Navigating the strait of jazz-schmooze

What is writing to me? Is it self-expression? Is it a search for a self to express? Is it a plea for attention from an imaginary reader? I don’t know, but sentences form in my head to try to explain things, particularly when things aren’t to my liking. As were many things today at the jazz jam.

I had come up with some wise general statements a short while ago as I tried to meditate, all of which I’ve forgotten. I have only this: Other people are often the cause of annoyance for me, not always through behaviors, but because I feel they cannot “see” me as they go about their activities. Likewise, I cannot “see” them. These personalities all around me—they seem insignificant, in the long run. As, of course, do “I.” I’m more torqued about my own insignificance than theirs. After all, I can give them some significance if I want to; I can pay some attention, make some comment, pretend they are real. These are good moves, because my existence depends on these others, in a way. If I acknowledge them, they might acknowledge me. However, sometimes they don’t, despite my ministrations.

I wonder why I was in such a bad mood though? Granted, I wasn’t as enthusiastic about going to the jam (which was at The Dish today) as I have been. It’s been three weeks since a jam, due to a fifth Sunday followed by Easter Sunday. (Of course there have been open mics, but that’s a different set of “other people” with its own problems.)

I’m supposed to (in my own mind) “love” Kirby. And I’m supposed to (in my own mind) “care” about Wil (who seemed in a very positive frame of mind last night when we saw him at the VBC after the Bela Fleck concert, and gave him a ride home). I remember feeling glad that he seemed to be doing better than he had been, and that he was actually exercising some, he said. I wondered if he’d be “dressed up” today or not.

He was not. He seems to have embraced the dark-colored androgynous turtlenecks and soft pants he bought for his trip to Florida. There’s still the wig, though—unkempt, inappropriate, odd. That is always enough to annoy me all by itself. His impulse to perform is as healthy as ever, and I always wonder why he doesn’t see himself as I see him, and try to improve his appearance and disorganized approach to music before getting up there and singing. I attribute his bizarre confidence to being brought up as a male and to having made a more-than-adequate living with his math smarts so that he worries not about paying for his new Subaru. Which makes his apparent wish to be female (in a mostly superficial way) more than a little ironic. One thing, perhaps, that trans women don’t understand or try to adopt (who would?!) is the constantly nagging internal perception of oneself as a second-class citizen, a basic (early) feminist-observed phenomenon, and probably still a reality for many women.

I had been planning on singing “Close Your Eyes,” and asked Pete if he still had the music. He said he did. Though I am frequently hesitant, I thought, well, I’ll SING it, then, when I get the chance. Kirby got up first; a microphone was brought and produced such horrendous feedback that I rose from my chair and left the room (but not in time to save my ears). Kirby sang and I played some harmonica (which I’m getting weary of on “Stormy Monday”) and Ted sang, and then Kirby sang again, and then Sharla arrived.

I am sweet to Sharla, despite my internal grumblings. She’s a semi-innocent diva with pitch troubles, but a great tone and of course, beauty, which she is very conscious of using and maximizing. And she also plays flute on instrumental numbers, so I knew she’d do more than one song. Therefore, I essentially gave up the idea of singing my song, and said so to Ted (who was sitting alone behind us (me, Wil, Kirby) in a black hat and exuding a vaguely Napoleonic air). I was surprised and not pleased when he rushed up there immediately after Sharla’s “set” to sing “Blue Skies” (his second song!) without encouraging me to sing instead. (I suppose I really am depending on the kindness of (relative) strangers! My attitude was slightly passive-aggressive.) I went so far as to hold the lyrics for Ted since there was no music stand. He had no idea how pissed off I was.
    Kirby had some more guests (from the mosque) come in, so of course she had to sing another one, and I got to play melodica. But I had really wanted to sing.

Additionally, Tom Branch began bashing the drums so hard, I got up and almost left the room again, muttering something. It doesn’t cause actual pain in my ears, but it creates some sort of shock.

I usually have some “kindness” (that is, calculated acknowledgement) to dispense to Rick Pappas and Deborah Saylor, but today I had none. I had no energy for goodbyes, either, so I just left. Inside I was pouting, but I try not to whine in front of anyone. I merely start thinking how rinky-dink this whole enterprise is. And how rinky-dink I am as a participant. This harsh judgment of my own pastimes may have originated with Felicia, but it wormed its way into my brain, and will poison almost everything if I let it. It’s related to the more general idea that nothing we humans do means anything—because of impermanence and death (not to mention unstable value/meaning systems). Also, Felicia accuses me of pouting as part of her persistent treatment of me as if I were an unsatisfactory child. That said, our family zoom today was probably the better part of my day, since we didn’t overtly argue.

Back at home after the jazz jam, I ate something-or-other and then went through a few minutes of WHAT-THE-HELL-IS-WORTH-DOING?! In these golden years, mindless exercise is frequently my answer to that question, since it contributes to so-called health, but this time it seemed pointless. So I meditated for ten minutes, because I’d just watched an interview with the writer George Saunders, and he said he was a meditator. (I do imitate others, more than I like to admit.)

To top it off, Russell is anxiously getting ready for his drive to Knoxville tomorrow to visit with Widower Bob for a week, so he’s not listening to me when I speak, and continues to be distracted by Facebook and YouTube while also trying to wash clothes and pack. There are many times lately (maybe it’s always been this way?) that I feel do not get what I “need” from him. But who says he has to provide for my psychological/emotional “needs”? What if he simply can’t? What if I can’t for him? What if neither of us can for ourselves?

And then there’s Brian, who pretends he has no needs; look where it got him! Living in an alcove behind a curtain in the cluttered little house of his older sister. Strangely, today I have not worried about Brian very much at all, so he has been the one person who has not gotten on my nerves. But I’m sure his existence will trouble me tomorrow, though, which would be normal.

 

The terrible, horrible, no good night...

What’s missing these days is that urge to write. I used to have an eagerness to get typin’ especially when it was about myself. But now I see myself as a helpless peon dismayed and fearful like everyone else who’s paying attention—as far as the outside world goes—and worrying about my mortality and my life’s worth on the inside of me. All while compulsively playing and singing songs over and over again at meagerly-attended open mics.

Tonight’s open mic was a disaster for me, mentally. I’d yelled at Brian earlier in the day, and thought I wasn’t disturbed by it, but I must have been. Everything was wrong at Liquor Express. Everything around me, what people did, said, looked like. Kirby was there, with Roy and Andrea, which flummoxed me. They’re JAZZ people! Wrong scene, clash of cultures, or perhaps my inability to play both roles at once. And I had nothing much to present musically. So I wound up doing “Ain’t Nobody’s Business” and “Easy Street” on the acoustic, which I wasn’t used to doing. Later, after Kirby left, I noodled on that weird electric thing from Australia, to an open tuning…while Tim was packing up. I’d soothed myself last night with that.

While I was at the open mic, Debbie texted me to suggest her and Rob taking me and Russell out to dinner TOMORROW. Not enough notice, and I can’t do that sort of thing anyway. (Just as I won’t be able to take her up on her offer to accompany me on a day excursion out of Huntsville). So I texted back how busy I was. And she got upset because I didn’t THANK HER FIRST for the offer. I tried to explain but she didn’t want to talk about it. And here I thought she was a counselor.

But, is going out to eat with another couple a normal thing? Whether it is or not, it’s not something Russell and I have done in the past twenty years. We tried earlier in our marriage, and nothing went wrong, but it was not fun. The thought of it NOW scares me. (And this is after bragging to Paige last night that I was so at ease, socially.)
    Perhaps all this “ease” is another masking. I certainly will only actively socialize if the time frame is limited. Three hours (open mic length) is just about too much. A crowded party is a little better because one can seek out a variety of conversations. But the forced “good behavior” of dining with another couple?! Without alcohol? I cannot consider it. And that was foremost in my mind when declining the invitation. Too bad, because apparently expressing appreciation was THE most important thing to Debbie. She doesn’t want to talk about it, but I do. Maybe at Allana’s.

I am neither aghast at my own neglect of “manners” nor proud of my quick, rotten responses. But where can I be “myself”? How much of what I have been thinking lately as MYSELF unmasked really is that? Am I only myself at home? And intermittently? Russell is always chiding me for some verbal faux pas or other. We discuss, I rationalize. Is it that I don’t KNOW what other people want and/or how I should treat them? Or that I don’t care? Some of both?

Being in a pissed-off mood, I made a loud remark toward Tim’s girlfriend (or ex-wife) about being “substituted for” when I returned from the Liquor Express restroom and found Tim playing harmonica with Mike Perry. But it was half insincere. I apologized to Tim’s girlfriend (ex-wife?) once Mike’s set was over (and I’d played on “Beautiful Boy” anyway), but then she insisted on trying to cheer me up or boost my “self-esteem” or something and she was really getting on my nerves. I told her it would all have been better if I’d been drinking. She said, “So have a drink!” I had to explain, and that was more than I wanted to share. With her anyway. She left later and sat at the bar. I had told her straight up that I was a JERK, and I was. People may need to start accepting that about me, because apparently, I screw up the simplest of interactions.

 

I’m inclined not to take all this heavily, but part of me does. I tell myself that it’s OK to yell at Brian because the less comfortable he feels here, and the crazier he thinks I am, the sooner he’ll find a place to live and leave. But that’s probably not the way it works. The source of my anger seems obvious, but not to him. How can I say, “I don’t want you here and I never did!” So it has to be about something else, in this case, his dismissal of my good deed in putting his bike behind the gate when he’d left it out in plain sight. “I think you remember when it was almost stolen,” I said. He said, “So you said.” I yelled that he was saying I lied. But the best thing I said was, “No, we can’t talk about this later. You can’t just slip on a rainbow coat of rationality— we’re HUMAN.” His mild-mannered, calculated calm in all matters drives me nuts. I did make him slam the door slightly, and I think that might have been good for him, but what do I know?

You know, I want to be “right.” I really do. I bristle when people disagree with me about certain observations I might make or about things I think are self-evident. With an emphasis on “self.” I bristle when I’m told how to do things. I bristle when Brian interjects into every overheard conversation his encyclopedic “knowledge.” I just bristle all the time. I try to keep it at a low boil when I’m “out” or relating to non-intimate friends. But today I simply failed. Is this the beginning of the end? Both Mike and Ted texted me later to see if I was “OK.” Well, that’s nice. But I can’t really TALK at length to either of them. And now I probably have (even more of) a reputation as a “difficult” person.
    Fuck it. Nothing great was ever going to happen with this scene anyway. I’m either not good enough, or too weird. And I wouldn’t want a bar gig anyway. Nor would I want a “house concert.” My specialty is hit-and-run; I can only be “inspired” for short bursts. Four songs is almost too many (although I slogged away for four hours at the Green St. Market last summer, but that was different).

I’m losing my impetus to practice my old songs. But I’ve written a new song to that open tuning mentioned earlier, though I didn’t play it tonight. It might need memorizing, it is so fast-paced (which reminds me—all Eric’s songs tonight were awfully slow, which yes, made me bristle aesthetically, but I’m not going to mention it to him). To what end all these attempts to maintain acquaintanceships though? And to what end all these songs, which in my case are really poems in disguise, set to music to make them more palatable?

Felicia questioned (by email) why I didn’t pursue a lucrative “career” starting in my twenties, but I just wanted to laugh in her face. If I try to explain about the times, the hippie ethos, the REAL underlying causes of the women’s movement whose achievements she benefited from, she just asks more questions. Unfortunately, I like to answer those questions, and so it goes on forever. She’ll never understand. Is she alone in that? Does anyone around me understand me? Russell “manages” me, but does he sympathize? And when I tried to ask Felicia some questions about herself, she said she’d already answered them years ago. She is a person who doesn’t enjoy writing about past. How can that be?! Does that mean she’s less selfish? I don’t think so, because in Zooms she’s impatient, critical, and likes to direct the conversation.

About focusing on one thing, though—how do I ever know it’s the RIGHT thing? Plus, I don’t enjoy anything enough to do it all day and all night, and when I anticipate getting something done “in a minute” and then open Facebook, I am easily distracted by the impulse to comment on things that stir a thought or two, as if people needed my input. (This occurs in person, too, though I don’t address every damn topic as Brian does). I am not sure this has anything to do with my imagined struggle to get any serious consideration of my “work” in this Huntsville music scene (small portions of which are all I dabble in anyway). Maybe more gigs with Mike? I don’t know. Maybe it’s the ukulele. Also, I’m almost 76 years old. What can happen NOW? Only decline. And naturally, invisibility, even if I sing loudly and include “bad words” in my lyrics.

If I listened to my sensible side, I’d quit this racket and start farming in my backyard. We might need the food.

Just the usual nest of brain-vipers...

The mood I’m in today is one of barely-suppressed anxiety, guilt, and disappointment—multiple, ever-fresh springs within my psyche in which swim the usual brain-vipers.

I just returned from a sparsely-attended jazz jam at the Huntsville Community Drumline building (jams are scheduled for four Sundays a month now) without getting what I apparently needed, and had the (perhaps erroneous?) impression that it hadn’t mattered at all that I was there. I do understand that I’m NOTHING in the great scheme of jazzy things, but I’d wanted more “recognition” than I got. I probably am incapable of conjuring an objective estimation of myself. My initial pleasure in a well-done harmonica solo (on “Autumn Leaves,” of all things) was not validated by anyone but Kirby. She’s my friend, and an incorrigible encourager and booster of amateurs, so I’m not sure I believe her. We did have a guest pianist, Tim Springer, who was not as verbal or versatile as Pete Hamilton. Now I’m pondering getting Pete some sort of gift, but I cannot imagine what. He’s pompous, yes, but he’s also absolutely foundational for these events and so accommodating of all of us.

My guilt bubbles up mostly from the situation with Wil. I admit I am painfully ambivalent about his “trans” appearance. If he had stayed the nerdly, awkward, but normal-looking man that he used to be, I’d be much more inclined to help him out socially. He dresses “femme” now, but makes no effort to BE womanly, and has not insisted on “she/her.” There is no difference in personality whatsoever. I fear others’ opinion of him, others’ disapproval (of which I have no proof) will spill onto me. Two weeks ago at the jazz jam at the Valley Conservatory, his dress stuck to his underpants when he got out of his car, exposing his pale, wrinkled legs and flat ass. Renee (the school owner) happened to be outside and pointed it out. I quickly swiped down Wil’s dress while Wil himself seemed oblivious of what was happening. I think Renee found it funny, and I’m sure she would never say Wil cannot attend the jam! It’s a public event! But what is my responsibility here?! When I send Wil info about possible things for him to do, nothing happens; he doesn’t leave his house. Then he calls me to ask what’s going on. He depends on me, but he’s a grown person my age. What the fuck?! Does he think we’re best girlfriends now?! Clearly, I am a horrible “girlfriend” for not caring enough about him to vociferously include him in every damn thing I do.

Lately, Russell has been hinting that he views me as narcissistic. I try to examine my speech and behavior, and yes, I do talk a lot about myself, think a lot about myself, and wonder what OTHERS think of me. It’s all true. If I’m not getting positive vibes, then I immediately think I’m hated. I have to talk myself out of this perception, which takes a few seconds, but still, the thought, having been in my brain for a moment, leaves a sticky residue. Am I liked? Or are people just pretending? Does Kirby, in reality, think I’m a jerk with a few redeeming qualities? Have I failed Russell in this marriage by not paying enough attention to him or asking him enough questions?

He always appreciates it when I do ask questions (but then I let myself in for 20 minutes' discourse on sleight-of-hand or the history of certain magic posters). He never has to ask ME questions because I just go ahead and talk about myself and my interests. I wish both of us knew better questions. I feel that we still don’t know each other well, though we do have much in common and have learned to get along (I suppose). Of course some things about me he probably wouldn’t want to know. And it seems, from what he says, that the “world” views him as the saintly, helpful one—and views me as the selfish, self-absorbed, disruptive one. But then there’s the matter of his behaving one way in his charitable activities and another at home, where he lets boxes pile up and has no regard for the condition of the house we both live in.

Brother Brian claims to have had a job offer from Publix, but has not said if he’ll take it. He still needs a photo I.D. We get no progress reports, only hints. It’s wearying. Sister Felicia provoked me this morning during our Sibling Zoom meeting; I flashed her the finger, then lied and said I didn’t. She definitely has less respect for me than she used to, or maybe it’s that she no longer disguises the fact that she never really thought much of me in the first place. And now I’m scheduled to “analyze” myself in terms of “archetypes” at this “workshop” that Allana from Debbie’s “spirituality” group is giving for the two of us (me and Debbie) tomorrow. Fuck that, basically. Although I’m happy to talk about myself, of course, I don’t like the format. Allana is pretty smart, but I will probably try to derail her “instructions” anyway. That’s what I do. (All those quotation marks above? I meant every one of them!)

My biggest disappointment, I hate to say, is that Don Henry, Grammy-winning co-songwriter, has not replied to my email yet again. I wish he’d just explain UP FRONT that he doesn’t do that sort of thing (comment on people’s songs) without payment. 

I’m a fool, I suppose, if I continue to think I’m worth communicating with just because I can write a decent email, share a fun song, and had a songwriting workshop with him twice. I’m nobody to him. I ran into him because he was in town to play a few songs (all of which I’d heard before) at Jim Parker’s Songwriters’ Series, which Russell and I spent three freezing hours attending in Mars Music Hall. The other two songwriters (old men also) were quite amusing. Jim Parker, who usually deigns to at least make a snide-ish remark to me in other situations, did not notice me at all. We sat with Jani and Greg, and also Wayne and Deb from Harmony Sound. I suppose it was Wayne and Deb’s table; maybe I should thank them in person tomorrow, just in case they hate me too.

Is it a good sign that I am thinking so hard about other people’s opinions of me? Ha, ha. At least I am not isolated. In fact, there is altogether too much People Stuff going on. Recently agreeing to work on a few songs with Ted Alexander isn’t helping. My energy level is down. Lately I look forward WAY TOO MUCH to lying in bed and reading and then falling asleep, and sometimes I don’t want to wake up. But, being the Dutiful One (that will be one of my “archetypes”),

I do wake up each morning (around 10:30) and then actually GET UP, so as to perform my self-inflicted exercise routine and at least consider buying some meat with which to make dinner. And I ain’t gonna skip the open mics. I have to prove myself if it kills me. (Hope that’s not a prediction.) Also, I miss my cat. 

2026 and/or bust...

Among the conceptual scavengers rummaging around in my brain lately is the idea that my life is rushing to a mostly-unsatisfactory close. A few months ago, I was intermittently haunted by the number 76, which is the age I’ll be—not this April, but next—in 2026. I toyed with the notion that it might be my last year on earth, although I don’t know why. I have felt something approximating this for a while now. Perhaps once I stopped being able to have a few beers, relax, and provide my consciousness with a sense of ease rather than the almost constant worry it soberly hosts nowadays, it made sense to believe that the end was likely near. Both parents having lived past 90 doesn’t guarantee anything. Every day it crosses my mind that I’d better make that last will and testament.

Since the election there has been plenty of non-personal stuff to worry about. Any aspect of that could easily be the cause of my vaguely anticipated demise—from a carelessly started nuclear war, to climate-change tornadoes and fires, to inflation making healthy food unaffordable, to the yanking away of Medicare and Social Security benefits. I’m already anticipating having to work some job, give up my songwriting and other “hobbies” due to the resulting time constraints. That will lead lead to stress and medical issues that I’ll find no help for. Sister Felicia would say I’m paranoid. I say, be prepared for the worst.

I do not fail to notice that my concerns are, for the most part, personal. I do not share my friend Joy’s emotional identification with Mother Earth. I know my empathy for others exists, because I feel it looming when I think about Gaza, or the homeless, or those who’ve recently been dismissed from their government jobs for no good reason. It’s painful to indulge those feelings for more than a minute or two, but they are always in the background.

And I seem to have lost the will to acknowledge, let alone pursue, invisible connections to the “divine.” Yes, it’s true I attend a monthly “spirituality” discussion with some women friends of my fellow jazz enthusiast Debbie Preece (Debbie wants to spread the word of Reverend Moon but is very open to others’ ideas and conducts the meeting with a light hand). Four meetings so far—Saturday mid-day events—and I’ve only just now learned these ladies’ names: Vanessa, Alana, Dixie, Jodie. They know it’s going to be my birthday soon, and will be bringing me an apple pie. They might be surprised to find out I’m 75. I’ve been strangely tolerant while listening to their talk of Jesus and God, or cosmic guidance via serendipity and coincidence. My turn always comes around, and I talk about other things, and they seem to enjoy it. I’m funny, they say.

Oh, these different clubs I’m in! Sometimes I think I’m losing my grip! Jazz jams, open mics, Monkeyspeak, the women’s group, a writers' group, exercise at the gym, and the domestic scene. Not to mention ukulele lessons which are not connected to anything. So many casual promises I fail to follow through on. So many texts on my phone that I don’t want to deal with. At my age, it takes willpower to head out into the world of an evening. It takes the very real threat of screwing up in public to motivate the practicing of songs. And it takes some kind of faith to be politically active, which I am not, although I did go to one organizational meeting of “Indivisible.” I do not think anything can stop the autocratic juggernaut, but I don’t say that out loud. https://indivisible.org/

I seem to become very angry for a few days every month, as if I were still having PMS. I know I’m constantly (semi-secretly) angry toward Brother Brian, simply because he’s still here. And now I’m constantly angry toward Open-Mic Eric because I thought I’d made a music friend, and he turned out to be a Trumper. Once in a while I let this anger out, and then feel guilty. It’s my life’s theme, apparently. The inability to really enjoy myself is another theme.

Songs keep coming, thank goodness. If I weren’t making something I’d feel useless. It doesn’t matter a whole lot that no one pays much attention. I actually like almost every song I’ve written, and some of the newer ones I’m very delighted with. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1HcAl_VYF-eUQwwY9IC6eZK3NdWMe00An/view?usp=sharing 

Sometimes my delight is marred by obligation; I can’t forget about all the duties I’m neglecting if I am at home and those things are in my face. Escape for more than an hour or two is not possible.

The future is now, an extended now, day after day. I miss my dog Maggie. My feet are numb and compromise my balance. My hearing and voice are not what they once were. But my marriage is a 40-year best-friendship with benefits, and I guess that’s good. When I think about it, in the long-ago past when such things were said to be possible, I never really experienced a romance where both people were equally mesmerized for any length of time. I suppose this one comes closest. Maybe I’m lucky.