Crowspun... Crow Johnson Evans

sweetness of life

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Where do I start? just got broadband.

Which blogs do you read? Are there DIY how-tos that make a difference? Recipes?

Your time is precious… where do you get the best value and amusement?

We just got broadband to our house in the woods. And there is so much out there. Where to begin?

What do you love? I like about 20% of Youtube videos showing how to do things. Friends have suggested a couple of blogs in the fiber world.

Storytelling, music, thinking, reading, knitting, spinning, weaving, sewing, drawing, painting, writing…so where do you suggest I begin?

In return, I’ll share the ones that shine with ya’ll.

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What about unexplained connections?

You share DNA from your ancestors; however, the math proves that each of us is statistically pretty unique. (not counting identical twins, etc) This is my reasoning behind believing that each person has different wiring and experience of life and therefore each has a unique voice. Everyone is qualified to create art.

But coincidences in our lives leave us with goosebumps wondering about magic or woo-woo stuff. Just because science has not yet proven the existence of phenomena, are our experiences invalid? Everything from saying the same words simultaneously with a friend, imagining danger, and braking your car before someone runs a red light. And there are behaviors…

My maternal grandmother died when I was 8 years old, but I still feel somehow “close” to her. Connected. Nonsense? Looking at photos I had one of those woo-woo moments. A picture of me and Arthur first in love (photo copyright Judy Weiser Ostiguy) juxtaposed a photo of my grandparents (photographer unknown).

 

 

Have you had experiences you couldn’t easily explain? How do you feel about them?

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What makes a Home?

PJ (Paul Johnson) and I lived in a real cowman’s cottage, 90 kilometers west of London in Vernham Dean, Andover, Hampshire. The postmaster asked us what we wanted to name the place. Of course, we picked “BagEnd” (because I was short and had fur on the top of my feet.) Well, not exactly.. but the place was similar to this one in the same sweet village.

It was in the late ’60s and early ’70s, that my ex and I were in England. We’d signed contracts for publishing, recording, and performing with a company in London (at #1 Harley Street.) Back then, one or two successful acts could support a whole stable of musicians. We were treated very well…( until we weren’t–But that’s another story.)

Before finding our music business “home”, we squatted for a few months in an abandoned one-room house on stilts. We wrote songs and got to know some musicians in the area. After a great gig at the Round House in London, we came back to our seashore place and all of our stuff had been stolen. There’s nothing like being down to one change of clothes and your instruments to make one get serious. I really liked our squat, but it wasn’t legal. It was so remote, no one could get to us when the tide was in. We were so far from the rest of the world we could rehearse with all our might at any hour of the day or night.

After signing with RingMaker, we were provided a rental cottage, a car, and a recording schedule, etc. The cottage we lived in (legally) no longer had its thatched roof. We cooked on and were heated by a giant pale blue porcelain coal-fired stove nicknamed “Mother Rayburn”. There was a room on the porch that served as a refrigerator. The greengrocer, bread baker, and canned goods guy.. all made house calls and took orders for the following week. The baker was also the filling station and delivered mail. Sometimes we drove into Andover for the farmers’ market. Freshly butchered rabbits hanging upside down in the open air nudged me into vegetarian eating. The landlords left a can of fresh milk on the fence for us. It was a home.

When the company split up and things didn’t go well for us, I knew we would be leaving. I wrote the song “BagEnd” for that cottage– and eventually recorded it on “As the Crow Flies” . James Wilson of Aerie Designs in North Carolina did the cover art. (Thank him many times.)

And just this year an ancient copy of the recordings we made in London…surfaced magically. I’ll get some help to put both versions of that song in this blog.

I’m curious to know if you prefer one to the other.

 

Bag End

Bag End my friend good morning
open eyes to a brand new day
living in the country, dirt road, down-home style

 

Yellow leaves blow ’round, mornings
Birds feed on your window sills
Jackdaws in the field, dirt road, down-home style

Houses build up and tear down
Home is somethin’ else
Soon home will be on the highway
Dreaming of somewhere else.

Pheasants walk by, mornings
They don’t seem to know to hide
Like rabbits in the hedges, dirt road, down-home style

Houses build up and tear down
Home is somethin’ else
Soon home will be on the highway
Dreaming of somewhere else.

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JUST Kid Stuff?

Why do people say JUST when talking about things for children?
It’s JUST kid’s stuff?

When I was playing music for adults, people would ask if  I entertained young audiences.   I sure backed away from that question in a hurry.

“What? I don’t have children or siblings. I don’t understand kids even a little. It would be like talking with a science fiction creature for them.”

Then a good friend (thanks Dragon) showed me what good friends can do. In one sentence, she made me rethink. “Everyone remembers what it was like to be a child. Just go back to those years.”

My early years were often fabulous and sometimes completely horrific. I’m sure I buried many of those memories and threw away the map. Why would I want to go back there?

Still… the glorious adults in my childhood were spectacular. They treated me like a fully legitimate human being. They explained complex things to me with passion and clarity.  They made me laugh and think. I felt like I belonged.

These days, deciding to tap into earlier years has expanded my heart and brought me great pleasure.  I believe that we carry within us all of the ages we’ve lived.  Today I have 76 years on paper, but I’m also 5 years old, 22 years old, 3 years old…

 

Writing for kids allows us to be the kinds of people we loved as children.  Energy, compassion, humor, and puzzles all explode in stories.

I’ve learned that young humans are not simple. and writing for them is not a simple challenge.  It fills me with joy and humility.

 

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During the Still Parts

DURING THE STILL PARTS

I remember to notice with all my senses as if waiting……

waiting for the rain or the “ah ha” of a great giggle or the taste of an illusive insight.  I’ve been spinning yak and silk by hand. So smooth and natural.  It reminds me of this photo and others taken in China on the Tibetan Plateau.

Here at home the still parts are stolen from the “ought to be doings” like the dishes, sweeping–all the busy things we imagine ourselves doing to imitate the kind of person we think we are.

In an amazing effort to just keep things going, I can ignore important skirmishes on the periphery of my awareness.  Its an old habit like thinking I need gas money to get to the next gig, keep pedaling or the bike will fall over, wondering if someone will say I can’t camp here, or if ‘it’ will be okay.

It’s ironic to be in the sweetness of my years, not needing the worn smooth survival tools I carried close.  The still moments don’t last forever. I understand that everything is moving.

During today’s still patch, I think I’ll quit arguing with myself about having a part in the big crazy thrilling dance.  In stillness I’m just a compassionate, creative, and awed being…grateful for the stillness to notice.