For more information on Erin Carere the singer, please visit:

For more information on Erin Carere the Hollywood screenwriter and actress, please visit:

Tuesday, December 31, 2019

2019, Year in Review; Decade in Review

I'm writing this with 20 minutes to spare before my friend arrives and we are off to a series of New Year's Eve parties; glittering in my sparkling blue and diamond drop earrings to match my eyes, a mesh rock and roll sweater over a black and red hearted bustier, black jeans and black stiletto pumps... a faux fur in the back seat and ear muffs, because I'm apparently still 12 when it comes to both my tolerance for cold (nonexistent in Minnesota, even less so here in southern California) AND my choice in outerwear...

So who cares about a year and a decade in review? But celebrating all our failures helps us grow and having compassion for ourselves can pivot us in new directions... and honoring our achievements helps us feel happy... and we are entering the NEW ROARING 20s and I have a costume change or two left in me!

So! Shall we, briefly, then?

2019: THE GOOD: Henry is still alive. Carlo and I won a bunch of contests with a script we wrote. We produced a middling short film with a great story and got it into a few festivals and licensed it to a real cable channel. I worked on a top secret film I can't talk about yet but got to see how good of work can be done when fully supported by cast and crew and production entities and network... i.e., I didn't have to wear a million hats myself and didn't have to do a million hours of my day job, thereby losing energy. My mom had a big birthday and we all got together to celebrate her in northern Minnesota and I remembered why I love the place I was born. I survived another year in Los Angeles without a sugar daddy unless you count my credit cards in which case I'm fucked. I got a lot more honest because I'm just too damn old to lie about much else. I lost my way as a singer but started working with my genius vocal teacher Gary again after a hiatus and my soul is all the better and happier for it. I lost ten pounds. I gained three back. I lost them again. I gained them back again. I stopped weighing myself. I got to see all the nephews and niece on *my* side of the family. My Italian improved marginally, by which I mean by about 3%, and that's mainly in that I lost any fear of sounding like an idiot because I've made peace with the fact that, well, you get the picture.

2019: THE BAD: Henry has cancer. My food issues and body image issues suck and I hate diet culture. Social media in general. The passing of some family members. Some health issues among those I love. I'm basically a walking headache. I was paying off debt (see above) until Henry got sick, now I'm just dealing with the fact that my humanity is born to give to small dogs with underbites. Um.... I've been attending protests and marches on behalf of the environment since I was a child (remember Kids 4 Saving the Earth? Yup, member of my town's chapter) so my alarm is at the same level it has been at for decades, now, so I still do what I can without wringing my hands. My focus currently is on homeless people in Los Angeles more than anything, how to help people, and those who don't want the help, how to not let them rob me. Oh, I've been robbed by homeless people a couple of times. But I don't know if that's bad per se. It's just that I don't rob them, I really don't, I don't think I even do systemically, so I find it unfair, but I'll just manage my mind around that as my heart breaks daily.

THE TENS: THE GOOD: A music video for a song called "Too Much." A music tour to SXSW. A visit to Prophecy Rock. My sister moved to Los Angeles. Two one woman shows, one of which was really good ("The One.") Manhattan School of Music. Laura's wedding. CARLO! CARLO! CARLO! I love Carlo. We moved in together, I took his last name. It's all confusing, but heck, we love each other more now than ever before so whaddya know. Spy v Spia. Time Zero, our first script together, won a bunch of awards, then Dark Horizons, our pilot together did the same. Got to work with one of the all time greatest. Found the acting teacher that not only got me, but got me to soar, James DiStefano. Another Virgo! (Not me, in case you were wondering, but so many of these important people in my life are Virgos, which is curious,) Learned to really sing and changed my approach to music with voice teacher Gary (Virgo.) Made a few dear new friends. Did a million readings on 12. Took hundreds of Bar Method and Pop Physique classes each and love them equally and both for different reasons. Changed my hair color. A lot. Black to brown to red to blond to platinum to red to blonde to blonder to brown to strawberry bronde. Saw Naples (and now I can die, thank you Goethe, but I won't, not just yet.) Niece and nephews! Italian nieces and nephew! Film festivals galore. Mexico, New York City, Rome, Minneapolis. Sang for a lot of film scores, weddings and parties and gigs. Played with gifted musicians. Avoided lawsuits. Wore some amazing dresses. Discovered Lincoln in the Bardo, Chico y Rita, METOO, Parasite, JoJo Rabbit, Better Caul Saul, Kimmy Schmidt, Downton Abbey, Casa de Papel, Upstart Crow, heard Madeleine Peyroux live, and am ending the year 7 chapters into a novel I'm obsessed with writing.

THE TENS: THE BAD: All but one of my best friends living in Los Angeles moved away and quit the business (I did not, though!!!). People died. Also music died, for me. But I'm trying not to be curmudgeonly about it. We lost Leonard Cohen and Prince and Bowie and lots of other people too soon but some in the natural, normal cycles of life. I miss my childhood friends and early 20s friends desperately. Almost got caught up in a cult. Didn't get to see my family nearly enough. The obvious emotional turmoil over "division," but mainly I'm sad that racism, xenophobia, anti-religious sentiment, anti-poor sentiment, sexism, human and child trafficking and the priority of money over humanity and creativity still exists.


I think I might be the woman I always dreamed of being...

I don't mind getting older, but I wish the rest of the world also didn't mind...

Funny bumping into you here, huh?

Nothing a great dress and tube of lipstick can't fix... and if it is? Well, let's dance. Gotta run. My friend just got here~

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

Monday, October 28, 2019

Robert Evans. RIP.

When I very first moved to Hollywood, a (now famous for being a very very very bad #metoo abuser) agent gave me homework after our first meeting, including watching "The Kids Stays in the Picture." (Also: "The Player," "The Bad and the Beautiful," and "Swimming with Sharks." He wanted me to understand what it would take to make it in Hollywood. He wasn't the first #metoo moment I ever had nor the last, but he was one of the scarier ones.) Thankfully, things never worked out with that agent and I escaped, harassed, but never assaulted. I think the days of touring with a band had taught me how to handle guys like that, but also I just didn't go back after the second meeting. 

But the films were great.

The focus of "Kid Stays in the Picture" is legend Robert Evans. A few years after watching the documentary, I actually met him at a private concert where I was singing (alongside my dear friend pianist Jeremy and another singer, Adam) for a different Hollywood legend, a friend of Evans' who was unwell. The concert was all by request, featuring songs from the Lady Gaga / Tony Bennett album. We performed on a gray Saturday afternoon after a baseball game for three Hollywood legends of production, their bodyguards, and a handful of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Evans was unmistakable with his tan skin, big golden sunglasses, red turtleneck and slate gray sports jacket. He was there to support his friend, whose home it was, and he was very kind, hugging his pal, squeezing the guy's hand when we sang a childhood favorite song and everyone teared up. After the concert he shook my hand, introducing himself as "Bob," and told me I was "very talented." He smiled at me and I have a feeling like he patted me on the head although in my very high heels I was rather tall. I don't remember if he actually did. It just seems like he did. He may have.

It's that sort of strange Hollywood experience that almost makes you wonder if you were just born during the wrong decade or what, singing jazz standards from the 30s and 40s and 50s in a gold lame dress for giants of a different era.

Anyway, Mr. Evans died this last weekend. RIP, Bob.…/robert-evans-chinatown-godfather-…

Thursday, August 22, 2019

New York, August 16th, 2019

part one

she awakened early. hot. she had stumbled in the wee hours to the air conditioning control unit, banging against it with contempt for the cold. now the smells of the room rose up to meet her nostrils with a wrinkle. wasn't this supposed to be a luxury hotel? ah, yes. boutique. and it was still New York in August. you got to choose. too hot, too sweaty, too stinky. or. too cold, too dry for your sinuses, scratchy throat. she chose hot and sweaty. and stinky.

she took her time, not normally, but today. she luxuriated. what day of the week was it, anyway? who cared.

well, she did, but only out of habit.

she was sick of social media, living life on line, living connected to a device, living without breath.

so after the applying of the zit cream and the moisturizer and the foundation and the blush and the lip stain and the chapstick and the highlighter and the brow pencil and the cream eye shadow and the smudge and the mascara - thank god her blow out that she had paid fifty bucks for before coming to the city was holding out pretty well thanks to the Russian tae kwon do expert, a former olympian to boot, who had to schlep to the blow dry bar for a day job like the rest of the aspiring stunt performers and a-list actress hopefuls; if not hair then dog walking or tutoring or massage therapy or personal training or waiting in line for rich people at the DMV- after all that, she wandered down to the streets and walked, at first fast, then moderately, a natural swing in the hips arriving fluidly in response to the overtly masculine push toward success she was learning to release every day, nearly every hour, now.

"what," she thought, "what if, what if I just let beauty happen?"

the thought of not working for success at every waking moment tickled her.

she walked all the way from nomad to Chelsea to meet a dear dear dear dear dear dear woman in her life, a friend, fellow creatrix and psychic and powerhouse, they could be sisters or, more likely, young aunt and adult niece? sisters from different misters, perhaps, with the age difference, you see. and over vegan lunch and gay ice cream a deep connection settled in as they spoke of dreams and manifestations until they arrived at a witchy bookstore, no, like literally, there was a sign reading "the witch is in" and they listened to a conversation about sending away unwanted spirits and appreciated the black cat on the counter since the next day was, in an unlikely but remarkable turn of events, black cat appreciation day.

and then there was graffi-tea and talk of obstacles and fears card readings shared entre nous despite the public space, and days later, she would feel so tired and exhausted, having culled the truth of her disappointments and exhaustions from her heart and having laid them bare on the table for her friend to see-

and when it was time to part it was a happy "see ya next time" with a kiss, and they each felt largely fulfilled, they were ready to return to their respective responsibilities and goals, for while you can take the girl out of the overachiever? you cannot? take? the overachiever? out of the girl, oh it makes sense if you are she, anyhow,

until she is a woman


witch were we speaking of, now?

so happy for those days of city talking and walking, those moments of utterly delicious wrenches thrown into the works of progress

Morgan le Fay rules over Ayn Rand every day.

Yup! I'm human. 
And I ordered the barista's recommendation,
which was tasty, but,
in my heart I really love sprinkles and
wish I had honored my inner
fairy godmother
and ordered something


If you have truly pursued acting in your life, you know how difficult it is to let yourself really feel everything and respond with covering and deflecting the way real people do in life while still inviting people to peek in on your vulnerability while still making it sound like you were just explaining this story to your brother at Thanksgiving.

Or in the case of Tom Sturridge, who sounds like he's sharing in therapy or a 12 step group in his monologue-

Or in the case of Jake Gylenhaal, who sounds like he's sharing at a college friends' camping trip during his monologue-

Just real and even more so.

Best thing I have seen on Broadway alongside "Porgy and Bess" with Audra McDonald and Norm Lewis.

So for some kind of review or something...

These are two separate plays, two one man shows that each take up about the time of an act. They are intimate, deeply personal shows, at least in the delivery and content (if not in the verity of "it happened to me" as an experience.) At times whimsical, at times fragile, at times deeply searching, I connected from my heart to what I was witnessing. I read in the show notes in the program that Tom and Jake, as actors, felt they were giving this to the audience as a gift. I will be honest and say that as an audience member, I did feel that I was giving my attention back as a gift as well? I am sure that sounds bitchy or arrogant or something, and I do not mean it that way. I just mean, it commanded my whole being, and I wanted so very much to offer them my energy as thanks.


The night before, the screening again:
wanted to post a few pics.

The Q&A/ Talkback:

Great interviewer! (Rick Hamilton.)

Tuesday, August 20, 2019

Walking in New York at Night

A pleasure of its own
after a hot summer's day.
The city has cooled off
and the smell of August has blown east and
away, making room for the
fecund odor of the earth below the massive
buildings. And the crazy throngs, too,
are also gone, leaving only lovers strolling,
men out of their suits and on their phones,
catching your eye if they can and if they cannot
it's a numbers game anyway and,
look! A party, drinkers with their bottles in
paper bags, passed around under the protective wall over the
sidewalk where construction has
begun eons ago and will never end.

And you think about the play you just saw,
and the intimacy of the actor talking about
the birth of his daughter, character or himself,
shadows sewn to his words,
and you think about the man in the audience next to you
who passed out from a heat stroke, or
so he told you at intermission with an apology and never
came back. You wonder if you should grab a hot pretzel
from a blue and yellow stand, thick crystals of salt
beading up over the top where the perspiration gathers.
In the end you decide, yes, that would be a very good idea, indeed,
and you pull it apart as you walk.

So many people walk and eat in New York City,
a place where you live in public.

You think about the conversation you listened in on at lunch, for
to say overheard would really be a
lie; an older man with his two grown daughters,
something you pieced together over cold zuchhini soup with
relief, because you could not tell if he was courting
these very young women with his
familiarity or if they worked in his office as they discussed
dating and relationships and then you heard
the man introduce the women, women whom you hadn't
turned around to look at, you didn't know what they
looked like but you gathered instead from the fry in their
voices and their cadence and the restaurant
they were young and wealthy, and the man you could see,
silver hair and a beautiful wristwatch, he introduced them to the
handsome Italian waiter at the French cafe as
his daughters.

But the Italian waiter was married, and so the
father continued to say a thing I hated to hear
to our migrant worker, "my daughters think
if only
you were a little taller
you would be

But what you wonder about now and
wish he had spoken more on, the father that
is, is 9/11, for he had shared with his daughters what
he would have written in an autobiography if
ever he had done so or got the chance to do so.
"9/11 traumatized me for life."
But his daughters rushed him back to a conversation about their
meager dating lives.

And now, passing by the Empire State Building
at 11 o'clock in the evening, oh God, actually much
later than that, lost in time, you think about
that day, 9/11. You were far away yourself, watching
the second plane fly into the building
on the news as you brushed your teeth, although
you do have a friend who was late to
his job at the twin towers that day, but it that is not your story to tell.

But we all felt
that day

Whereas now,
what do we feel?

Do you feel?
Do ya feel me?
But really, do you?

We must take these small joys not
for granted in each moment,
sleepy though we may stumble.

We must take in one another and if we cannot
because we are too shy we must take
in this thing here in your hands,
object you hold this simple thing.

Simple and important.
The thick salt, acrid on your tongue, preparing
your palate for the soft fleshy dough below it. The
water dripping down from an air conditioner
onto your head and the grace it was a machine
and not a bird or a person. A tree growing
in the cracks of a sidewalk. A confused girl
carrying a pizza box in two hands
like a serving tray. A boy who lives on the streets with
his rottweiller, all four eyes big and brown, looking
up hungrily as the pizza strolls by. The cool wind
blowing your hair back and a doorman
nodding at you with a wink.

Your heart pumping in your chest,
the pulse in your veins pushing against
the skin of your arms, your breath
heating up the roof of your mouth, cars honking
and a woman moaning somewhere, a flash of a painting
from a museum, a flower, inside, deep inside the flesh of
the pastels of the petals, Georgia O'Keefe and a skull
and a hearkening back to an ancient time
so far back there were no cities and the violence was
different then but there were no guns in schools and
no planes flying into buildings or cars plowing down crowds of
people in the streets, it was probably more visceral
the violence before this kind of city of prosperity could
render those without vulnerable enough to fight or suffer
the consequences,

oh, how happy to have this city, despite the
fact a man just told you it was
a hustle and a grind and yet

just past midnight,
you find it - not - serene - but
something altogether holy.

Monday, August 19, 2019

New York, August 15th, 2019.

I hurtled through the sky in the middle of the night from the City of Angels to New York, arriving Thursday morning. My reason for going to NYC was a film festival: our short film, "Near Death," was an official selection of the Chain NYC Film Festival, and I was coming as the sole representative of our work. By "our," I mean, me, Carlo, the director Matteo, and all our fellow cast and crew.

I had planned to sleep the entire flight but I sat next to a very talkative (and lovely) Hasidic lady with a beautiful baby on her lap. My eyelids were heavy, though, and at one point I just... dozed off. I awoke every hour-ish, wishing I had bought on of the pillows Jet Blue had been selling.

And then, as travel changes our relationship to time, suddenly I was in New York. I hopped into my shuttle from the airport to the hotel, sitting in the back with my sunglasses on, as I do when I'm still tired, sand in my eyes. The driver looked at me before officially leaving the airport, crammed all the way in the very back, and he said, "You're staying at the Roger Williams, right?" I said, "yes," and he said, "why don't you sit up front." I looked around in surprise. Why had he asked me? Of course, my mind went right to, I'm a single lady. But there was some putrid smell in the back of that van, and so I said, "okay."

Once upfront, the driver said, "I rescued you from a bad smell in the back." I said, "I noticed that! Thank you."

The families in back chatted happily with one another. The driver was a man of undeterminable age, but I'd guess on either side of 40. His accent was not distinguishable, but it sounded like when a character in a movie practices Santeria. His short cropped hair was receding a little at the temples and his eyes were scrutinizing even though his smile presented a welcome. He listened to classical music on the radio and he kept looking at me curiously.

After a few moments he inquired, "and what is your business?" To which I responded, "I'm an actor and a writer." He asked what I write and I told him about "Near Death," the short film that was in the film festival, the whole reason for my being in NYC at all. He said, "ah, you write science fiction?" And I answered, "sometimes." And then he asked what I thought about aliens. I knew instantly where this conversation was going.

It was certainly not my first- and probably not my last- rodeo with alien conspiracy theorists. All of my experiences with alien conspiracy theorists, including friends, including one guy who told me all about his (self-reported) alien abduction.... I have noticed a few traits they all seem to share: 1) bright intelligence 2) a chip on their shoulder 3) a certainty of being right 4) creativity that seems to have been thwarted somewhere along the line and 5) at some point in the conversation, everyone of them seems to be looking for supportive co-conspirators, and upon learning that I neither believe nor disbelieve, they start trying to convince me.

So, from a conversation about my short film about a priest who undergoes a near death experience and wakes up with a psychic ability to remote view tragedies as they happen... came a intense lecture about aliens; about how there is no God; about how demons are aliens, miracles are aliens, angels are aliens, etc.

Eventually, getting no reaction from me, he searched again.

"And why do you not paint your face and not paint your nails?" he asked.

"Oh, I do paint my face," I said, "but I just got off a red eye flight."

"Oh," he answered. He seemed almost disappointed I wasn't mad at his question. "And your nails?

"Well, I'm an actress, so, if I keep my nails painted and I get a last minute audition or booking for a role where the woman wouldn't paint her nails... like the last role I played, she was a preacher's wife, she wouldn't have painted her nails... so I only do it if it's for a role."

He seemed to like that answer.

"So you do it if your work demands it of you," he said.

"Yeah," I said.

"I think also, it means you are secure with yourself. Women paint their nails because they are not secure in themselves."

"Or for fun," I countered, offering another suggestion. "Like, it might be an expression of beauty. We've adorned ourselves since the dawn of time, lots of animals do, too."

"No," he said. "Definitely it's about being secure with yourself."

I shrugged, and inwardly I was chuckling to myself

Welcome back to New York City, I thought.

We spent the rest of the ride talking about his daughters, and whether or not parents should impose adult dreams on kids. I thought to myself how desperately I begged my parents to move to Los Angeles when I was little so I could be a child actor. I don't talk about it often. For some reason, it stings a little to think about, even. Actually for many reasons.

A lot of people want things to be different than the way they are, maybe most of us, maybe all of us, at least some of the time. That's never a recipe for happiness. Of course, in 2019, we prize happiness as a spiritual trait, a sign of spiritual goodness and enlightenment. In Europe during medieval times, Christians prized sorrow and the gift of tears for the same reason. For me, I'm just looking to change my life. Again. :)


At my hotel there were no rooms open yet, so I stopped in at the tea shop next door, did a little work on my secret (not so secret, but still, yeah, secret) novel/ screenplay. I texted some NY friends to start setting up dates. And then I went to the Whitney Museum over by the Highline.


The thing about art museums is, I love them, but especially when I have time to surrender to them. I like to find something that moves me and get lost in it, romance it, pull back, see how I feel. The Whitney has a lot to offer, especially during the Biennial, which was going on. But there were a few pieces that hurt my head- that's normal for me- I am very sensitive- and then there was a Georgia O'Keefe painting and a Laura Ortman video piece that swallowed me up.

First, Georgia. I know there is so much to discover in that museum, tons of great painters who are maybe slightly less famous than the flowers and animal skulls of O'Keefe. But I love her. I just love her work. I don't know if it's because my mother loved her? Maybe. And maybe because I've had some intensely bizarre and meaningful experiences in Albuquerque and Santa Fe in New Mexico and the plateaus of Hopi land in Arizona. Her neighborhood. Her subject matter.

And I've always loved flowers, too. I love to lean in, drink them in, inhale them and whisper back nurturing carbon dioxide, sing a little opera if I'm alone enough or with those who also understand.

So I was drawn in to (posting, but not sure if that's legal for me, so, hopefully someone will let me know if I gotta take it down):

Georgia O’Keeffe Flower Abstraction, 1924
Oil on canvas, 48 x 30 in. (121.9 x 76.2 cm) Whitney Museum of American Art, New York
50th Anniversary Gift of Sandra Payson 85.47
Copyright Georgia O’Keeffe Museum/Artist Rights Society (ARS), New York

It's like we can dive in and swim around. An expansive femininity. An integrity within the delicate textures. I love it.

And then, a Laura Ortman video, My Soul Remainer, which I stood in front of for several viewings. In this video, she's playing Mendelssohn (on violin) in concert attire but in different locations in the Southwest (she is a White Mountain Apache, and her crew and fellow collaborators were also from various Native American Nations.) I just wanted to watch it for hours. I want to watch it now.

Ortman's video has me entranced, and I don't know why. Yes, it's dynamic, and beautiful, and full of tension. But also, it just seems to express- for me- the beautiful anguish between our nature roots and the human couturing of beauty through music and hair and clothes and.... I can never say it in words, not like she presented in the video. Just go find it and watch it.


That night we screened at the Chain NYC Film Festival in a block titled "Faith." It seems we, collectively we, I mean, have a fascination with the pain of the priesthood as there were several different explorations into their lives. Honestly I was surprised! I felt that we were unique in using a priest as a hero, because, well, you know. The church scandals that have been coming to light, again and again, as they should. We address this only a little in our short film, but we do address it a lot in the longer piece we've written (Carlo and I) (a TV pilot) because I feel it's a copout not to. And it's great character development and story telling and needs to be opened up and addressed both directly AND indirectly so that we can stop the abuse and heal the victims. But we were the only film that DID mention that part of the priesthood.

There was a real standout- a Croation short called "In the Name of the Strawberry, the Chocolate and the Holy Spirit." (2018) 20min | Short, Comedy | 27 April 2018 (USA) One Sunday after the mass, in an overly Christian village, Petar, a priest devoted to his profession, wants just one thing: enjoy an ice cream. The film goes on to hilariously show his many struggles in this endeavor. I laughed out loud.

When our film screened, it was fun to watch the audience. There was a moment with a collective GASP. That was gratifying. I also watched for where they were drawn in, where they were checking out, who, and why, etc. You can learn so much about storytelling watching audiences in theaters as much as you can learn about the film itself.

Sunday, February 24, 2019

when it is - a poem

when it is your birthday but you spend the day
making everyone feel comfortable celebrating you
rejoice: you are about to relinquish your good girl status
in a royal boil of a temper tantrum
fists against a pillow
secret tear stains down the mirror no one else will ever see
but you and the cleaning lady you have called once a month
so that you can have a moment alone

when you are depressed and you have lost your will to try
do not read self help books.
those are for the mildly positive
who have little sense of humor.

listen to leonard cohen reading from
the book of longing

because he is dead now and you will not get to meet him in this life, after all,
but you will laugh
because he knows that it is difficult to make love to insects
if you are a man, anyway, the kind who penetrates

when you are a woman who has built so much of an empire on making it look good
which is what it means to be a woman in 2017
before 2018
before 2019, which is when i am writing this,
before everyone got tired and said
wait, i'm angry,
me too,
and i am tired of having so little time for pleasure

walk away now
and read your favorite novel and get angry again
and watch men explain art to you in movies about music
and let them get annoyed because
they are not leonard cohen

when you get hate letters telling you that you are not beautiful enough to be taken seriously
or you are too beautiful to be taken seriously

laugh in their faces
their words are all about them

and they are probably feeling exactly the way you feel
and they got tired of always helping
and always trying to please
and always being understanding
and they are taking it out like a troll
on some other idiot who endeavors greatly
and they tread on your dreams
and they do not go softly
and they do not see you are a person
and they do not write, yes, me, too

but that is what they meant

when it is sunday
and you gave up on feeling bad about yourself
and lying
and putting all your cards out on the table
and pretending
but you're still a human so you're feeling bad and lying and showing your cards and pretending
in all these ways you're not even aware of

light all the candles in your house
and turn on dance me to the ends of love
or bye bye miss american pie
or whatever makes you long for your true soul self
if not your father's songs, then that which brings you a fullness
of unfulfilled desire

and dance for those who are gone
for those who can dance no longer
and if you cannot dance
then sing
and if you cannot sing then smile
and if you cannot smile then go on with your own heart, then

the crows are calling
the clouds roll by

and you are still here,
when it is
where it is

Monday, January 28, 2019

"Here's to Life" as sung by Erin Carere

"Here's to Life" as sung by Erin in her office

I read a great essay about fame, poetry, age, mortality and my favorite poets Yeats and Walcott, by Gabrielle Bellot, a LitHub writer....

And I keep thinking about my own life, and dreams, and failures, mostly.... and every day it's like another episode of "Erin dreams, Erin surrenders, she mostly fails and sometimes soars."

And then I thought of an emotional, slightly incorrect, and totally improvised video I made for a friend and thought, what the hell. Share your life. What have you but yourself to give?

And here we go. Here's to life.

I love you.


Saturday, January 12, 2019

Listen to your body

There have been so many times I didn't listen to my body
a dread in my heart,
A deep desire not to go somewhere,
a worry about the car on the highway that made no sense

And always those feelings were proven true; awful, awe-ful.

I have many stories of when I didn't listen and it went badly.

I have two clear stories of when I did listen and it saved me.

Today was one of those stories, small though it may seem.

I awoke early enough for my workout, early enough to fit in a phone call, a dog walk and a brekkie before.

I went to my preferred boutique gym. I will not say the name here for I do not wish to associate this beautiful studio full of trainers I adore with fear or crime.

After a very intense class, I was struck by the sudden thought I should stop by the front desk and sign up for a class tomorrow with the receptionist.

This is silly; it takes me two minutes online from the comfort of my desk.

But stop I did. I even remarked on how silly it was to interrupt the receptionist's morning, but at least I got to chat with her. I like to flirt (friendly flirt!) with everyone I encounter. I feel it brightens the day, at least for me, whether or not the other responds.

And then, the few minutes passed, and I was all set for tomorrow's class and as I turned to the door

Sirens, helicopters, people fleeing into our gym from the back alley, police, guns drawn, clear and present danger,

right where I would have walked

in the line of fire

if I had walked out the two minutes earlier

to walk home.


I whispered Bless You to everyone I walked past on the way home, people of every race and age and religion and gender. Babies on their daddy's shoulders. The kitchen workers from the restaurant who were fleeing the danger. The homeless guy on the bike. The police. The sky.


In class, I had been listening to "Titanium" by Sia. This song always brings tears to my eyes; it makes me very emotional. I know that sounds silly. It's like getting weepy over, oh, I don't know... Rhythm is a Dancer. Or The Twist. But I get emotional because it triggers thoughts about my lost years as a struggling singer, about the story of Lauren diPino I just read thanks to ASCAP about how hard it is to "make it" as a musician, about my many prominent acquaintances in the music biz, the kind of household names who could have given me a hand but didn't or felt they couldn't or what have you. Maybe it was me, maybe it was like diPino's article says.... great voice, wrong timing.

I recently revisited my script for my old one woman show, "The One," which I wrote about my love life back in 2011 and performed across the country as a healing balm both for my broken romantic dreams (I know, I'm so dramatic) but also, I realized, rereading through both a screenplay version I wrote in 2013 and the original stageplay monologues, for my broken dreams.

Now I am old enough to feel like I don't give a shit, I'm who I am, I'm talented, I'm creating, I'm an artist; I've survived as an artist who pursued her passions her whole life and will never not be an artist. I'm lucky. I didn't stay home and wonder. I truly live every day as if it were my last.


In 2010 and 2011, my sister and I were roommates. We lived together in a spacious apartment right in the middle of Hollywood. She left for work early every day. I was writing my one woman show, my music career on hold and in confusion. (I'm still proud of this song though):

One morning, I had a hike planned with a friend, but I had to stop and put money in the bank before I met up with her. Normally I would walk for such a thing. The bank was a block and a half from my house, it was going to open in 11 minutes, and it was on the walkable way to the hike. But everything in me said DRIVE. DRIVE. DRIVE NOW. DRIVE.

That was silly. I would drive, park, and get there early. So instead, I set out on foot.

But something said, rush, run. So I ran. It was silly. I got there just as the manager was unlocking the door. It was early but he let me in. And just as I past the threshhold of the bank doors,

An Audi crashed right into the front door

Just where the manager and I had been

It stopped two feet from us

Bashing in the infrastructure of the doors

Blocking the entire entrance

had I not hurried

I would have been there right when that Audi was there.

The manager and I stared at each other

That feeling like when you come face to face with an animal in the wild

that presence of life and death

That here, now, are we in danger, we're paused, all time is now is everything


How many times do we escape death without ever even knowing it?

How many times do we escape wide-eyed

This is why I live every day as if it were my last. Because I have been saved: saved from my own hand. Saved from rolling my car at age 19 on an icy, hilly, twisty turny road in Minnesota the day before I turned 20. Saved from being broadsided by a cement mixing truck. Saved from a bad situation with a drug dealer at a party I wandered into. Saved from a motorcycle roll over. Saved from a collision face to face. Saved from a stalking ex. Saved from an Audi. Saved from muggers with guns at my head.


That is all so dramatic. I haven't had drama like that since-

it's not true though. Just two years ago there was that boy who committed suicide right outside my window in an act of murder-suicide and partner abuse. There is crime in a big city; you learn to be smart and aware. So there is drama everywhere, but these days, I keep it as far from my personal life as I can, and I bless these children of God who get caught in its path.


So let me embrace you with a kiss, and send you blessings of love and art and beauty. Let me plead with you to call the ones you love and tell them so. Let me plead with you to make peace where you can, to dance in the rain, to read a novel, to discover a new songwriter, to write a play, to get out and play soccer with your friends.


Here are the beautiful things that also happened:

My dog greeted me with a kiss

My partner looks really cute in the morning with his hair all crazy

I had time for a nutritious smoothie bowl and a great cup of Kimbo coffee before class

My workout was fun and challenging

I'm wearing new pants I got on a fluke- UPS delivered a box delivered to a friend full of "defective" clothing from a fancy workout wear company. It was delivered TO her, she didn't order it, but still here the clothes were. So we divvied up the clothes and I took what fit me and she took what fit her or her daughter. And my pants are so cute.

I'm having lunch today with a lady who is 8.75 months pregnant. She could pop at anytime, really, even today! And if you've never given birth or witnessed the miracle, I suggest you do. It's legit the coolest thing I've ever seen or been a part of (helping my nephew be born), and I've done some cool stuff.

If you are reading this, your heart is beating, or you are a ghost. Either way, that is a miracle. :)