers. At this point it no longer matters what part of a line is or was, a character or me, because we weave it together to mean something about now, and so it's an alchemy every night. Some nights though, I hold back, I concentrate on the guitar strings. I cannot bear to reveal myself. Sometimes. If we sense some reticence from the crowd, we may ourselves stand at a distance. Or maybe they are enthusiastic, but I have created a many headed beast about them, and I cannot put my spear down. But still, I do my best, to be nonviolent, to offer my crooked compassion, my vulnerability.

Then when I come back home, what is there to replace that intensity? So I become a supernova of normal. You can't see me. Maybe i will not go back to such bland colors anymore. Maybe it's not necessary to conceal myself with the heavy air of ... of ... past.

I begin to dream and dream.

I'm glad I have someplace to live. How lucky I am.

RLJ

December 20, 2000

A Relief of Christmas

I guess Christmas is about as lonely as a shoe out on the road. It use to be somebody's, and it's hard to not go touch it while you're wondering how it got there. What lead Christmas to this old, silent road? Whose shoe is that? I wonder if they still make them? Nope, those days are gone forever. Over a long time ago.

I remember one Christmas in Phoenix when I was twelve and my sister whose husband had more money than us, he was in computers, bought me a woolly green and beige dress. It was kind of classy everyone said, and I was supposed to like it. And I tried really hard to like it. I put it on and walked around in it. But let me just make it clear that I would have walked on the other side of the street if I'd seen it limping and about to faint. That dress sucked, and it wasn't better than me, and they certainly didn't know more than me because
they had more money. Later it would be revealed that he was lusting after me from the beginning, but that's not a Christmas story at all. That's a Thanksgiving story.

Anyways.
Christmas was hard in the desert. You always felt like real life was drawn in the books, a place where they had leaves that turned colors, and wore hosiery, and coats, and snow fell.

We tried buying those eastern things, but it just didn't work. We always ended up barefoot and playing in the dirt. There was a lot of dirt back then. Actually, I miss dirt. Everything is paved now. Up here dirt is mud. Mud means they clear-cut. Mud just pisses me off. Actually though we don't even get mud, because the ground here that supports the ecosystem is very clayish, and when they cut the trees you get a kind of
organic concrete, and so mudslides, floods, nothing will grow in the place of the trees. You have to bring in soil to plant, here in the fertile northwest. It is supposed to have trees. That's why they grow here.

But there weren't many trees that Christmas Day in 1966. It was about 80 degrees I think. Maybe it was 67. Who knows.

I always got my dad a tie. And he would just rave about my ties. He'd say, "I always love the ties Rickie gets me." And I would use my special extra sensor to imagine just the right tie for my dad. He looked beautiful in my ties.

I liked to get my mother a necklace. I would look at all the necklaces in the department store, Penny's, or Sears, or Montgomery Ward. She only went out about three times in my entire life, but she wore the necklace I got her all three times.

Two years ago Charlotte found out there was no Santa. A die-hard, a holdout, she was the last of her kind, the oldest one to still believe there was a Santa.

I was ashamed, thinking she trusted me so completely she did not believe I would lie to her about something as important as the existence of a thing everyone took for granted, and even talked to, stuff like that. She cried and cried that Christmas Eve, and slept by the tree, even though she knew there was no Santa. I took a photograph of her that morning, opening presents with her brave and broken heart, haggard from a night of despair. And then I took a photograph at the moment she opened her last present. You would see, then, a look, slightly mustered up, but also kind of real, a look of incredulous relief, as she realized a gift that she had not told me about, and only had told Santa. So, giving herself a break, felt yes, in the secret
world there is a Santa, because, look, here is the gift that only he could have brought.

And Christmas is full of so many stories we each have, of our own and the ones we inherited, and I tread slowly and carefully toward that fat and slow house, where time stands still, but the price is high, and the streets are littered with old shoes to testify to the ragged and torn struggle just outside the door.

Love,
and peace to you on Christmas,
and don't panic, not one of you,
Rickie Lee Jones.

August 6, 2000

The Musical Life by Hilton Als

Rickie's February 2000 Journal

The Past Six Months

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