This is going to be a personal one, dear Reader. Several items in my life came to a head in the first week of June, just before a grand catharsis.

But before I share with you about my fifteen minutes of indie pop fame in Hollywood, let’s cover the boring adult drudgery first:

Finances. I got over the initial few month hump of coming back to the country with a handful of cash and a couple thousand in credit debt. I found a job, found a living situation, got a loan to cover my moving expenses, and familiarized myself with the local food bank. My work schedule grew from three to four to five days a week, and now I am just hitting the point where I can start paying back my debt. In another few months, I will hit the point of being able to save some money again. Exhale.

Work. I also felt a shift out of that painful, ego-damaging training phase and into the “I am competent at this” phase. I can relax a little, let my guard down, and focus on what I want to get out of the job this year. Exhale.

Housing. I rent a nice room with a private bathroom and a big walk-in closet in a family home on the Olympic Peninsula. My rent has been $1000/month since March. Though I enjoy the family who owns and lives in this house, I have been down to pennies every month and feeling a resentment building for that price tag. I was able to speak up about this and negotiate down to $800 and 4 hours of yardwork/month for the rest of the year. Exhale.

And just as all that relief was starting to hit, it was time for me to pack my vintage floral suitcase and fly down to Hollywood for a two-night Belle & Sebastian extravaganza.

As I made my way from the Burbank airport to downtown Hollywood on Friday, June 5, by bus and train and foot, every step into the southern Californian sunshine felt like a lightblade piercing the defensive creature of survival mode that I had become.

By the time I had checked into my hostel room, chugged some water, and stepped out of the shower steam to get ready for my evening ahead, I saw that the old familiar Glow was inside me.

Call it mania or magic, there are times when the Glow transforms my introverted nature into a burning star and every face I pass becomes a flower pivoting in its own heliotropic need to look at me and smile. I think it’s what natural charisma must feel like, and it’s trippy as hell when it happens to me.

In my sparkly silver dress and rouged cheeks I practically skipped to the Palladium, experiencing a flash of tender loving connection with every being I passed, and retrieved my tickets at will call. Another exhale and thrill of pleasure at this, that Stuart Murdoch had actually put me on the guest list for both nights, including some VIP access, as a thank you for contributing video footage to the band.

I wandered in the Vinyl Room and VIP balcony, drank a couple whiskies, and talked to all kinds of people until the show got going.

This was it. My favorite, most formative band from the past 20 years, who I had never had the opportunity to see live before, and who had invited me here personally. Holy smokes.

Reader, I sang and danced and did not apologize to anyone I bumped into. I developed blisters on the tops and bottoms of my feet from jumping around so much in Docs. I wept and laughed and glittered and pulled everyone else around me into my orbit, but when Stuart sang “Mary Jo” with my film playing behind him, I clasped a hand over my mouth and froze for about four minutes straight.

Interacting with Stuart was frankly the most seen and understood that I have felt since Jam died. I was able to remember that feeling is even possible for me.

It was Jam who introduced me to Belle & Sebastian, of course. They kicked me down a CD copy of Dear Catastrophe Waitress in 2006 that began a lifelong love affair with these Glaswegian bip boppers.

What would Jam say about their face up on the screen with me every single Tigermilk night of this tour?

I’d love to share one Tigermilk anecdote with you, dear Reader, that I also shared with Stuart.

Back in September 2022, I flew into Glasgow for the first time to walk the West Highland Way.

I had booked a room next to Central train station for three nights to acclimate to the time zone and check out the city, but I caught some horrible stomach virus on the plane and became very ill. I laid there watching BBC Alba for three days, gazing down the busy street, darting into the bathroom. When it came time for me to check out and take the train to Milngavie, I convinced myself that I was well enough and went for it. 

I nearly made it 12 miles to Conic Hill on the trail before my symptoms came back with a vengeance. I pitched my tent at the base of the hill and laid down for another 48 hours straight, sipping water, occasionally crawling to go gag in the bushes, phone on airplane mode, just me there on the ground in Scotland. It was stormy, too, plonk plonk on my rainfly. Nearly hallucinatory from a deeply empty stomach. 

One of the few albums I had downloaded was Tigermilk, so I played it over and over to myself in this state. I remember thinking, “I bet Stuart Murdoch is down there right now 20 miles or so south.” It was comforting. I remember crying into my sleeping bag and processing/purging some serious feelings up there. Tigermilk was always good for that.

I got better, finished the trail, and met some folks with a croft on Skye who invited me into a work-trade situation. I spent October in their green caravan harvesting tatties and spreading seaweed from the loch for mulch, and was invited back for a full season apprenticeship. I’ve had the pleasure to spend big chunks of time in Scotland since then, and I’d immigrate in a heartbeat if there was any real path for a farmworker.

I love Glasgow, and I love the Highlands and Islands, and I love Tigermilk, and I love every perfect Belle & Sebastian album, and I love Stuart, and I love Jam.

And I love you, Reader.

Happy June.