Today is our Albumversary

A year ago today Self-Employed Assassins celebrated our album's release at The Lizard Lounge in Cambridge.

I woke up that morning to find my amaryllis starting to bloom:


The weather, for January 23rd in Boston, was surprisingly warm...I think close to 50.

Now it's a year later, to the day, and we are playing an anniversary show at Rosebud Bar in Davis Square tonight. The few weeks leading up to today have not been as wonderful as the days leading up to the CD Release. Based on some conversations with friends, I know I'm not alone in saying these past few weeks have been horrendous. Depression is in the water in Boston-town.

However, today feels a little different. Last night we had a spectacular rehearsal with the girls in Goli and Peter Moore. They will be joining us on several songs. This morning I woke up, stayed in bed, and finished 'The Pilgrimage' by Paulo Coelho. A book I have mostly loved, though winter cynicism has prevented me from fully experiencing. Nonetheless, I feel the book came to me at the perfect time. It got me to reach beyond the bowels of January, the world, and self-doubt and to once again be more comfortable with the path I have taken, and will continue to take. Life is a constant journey, even when you don't feel like journey-ing. Yeah, obvious, but tell it to the girl staring at the wall. She don't care.

It seemed only right that after finishing the book about a pilgrimage that I should do an hour of yoga and try to release all that's been building up inside this body o' mine. After all this zen-ness, the natural thing to do, of course, was make an Indian inspired breakfast with Bengali-style potatoes, spinach, and after years of practice, my perfectly mastered poached eggs.
I was feeling about as blissed out as I could possibly feel when I happened to check my email. There in my inbox was a note from my friend Brendan titled, 'Happy Albumversary'. I clicked on the email, and in summary, this is what I found:

http://www.brendanburns.com/2010/sarah-rabdaus-albumversary/

I have never had anyone do a cover of one of my songs before. When I heard the first few notes I felt small and shy, undeserving of the sounds made from an accomplished hand and learned musician. But as I listened further, I could feel myself grow. My shoulders straightened, my cheeks blushed, my eyes brimmed with tears and I began to really process that I had written this song. For the first time I could hear how someone else really loved it, was performing it, shaping it into their own, and sending it out into the world. I could hear the love. And, holy shit, I made something that someone loved!

It is in these small gestures by others, in their thoughtfulness and honesty, that will sometimes force you to face your truths. Sometimes seeing yourself is the very thing that can hurl you into the bowels of sadness, never wanting to come out. And sometimes when forced to look, you turn away for fear of, what? Knowing? Swallowing the idea that you may do something beautiful? Worthwhile? If you take it in, you might be proud? Egotistical?

It is so hard to see beauty in the dark depths of a New England January. But this afternoon, with a click of a mouse, it felt like falling in love.

the Times in pictures

We get the New York times delivered to us on Sunday mornings. Actually, Peter gets the paper delivered. Maybe it's my affinity for the classics, but watching someone read the New York Times is, to me, the quintessential picture of a smart and sexy person. It's romantic. The person obviously gets all their clothes tailored and pressed, wears perfectly made and un-ironic circular rimmed glasses, goes to art museums on free nights, and never had to study a day in their life because their brain is a glimmering specimen of memory, natural talent, and common sense. This is what I think every time I see someone with a cup of coffee in their right hand and the Times in their left.

Oh, perfect smart and glamorous person, why can't I live in your world?

You see, I cannot read papers. I get instant ADD. Reading articles in a paper is like mapping out a trip while maneuvering a vehicle.

Every Sunday I get so excited for Peter to open the door, reach down and pick up that blue translucent bag that contains all things I love in the world. I watch as he orders it to his liking; first taking out the crossword puzzle (extra smart points), putting the sports section in the 'fire' pile (oh, adorable music nerd), makes his way through arts, world news, throws out the travel section.....wait, what? Why aren't you looking at the travel? Wait, what are you doing with the Style magazine? Actually, can I look at the Arts?
And what do I do with these sections? I look at the pictures. I'm like a child. I go through the encyclopedia of papers, and look for fucking pictures. I insult myself with this admission, but every week I think I'll be different. Every week I hope that I will one day be the one who will get tailored clothes, be naturally smart, and wear horn-rimmed glasses.

Sadly, I am not. All of my clothes have holes in them, I have never not had to study until my eyes burn, I cannot remember historical facts--though I can remember meals from years ago-and lastly, the nail in the coffin...I read magazines. With big pictures in them. Gasp. Smart person fail.

Ok, I also have a rather voracious book reading appetite, but it doesn't matter. The New York Times is my Harvard, my MIT, my Julliard. I will never be that romantic, dashing, perfectly coiffed person whose brain is a well oiled machine. I will be the sophomoric, disheveled, poor music girl reading the news on the internet. Do I know they have the Times on the internet? Yes. Do I read the articles? Sometimes. Is there a difference? The internet is not romantic and therefore doesn't count.

Romance is the only thing that counts.