the other day on formspring someone asked me how many songs have been written about me, I have no idea. I have had tons of musicians in (and out) of my life. Wes Hutchinson was musician #2 for me and is known as "singer" in my book. He was wonderful then, and we split, and he is still wonderful to this day. I think Wes is the best songwriter I have ever known, honestly. I've never met anyone who had so many stacks and stacks of amazing demo tapes. I am still in awe daily that he isn't a huge star.
Singer and I started hanging out and things moved very slowly. He sat patiently as I told him my tales of being burned. I had a collection of war stories from inside my heart and an equally messy collection featuring my feet. I had been fighting against myself on two fronts, in love and in my career. Singer he was a great listener and we cautiously showed our scars to each other.
We spent our evenings sitting in his tiny studio apartment, just talking and talking. He never called me by my full name and instead called me, “KC.” I liked this pet name and I liked being his pet. He was just as lost as I was and every big break and misstep I took in the dance world paralleled Singer’s experiences as he struggled to make a name for himself in the music world. He was my boyfriend and I was his girlfriend, but really we were cheerleaders for each other’s dreams. We simply would not let each other give up and I was so thankful for that because there were many days I thought about lying down in the middle of the street and calling it quits.
Singer's East Village studio apartment had red walls, a pull out bed, and no windows. I remember thinking he was like Donald Trump for having a place like this all to himself and in the coolest neighborhood in New York City. A night at the studio was like a night at the Four Seasons, compared to my apartment back in Queens. We frequented a small store in neighborhood called Tiny Spaces, which sold mini-cups, desks, and couches perfectly suited for 8x6, New York City apartments. We sat on his tiny couch, drinking tiny cups of tea, and saving the small amount of money we each had. It took me almost an hour to get to his place from mine, and yet I still came and left every night. I would walk down St. Mark's Place and my heart would yearn for Rocker and the day we had spent together in NYC, rummaging through old CD's at vintage rock and roll shops, back when everything was simple, before I loved him and before he left. Back when I was a whole Keltie.
In my happiest moments with Singer, I never once thought about Rocker, but as soon as I was alone, his memory would perch on my shoulder and whisper sweet nothings and what might have been's into my ear. I was living in the past reminiscing about what we once had and living in the present falling for another guitar playing skinny jean wearing musicman. They were completely 100% different and completely 100% the same. I wondered if my heart would ever truly heal or if I would just keep finding new people to help fill in the gaps. I was missing one long haired shaggy rock and roll artist and had replaced him with one long haired shaggy rock and roll artist. Less than brilliant.
The first song ever written for me:
