Indiana Rain
Written by Sandy Kastel

She woke from a dream and started to cry
She turned to the window and watched the cars passing by
A chill ran through her veins she remembered he's not here
She buried her head in his pillow to fight off her tears

Indiana Rain coming down in the middle of the night
Put an end to this misery that's burning deep inside
Trapped in their empty home it's been driving her insane
Indiana Rain won't you wash away her pain

It was a cold and icy day when he said good-bye
In her mind she could see his face and feel him by her side
Her heart is breaking though he's been gone a year
She's holding on to his memory but it's time to face her fears

Indiana Rain coming down in the middle of the night
Put an end to this misery that's burning deep inside
Trapped in their empty home it's been driving her insane
Indiana Rain won't you wash away her pain

She kneels before the stone that bares his name
Says it's time to let you go, but in my heart you'll remain
I promise you we'll be together someday
She took one last look, she turned and walked away

Indiana Rain coming down in the middle of the night
Put an end to this misery that's burning deep inside
Trapped in their empty home it's been driving her insane
Indiana Rain won't you wash away her pain
Indiana Rain won't you wash away her pain

I arrived in Las Vegas yesterday from Indianapolis on Southwest Flight 1240. On the way home in the car I realized I left my notebook on the plane in the pocket in front of my seat. I called Southwest Airlines. After three calls and twenty minutes of being on hold and an earful of music, I gave my information to a courteous woman from Southwest Airlines Central Baggage Claim.  

She took my information, then told me I should go back to the baggage claim office within the next twenty-four hours in case they found it, otherwise it would be thrown away. As soon as the driver let me off at the house I pulled my luggage into the hallway and changed my clothes. I didn’t want to spend the rest of the evening in the high heels and suit I wore on the plane.

I slipped into my white cotton summer dress with the scooped neck, mid-length sleeves and ruffles. I thought about wearing my lime green low-heeled gierlereoriu’s but opted for the multi-colored Swarovsky crystal covered ballet slippers instead, going for comfort. I transferred the contents from my Louis Vouton travel purse to my ivory Brighton shoulder bag and headed towards the garage.

Before I could take either of the cars out I had to disconnect them from the battery chargers. This is a habit my husband and I started a couple years ago when we discovered our car batteries would be dead when we returned after long trips. As it turns out the complicated computers in the later model Mercedes drain the batteries if they aren’t driven for extended lengths of time.  So now, when we go away we keep both of our cars hooked up to battery chargers.

I decided to take the AMG. It was the car my husband bought for me to drive. It’s supposed to be just like my SL 600, which is back in Indiana now, but it makes much more noise when the engine starts and has a different feel on the road. I do like the color, though. It's Mars Red.

Before I could go any further I had to stop and get something to eat. Driving towards Redrock on West Sahara Boulevard I turned left at Fort Apache to Flamingo Road then turned right and drove past the 215 Freeway to the large mall with Target and 24 Hour Fitness. I parked in front of Fudruckers, ready for a really good burger and onion rings.

It's been over two months since I walked through those doors. I’ve been watching what I eat; cutting back beef, starches and sugar; focusing mostly on chicken, fish and vegetables.  

After finishing half of my burger, a third of my onion rings and one quarter of the A&W Root Beer; I was ready to go to McCarren Airport and see if I could find my notebook. It was one of the new thin black journals I bought at Target a couple weeks ago in Indiana. I found them when I was shopping for a scale so I could track my weight loss. It came in a package of two for only $3.99, much less than I had paid for my Moleskin journals in the past.

The sad thing about losing any kind of notebook for me is that it has my notes in it. Notes from meetings, ideas for songs, beginnings of stories, drawings of designs for the new home we're building. Luckily, I only started using this one a week ago. Unfortunately, I had a lot of notes already in it. Also, there were references from phone conversations pertaining to the meetings I had in Nashville regarding my radio promotion for the single from my new album, Indiana Rain. We had three meetings; one with my radio promoter, another with a publicist and a third with a videographer.

If I don’t get my notebook back, all of those notes will be lost to me forever. Ugh! What a devastating thought. Like many situations in life; if that is what happens, then I will survive. We humans do have an uncanny ability to survive most situations in our daily lives. We might feel devastated or lost for a while, but we manage to pull ourselves together and cope with the challenges placed before us.

This is only a minor setback for me, nothing major. It is merely an annoyance; a distraction which will not dramatically affect my life. It only makes me take note, ah, yes, there are those words again. “Take note”. That is what I do. I take notes. I make notes. I reference my notes. My notes fill books that line my bookshelves and stack on my floor or dressers.

I keep my notes for years, important notes maybe even forever. I don’t think I have ever willingly thrown out a note, unless I re-notated it in another place, such as another “note” book. Then and only then do I feel comfortable throwing out the old note. Hmmm. I wonder what that means. Maybe I will make a note about it and write a book about it when I have time to go through all my notes.

p.s. They haven’t found my notebook, yet. The woman at the baggage claim office said it hadn’t been turned in, but that the plane went on to New Orleans. She gave me the number for their office and said that the plane would be swept more thoroughly at the final stop of the night. I phoned New Orleans this morning. They didn’t find it either. The Southwest Attendant told me if the plane was not swept well enough the notebook might be found at another destination. Then it would be turned into Southwest Central Baggage Claim, at which time they would contact me. Who knows, maybe someone found my notes interesting and decided to keep the book. After all, there were still so many pages left to fill with notes.

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht frist and lsat ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by itslef but the wrod as a wlohe.

What’s Too Much?
by Sandy Kastel

People say I do too much. What's too much? I always seem to be working on a variety of activities at the same time. I find myself going back and forth between them and the energy from one will often fuel the other.

The same people wonder how I’ve been able to accomplish so much in my lifetime. I feel one of the main reasons for this is that I allow myself the freedom to be open to explore the possibilities without limiting myself, which makes it possible for me to bring several projects to completion within a similar period of time.

Also, I love learning. Give me a class in something; anything. Well, almost anything.

I've studied body therapies like massage, reiki, shiatsu, Alexander Technique and Feldenkrais; studied psychology, human behavior and the relationship between astrology and the human psyche; studied the use of the English language and foreign languages.

I’ve explored the use of symbols in dreams, inner work and self-help books; learned about meditation, IChing, runes and tarot cards; been boating, canoeing, kayaking and sailing; gone skiing, played tennis, raquetball and golf; studied various forms of dance such as ballet, tap, modern and jazz.

I've taken classes in fine arts, drawing, painting, mixed media and sculpture; been in acting classes, musical theater, television commercial and film study groups; learned juggling, sword-fighting and archery, breathing techniques, tai-chi, chi-gong, yoga and Pilates.

I've written poetry, songs, plays, articles and books; learned word processing, graphics, recording and film editing programs; attended modeling schools, publishing seminars, design schools, jewelry making classes, learned clothing design, home decorating, interior design and designed architectural elements for homes.

I'm a daughter, a sister, a wife and a friend. I've been a singer, an actress, a dancer, a model and a beauty contestant, a salesgirl, a photographer, a receptionist and a secretary, a student, a teacher and a mentor, an artist, a sculptor and a clothing designer, a musician, a songwriter and an author, a director, a producer and a playwright.

Many of the skills I've learned have become integrated into my work. Others add only a touch of flavor to my vast canvas, the subtle textures undetectable by the inexperienced eye.

I wonder who will pick up on the complexity of who we are as individuals when all is said and done and we have turned to dust at the end of our run. Will there be anyone out there who notices the quality of details that went into the making of who we have become and what we leave behind in the world?

Will there be a movie about me; or a book written to analyze my contribution to the world? Will anyone notice when I am gone? Will it matter that I learned what I did and cared enough to put my all into my work? Will it make a difference to anyone but me? Will anyone care then - that I did too much?