Wormwood In Remembrance

14th of June, 2008. El Corazon club, Seattle.

This was Wormwood’s last performance. It was our very last song together.

Passages of Lesser Light crescendoed toward its finale of layered bass-pummels / percussion-thrashes / keyboard-smashes—and ended in an abrupt cessation of sound. On stage, in the instant of that sudden silence, I felt an indescribable emotion surge as I lifted my hands away from the keyboards. I realized with painful clarity: everything would be different from now on.

A tremendous and formative life’s-chapter had just come to a close.

* * *

Wormwood began in Lawrence, Kansas, in 1997—in an era before smartphones and streaming music, in an age before GPS systems succeeded AAA Trip Tik maps. We were a team of new friends in our twenties, bound by creative collaboration. Our disparate specialties—punk, hardcore, black metal, goth—gelled into heavy-handed, oddly-timed, and unlikely songs. Our music-centered alliance was strengthened by humor, alcohol and cigarettes, and plans for the band’s future.

Over eleven years together, our support systems extended far beyond Lawrence city limits, corralling artists and writers and independent sound engineers, venue managers and underground record labels, and sister and brother bands from the Midwest, PNW, and across the world. But Wormwood was always a grassroots endeavor. Our friends were our first audiences. Our fans became our friends.

* * *

Primarily, Wormwood was a creative venture: we wrote music, designed album art and show flyers, made posters and stickers and T-shirts, and even built a webpage (from HTML-scratch!). But Wormwood was also business. Not a business, mind you. But it had a practical side that demanded attention.

The business of the band entailed buying music equipment, maintaining a van, paying for gas. It meant door money and drink tickets and guest lists and a cooler of beer in the green room. It meant paying rehearsal space rent—every month. It meant saving to afford DIY recordings and screenprinted shirts and flyer copies at Kinko’s.

Properly tended, Wormwood’s practical side ensured the best future for its creative output. We taught ourselves how to format images in Photoshop—we learned about rasterizing and color separation and optimized file size. Vinyl records required careful packaging; we saved bubble wrap and flat square boxes. Our music reached listeners near and far through mail order and record trades—from kids in small Midwest towns to European and Japanese record distros.

The early business of Wormwood meant making connections in a pre-social media age. We wrote letters and email messages back in those days (uphill both ways). Later we posted on MySpace. We also mailed out demos and promos and “press kits.” We even had a well-intended but ultimately neglected mailing list, which would be set out on the merch table during shows.

Ah, the merch table. Here’s where any band’s creative and business sides coalesce. Records, CDs, T-shirts, stickers, patches, even cassette tapes. Sharpies and masking tape and extra paper and little price signs and a lock box for cash and cash itself (in a hopeful variety, to make change). The merch table was sometimes a sore point: in the absence of a roadie, which one of us was going to sell merch after a performance? Bring that man—or woman—a drink!

* * *

From a personal standpoint, Wormwood had been my social center and ersatz family for well over a decade. What would happen next?

My husband and I had shared eleven years in the band together. It had been a grand-scale ongoing project that started long before marriage, long before kids. Would we find a new project together? Would we endure?

Being in Wormwood had also ensured persistent friendships with the amazing creative humans that were my bandmates. It meant a beer at the bar before band practice twice a week. It called for long bouts of creative collaboration, long hours in the studio, and long drives across the country in an old Chevy van with a hole in the back floor. In fact, Wormwood survived a move across the country (well, with four-fifths of its Kansas-era membership intact). Even when disagreements and tempers and sensitivities arose, there was always another rehearsal or another show that would usually smooth things over. Now, no more practice. No more shows. What did the future hold?

Wormwood was the common theme in my own internal creative life. It motivated and inspired art and writing. I catharsized my darkest nature through Wormwood. I thrived on the artistic redemption this provided. But what would redeem me now?

Wormwood did wonders for my anxiety and self-image. At first, I huddled trembling over my keyboards, hidden behind the bass amps at basement shows. But eventually, I would stand out front—hoping desperately I wouldn’t screw up Screwtape or pass out during Out Cold. Wormwood provided internal psychological leverage against my own social awkwardness: “Hey, why should I feel shy and unworthy? I’m in the band!”  (Sadly, it didn’t cure me—although a mid-40s life perspective does help a lot.)

For all my years in school, Wormwood was a learning experience that no college program could have provided. Tours especially opened my eyes and un-sheltered my thinking. Tours meant exposure to other bands, venues, artists, and music-supporting communities across the country and beyond. It meant seeing firsthand other lifestyles, subcultures, and means—from heartland rural USA to New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Vancouver B.C., and more. Tours were often chaos barely constrained by good humor, but it all served to bring on new awareness. Setting up instruments in wet basements and oven-hot garages and crowded living rooms and oversized stages under over-bright lights—performing in bars and night clubs and VFW halls and back yards—playing for both the straightedge and the drunken, for the underage and their parents too, for vegan crust-punks and black-metal kids in face paint and Harley Davidson enthusiasts and female-fronted-folk-rockers—sleeping in the van, sleeping on sofas and floors, sleeping in the towering outdoors, simply not-sleeping—and eating free pre-show spaghetti and red sauce in towns all across America….

Also, tours often meant survival as the sole female among the guys. That experience could stand as a narrative all its own. Well, maybe some day.

* * *

Passages of Lesser Light‘s lyrics allude to the elusive nature of the past’s objective truth. “Memory is but a likeness that our minds arrange.” But the past is more elusive to some than others. I have a terrible memory for proper nouns and event sequences, and the more remote the memory, the worse this gets. But I rationalize that it’s because my memory is primarily emotional. I distinctly recall (and sorely miss) the excitement and exhilaration of creative collaboration. I clearly remember the escalating energy of Wormwood shows, and the sense of sheer joy in the studio during perfect playback of a newly-recorded song.

And I can never forget the drug-like high that results from entrancing an audience—from evoking animation and excitement and passion in others. 

I also clearly remember the advent of emotional dissonance. I recall irreconcilable differences rising within the band. The last song Wormwood wrote was Reversal of Fortune: it seemed to take forever, and where creative coalescence had once raised songs to their best possible form, Reversal sometimes seemed an exercise in grudging negotiation. Not that I don’t like the song; I do, and very much so. But its existence is a miracle, which says a lot about Wormwood’s health status toward the end.

The manifestation of Reversal of Fortune eponymously, prophetically accompanied the band’s collective decision to end. The difficulties we experienced with the song’s direction and scope serve as a metaphor for the band’s overall difficulties. Discussions rose and fell around the subject for weeks before it was settled. Not everyone happily agreed it was the best idea. But at last we formally ended the band.

Personally, I hate the end of something wonderful. But then again, I don’t like loose ends. I hate to say goodbye. But in the wake of unexpected finalities, I’ve regularly yearned for the chance to have said a proper goodbye.

I didn’t want to miss Wormwood’s end. I could not tolerate the thought of its quiet slink into the increasingly-obscured past, loose ends trailing. I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to celebrate the intense creative, long-term challenge that was Wormwood. Better to formally end it and celebrate than to blink, distracted, and miss it.

Certainly, the days of giving everything over in the name of the band were over for me. And for me, that’s what Wormwood had always meant—devotion, obsession, catharsis, invocation. It was all no longer sustainable. And the effort and change required to somehow make it sustainable again—to force the emotional dissonance into submission, as if that were even possible—was not something I wanted as much as that which closure might permit: new creative pursuits, new personal endeavors. Re-learning survival in a non-Wormwood environment. Learning to thrive in a post-Wormwood age.

* * *

In Theodore Roethke’s The Dance of the One-legged Man, one haunting line of poetry captures the bittersweet essence of change: “Each thing’s an end of something else.” What nature of thing would emerge from the end of Wormwood? The era that would rise from that last, poignant instant on stage meant change in ways I could not predict nor remotely fathom at the time.

Passages of Lesser Light’s lyrics, first written in 2001, consider the inevitability of change: “Passages arrange, by nature, re-emergence.” I hadn’t read Roethke yet, but maybe his ghost was already haunting me? (I’ve heard that he frequented the Blue Moon Tavern in Seattle’s U-District, which was just a few blocks from my tiny alley-level apartment back then…)

Re-reading Passage’s lyrics now prompts a new consideration. Occasionally one must re-choose life’s current trajectory by answering the question: Is this still where my heart is? When the answer is “Yes,” this reaffirms and strengthens the heart’s position. Stay on the path, maintain trajectory—until it comes time to ask the question again.

If a day comes when the answer is “No,” this is the first step on a new path, and into a new passage toward change. But it doesn’t mean the heart was never there.

The legacy of the Wormwood passage in my life—that wonderful, circuitous path—and all the energy that surrounded Wormwood—the friendships and collaborations and hopes and concerns and endeavors of that time—all of it had my heart. All that music you can still hear, the artwork you can still see, the words you can still read today—all of this has my heart. It is my heart, as it once was.

Wormwood at El Corazon, Seattle. 14 June 2008. Photographer: Emily Hadley.

* * *


Last song of Wormwood’s final performance, via Poetweek on YouTube:

Photographs from the night of the show, courtesy of Emily Hadley on Flickr:

MayJune08 004

Posters for the final show:

Artist: Zachary “EZ” Nelson



Ghost Gallery Group Exhibit

I’m excited and honored to be included in the upcoming group show at Ghost Gallery in Seattle. Four of my Tarot-themed mixed media art prints will be included in the exhibit, and additional prints and greeting cards will be available as well.

The show opens during Capitol Hill’s First Thursday Artwalk, Sept. 8th, 5 pm to 9 pm.

ace of wands email-postcard

Story Excerpt No. 2

A massive bird sculpture hangs over the Sea-Tac food court, looming over Starbucks like an abstract buzzard. The outstretched wings span half the length of the glass wall overlooking the runways. I walk slowly, gazing up, adjusting the backpack strap with my Sbarro-free hand. Is it supposed to be a goose? An eagle? I stop beneath the thing, and my inner art critic’s what-the-hell snarkiness resolves to a less cynical Ah, I guess that’s kinda cool….  It’s a gestalt Pacific Northwest theme. Get it? The large-scale bird consists of a thousand tiny objects suspended from the ceiling on thin wires, each perfectly positioned to create the bigger shape. Tiny Seattle umbrellas, teeny Duwamish fish, wee Pike Place pigs, all coming together as a massive Washington-native seabird.  And check out that itsy-bitsy microbrew bottle.

I bet Eddie would like this. Maybe he’d say it reminds him of fractals in nature, calling to mind the appearance of self-similar patterns across scales of existence. I’d tell him to shut up. But secretly I’d think what he said was pretty cool.

Eddie. Suddenly I crave a life-sized beer. I sit on a bench and try to eat my pizza, try to recall tenets of chaos theory, try to recite Subhumans lyrics to myself (left the iPod on Mom’s kitchen counter, dammit). Something. But nothing’s working. That singular and unbidden thought of my recently ex-factored boyfriend has rattled my nerves and struck me stupid. I mouth the regrettable pizza slice sans enthusiasm. It’s too easy to get cynical,  I think, in imaginary rhythm. And make the problem clinical.

Big hangy bird, I wonder: what if your many wires were to be crossed, tangled, torn? Tragic. How would it happen? Who would dare? Could someone just jump up and grab that tiny beer bottle? Would it come down alone, or bring the whole sculpture with it? Or, would it hold fast—would the jumper just dangle over the food court, clinging to the mini-beer until placed in TSA custody? A more extreme scenario: a wayward jet rolls right through the airport windows and crashes into the lobby, just like in some cheesy ’70s disaster films. People are pointing, running, screaming. Tiny Pacific Northwest figurines on wires part along the plane’s nose as it enters. The large-scale bird disintegrates, destroyed, identifiable only as the small-scale pieces swinging wildly in the throes of total disruption.

A panic wave tilts my brain. Ugh. I rein in the train of thought, fighting against the onslaught of aviophobic anxiety. I understand nothing about airplane engineering or aviation or aerodynamics. Maybe if I did, I wouldn’t be so freaked out. But meanwhile, I and my fellow ticket-holders trudge the length of SeaTac terminals like cattle through a chute, our arrogant faith placed in technology that carries our asses through the sky. This is the very hubris of Greek drama, the prideful mistake we should see coming—but the one we recognize only from the audience rows, or from behind the pages of a classroom textbook.

I pat my hoodie pocket, confirming the presence of lorazepam. Ah, there you are: soon, not yet. Only five tabs left, none to waste. Distraction time. I rummage in my backpack for the People I’d bought at Hudson News earlier. Yeah, much better: Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Clay Aiken, idiotic bliss. Never mind fractals and airplane physics and post-Eddie depression. Who’s hot, who’s not. Who’s out, who’s in… ah.

Who’s out indeed.

My usurper. I wonder what she’s like. Hot? Not? I know nothing about her. Is she popular, bubbly, fashionable? Is she charismatic and articulate? Is it possible she chose Eddie, of all people, from among an array of rugged and handsome suitors, each vying for her affection? Is she my enemy? Or is she a kindred spirit, fellow victim of Eddie’s mysterious angry-geek allure?

Here’s a bad habit in serious need of breaking: peeking at my cell phone instead of my watch for the time. Seriously, Will? Checking the phone again? I simply can’t get away with this surreptitious bullshit—not when my telltale gut sinks each time, when I realize there’s no missed call from Eddie, no voicemail apology, not even a random text.

Whatever. I’ve got bigger emotions to manage in the immediate future. I stuff People into my backpack, spill the pizza slice into the trash, and pull the vial from my pocket. I down a single pill, just to dull panic’s edge. No more until we’re off the ground, just in case the schedule changes at the last minute. Flying in an airplane isn’t the only phobia preying upon me now, thanks to Southwest’s open seating policy. I’m terrified of being trapped in an airplane seat next to someone talkative. Four hours of chitchat. The very thought brings dampness to my palms. I hoist backpack to shoulder, grapple with the expandable handle of my rolling case, and walk numbly through the food court toward the departure gates.

Not a moment too soon, the lorazepam’s maternal warmth eases subtly into my fingertips. I’ve just taken my place in the line-shaped herd of Southwest passengers when a petite old lady in a dramatic straw hat inquires whether I’m in Line A or B. Neither yet, I innocently divulge. With such formalities dispensed, she proceeds to tell me in a single sentence that she lives in Dodge City, has been visiting her brother in Tacoma, her son is a pilot, and she gets to travel wherever she likes thanks to him, what a good son. Subsequent and expectant silence indicates my turn.

My chatty antagonist has arrived.

“So… have you spent much time in Kansas City?” I say. Please just leave me alone, pleasepleaseplease. A girl in a Johnny Cash T-shirt and cartoon-hamburger-patterned miniskirt stands behind us, her backpack the size of a body bag. “Kansas City?” she exclaims. “This isn’t Southwest to San Francisco? Holy shit!” At this, the old lady winces and mutters to herself. As the girl takes off, my antagonist speaks to me confidentially: “That harsh language from a young person, I’ll never like the sound of it.” She presses her lips together and pats my arm, unaware of my own atrocious mouth. “But she can’t change who she is. I can’t change who I am. What can you do?”

I fight the urge to argue rhetoric with her. Eddie used to say the same thing. People don’t change, can’t change. Nature trumps nurture at every turn.

I disagree. A change, no matter how small, no matter what it is, is still a change. Whether you change your religious views, your healthcare provider, your gratuitous use of swear words, or your girlfriend—you are then no longer the same as you were. And if change is possible on such a minute scale of self, it should be possible on a even grander scale.

But I say to my old-lady antagonist: “Exactly.” And I say, “What can you do?”

She nods and smiles ruefully. “You’re a good girl, I can tell.” Dammit. I think she thinks we’re buddies now. She might try to sit by me. Four hours to Kansas, and I forgot my iPod.

Listen. It’s hard for me to deal with change. I’m not saying I would have married Eddie. I’m definitely not saying all my hopes were tied to our shared future. But he and I seemed to click with regard to so many inane issues. And inane issues make up daily life, know what I mean? I’d gotten used to the idea of certain things being this way or that way, based on the added influence of a second human factor. And then, suddenly, that factor was no longer part of the equation.

“Are you from Kansas?” a huge straw hat asks in an old lady’s voice.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you from Kansas? Are you going home?” The little old lady looks up and blinks at me sweetly, pausing mid-rummage with both hands in her massive boho bag.

“Oh, no. I’m from Seattle.” I create a smile shape with my mouth.

“Are you visiting family, dear? Oh, here they are. Toffee?” She proffers a Werther’s package from the depths of the purse. I want to refuse on principle, but I’m hungry again now that my anxiety has lessened. I select one reticently, and next survive the ruckus of unwrapping it.

She eats one too. I feel friendlier for the food. “My cousin,” I say around the candy in my cheek. “I’m staying at her place for a few weeks. Taking a summer writing class at KU.”

“Goodness me! Are you a budding young writer?” she asks a tad coyly.

Surely she’s too old for jaded Gen Y irony. But even the genuine-hearted inquiry is tough to answer. I do write. In fact, I’ve been writing a lot lately, desperate to work my way through this Eddie stuff. Lots of cathartic, wrist-slitty emo crap. You know. The kinda thing that really scares your mom if she accidentally finds it? Nothing Steve Ignorant or Lydia Lunch would respect.

So, am I allowed to self-identify with impunity? Shall I claim “writer” for the mere act of writing alone? Is that enough? What if my writing just—sucks? And what if I don’t find that out until after I’ve gone around saying, “Yeah, I’m a writer” to every straw-hatted old gossip from here to the Mississippi? What’s the karmic repercussion of such audacity?

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I’ll find out soon.”