An assemblage of concerns...

I just finished trying to record a song (in the studio I’ve been in before, with the person I’ve worked with before), and something was captured but I’m not sure it was worth capturing. It was a lament about David Foster Wallace’s untimely demise using his short story “Forever Overhead” as a theme. It’s getting so that I’ll write a song about anything. There was fingerpicking that I practiced for hours but was still unable to do perfectly, and there was singing that I hadn’t planned to do that seemed to be in a voice other than my own. This was the first step toward ANOTHER “album” and I’m not sure it was the right step. I could go on about the details, and how the next song will be a re-do of “Step Nine,” which is also fingerpicking, and after that I’m DONE with the sensitive acoustic stuff.

But what does this have to do with the price of eggs? Oh, yeah, there’s INFLATION going on, as well as payments on my “new” car which means I can’t spend anything extra on anything, and yet, here I am paying for recording services. It’s a bargain, though—I’m lucky. At my age, why am I so involved in this enterprise? I know I’ve asked that question before. My only answer is that focusing on music is safer emotionally, than a lot of other things. I’m beginning to think I’m a secret narcissist.

Russell doesn’t have much lined up in terms of magic shows, and I know that affects him. He’s spent his entire life perfecting his trade, and it must be difficult to not have an opportunity to perform. He does other helpful things in the world that seem to be excessive (like driving the homeless Dave L. around) but I understand that these deeds are purely beneficent, unlike doing things around the house that I might criticize. I wish I were a more positive force, but it turns out I’m a judgmental force. If I am any “force” at all.

Brother Brian is still here, and that’s good. I have no idea how this will turn out because I don’t know where Brian will go from here or when. I’m not sure I want him to go at all! In the meantime, it means that Russell and my “sex life” is limited (lack of privacy), but it was going in that direction anyway. There is a lot more between me and Russell than that, however.

And now youngest brother Ray may have some kind of blood disease (like leukemia?). He’s in the hospital for tests. This is a slowly settling weight on all of us siblings.

Here’s the stupid topper: Marianne O. requested (more than once) that I send her my CD. On the CD is a song about her (“It Ain’t Me or You, Babe”) that is NOT flattering. No names, no identifiable details, but she may recognize some descriptions. I was postponing sending it, but Russell mailed the package that I left on the table. So it’s too late. All I can do is be honest if she asks any questions. She’s wanting to “communicate” again, but who knows why? I tell myself I’m willing to be straight with her, but I may not even get the chance. What have I gotten from her except the dubious thrill of knowing someone who is an excellent musician? She did encourage me to record my songs, but she doesn’t consider me a contender, and she dislikes my email writing style (which is all I’ve got, really).

Also, I feel I’m not giving enough energy to various REAL friendships due to the home situation (which takes my attention whether it needs it or not) and the growing focus on practicing and writing songs. I’m actually PROUD of myself for giving enough time to music finally. And yet, there’s guilt. There always was.

Coming back to "life"...

Anxiety can keep a person up at night. Anxiety is triggered by identification with dire circumstances and projection of possible awfulness. I wouldn’t get anxious about just anyone, but when it comes to my siblings, it’s almost as if I am THEY and THEY are me. I’ve had to deal with sibling circumstances and possible awfulness a few times in my life, as the oldest of six. The most recent episode is still unfolding.

 

My middle brother is now living in our house, sleeping on the couch and presiding at a desk tucked away in a corner. He partakes of meals at the one extra place at our table, and his appetite is improving. Our house is tiny, but we’re managing to maneuver around each other. It feels crowded, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. My alone-time (if I even recognize a need for it, which I often fail to do) has to be taken outside the house; either that or I have to shut the door to my little office/studio, which I rarely do because of the dog, who will whine and sometimes bark outside the shut door. Not to mention that if I’m home at all, I feel I MUST be available to whoever lives here— to serve their needs. Cultural conditioning, I suppose.

 

My brother has his own relationship with music. He loves Brazilian styles, perhaps because he once had a Brazilian girlfriend. He loves smooth jazz and "easy listening" from a bygone era (the 1950s and ‘60s). He doesn’t actively listen to any of it now, though, at least not more than a few seconds of it. It’s almost as if he enjoys KNOWING about it more than the music itself. He claims to abhor vocal music, as did our father. This means that I’m now even more self-conscious about practicing my own music in the house. My brother doesn’t want to hear any of my songs, though one of them is about him.

 

Having retired too early from his relatively great job in Atlanta, my brother let his life slide into minimal maintenance mode, especially during COVID. When his duplex was sold and he was given notice, he didn’t, and in fact, COULDN’T do anything about it. His refusal to communicate about this, even with family, led to my aforementioned anxiety. That propelled me to pay him a surprise visit, and indeed, the situation was approaching “dire.” Now that he’s here, I can keep an eye on him, and he’s coming back to “life” (although what sort of life can we offer? He will have to make some decisions soon, and that’s not his strength. At 60, his strength is still CONVERSATION, amusing and erudite, though now interrupted by unexplained sighs).

 

I wish we had a bigger house; I’ve always wished for spaciousness and high ceilings, even though I don’t deserve them. I wouldn’t care how old and crumbling the house was, I just need room to move and places to put stuff. That unfulfilled desire is a recurring, pointless sorrow I cannot erase after all these years, despite frequent applications of Buddhist-style thoughts and prayers. Years ago we had amazing chances to purchase larger dwellings, but weren’t ready financially (though I, perhaps wrongly, blame my husband’s fear of commitment for the stall in home-buying action). We bought this tiny house in 1999, just before prices began soaring in the early 2000s. It’s too late now, as prices have soared again beyond comprehension. I’m on a small fixed income, and my husband is trying to re-start his entertainment business, which was never very lucrative, but it’s what he wants to do.

 

But, isn’t music the important thing for me right now (according to my recent posts here on this blog)? I would have thought so, but since my brother’s been here, it seems less so. Writing and practicing my songs seems an ivory-tower activity now. A luxury I allowed myself during COVID, but which is now moot. Though I’ve recently struggled (successfully) through three public performances, I realize it’s not my favorite thing. Songwriting is what I love, and that calls for privacy. I have two “gigs” coming up, and the thought of doing my own (now old) songs over and over is making me nauseous. I will do it, but only because I’ve been asked and have agreed. I would seem ungrateful if I refused, and I do like SOME of the subsequent attention though I don’t NEED it. Younger performers have more energy and believe in self-promotion and probably NEED the whole scene.

 

I am (relatively) old, and tire more easily, and can’t stay awake more than 16 hours after first arising, and can’t memorize chord progressions and don’t want to stand up while performing. All of this should disqualify me from live performance, but it hasn’t. Perhaps people are humoring me BECAUSE I’m old. There is so much music out there; I have to ask WHY ME?! But if it didn’t happen, I’d probably be asking, WHY NOT ME?!.

 

Meanwhile, my brother has to get back on his feet, societally speaking. I have no tools to make this happen except my caring. I won’t pressure him to “seek help” because that’s been tried, and it simply doesn’t take with some people. I think it has to be organic and sincere and possibly long-term. My siblings are too smart and cynical for their own good. I am not unlike them.

Can't really stop...

I’m a little past “three-score and ten.” I should be winding down by now. That thought hovers in the background as I, instead, gear up. Not that my physical body enjoys this. My feet are numb from peripheral neuropathy, an inherited affliction that no one can do anything about. My larger joints and muscles have ceased to benefit from frequent or slightly strenuous exercise and require only that they be moved in some way every day. I am not keeping up with the housework, but then, I never did. And yard work is beyond considering, even though it’s desperately needed (according to American lawn standards).

I made this music, this “album,” in 2021, and it’s being “released” now online, with the “hard copy” coming soon. I’ll give those CDs away; it seems crazy to charge money for the privilege of possibly being listened to. Somehow, I got a half-hour gig in April at a ukulele festival (thanks to Kirk Jones, an almost Christ-like local ukulele teacher). I practiced an eight-song set daily for two weeks, including the patter between songs. I included only three originals because I didn’t want to challenge anyone. Four or five friends were there to hear me play. I played seated, with a music stand holding my printed-out song information.

The other performers played standing up with no props. This scenario may be repeated in July (again at Kirk’s invitation). It would be helpful to gain more experience between now and then, but there have been no offers, and I am not sure I possess much self-promotional energy, although I do value my own “creativity,” such as it is.

This whole solo music thing is not something I could have predicted, and I’m not sure if it helps anyone but me (pyschologically, not monetarily). I am often mired in the minutiae of song details and finger-picking patterns, and now, online voice lessons (to deal with a few unwanted cracks in my ancient vocal range). At night when I lay me down to sleep, melodies I’ve written or played swirl through my brain, unwanted and not enjoyed. My inner voice says, “Stop it. Stop it!” Sometimes that works, sometimes not. I should be thinking about the world, about the suffering of humans and other beings, but I rarely dwell on that. I read the news headlines, that's all, and that's enough. Social forces have readily channeled any desire for political action into the notion of donating money, which I cannot easily do; I am spending any “disposable” income on music-related items and services, like recording studio time.  https://www.startlinglyfreshrecords.com/marylyncoffey.html   

 
This all could be seen as a vanity project, and as such, reprehensible. But other people are encouraging me, and I am NOT feeling vain about it at all, but rather self-conscious. Still, throughout my life, I always knew how to find other people to tell me to do things I already wanted to do, from having sex to spending money on getting my hair done. Now it’s playing music and writing songs. I’ll never be a great ukulele player, and in fact, I think of my baritone ukulele as an easier guitar. I am not wildly enthusiastic about ukulele group strums or festivals, and my own songs

are drastically introspective in both fictional and direct ways. I was told my songwriting is “quirky” during an online open mic the other day. Sometimes people comment on the clever lyrics. I wish they’d cite the “interesting” chord progressions, too, but I realize I sometimes create them just to BE “interesting” and to involve odd melodies that take some doing to memorize (that’s the only part of a song that I DO memorize these days, since I cannot write them down).

This September I was asked to plan an hour-long set of originals for “Concerts on the Dock,” an outdoor venue that’s usually quite well-attended. Again, I’ll be opening for the opening act, but still, it’s something. The crazy thing is, I’ll be backed by what I consider to be REAL musicians, jazz guys who actually read music. This will involve some rehearsing. I imagine it will be very different from the current haphazard biweekly sessions in Huey’s basement (the guitarist/leader of my old ‘90s band, the Lonesome Lovers) with Claudette playing bass and Huey randomly bringing up old songs we used to do. And yet I keep thinking about death (not as far away as it used to be), and climate change (not as far away as it used to be), and the necessity to straighten out my “affairs” and clear out the house (although the problem is mostly Russell’s stuff, not mine). What have I brought to this world? No new human beings, thank goodness. But have I helped anyone? And is “helping people” just an old-fashioned notion mostly foisted on women to keep them out of trouble? To keep them from cluttering up the landscape with their personal shit? I do not know. All I know is, I can’t really stop now.