Mica Lee Williams

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Summer Tour 2006

Ok I only have a little bit of time - I am heading to Seattle in a few minutes, depending on how fast I can post these. Just a few fun shots of friends and live shows from the tour so far. I will add more of the festival and other performers a bit later but for now...

These pictures were taken by my friend Aradia at a river in Portland, OR. The parasol is an antique passed down by the women in her family. I forget which river it is but it was absolutely gorgeous, with several falls feeding into 3 pools. I of course threw some change in.

My friend Aradia.

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I stopped off and played a few shows in Seattle and stayed with my good friend
Gina and her roommate, Meg. This is my lucky monkey that Gina won for me at a fair booth. I named him Geoffrey (Joff-ree) and he made the entire rest of the tour at my side. (And he was lucky!)

And playing at the bean Scene...

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This is some of the Team from Komasket, me included. Sheila (Everything Coordinator), Andrew (Stage Manager), and Me (Emcee and General Runaround Girl)

This is me and my Emcee compadres, Belva. I am so excited she is moving to SF from Vernon in 2 weeks!

And the people who come to Komasket!

That's Andrew again, and those are my legs.
I liked what someone wrote in the dust of the mirror.
"We are all beautiful"

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Okay! As promised, a photo documentary of the sacking of the Blue Castle!

Once there was a peaceful place called the Valley of the Blue Castle.
It was the most sanguine and lovely valley, until one day...

Pirates came! They plotted to bring down the Blue Castle and bring chaos and mayhem to the peaceful valley.

The king of the pirates declared war, calling all the pirates to arms...

...and descended upon the sleepy castle without warning...

...bringing it to ruin...

...and having a great bit of fun at it.

The end.
Yaaaaargh!

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I wanted to share something VERY special with you. It's a photo journal of my trip to Vashon Island, where I got to visit the farm I grew up spending summer's on. On Vashon, my family's name is Smith and EVERYONE knows the Smiths, because, as was said to me by a 30 year local "The Smiths are a good island family." And it's true.
I will just cut and paste my blog from MySpace for the narrative:

Today I had a show on Vashon Island. I was for-warned of Friday traffic nightmares, so I headed over on the Fauntleroy Ferry around 3:00pm or so, and then straight to Cafe Luna, where I was scheduled to perform.

I hit the girls up behind the counter for the local phone book and called some of my family members who live on the island to invite them to my show. That's island life; wait until the last minute, because you know they aren't far and probably don't have much else to do.

My Aunt Marla answered, excited to hear from me, and she informed me that my cousin, Gracie, worked the front counter at Cafe Luna. It was pretty wild because the last time I saw her she was around 9 yrs old. Now she's 19. When she showed up she wore the look of awe as her coworker told her we were related. Her blond and blue eyed, me brown and green eyed. She didn't remember me, but it didn't matter; We're family. The Smiths (that's my grandparent's name) are mixed and many. Big hugs and excitement. She was at work so there was only so much gossiping we could do, but I did ask her how to get to the farm, where my grandparents lived for more than 30 years. She gave me driving directions (it's a island, so there's generally not too far to go to get anywhere, really) and I set out in my little red car, all packed full of my gear and belongings.

When I arrived I almost missed it, because the maple trees, which were just spindly saplings when I was young, had taken over what was once a field in the front of the property. The gravel driveway was still there, but seemed dwarfed due to the overgrowth (and the years, I'm sure) A young girl walked out of the farm house. Yes, there it still stood, in all it's sagging glory. The farm house, perhaps begging to be condemned years ago, but somehow, still sturdy.

A standing, legendary, slice of history. The color a wooded gray, the random missing shingles on the roof bringing to mind a toothless, smiling elder, happy to see the rarely visiting grandchild. The girl was not what I would call friendly, but curious, and seemed resigned to let me take photos of the property. I chatted with her amicably, to reassure her of my intentions. She was comfortable enough to leave and let me roam the property unattended. I had, after all, played in these long grasses before she was ever born. Yikes! That makes me sound WAY older than I am :P

It was unbelievable the transformation. Junk and clutter seemed to haunt every corner around the house and driveway. Years of neglect and disrepair visible at every turn. The wood chopping shed, where my grandmother chopped wood nearly every day to heat the house and cook on the wood stove, was full of junk, the woodchips buried beneath debris. It was clear the last people to love this place were my grandparents and their brood.

All the shrubs and trees had now become masters of the land, engulfing the once looming house.

The space in the back where my grandmother's unearthly garden had flourished, was now overgrown bushes and grass. The guesthouse and barn were shrouded in blackberry bushes. The land was slowly swallowing up the plot that housed so many adventures, turmoil, celebrations and debaucherous interludes. It gave me chills and a feeling of joy I can't express to be there.

I made my way with my camera down the back driveway and out to the guesthouse.

The blackberry bushes were too thick and gnarly to walk fully around, but I scanned the sides of the modest, slant roofed, ranch style cabin for huckleberry bushes. I could not find any. A shame. I often dreamed of those small, tart, carnelian colored berries that we used to eat by the handful. Not too many people know the joy of huckleberries. So I had some blackberries instead.

Moving onto the barn, I thought for a moment the door was blocked by stinging nettles and blackberries, but someone had, in the least of efforts, kept the entrance clear. The barn itself, with it's red aluminum roof and ancient, wide-spaced boards, cut into the sky, a graceful, aging, giant.

It's insides beckoned with shadows and creaking sounds.

I walked into the chaos. Rotting mattresses, boxes and blankets, broken glass. I spotted a box of Sojourner's (that's my grandma) bell jars. The lids were rusted on. I suddenly realized that this was treasure trove of history and I had free reign and pickins. The hunt was on.

I carefully walked over the rotting floorboards, scanning the detritus with my eyes and snapping pictures of interesting relics; old motorcycles; windows broken in by the reaching limbs of prickly bushes; an old wheel frame.

I came upon a book with a rotting cover and paper bugs all over it. I dusted it off and peeled open the decrepit pages. Ah! Of course. Edgar Allen Poe's The Golden Bug and other short stories. It was too perfect. Another find in my quest for heirlooms.

I picked it up and brought it with me to the second floor. (Mind you, all of these things belong to my family and were abandoned here to rot. Everything in here is an orphan, destined to not be adopted.)

The second floor was where my uncles, Beau and Darwin, lived. My aunt Euphoria and I would climb up and explore when the older boys weren't home.

All that was left of their boyhood days were old bed frames (very cool old iron bed frames that if I had lived closer I would have taken) , decaying antique chairs and lamps and scattered papers and books. My eyes caught hold of some old wooden frames with glass, from a chest of drawers or bookcase. I grabbed them, though severely laden with dirt and something that reminded me of bat or bird poop, and brought them to the downstairs where I began my pile. By the end of my treasure hunt I had an old picture frame of raw wood, two small old framed glass windows, an antique window frame without the glass, a few rusted bell jars, an old bridle, an aluminum coffee pot, 2 pieces of pottery; one a hot plate the other a crude tea pot, and one Edgar Allen Poe book. Plus a multitude of pictures on my camera.

At one point as I slipped out of the barn door, hasty to load my booty, I slighted past some stinging nettles and was reminded of the first time I learned of those, when I was about six. My aunt, my keeper for the summer, asked me if I knew what they were and I foolishly said no. SO she wiped them across my shoulder. My aunt was only a teen, by the way, and other than my mother, who was years older, the only girl among 6 or so boys, maybe more. So I was initiated, much the same way that she was, I'm sure. It all makes me smile now. Believe me, there are many more stories like that one.

I shot some photos of all my gathered, dusty, objects and let the ghosts of the past around me rejoice, vowing to one day live again on this land, one way or another.

A few shots of the multitude of rusting cars from the 40s and50s peeking out from the 6 foot high weeds and I my made my way towards the front.

I passed the tall wooden frame that once held homemade swings, now just dangling, rotting ropes, like an old gallows.

So much of my family is still here.

Another of the young roommates who now rented the farm (not happily I might add. The first girl said they were moving) returned and I introduced myself. Out raced a black collie named Piglet and at the same time a friendly, black kitty, whose name I never did learn, trotted over to flirt with electric green, half-slit eyes.

Kinda like me

My time was complete. I photographed the driveway and then another from the road and said a silent "see you later". It's not goodbye, I can tell you that much.

I preformed to a full house at Cafe Luna in front of an art installation.

And then took the ferry back to the city, late night.

It was a beautiful full moon.

On my way home I decided to treat myself to an adventure at Mt. Shasta. This mountain is known for as an energy location on the planet. I have to say, from this humble traveler's perspective, it's all true. Everything that happened to me there unfolded with mystical synchronicity. I went to a spot by the river that runs at its base and literally felt vibrations from the land that made my knees feel weak.

Click on the picture to see the lightening more clearly!

I went without a plan or anywhere to stay, thinking I would be guided to the right spot. Was I ever! The places I tried first turned away a one night visitor. Then I was directed to a place that might allow me to stay for a night. I called and they told me to come on by. I found myself at The Blue House, a healing center housing some of the coolest folks in town.