The Mysterious Disappearance of Lisa Bastoni, Explained - December 13, 2007
Two songs I’m thinking of today:
“Everything passes, everything changes, just do what you think you should do…” -- from “To Ramona” by Bob Dylan
“We’re coming upon the time in our lives when the little dreams live but the big dream dies - and it’s not for nothing.” --from “Hard Times in Babylon” by Eliza Gilkyson
When I was seventeen I met my friend Dylan. He was singing “Brownsville Girl” in Oscar’s Deli, and I thought, “If I could only do what he’s doing, I don’t need to do anything else.” So I started to write songs, and began cultivating the courage to play these songs outside my bedroom.
A few years later, when my grandfather was in the hospital for the last time, he said to me: “Go sing your heart out.” So that’s what I did. Over time, I sang my heart out in delis, coffee shops, bars, subway stations, rehab centers, homeless shelters, concert halls.
I have had an adventure that’s lasted ten years. It’s been a series of small successes, and it was all more that I ever could have hoped for. I made up some more songs and I drove them around the country, stumbling upon heartaches, maps, coffee cups and guitar strings; and found kindness everywhere.
I aspired to a beatnik existence. I found my way around Los Angeles, San Francisco, Burlington, New York, Austin, New Orleans, Atlanta, Nashville, Cleveland, Chicago, Kansas City. I got a bird tattoo with Naomi in Wichita. I heard my songs on the radio, saw my name in some music magazines, opened for Famous Musicians, signed some autographs, even! I slept in cars, motels, tents, big fluffy beds, on pull-out couches and air mattresses, on blankets on the ground; I moved a million times. I sang for my supper. I sang my fool heart out.
Eventually, I found my way home. I am now In My Thirties. I have become a homebody. I like to cook in my kitchen. I like to sing songs with my banjo-playing boyfriend in our living room. The idea of burning up gasoline driving alone from coast to coast no longer appeals to me. I do feel BIG twinges of nostalgia when I hear about the cool things my musician friends are doing. But for me, I'm finding myself very much needing this period of quiet reflection. Next summer I would like to have a garden. I have a day job I actually like, at a nifty non-profit, with health insurance that’s not courtesy of the state. I’m slowly working my way out of the debts I have accumulated while running wild.
There’s a humility you can find by singing in the subway. Nobody has asked you to play, you just play your songs over and over, and take in the smiles and the funny expressions. You step over puddles of urine, you pause when you get yelled at, or when someone starts to cry or asks your name, and then you keep singing. You say “thank you” every time someone throws you something, even if it’s only a twig or a nickel.
There’s another kind of grace I'm seeking, simply by settling into my little life and living it. Working, running, writing, singing, loving, laughing, reading. Meditating on the idea of empathy. Trying to listen for a change. I want music to be a part of my life, but I need to figure out how to really just enjoy it again.
Though I’m not scheduling many shows right now, music for me won’t be a closed book, and nothing’s ever really over. I have no regrets, and I don’t feel that any effort or time was wasted. But for anyone who’s wondering, I wanted to share my thoughts, to let you know how much your encouragement has meant to me. You've pulled me through some of my best times as well as some of my bleakest times, and I am always grateful for your company and support. I hope to share music with you again one day, but for now the adventure continues in a different, quieter way.
Thank you for your interest, and thanks for listening.
All the best to you,
Lisa B.
“Everything passes, everything changes, just do what you think you should do…” -- from “To Ramona” by Bob Dylan
“We’re coming upon the time in our lives when the little dreams live but the big dream dies - and it’s not for nothing.” --from “Hard Times in Babylon” by Eliza Gilkyson
When I was seventeen I met my friend Dylan. He was singing “Brownsville Girl” in Oscar’s Deli, and I thought, “If I could only do what he’s doing, I don’t need to do anything else.” So I started to write songs, and began cultivating the courage to play these songs outside my bedroom.
A few years later, when my grandfather was in the hospital for the last time, he said to me: “Go sing your heart out.” So that’s what I did. Over time, I sang my heart out in delis, coffee shops, bars, subway stations, rehab centers, homeless shelters, concert halls.
I have had an adventure that’s lasted ten years. It’s been a series of small successes, and it was all more that I ever could have hoped for. I made up some more songs and I drove them around the country, stumbling upon heartaches, maps, coffee cups and guitar strings; and found kindness everywhere.
I aspired to a beatnik existence. I found my way around Los Angeles, San Francisco, Burlington, New York, Austin, New Orleans, Atlanta, Nashville, Cleveland, Chicago, Kansas City. I got a bird tattoo with Naomi in Wichita. I heard my songs on the radio, saw my name in some music magazines, opened for Famous Musicians, signed some autographs, even! I slept in cars, motels, tents, big fluffy beds, on pull-out couches and air mattresses, on blankets on the ground; I moved a million times. I sang for my supper. I sang my fool heart out.
Eventually, I found my way home. I am now In My Thirties. I have become a homebody. I like to cook in my kitchen. I like to sing songs with my banjo-playing boyfriend in our living room. The idea of burning up gasoline driving alone from coast to coast no longer appeals to me. I do feel BIG twinges of nostalgia when I hear about the cool things my musician friends are doing. But for me, I'm finding myself very much needing this period of quiet reflection. Next summer I would like to have a garden. I have a day job I actually like, at a nifty non-profit, with health insurance that’s not courtesy of the state. I’m slowly working my way out of the debts I have accumulated while running wild.
There’s a humility you can find by singing in the subway. Nobody has asked you to play, you just play your songs over and over, and take in the smiles and the funny expressions. You step over puddles of urine, you pause when you get yelled at, or when someone starts to cry or asks your name, and then you keep singing. You say “thank you” every time someone throws you something, even if it’s only a twig or a nickel.
There’s another kind of grace I'm seeking, simply by settling into my little life and living it. Working, running, writing, singing, loving, laughing, reading. Meditating on the idea of empathy. Trying to listen for a change. I want music to be a part of my life, but I need to figure out how to really just enjoy it again.
Though I’m not scheduling many shows right now, music for me won’t be a closed book, and nothing’s ever really over. I have no regrets, and I don’t feel that any effort or time was wasted. But for anyone who’s wondering, I wanted to share my thoughts, to let you know how much your encouragement has meant to me. You've pulled me through some of my best times as well as some of my bleakest times, and I am always grateful for your company and support. I hope to share music with you again one day, but for now the adventure continues in a different, quieter way.
Thank you for your interest, and thanks for listening.
All the best to you,
Lisa B.