there’s a limit to your love

twentysomething cautionary tale

They used to watch

with gazes that could melt glaciers.

The walk from restaurant table to restroom

like a runway or red carpet.

The strongest jaw line in town.

They used to watch

with heads snapping,

bodies contorting,

directions changing.

always inviting

me, more than you.

They used to watch

and offer up

round-the-clock happiness

haircuts, plant delivery

paris, lip balm, Gay Disney,

moving help, mixed tapes,

tarot readings, tax assistance

They used to watch

and say the sweetest things

strangers meaning well

tips for orchid care,

and which ice cream to buy.

Funny —

it only takes 30 lbs.

and 10 years

to become hidden

in plain sight

© 2007  Lucas J. Miré

i’ve got you right where i want you

Gregg Shapiro was nice to include me in his end of the year wrap-up for the Chicago Gay Press. Basically a re-run of what he’s said about the CD in the Bay Area Times and the Philly paper, but nonetheless I’m delighted by being mentioned.

Atlanta-based Lucas Miré is another welcome voice on the queer male singer/songwriter circuit. Incorporating electronic and acoustic instrumentation, “Forever’s Not As Long As It Used To Be” (Zakz) is a pleasure from start to finish. Particular favorites include “Push/Pull,” “Swallowed Whole,” “Francis,” “Fill In The Blanks,” “Go It Alone” and “Sunday.”

I also got a few emails recently that SoVo ran an article with quotes from 2005′s ‘viewpoint’ columns and that one of mine from my Katrina editorial was chosen. Check it out here.

if i get drunk and stupid and say something foolish i still don’t think i’ll ever shake this thing

One of my top 10 lists will be my TOP 10 EXPERIENCES of 2005. I’ll roll these out every so often throughout the end of the year, counting down to my favorite experience of the year. These are the moments that stick out when I glance back over my calendar…

#6 :: Song Shifts

Thanks to a boss and mother figure I had for 7.5 years when I was young and impressionable, I have a difficult time talking about my art without feeling like I’m coming off like an ego-maniac. (It was  nearly a decade into my professional writing career before, thanks to Julia Cameron, I could call myself a writer.) However, there is something intrinsicly egotistical about having a blog in the first place, and so here I am, blogging about my thoughts on my navel-gazing style of songwriting.  It’s like a mirror inside a mirror. Eh, I give that woman too much power.

Anyway, you’re hear to read about my navel-gazing, so here we go:

One thing I want to remember about 2005 was that my songs started to change. They are more gauzy and open-ended and looser and more confident and risk-taking. I like the change! It’s been fun to watch my art evolve. I felt more exhileration and excitement and joy after writing "London" than I can ever remember.  I hadn’t felt that proud feeling in many songs.

Additionally, I think that I’ve been writing some borderline optimistic songs, where before, though I never found my tunes depressing, some reported they felt like "little black holes to nowhere." (Thanks for sharing!) And, originally, being a fan of such artists as The Red House Painters and Lori Carson, I tended to take grey and black to new depths.

Now, I just notice that the songs are lighter, and aren’t always about me, and have at least a tinge of hope creaping up through the cracks. I think my creations will always have a melodramatic tinge of melancholy, but these days there’s a lot more light — and it feels nice.

NOTE: As the end of the year closes in, I’d thank all my dedicated "first run" listeners for their feedback, support, and encouragement these last 12 months: Michelle, AW, and Bradley. You guys hear my babies first and I appreciate your ears and love.

just to see how hard you can make me cry…

What a twisty, sort of screwed up day. I’m trying to sleep, but I can’t, so I figured I’d type.

I’m such a dork!, but I think about Anne Frank during times like these:  She refused to give up on the good in people, despite betrayal.

Tonight, it seems like this poem i wrote bears re-running.

El Norte

frozen sheets
fall away
into epic shards
on oil-stained asphalt

inside, glaciers
shift in an
unexpected ice age

meltfreezemelt
until winter
is all that can be trusted

rocky crevasses
conceal
tectonic plates
sliding imperceptibly
along hidden seams

rearranging
earthen memories
of a lost continent

– lucas miré, 03/04/05

I’ll write about tonight’s Tegan and Sara concert tomorrow, if I’m up to it.

first my left foot then my right behind the other, breadcrumbs lost under the snow

It’s been so long since I have any time to kill, I’ve gotten rusty. But today, a few empty hours descend upon me. I seize the moments.

I go to the bookstore in the neighborhood, remembering my last visit and the hour I burned up among the stacks. As I near ‘lesbian fiction’ I have a flash: Last November 9, right here, in this exact spot, here, right here, leaning against this shelf, I made plans with S to go to her house for dinner as I thumbed through a book written by a guy I once dated. It had a lot of pictures, and I practiced the difficult art of being happy for someone who cannot make his subjects and verbs agree. (As for S, I accidentally spilled red wine on her white carpet, followed some bad wine removal advice, and I haven’t really heard from her since.)

As I move through the aisles, everything’s loaded with history – even though I’ve only been in this bookstore once before.

Maybe this has to do with getting older; This didn’t happen to me in my 20s.

But, this is me, circa 2005, like it or not. And though it can be overwhelming and odd, I do like it:

My new self meets my old self at every turn. I buy my pants too long. I purge my life of anything unnecessary – friendships that don’t feed me, backup plans, excuses, doubting thomases, questions, backward glances, cynicism, sentimentality, worry, possessions, second guesses, crutches, obligations. I feel certain that I want everything to matter. I compulsively buy moisturizers and eye creams. I question everything. I don’t want to kiss anyone but my boyfriend.

I pick up the trade paperback of “Shopgirl,” even though I haven’t even cracked the two books I brought with me on this trip. But I’m eager, I can’t wait to see the movie. Maybe I could read it on the plane home. It looks brief enough.

My iPod shuffles mellowly as I spy a copy of my favorite novel, “Andorra” by Peter Cameron, for only $6.99. What a shame! I want to buy it to give to someone, but I resist. None of my friends read much, except the ones who have already read it.

I find myself thinking about the two things – both books – that I have of my mother’s. One is the book she was reading when she died, the other is her bible. Freakily enough, two steps later, the book I took from her bedside, “A Brief History of God,” is laying on its back in the middle of an expanse of shelf space. I feel stunned by this synchronicity, and ashamed for hating her, and I take a picture of the book so I can remember this complicated moment.

I’m still holding “Shopgirl,” but now I know I won’t buy it.

I feel weak and strong at the same time; damaged and ok, all at once. I’ll see the movie as a clean slate and read the book later when it gets marked down, which everyone knows it will be.

Same time, next year, memories so cheap I can almost afford them.