I made a phonecall to Tel Aviv yesterday afternoon.

In all the wild imaginings in my life, I never quite thought I'd be placing phonecalls to Israel. But as it is, I needed to contact a man named Ezra there, in order to pave the way for our company to do business with him.

In total this week, I spoke with people from Russia, Poland, Israel, Germany, Scotland, Italy, Australia and New Zealand. I love hearing the different accents, and getting them to chuckle over some pronunciation I inevitably goof.

For me, this is the ultimate part of my job. I get to travel, in a sense, to these places - if for just a brief moment in time. I can't help but wonder what their day has been like. Where their offices are... what the view is from their windows. Is there a little cafe on the corner that they go eat at every day? Or do they suffice with some tea or coffee from a break room down the hall.

I can't help it. I'm a traveler at heart, and curious cat by nature. I am eternally fascinated by diversity. Dialing the long phone numbers to different countries is simply ringing up yet another intriguing facet of my day. I don't know why I am so enthralled with the idea that I've just had a conversation with someone in a different country... but I guess it is because I have a keen sense of 'this would never have happened if... '

If I didn't have this job, I never would have touched on these people's lives. There would be a man in Tel Aviv who would live his entire existance, and I would never realize he was out there. Or there would be a woman in Poland whose voice would never reach my ear. It's amazing to me! When I'm speaking with them, I see in my mind's eye a globe - with a thin glowing line stretching across it from me to them. I want to pin a tiny little flag to the globe that says "I was here".

This fascination of mine also proves something else - which I already knew, but it only strengthens the knowledge; the world really is a small place.

My phonecalls aren't anything of real importance. On a global scale, I'm just a worker ant doing my job, picking up my grain of sand and transporting it to the heap so to speak. But on a personal level, I'm making it easier for someone in another country to obtain something that will make their sport more enjoyable.

My worldwide vocal globetrotting is all about snowboarding, and the gear our tiny little company designs. It isn't anything earth shattering, but I love it. It puts me in touch with a creative process I've never known in a workplace before, and it lets me pick up that phone and muse about an afternoon spent in Scotland, or China, or Italy. Of course, I'm sure our Italian distributor Stefano has no idea of the wide eyed daydreamer talking business to him on the other end of the line.... and how I grin from ear to ear when he says "Ciao!" before he hangs up. But that's okay. He doesn't need to know.

When I spoke with a young man in Germany the other day, he said in a very thick accent "Oh...I saw the article in Transworld about your company. Was that you wearing black in the picture?"

Yes, it sure was.

Somewhere in my imagination, there is a tiny little pin being placed on a map of Germany.

"...so the world goes round and round
with all you ever knew
They say the sky high above
is Caribbean blue... " - Enya

Writing was not my first love.

From the time I could wrap my little fingers around a crayon, drawing was my life. My mother was always opening books to find little surprise doodles on the inside of the covers. My grandmother kept plenty of butcher paper on hand, as well as a jumble of stubby colored pencils and chalks for me to ply my abundant imagination to.

This love spilled over into school, where art projects were seen as rewards, not homework. If we were given choices on the difficulty of the assignment, I always opted for the most difficult art project to tackle. I still remember walking into fifth grade history with one of my end-of-year tasks. Most kids chose the essay. I chose to draw King Tut's mask. I even added in all the gold embelishments. Mr. Davidson gave me an A+ for that one.

And so my love of art grew. But so did my passion for music.

Music always flowed in our house. Whether it was from the old cabinet stereo, or the upright piano that was up against the west wall, there was rarely a silent moment to be had. So it was a natural progression that my parents enrolled me in piano lessons when I was 8 years old, and I found a whole new talent to be enamored with.

Piano came with a strange new language to sort out. Scales and chords...majors and minors. Staccato and legato. Pianissimo and FORTE! I soaked it all in, week after week, and quickly surpassed the weepy little ballads of "Colour My World" and "Time in a Bottle". My first piano teacher was replaced with a classical tutor, who swept me away into the world of Beethoven, Chopin, and Bach.

Her name was Jill, and she had raven black hair that she would have to put up in a bun or else it would get caught beneath her when she sat down. She would chew lightly on her gum as she scrawled endless notes in my spiral notebook for me to pay attention to in my week's practice sessions. I would lug my backpack along as I walked to her house after school, Schirmer's classical piano books wedged in between my folders and schoolbooks.

So I became known as 'Aimee, the artist and musician'. I defined myself by it, day after day. Backdrops for school plays, recitals for audiences of pleased parents - this was my life. This was how I knew to live life.

Junior High came around, and I added even more to my plate. I took up the clarinet - though my first choice was the flute. Girls who played the flute got to carry dainty little black cases that held their pretty silver instruments. Those who played clarinet or saxaphone walked with sagging shoulders from the weight of their chosen horn. I told the teacher I wanted to play flute. He told me I would be a better clarinetist, because....and I quote....'Your lips are too big to play the flute, kiddo.'

So I joined the sagging-shouldered troup. And I also became our concert band's first chair clarinetist.

Now for those of you who do not know what a 'first chair' musician is, let me explain. You must conquer your way to the top. Not only that, but you must do it in front of the whole class. You raise your hand, and challenge someone ahead of you to a duel for the next chair. Those people in first and second chair are often rewarded with solos in concerts, and though it might seem small - it's all you have when you are in school. The challenger picks the piece of music to play, and the battle begins. The audience votes, and the results are instant. You have to collect your music off the stand, and switch places then and there.

I was seated in fifteenth chair. I raised my hand fifteen times, and on by the fifteenth challenge I sat myself down in that number one spot. I remained there until I graduated highschool.

So by the time I was Sophmore in highschool, my talents were cemented. I had the freedom in art class to select whatever my next projects would be. I was good friends with my band teacher, and was allowed to remain in the classroom during break in order to listen to music and stretch out for a snooze behind the trumpet section chairs. My piano lessons had escalated to the point where 24 page Concertos could be played with eyes closed. The definition of myself seemed complete.

And then I met Suzanne.

She was my Collage Prep English teacher. She had a love for language that seeped out of her every pore. She was the first person who ever suggested (as an assignment) on keeping a journal, and writing about things I enjoyed. Oh I had written in the past, and even won a small award and a picture in the local newspaper for writing a little essay on 'What My Home Means To Me'. But her task was enthralling... write about whatever I wished.

So I did. Sprawling descriptions of what a fantasy day would be like. Notes about the latest squabble with my best friend. Lovesick prose about a new crush. Overzealous descriptions of city life which I knew nothing of, and yet felt compelled to pen anyway. Each one was met with encouragement and kind criticism from Suzanne.

I still didn't realize that I was really 'writing'. To me, I was The Artist and Musician. I never conceived that there might be something else out there that would lure my soul and tempt my senses with a new passion. I was simply completing my assignments and enjoying the benefits of pleasing my teacher with my efforts.

Suzanne must have seen something within me, for she kept coaxing me to write more. She paved the way for me to attend a special conference for gifted students, where I stood in front of an audience and read some of my poems. She never turned me away when I had something new to show her, even when it was between classes or time to head home. Little by little, she was nurturing something inside of me that would eventually grow into an all consuming love.

But by the time I was really starting to understand that enchanting artistry of words to paper, it was time to graduate and enter the world. My time with Suzanne slipped away, but what she instilled with me carried on.

The art and music will always be there, waiting in the background for moments stolen from the world. But the words are an ever beating pulse of need. They are there in my mind, and if left untold for too long, they begin to humm like mad bees. I have to get them out, somehow...someway. I get pouty and disorganized if the hectic pace of the work week has kept me from my words. I need the fix. I need that hit of adrenalin and satisfaction. I am a junky for the stories told.

I used to define myself as 'Aimee, the artist and musician'.

Now I simply live, and let the creativity take me where it wishes.

Writing was not my first love. But it has become the soulmate that beckons my Muse like no other.

The night is wild with moonlight, and the snow is melting away. Time to light the candles, listen to the music, and dream away the bitter cold.
-----------------------------------

The lyrics to the current song of the moment...
"The Old Ways" by Loreena McKennitt

On a dark new year's night
On the west coast of Clare
I hear your voice singing
Your eyes danced the song
Your hands played the tune
T'was a vision before me.


We left the music behind and the dance carried on
As we stole away to the seashore
We smelled the brine, felt the wind in our hair

With sadness you paused.


Suddenly I knew that you'd have to go
Your world was not mine, your eyes told me so
Yet it was there I felt the crossroads of time

And I wondered why.


As we cast our gaze on the tumbling sea
A vision came o'er me
Of thundering hooves and beating wings

In clouds above.


As you turned to go I heard you call my name.
You were like a bird in a cage, spreading its
Wings to fly
"The old ways are lost" you sang as you flew

And I wondered why.


The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.

The storm winds were already bending the limbs of the trees as I drove the winding road up to the cliff's edge. Just moments before, I had been standing in our oceanside suite watching the darkness take over the horizon. I grabbed my camera, forgot my jacket, and knew that I could capture some fantastic shots of the brooding ocean if I were fast enough.

The parking lot was empty when I reached the top. The wind swept up off the water in cold blasts, and I immediately regretted not having a coat. I held my camera close as I took to the trail, walking the familiar track against the hillside. I glanced over the rough hewn wooden fence, to the rocks and water far below. There was no sand visible as the waves lashed the bank. White foam streaked the water with deceivingly tranquil strands.

I rounded the hill and walked to the dead end of the trail. The wooden fence gave way to steel gridwork. There was fresh dirt where another part of the bank had slid away to the sea. I wondered how much more this storm would demand of the mountain I stood upon.

Lifting my gaze beyond the cliff's edge, the Pacific was before me. The wide blue sea had grown dark with the gathering of clouds. I looked through the camera's lens and focused in on the whisps of stark white fog spinning in contrast to the black horizon. It was mesmerizing... this dance of the elements. It seemed the battered evergreens were releasing their minions to ward the shoreline from the coming storm.

The wind held no comforting scent of woodsmoke from the chimneys down in the village. The only thing it carried was the bitter cold from distant parts of the deep water, where only the salt survives. It picked up in speed, and pushed me back a little. I should have obeyed the gentle warning then and there, but I didn't.

I turned my attention to the sculpt of the shore curving back toward the coastal town, and was about to frame in my last shot when I heard another sound beneath the rush of wind. I lowered my camera and looked back out at the ocean. The wall of black was closer... much closer. I could measure the waves with just a glance, and watched them disappear into the clouds.... but I had never seen clouds so thick right on top of the water. And then it began.... an augmented hiss like the wind raking over millions of dry leaves. The back of my neck tingled as I watched in amazement, this wall coming.... visibly.....rolling toward me. The hiss grew deeper, gained strength, and suddenly I thought of the trains that rolled through the valley at night. No need to slow for cars when the towns are sleeping.

I started running. The trail, about four feet wide at best, suddenly seemed like a gymnast's balancing beam....totally unforgiving. I was sprinting, aware of my heart with every single pounding stride. The train was right behind me... roaring with the promise that it would plow right over me if I were to falter in the slightest way. Gritting my teeth I came to the end of the trail and jumped down a small bank to the grass. I bolted into the nearest picnic shelter and pivoted to look out toward the park. I barely had time to swallow back the lump in my throat when the roar hammered down on me, and my view of the park was blinded by a blur of white. I steadied myself against the picnic table as I watched golf ball sized hail come thundering down, rolling into the edge of the shelter, and pummeling it's roof. Adrenalin raced through my senses, pushing my heart into a flutter. The green grass was gone. In it's place was a growing layer of ice, and I wanted to cover my ears. This was pure power! Nature slamming into the coast, and there I was...just a speck trembling beneath a tiny wooden roof.

And then, just as quick as the blink of a power outage, it was over. It seemed the last of the hail fell all at once, and the wild drumming ceased. The abrupt silence gave me a chill even worse than the roar. I hesitated to leave my shelter... and so I stood there, laughing a little too high pitched, not wanting to think of the consequences had I been caught against the bare hillside.

At last, I walked out under the bare sky. The hail crunched beneath my shoes, and as I looked up, I saw a swirl of mist and blue. I picked my way back up the slope to the trail, reaching out to steady myself against the fencing. There was nothing but clear sky out toward the horizon. The storm had rushed in, crashed against the coast, and raced over the tops of the trees to the mainland. I laughed through a few deep breaths, feeling my pulse finally start to slow down.

A faint rainbow arched from the south shore across to the northern cove.

Sometimes pictures can't replace a thousand words.

45 RPM
One of my favorite things to do in the early 80's was go to DJ's Sound City in the local valley mall, and fork over my $2.00 allowance for the latest New Wave single. I'm talking genuine vinyl 45's. They kept them on a rack behind the cash register, so I would be forced to lean forward and strain to see who had made it into that week's Top Ten. Before there were chips placed in CD cases to trigger a store's alarm, it was probably too tempting to snag one of those little vinyl disks and slip it into your Member's Only jacket on the way out the door.

When buying a whole $8.99 album was beyond my grasp (or beyond my self control to save my allowance for 4 1/2 weeks...), singles became my addiction. The very first 45 I ever bought was "Is There Something I Should Know" by Duran Duran. That of course spawned a decade of pure Fab Five worship that would shape my wardrobe, record collection...and even my hairstyle! This of course was much to the chagrin of my brother who had tried to woo me with the ways of the Metal Gods themselves. He surely built a good foundation of rock by teaching me the essentials... but my Singles were a way of discovering a whole new kind of music. The kind that would make me go out and buy blue-silver lipstick and dye my bangs blonde. The same songs that got me wearing my John Taylor fedora (I bet only 80's teens would even know what a Fedora was!), and wearing only one dangly earring. Yes, rebellion of the New Romantics. I could dance like Molly Ringwald with the best of them, and glower like Souxsie in a most fetching way.

While I saved my major moola for the occasional New Wave 'must have' album, singles provided me a way to listen to other bands without having to invest a so-called fortune. I could single handedly produce one of those "As Seen On TV" CD compilations with my old 45 collection. Bananarama, Kajagoogoo, A-ha, Adam Ant, ABC, David Bowie, Duran Duran, Go West, Glass Tiger, Toni Basil, Thomas Dolby, Howard Jones, The Cure.....just to name a scant few! And the bonus was that there was a "B-Side" to the single. A song that usually didn't make it on the album, so that it made you feel like you were getting a glimpse into something secret. Even the photo sleeves were something to get excited about. A new picture of your favorite band...sometimes even folding out into a limited edition poster! Oh how my bedroom walls rejoiced at the addition of yet another picture taped to the plaster.

I don't even know if Singles are sold in stores anymore. MP3's pretty much killed them, like video killed the radio star (thanks to the Buggles!). But I still have my collection, like medals from an old race won... or better yet, like band buttons on a long trench coat.