Insomniac Folklore Tour: A Magical Day

July 13th

Another day in Oregon— which is synonymous with paradise, if you ask the natives. I spent the afternoon with Adrienne, Amanda, Tyler and Zach, visiting three different waterfalls in the Portland area. The Pacific Northwest feel was overwhelming: massive firs wrapped in moss, ferns splitting into exquisite fractals, mist clothing the air. Dampness in my breath, muddy rocks beneath my feet, sun and shadow mottling the sky. 

The third waterfall was Oregon’s iconic one, Multnomah Falls. It spills in a white stream from the cliff edge 611 feet up, and as soon as Tyler told me that there’s a viewing balcony at the top, I knew I had to make the mile-long hike up to it. Zach joined me while the others demurred, and up we went.

Gritty pavement showed the way, flocked with thinner and thinner crowds as we climbed the switchbacks. Evergreen shaded us except when it cleared to reveal landslides at rest, covered in orange-green moss, with vistas of the Columbia Gorge River, over-swept with fluffy clouds that stretched across the water into Washington. Zach is one of the few people I’ve ever met who walks faster than me, and my blood pressed against my face and I gasped to take in enough air.

The view at the top was worth it all: a babbling creek, not unlike those in the Midwest, meandered its way before diving off the cliff in some sort of suicidal beauty. Round white droplets exploded into the air, shattering into mist, plunging into the valley below. The pictures I took couldn’t even begin to show the height and the wonder of that fall.

Fast-forward several hours. Now it’s nighttime and we’re in downtown Portland, stepping outside of a corner-store called Voodoo Doughnuts with a dozen packed in a baby-pink box. The whole band is here: Tyler, Adrienne, Amanda, Zach, Ayden, Kourtney, and me, plus two other friends. Our show was fun, but long: five hours from beginning to end. We decided that doughnuts were a must-have, and here we are.

The nine of us skip through the chilly night air, plop down on the bricks next to Skidmore Fountain, and tear into the doughnuts. Chocolate-dipped, maple-coated, doughnuts topped with Captain Krunch or sprinkles or sugar, stuffed with lemon cream, rolled in oreos— we devour them, leaving only a few for tomorrow, passing around chunks of the heavenly desserts, sharing each other’s germs beneath the yellow glow of the street lamps. Bums and hippies ask us to buy and sell and share drugs, and we politely refuse each time; the doughnuts are more than enough. Everyone is giddy. My legs are covered in goosebumps, but I don’t feel cold. The air is alive and time is awake and we are in Portland Oregon at 2:00am sharing doughnuts and talking and laughing beside the Skidmore Fountain and life could not be better.

We return home eventually, of course. Before I go to bed, Zach shows me a book of Lord of the Rings poems set to song. I can’t sight-sing that well, but I read a few aloud, curled up in the trailer that I share with Amanda, Ayden, Kourtney and Zach.

In western lands beneath the Sun

the flowers may rise in Spring,

the trees may bud, the waters run,

the merry finches sing.

Or there maybe ‘tis cloudless night

and swaying beeches bear

the Elven-stars as jewels white

amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey’s end I lie

in darkness buried deep,

beyond all towers strong and high,

beyond all mountains steep,

above all shadows rides the Sun

and Stars for ever dwell:

I will not say the Day is done,

nor bid the Stars farewell.

If I had to choose one memory that I could hold onto for the rest of my life, one memory that would cling to my soul even when all else fades away, I just might choose today.

~Lisa Shafter

Insomniac Folklore Tour: Portland

July 12th

I have been to Portland before, but it was only for an afternoon, when I flew in there to catch the train to Washington. I remember thinking it was grungy, and becoming paranoid when I thought a guy was following me, but it had a nice hostel and a pretty rose garden. Thus, I was happy to be returning there with a native who loves it with all his heart, to give the City of Roses a second chance.

Upon another day in Portland, I still hold that it’s grungy. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. People we call hipsters are for-real in this city: they wear thick-framed glasses and flannel and dreadlock their hair and pierce themselves and carry guitar cases on their backs, but they do it as a part of everyday life, not as a badge of (false) anticonformism. 

Tyler first took us to a burrito stand where a man wrapped up our lunches with meaty bare hands. Nearby, a couple homeless guys held up a sign that said, “Hit a punk in the junk for a buck” and yelled, “Help sterilize the homeless and cleanse the human race!” The smell of burritos and marijuana filled my nose, and the “punk’s” conversation mingled with the sound of a concertina as a young woman danced up to the stand next to us, instrument cradled between her hands. 

Portland is a city of cigarette ashes and river-mud and unwashed hair and art and exuberance and a snobbery that hovers over its inhabitants like the clouds on the skyscrapers. They can’t imagine that anywhere could possibly be better, and although this makes me inclined to think to the contrary, I do understand how this city could get in your blood, could go down deep to your core and take your soul prisoner. It’s fascinating, gritty, full of life and art and passion and culture.

If nothing else, I love Portland because it is home to Powell’s Books. This four-story new-and-used store covers a solid city block. We spent an hour in there, and I could have spent all day. Knowing that I didn’t have to carry the books I bought on my back for the rest of the trip, I bought two hardcovers after perusing through thousands upon thousands of volumes stacked up high on floor-to-ceiling shelves.

Another interesting quirk of the city is Voodoo Doughnuts. Although we visited the less popular location, we still got the full effect: a couple had a Voodoo wedding while we stood in line (a man with a staff, a red jacket, and chocolate smeared on his face performed the ceremony), and then I ate the classic maple bar topped with bacon.

We returned to our home base and practiced with the Oregon edition of the band— tomorrow night we have a concert at a bar in downtown. Portland, here we come!

~Lisa Shafter

Insomniac Folklore Tour: The Oregon Coast

July 11th

On this day, we (Tyler, Adrienne, Amanda, Zach, Bob and Laura, Tyler’s sister Alicia and her husband and kids) visited the coast at Bandon, Oregon, before the band headed on to Portland.

I have seen several different coasts in my life, and heaven knows I love the Outer Banks, but the Oregon beach just might be my favorite. The sand stretched out to the ocean, punctuated with pebbles and massive rocks jutting up through the beach, remnants of a volcano. Both water and sky were intensely blue. The waves shot freezing spikes of pain up my legs when I jumped in them, but that didn’t stop me from dashing through the shallows while singing the Chariots of Fire theme. Seagulls wheeled overhead, and creatures of all kinds haunted the rocks: barnacles, tube worms, oysters, mussels, purple starfish, kelp, crabs, and even a pod of seals, fat and gleaming in the sun.

We explored the tidepools and the craggy rock structures, wading through caves, sprinting over open sand, climbing up the rough stone to stand on top of the world. Steam rose from the sand, wisping over the shore in an eerie mist, while the sun blazed through mottled clouds above. I wore shorts and a hoodie, shivering in the wind. Every nook of the shoreline was a new adventure, every new sea creature we discovered was utter fascination. As we walked along the beach, I realized that I had to return— I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life without seeing this coast again.

~Lisa Shafter

Insomniac Folklore Tour: Roseburg

July 9th and 10th

We spent these two days with Tyler’s parents, Bob and Laura. From giving us all ample padded floor space in separate rooms, to making us banana pancakes, to hosting a belated wedding reception for Adrienne and Tyler, his parents made us feel welcome and let the aches and pains of the road wash away.

Bob and Laura live more than halfway up a mountain in Roseburg, Oregon, and while we were there, we got in a lot of hiking. We scrambled through dead leaves and pine boughs and loose earth, making us all gasp for breath and feel out of shape. Tyler’s sister, Alicia, took Zach and me on a hike up the mountain and under a barbed-wire fence to some open cattleland on top of the ridge. The ridge allowed a sprawling view of the countryside around. Gnarly oaks and Pacific madrone shaped the edge of the woods and provided shelter for a scattered herd of cows. It looked like the Midwest on a grander scale— awesome!

Another walk on the same day took us deep into the forest. Oregon woods are, to me, intensely unsettling. The trees were watchful, tense, unhappy with our presence. The sunlight, golden in fading day, wandered uneasily through the open spaces between the firs, touching on dust motes and tiny insects that flurried through the air like snow. Dry leaves rustled from the trees, searching for the ground. The forest is much older than what I’m used to, and it is very awake.

Golden light turned gray shadow as the sun set, and the forest grew ominous and breathless— no birds sang, no insects buzzed. I must return to these woods someday, to meet them on their own terms, to try to understand them better.

The days in Roseburg are a blur of learning to juggle, of wading in the Umpqua River, of meeting new people, of dancing the Virginia Reel to our warm-up band at the show, of giving and receiving backrubs, and of getting to know my bandmates in a relaxed environment. After our insane drive to the west, it was a nice break.

~Lisa Shafter

Insomniac Folklore Tour: Happy Birthday

Excerpts from my diary:

 *  *

We spent the day of the 7th in Elko, Nevada, just reveling in the state of not being in a car. Our show that night was in a wine bar, and although not many people showed up, those who did bought a lot of merch.

At midnight, my bandmates wished me a happy 22nd birthday as we munched on foot-longs at a Subway somewhere in Nevada. Then we hit the road again. Tyler was determined to drive as far as he could tonight. 

I fell asleep without stretching, and woke up in screaming pain with a paralyzed neck. In between quiet sobs, I tried to get it in working order. Adrienne leaned back from the front seat and rubbed feeling back into it, and then I spent the next couple hours trying to stay awake so I wouldn’t fall asleep and hurt my neck again. Tyler began weaving down the road, and finally pulled off onto a gravel byway in the middle of nowhere and announced we were all sleeping in the car. Adrienne graciously gave up shotgun for me, and I collapsed into exhausted sleep around 3:30.

At 5:30am on July 8th, Tyler was up and at ‘em again. I woke up and sat up and watched the Oregon desert slip by, rocky and hilly and spotted with sagebrush. Prairie dogs slipped across the road every once in a while, and huge-eared jackrabbits bounded out of our way. We saw a couple antelope, and even a grey wild horse!

At last, we reached the wooded area of Oregon, and Tyler stopped at a waterfall. It reminded me a bit of the Smokies: jubilant white water gushing from the pores of the earth, tangling through mossy roots and galloping over smooth river-stones. Tyler ran around, and I have never seen a man look more at home in any place in my life.

He took us to a second waterfall, almost as big as the one I’d seen at Zion a few months ago, spilling from the lip of a huge cliff, falling in slow motion. Mist dusted the air, and I watched birds and insects swirl by overhead. I laughed in delight, and I wondered if— minus the mosquitos— this is what Eden will be like.

Our last stop before reaching Tyler’s parents was a set of hot springs. After a rocky hike to the far side of a mountain, we reached the milky-watered pools full of naked people, found one unoccupied, and slipped into the water. The sun was hot, but the springs still felt great on my joints. We just hung out for a couple hours, soaking away the pains of the road.

Around 3:00, we were on our way, and by 4, we had reached Tyler’s parents’ house. I had met them at the wedding, so it was good to see them again. Tyler’s sisters, Alicia and Hannah, as well as their babies and toddler, were there. We all just hung out, then ate lasagna that Laura, Tyler’s mom, made. She even baked me a cake for my birthday and had everybody sing! I crashed on the pads laid out on a bedroom floor for Amanda and me, and fell asleep at once.

~Lisa Shafter

Insomniac Folklore Tour: Rock-Star Accommodations

July 6th/7th

What happens when the coordinator of your show in Salt Lake City doesn’t even remember talking to you? A cancelled show, seven disappointed bandmates stranded on the tar-spotted sidewalk, and finally a mad drive toward Nevada in a search for accommodations fitting for a famous rock-star band.

At 11:30 at night, we found the perfect place: a nearly-treeless rest stop in the middle of Utah’s salt flats, surrounded by a vast darkness broken only by a single twinkling light in the distance. The stop had an overhang and some space to lay out, so we grabbed our blankets and sleeping bags and curled up beside or on the picnic tables. Lying on the concrete with only a sleeping bag for padding was not, admittedly, the most comfortable thing in the world, but it wasn’t as bad as I expected. A cool salty breeze, dry and sweet, ruffled my hair, and the nearby highway provided a comfortable white noise. I was asleep within the hour.

When I woke up, the sky was lit with gold and pastel. Now I could see the salt flats: a vast lake of solid white, with a well of glimmering gold to reflect the rising sun. Jagged blue mountains painted the horizon as sunrise clouds roiled overhead. The breeze, scented with an ancient ocean, fluttered across my hair and bare shoulders as I sat up.

After everyone woke up, I walked out onto the flats. Huge salt crystals, patterned alternately like snowflakes and polyester carpet, stretched out before me, white and perfectly flat until they touched the mountains. The salt crunched beneath my shoes, the air quiet around me. The salt was cracked into patterns like dry white earth, the needle-thin riffs filled with bubbly formations. I have never seen a landscape like it.

Waking up to the sunrise, without so much as a tent flap to separate us, was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I’d trade a night in a soft bed for a sunrise like that any day.

~Lisa Shafter

Insomniac Folklore Tour: Nebraska and Wyoming

July 5th

So far, our first two days of tour have consisted of the same routine: get up early, drive eight or nine hours across wide landscape to the venue, play the show, then crash on the floor of a kind stranger who we just met. I’m glad I came into this tour knowing that “experiencing the places” was not exactly on the list: in two days we’ve gone from Missouri to Wyoming, and my sightseeing consists of looking out the van window as the scenery slips by.

There are some things that don’t change, no matter how I travel, and one of the biggest things is the sensory aspect. Life feels grittier, more intense, both less and more real, when I travel. Chewing whole wheat bread slathered with jelly and trail mix while squinting in a Wyoming sun. Sitting on a concrete floor with my fingers jammed in my ears trying to endure yet one more song with the same punk rhythm. Sweat running down my calves as a flood-scented wind lashes through the windows. Linking sticky arms with my bandmates in a group hug at a gas station in Nebraska. Feeling my violin playing vibrate in my back teeth and my collar bone as I hit the note spot-on. Cuddling up in a sleeping bag with a silky-furred yorkie under my arm. Sitting on shady grass and watching Tyler’s pet turtles chew dandelions. Gazing as the landscape transforms from flooded cornfields to hills of ragged gray rock. All part of the experience. All part of the memories.

~Lisa Shafter

Cornerstone, Part Two

Here’s a revised entry that I wrote in my diary on the morning of July 1st. I’ve shortened it a bit, edited it for clarity, and taken out a considerable amount of shameless gushing about a certain violinist. The events of June 30th were a major reason I loved Cornerstone so much— it’s a night I’ll hold forever in my heart. 

*  *  *

Last night, after eating s’mores with Josh and Emily [two other good friends at our campsite], I headed over to the Photoside Café show with my friends John, Ryan, and Mrs. Hengst. We arrived at the Chelsea Café tent and looked around for a place to sit. I knew there was a violinist in the band, but I didn’t pay any attention until the sound guy called for a mic check. A tone of pure gold shot through the air, playing the main theme from Pirates of the Caribbean. My head whipped toward the stage as if someone had slapped me, and I saw Photoside’s violinist warming up his instrument. I knew this was going to be a good concert.

I would say there are no words to describe Photoside Café’s live show, but I am a writer so I must try: utterly transcendent. The lead singer/guitarist, happy drummer/pianist, talented bassist and guest guitarist are all excellent, I’m sure. However, I only could hear and see the violinist and his rapturous instrument that he played with the beauty of autumn sent sailing into the air in a heartbreakingly sweet tone. 

I was instantly in love. I wanted to dance among the stars, or run on the ocean waves, or become a leaf in an oak tree lashing in the wind. Every turn, every song, every phrase was a new adventure, a tone or note or sound that spilled deep into my heart and filled it with joy so unspeakable that I could only tremble in my folding chair as tears slipped down my cheeks. 

Photo by Sharon Curry

When the set was drawing to a close, they played so fast and furiously I was afraid the violin would snap in half. They finished in a huge chord, and I leaped to my feet for a standing ovation.

After that, I half-collapsed onto a wooden tent support, gazed up at the stars, and basked in euphoria. Mrs. Hengst and John patiently waited for me to calm my jubilant heart. I realized at that moment, beyond doubt, that I could die right now and feel that I had experienced all the beauty this life has to offer.

At my friends’ urging, I talked to the violinist after the show. I waited my turn, then said, “Hi,” and earnestly gushed for several minutes. We talked about violin, the band, Cornerstone. I didn’t want to keep him long, but on impulse, out of the joy of my heart, I gave him a tight hug. For an instant I held in my arms a young man who God has blessed with the gift of pure Beauty. Then I said goodbye and raced off.

By all the standards of fairness, there should be a limit to how much joy someone is allowed to experience in one day. Reasonably, the night should have ended there and it still would have been an evening to remember forever. But I had committed to see the Flatfoot56 show at the large tent across the grounds, so I wrapped on a back brace, grabbed some earplugs, and scuffed my feet in the dust to the show, feeling that anything would be a comedown after the wonder I had just witnessed. I was wrong.

The huge tent was packed out, but I found a space in the mass of sweaty people, many of them dressed like superheroes, since that was the theme of the show. After a dramatic John-Williams music intro, the band took the stage— wearing masked big-brained batwing-eared supervillain costumes. As the members grabbed guitars, a mandolin, and bagpipes, they announced their plan to take over the world by destroying all the superheroes at once… with music!

For the first two songs, I worked on edging my way closer to the circle pit near the stage (a circle pit occurs when the fans run in a giant ellipse, pushing and shoving and trying not to fall down). Flatfoot is apparently renowned for having friendly circle pits, though I was warned it was not for the faint of heart. I hovered on the edge for a while, watching a couple hundred people mosh-sprint their way around the oval. Then I took a deep breath, put up my fists as if about to punch someone, and dove into the stampede.

Exhilaration! I hurtled forward, slamming my forearms into the people in front of me as people shoved me from behind. Every time we bottlenecked between a support pole and the group near the stage, we became a kicking, wriggling mass of sweaty bodies. I grunted and yelled as I fought through the runners, wild with adrenaline, grinning and whooping as I battled hundreds of other dancing fans.

Once I fell, but seized a guy’s tank top, yanked myself up and kept running. I paused only a couple times. For most of the concert I ran around the pit, nostrils burning with the acrid smell of sweat and the particularly stinky mud that Cornerstone offers, arms throbbing from ramming into people, my skin slick with sweat— both mine and other people’s. A couple kids with mind-control powers kept on reversing the multiple-hundreds-person flow of the pit, which meant that I was hit by a freight train of bodies several times. Between songs, everyone slowed down for a few seconds, heaving breaths, panting for water, almost blacking out in the soggy heat. Then the drums started up again, the exhaustion fell away like shackles, and we were off: athletes in a chaotic flailing race to happiness.

For their final song, Flatfoot had us all link arms and sway as we sang Amazing Grace together. I pulled out my earplugs and was overcome by the noise— not from onstage, but from the people around me, God’s children, belting out the words with more passion (and volume!) than I have ever heard in my life. The beauty of it all made me weep, and I sang all the louder.

As soon as the first verse hit its final chord, the music went double-time and the linked-arm lines exploded into a multi-tiered circle pit. As I bashed my way through the mass of adrenaline-hyped sweat-soaked bodies, I laughed at the thought of John Newton watching, with a dropped jaw, a couple hundred young people pummeling the crap out of each other in time to the song he wrote over two hundred years ago.

On the encore song, I sprinted with all my energy, threw back my head, and screamed. I screamed louder and longer than I have in years, screamed on this rollercoaster of God’s children, screamed because I’m young, and life at this moment was utterly and unfairly beautiful, and God is the author of Love so deep that I could never comprehend it. That night, God showed me His Joy, in blazing multisensory color.

What an evening.

 *  *

~Lisa Shafter

Cornerstone, Part One

Cornerstone Festival, a Christian camping celebration of music held on an old pig farm in Illinois, was controversial from the moment it began in 1984, so it didn’t surprise me that I heard several conflicting opinions on whether or not it was good. “It’s always sweltering— you can’t think.” “Cornerstone is the highlight of my year.” “There’s nothing there but stupid screamo bands.” “It’s like a modern-day Feast of Tabernacles.” “It doesn’t hold to its ideals.” “There’s good music if you look for it.” “It’s in the middle of a cornfield!”

I was headed to Cornerstone, no matter what, and I was determined to have a good time, no matter what. I packed the lightest clothes I could find, dug out a couple of wide-brimmed hats, made sure I had sunblock, and grabbed a sleeping bag. Then I was off with the Curry family for the almost-four-hour drive to the edge (if not the middle) of nowhere in Illinois.

If nothing else, the Festival requires a specific mindset. Before I came in, I put these expectations in place: 1) It would be extremely hot, sweaty, grimy, and all-around miserable as far as weather was concerned. 2) Everyone would be on short fuses as a result of the weather. 3) It would be loud all the time. 4) Most of the bands wouldn’t be my taste, so I’d only see a few.

After only a couple days, these were revised to: 1) It’s not extremely hot all the time, just most of the time, and the levels of sweat and grime that one can reach at Cornerstone staggers the imagination. 2) My group, at least, kept very civil and friendly because we gave each other a lot of grace and kept things in perspective. 3) It was quiet in the mornings, and at night the noise was nothing louder than a pair of earplugs could fix. 4) Most of the bands still weren’t my taste, but I did get to expand my horizons.

In addition to these revised expectations, I had to adjust to these: 1) It is a music festival, not a hippie festival. Most of the population are punkers, goths, yuppies, hipsters, and youth group kids. 2) Not everyone at the Festival is friendly: you have to reach out to them in order to get a response. 3) The main reason Cornerstone is amazing is not the music or even necessarily the people: it’s the simple fact that there is a huge gathering of Christians in one place. The sense of family— even if it’s the “strangers I’m related to” family— is strong at Cornerstone.

During the six days I attended the Festival, I felt my world open up. I did a photo project which involved asking everyone I saw if I could take their picture. I attended a seminar about the emergent church and how missions tie in with travel. I met everyone from Scottish punker to a PCA pastor from Pennsylvania. I played violin in parades with my friends and onstage for crowded tents of eager listeners. I sold merch in a sauna-like tent striped red and white, and rescued a crawdad in the middle of a night from some teenagers who thought it was a scorpion. Each little event doesn’t sound like much, the cumulative effect kept growing throughout the week. Even when attending a concert of music that was putting me to sleep, I would look around the dozens— sometimes hundreds— of people around me and think, This is my family. It was the same kind of awe I feel when I’m in California or Washington or anywhere new: “I’m [fill in the blank]… with my family!”

Was the weather miserably hot? Did tempers get short at times, were there boring concerts, did I see hypocrisy and discord? Well, of course. But all in all, that was overwhelmed by the beauty of peanut butter sandwiches at midday with friends, harp music blasting through ten-foot speakers, artistic tattoos on people’s shoulders, and a thousand other details that brought the week to life in vivid detail.

That said, there were a couple highlights for me, aside from the joy of performing onstage for an enthusiastic audience. But that’s an entry for another time.

~Lisa Shafter

Insomniac Folklore Tour: The Beginning

July 4th, 2011

Welcome back to my blog, dear readers. I write this note in the backseat of a white van plastered with bumper stickers, a hand-crocheted flowered headband dangling from the rearview, wind whipping through the open windows since the air conditioning is broken, wide northwestern Missouri landscape sweeping by, and three friends and I quietly enjoying the folk tunes of Illalogical Spoon’s EP.

This is the beginning of a different kind of trip for me: touring with a band. Right now I’m sitting in the van with three friends, and three more new friends are taking a different car. I’ll introduce you to each of them, since you’ll be hearing a lot about them in the next few weeks.

First is Tyler. He’s the band leader, an Oregon guy who never settled down, the brains of the organization, banging out his anthem on a Sharpie-illustrated guitar. He is otherwise known as Reverend Dr. Folklore, and he’s the one who asked me out of the blue at a party if I wanted to play violin in his band. The next thing I knew, I was laying down tracks for the latest album and packing my bags for a month-long tour.

Adrienne is his newlywed wife, and has been my friend for several years now. Slender and always dressed like a gypsy, Adrienne sings back-up vox, throws candy at the audience, blow bubbles, occasionally juggles, and is the personal keeper of Wallace, our singing sheep puppet.

Amanda, Adrienne’s 17-year-old sister, is the sweet-smiling bassist. Even though she’s young, she’s very mature— I think if you average our two ages, that’s about how old she acts.

Ayden is the drummer, a skinny punk-looking kid who is coming with us as far as Oregon with his wife, Kourtney. Their friend Zach is also tagging along, juggling for our shows.

Put us all together, and you have a band, and now I’m on the road to the first venue of our tour, in Omaha. We just spent a week at the Cornerstone Music Festival in Illinois, but that deserves its own set of entries, which I will try to write tomorrow.

Amanda, Tyler, Josh (absent from the tour, sadly), Adrienne, and me in front

I can’t imagine what this kind of travel is going to be like, but I’ll find out soon enough. Stay tuned for updates!

~Lisa Shafter

http://www.insomniacfolklore.com