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. 

Belated aspirations

I desperately want to be good at something. I mean VERY good, not just good. It’s a leftover feeling from long ago, I think. Something that was never addressed. There were times in my life when that feeling didn’t matter, when all that mattered was “romance.” I would want to be VERY good for that particular man in 1970, another particular man in 1981. But now it’s too late for that. I can be GOOD for my husband now without giving up anything, because there’s not much to give up. No job, no place. All that’s been gone for a while. I’ll never get back to Massachusetts. It’s too late, and too expensive.

I became pretty good at some things. I suppose I was a pretty good writer, at times. As a grad student in English Literature, I wrote some mean papers. There was a teacher to please, so I was motivated, even though I was in my fifties. Compared to how I feel now, I felt YOUNG back then, as if doing well in class would bode well for my “future.” Why didn’t I feel that when I was younger? Because I was too busy being an adult, trying to handle a middle-management job at a weekly newspaper. I thought I was a big shot, dealing with stuff moment-to-moment, which ruled out the idea of studying anything seriously (although I should have studied management techniques).

Music kept rearing its lovely head when I least expected it. I was no prodigy at the piano when I was a kid taking lessons, but I enjoyed any opportunity to compose. Of course, that was rare, and only one teacher indulged it. No one encouraged me to go to ANY college, let alone music school. I wound up in art school because a friend urged me to join her, and it was cheap. There, at Massachusetts College of Art, a major in filmmaking led to more writing. As an afterthought I improvised some music for one of my films (long since lost to the dustbin).

Now, a veteran of several bands and sporadic guitar and voice lessons over the years, I am trying to be a serious musician? It makes no sense. I laugh at myself, and yet I continue. But how will I know if I have succeeded? These days, there is no way to tell. I currently participate in (don’t laugh) a weekly ukulele open mic online (among a few other open mics online). The first few times I was clearly more “professional” than most of the other players on this particular open mic; but this last time (tonight) I was not perfect. Now I’m feeling like shit. My weakness is not hitting the right vocal note when changing keys. I guess I should work on that. It’s all about working on stuff. Working and working and working. I am supposed to be retired! I’m 71 years old, for crissakes! Good thing we’re in the middle of a COVID resurgence! I have an excuse for always being in my chair, at the computer, with my ukulele in hand.

I keep writing songs, they do keep coming if I pay attention and, again, keep working, working working. But, what happens then? Except for the ones I recently recorded (which might as well be buried in an old mine, since nothing’s happening regarding completing what’s called “production,” and I’m too much of a wuss to nudge the person supposed to be doing that), my efforts are made in a vacuum. I can play them for one or two people, but that doesn’t satisfy me. At the same time, I’m very unsure of my worth in this area, and cannot bring myself to promote myself. It’s against my nature and nurture.

And now I can’t even bring myself to watch any songwriters playing their songs (especially if they are female) on YouTube or wherever. I don’t want to be distracted or influenced. Which tells me it’s really an EGO thing with me, and that I don’t really LOVE music as I should! If I did, I’d want to hear all of it, wouldn’t I? I remember failing an audition to get into a prestigious choral group in junior high. They asked for the Star Spangled Banner, or was it America the Beautiful? I can’t remember. My friend Caroline made it; I didn’t. At the time, I really didn’t care. I didn’t care about the music that group, called the Well-Wishers, was going to do. I liked folk and rock. I was happy playing that kind of song with my other girlfriend, Janice. As is the case (for me) now, we never played in front of anyone except a few friends. I don’t think Janice plays or sings at all now, although I have no evidence. I think she’s still alive, which is good. She’s probably a grandmother, or even a great-grandmother, roles I’ve not even considered for myself, since I don’t have kids.

I traded my first guitar, a classical, for some opium, back in 1967. Now I have three ukuleles, two guitars, a melodica, and eight harmonicas, and I’m about to finish a bottle of white wine. After which I will practice a song I just wrote called “Against Self-Examination.” There’s another open mic online tomorrow.

Emerging from Isolation

I have a suspicion that coming out of the COVID “lockdown” (or what passed for that in the U.S.) is scary for me. I feel raw, vulnerable. I do not want to SEE large groups of people let alone navigate large groups socially. I do not want to be running from one place to another. I am now used to having swaths of time to segue from writing to walking the dog, from singing to cooking. I have had a taste of living in a slow, civilized fashion, and I don’t want to give it up.

 

My luck (or “privilege,” as some would have it) has been good. Our house had been completely paid for a few years before COVID. I’d retired around the same time, so I didn’t have an income to lose, an essential job to endanger me, or obligations I’d have to invent an online process for. I took to “creativity”-related Zoom meetings eagerly. It seemed the perfect format for me. But then, difficulties DID arise with two people (one a family member, the other an acquaintance from decades ago who moved away, but during COVID became an online intimate, almost, without really being a real-life friend, simply because we had some things in common).

 

I do take things too seriously. A few critical comments from either of those people and I’m a ruminating wreck for hours. Even independent of those relationships, though, I often slip into a state where I simply don’t have a grip on who I am, whether I am good or bad, an artist or a hack, a narcissist or an empath. I observe other’s qualities, but I don’t think I judge them the way I judge myself. It’s much easier to imagine that I know who I am if I stay home and don’t have much to do with other people at all. In some cases, it’s also easier if I don’t even communicate with some people even online. I did not used to be this way, really. Maybe I’ve become more blunt, as well as more sensitive, and I’m tired of acting the part of the Nice, Helpful Woman. I can no longer imagine how I did the people-pleasing job I retired from!

 

Because it was necessary, because I couldn’t escape to a job or myriad activities, I think I became a better companion and a kinder partner for my husband during this time. It just happened, and I hope he agrees that it's true. I don’t think I could have done this with more than one other person, or maybe even any other person but him. This is probably a good thing, and I don’t think I twisted myself in knots to do it. 

 

I like to wait for my dreams to tell me things about myself, but my dreams during the past year or so have not been memorable. Only twice since March 2020 have I awoken in the night to write them down. The second time was just the other night. It was a semi-recurring dream about a person I was involved with when I was in my twenties, ending in a situation in which I was left wondering and confused. The specific dream situations change, but the confusion seems eternal. I really wanted more than that from my unconscious, but it goes its own way.

 

I’m now embarked on my seventies. Everything after this is 'lagniappe.' I am making use of it; I am writing songs and having them recorded. I have no idea if it’s worth it. The enterprise is unfamiliar because I have rarely done something like this under my own “steam” (as my mother used to call it). I do have one of those difficult people to thank for the initial impetus, but I continue dutifully, almost, pretending that I am someone else, I suppose, someone who has an obligation to herself and holds herself in some esteem. I have not yet become that person, though. And I am not able to think of it as "fun." I need to lighten up.