A Mockery of Earworms

Trapped in my individual brain with bits and pieces of my own songs appearing now and then and refusing to leave me alone (like the flies in our kitchen), I try to fill my consciousness with better stuff. This includes Early Music, samples of which I enjoyed at a recent concert in the Church of the Nativity; and portions of Hannah Arendt’s “The Human Condition,” which I confess I do not understand. That is, I comprehend what she’s saying, logically, but I don’t understand why she’s saying it. What is the ultimate purpose of going over and over the history of society’s definitions of “work” vs. “labor,” and of “public” vs. “private”? I become impatient. 

It’s also depressing to be informed that in ancient times (at least in Greece and Rome) women and slaves were equivalent, serving “the body” and not higher purposes), and a life lived in the “private” space of the home might as well not have been a life at all. But in modern times, this situation has reversed itself somehow, Arendt claims. Though I feel obligated to finish Arendt’s classic, I prefer my forays into William James’s “Talks to Teachers” (1892), which explores the psychology of children and the learning process. He was a friendly writer/lecturer. Wish I’d been there.

But no one I know is interested in discussing any of this, and my posts on Facebook that mention my reading are not “popular,” but I’ve not been “popular” anyway, except amongst certain women my age. It makes me want to take a philosophy class just to have company in my not-so-serious intellectual pursuits. It also makes me impatient when I encounter annoying New-Agey or religion-tinged or psycho-babbly memes posted by “friends” who think they are being deep and wise but are merely spouting cliches, usually with grammatical errors, misspellings and misattributions. Some of what they do is meant to soothe, and I do not condemn that, but it has been decades since my response would be, “Yeah! That’s right! I never thought of that! Thanks!” My response now is anger, whether or not the meme-monger is on “my side” politically. And I know that anger is wrong and could be damaging (to me, mostly), so I step back and quell it. 

The constant self-promotion of some of my music-scene acquaintances is also becoming profoundly irritating. Perhaps the answer is to avoid Facebook. Would Arendt consider Facebook “public” or “private”? Is being active on Facebook actually being part of the world or not? I am pretty sure social media is not entirely illusory, since in many cases it interacts with the “real” world. After all, those selfies and videos must have a physical location—isn’t that the point? To announce “Here I am, or was, and this is what I looked like in that environment, and you can see all the other people that saw me, too!” I simply cannot bring myself to produce anything like that, even during the few times I make an appearance on the “real” world local music scene. 

I think I had a decided aversion to solo public performances from the start (“House of the Rising Sun” at summer camp). I recall being fine with accompanying Drew on harmonica, or singing with Larry and Nick during the short duration of our trio, “Woodsmoke” in 1970-71. These performances happened at tiny coffeehouses where alcohol was not served; there was an intimacy, and as far as I can recall, no amplification. And I was helping others with their performances, not out for myself, or, god forbid, asking others to help with MY performances! I enjoy singing, but having to accompany myself has not been easy, and having to push myself forward alone does not feel natural; it almost feels “sinful.” During the ‘90s, with “The Lonesome Lovers,” it was a no-brainer. I had three, sometimes more, other musicians expecting my participation! I had an excuse to be there. And I could rely on them for accompaniment when I sang or played harmonica or elementary-level lead guitar. At the time, I dared to think I was “good.” There was no social media to worry about then. 

So, the problem is, I’m old. Old, old, old. At 74, I keep thinking I’m 76, because it feels like it. Or maybe my spidey-sense is telling me the world’s going to end in two years (or I myself will end in two years despite my parents living to ages 90 and 92). Physical and social efforts take a lot out of me these days. I can’t accomplish more than one outing per day (though grocery shopping doesn’t really count) and would prefer days with none required. But something in me (the desire to exist in public space, a la Greek and Roman standards?) makes me continue to try to have a presence “out there.” Though I know my age is a handicap; no one wants to contribute to a soon-to-be-defunct cause. Perhaps that’s why no one wants to commit to putting down a vocal track on any of my songs for the “musical.” I still dare to think the songs are pretty “good.” 

I am not-so-secretly (in my private self-awareness, anyway) verging on childishly jealous and angry that others (like Amber C.) are in the spotlight constantly, having done little new or interesting musically to warrant it. But youth is the attracting ingredient, and perhaps “new and interesting” artfulness is not called-for in today’s “real” world local bar-and-restaurant jungle. Amber’s actual achievement is self-promotion, which she does extraordinarily well and with an endearing goofiness. And she is kind, offering opportunities for others to share her gigs and get some “exposure.” She is also troubled in ways that provoke what little genuine caring and concern I can muster for someone I don’t know very well. But I don’t have much opportunity to show it to her. There’s no room for me in her world. But when I think about my behavior at Amber’s current age (32) I realize I am not a good example. I was trying to finish college at UAH and working part-time, but there were ungovernable episodes of emotional upset and drinking binges and attractions to uninterested persons. I was writing fiction and poetry, even a song or two, but it never occurred to me to energetically pursue any one activity to “get somewhere” with it. I did what I could; I was involved with others in various extra-curricular enterprises (The Exponent, Brick, senior art shows). My goals at that point were in line with “the establishment”: to get my degree and get a job. 

I am appalled when I review what I see as my life-long lack of imagination when it came to BIG life-plan types of things (e.g. my late 1970s’ delusion of becoming a stay-at-home wife-and-mother with alcoholic womanizer Barry), and my need for others to encourage, support, and provide an obvious context for my so-called “creativity” (like the first iteration of Monkeyspeak did). I am not a born “star.” I have been somewhat prolific considering the long years that went by with NO context except for my jobs (hence the accumulation of promotional writings that I keep in a box somewhere). But I have never actively sought more attention as an individual than I got in the normal course of artistic or musical events prior to cell phones, the internet, and social media. Mailing postcards for The Lonesome Lovers was for “us,” not for “me.” 

I could go on and on. Just wanted to get these thoughts down. And when I go to post this, I’ll probably discover that I’ve already written these things over and over. As it was in the Beginning (of this post), I am “trapped in my individual brain with bits and pieces of my own songs [and my own memories] appearing now and then and refusing to leave me alone,” like the elderly cat following me around the house with her endless variety of loud, mournful cries.

Milestones and millstones

As I hack away the remnants of my first experience with COVID, I'm forced to contemplate once again my declining capacities. There wasn't a lot of difference in my activities of the last day or two, and my activities on any given day. I can still cook (I did not do so on the first two days of this illness, though). I did my mild morning exercises eventually except for the balance ones, which seemed too daring for someone in recovery. It's days like this that are not possible to explain to younger people. I maintain my appetite for typing up a storm, as long as I can sit comfortably, but going out and doing things and talking with people? That appetite, never sturdy, may have vanished permanently, just like my sense of smell (I thought, until I detected the spilled fish oil in the pet-food cabinet). 

Russell had it too, and Brian. I seem to have gotten it from Brian.

My post of mid-June is long and accurate and covers a lot of ground. It'll make a great read for me in another year. Now here I am ten weeks later (too soon?) with one nice event and two complaints. A week ago, on Sunday the 18th, Russell and I drove to Clarksville, Tennessee, to pick up the ukulele being made for me by Jonathan Mann: the "Raptor" jazz baritone electric, lacquered a deep green. It plays beautifully, as I'd hoped it would. My fingers slip around less. The action is slightly easier, the tone is fine. Best of all, it's not intimidating, and I almost feel I deserve it. The thing cost me $1,750. I do realize it will not solve my playing problems. I don't practice much, and my aging fingers are not as reliable, especially when I'm playing in public. But it's already proven itself at an online open mic, and it will be a treat to write songs on it.

Russell and I had a fun road trip--I'm not being facetious. We got along, we enjoyed the drive, the visit with the luthier, and a brief spell at a kitschy emporium called "Sweet Charlotte," where I had a terrible taco salad served in a Dorito bag. We even stopped and took pictures of a weird building we spied. It gave me hope for us as a couple. I think what also gives me hope is that we are sharing the burden of having Brian here with the same helpless but hopeful feelings, partial proof that we have a similar world view. Then again, I could be deluded. There are times when I detect the same oblivious male condescension coming from Russell that I experience from Brian, and have known in many other times and places. Condescension and being humored are not as bad as being ignored, however.

I have, for the last day (since I accidentally found out about it), had to consider that I might be suffering from being ignored as a child, which supposedly causes something called "Complex" PTSD. I watched someone's video; I did a meditation. So far, so good. And yet I know that I was decidedly NOT ignored. At times I was micromanaged! It's not exactly psychobabble, but these earnest attempts to categorize What Ails a Person are so clumsy and general. What I think now is that I was ignored at a certain crucial point, around the time Michael was born. I have evidence of ancient feelings of abandonment, one being the overwhelming crying jag I went on when Russell stayed out with Steve Linney late one night early on, maybe the first year we were married. It was an irrational response, and I'd had such responses before, with Bob Brattvet in the 1970s. I sobbed until I choked. It went on for what seemed like hours. (They weren't even at a bar, they were at an all-night coffeeshop.) There was another time a two decades after that when someone I'd been talking with at work acted as if I did not exist once we'd arrived at a cafeteria line and other people were around. My response was one of terror and loss of identity, which I managed to cover up. Again, irrational. (That I felt a tinge of that two weeks ago at an open mic when I looked up and no one was looking my way does not bode well.)

I try to be "normal," but I do lack self-control occasionally, and I have never felt secure within myself. However, I do not come across as insecure; in fact, it's the opposite, unless a person knows my secret triggers, which not even I know! Tell you who does--Felicia. She's turned into a real manipulator. When did this start? Was it when I had some beers and confessed some insecurities to her back in 2017 when she dropped Tomas off for his year at New Century High? But long before that there were times she tried to get my attention, and I never understood, and she was very disappointed in me. Resentment can grow. The collapse of her marriage must have had an effect; she's almost viciously independent now, and full of mockery of women (like me) who are less so.

Along with CPTSD, I found something more applicable: "reactive abuse." That's when someone we apparently have to label "the abuser" provokes a "victim" into lashing out abusively themselves. This has been happening with Felicia and me on Zoom meetings since 2020. The descriptions are uncanny, as if the writer had witnessed me and Felicia interacting. And yet, as with the syndrome discussed above, I know that she is not "the abuser" all the time. We do not have a domestic situation; this is a role she perhaps subconsciously adopts only on Zoom meetings with the other siblings. And I certainly do not consider myself a "victim" except during those moments. It has been painful enough, though, that I talked to a social worker about it in 2022, and was given tips, tricks, and the reminder that I can just STOP talking with her--that I was under no obligation to talk with her EVER AGAIN if I was being attacked, or felt as if I would be.

But the thought of not talking with Felicia, for some reason, makes me almost cry (and I haven't actually cried since my mother's funeral in 2014, and that wasn't about my mother, but about Michael). Maybe I'm a sentimental fool, remembering the good times when we were all in our twenties and thirties. Maybe I don't like the idea of losing the chance to play "big sister" once more, although she's more "worldly" than me at this point. There's nothing I can help her with; she has made it evident that she finds my life's stories pointless and sad, and my "creative" activities incomprehensible.

At least writing all of this down makes me feel less sick at heart, even if I am still slightly sick from COVID.

Suddenly, music is an obligation

The way I used to live at the beginning of my twenties—cognizant only of my immediate surroundings (except for news overheard being discussed by people who owned television sets), imagining I played not a starring but at least a notable role in my small circle of friends and acquaintances, concerned with my minimal responsibilities and things I wanted to do, pondering whether my love life was working out or not, and above all, not comparing myself to others—the way I used to live might have been insular, but it was not needlessly stressful.

Even the poetry I wrote was focused on personal happenings, things I saw, heard, experienced, that struck me as unusual or important, or maybe unbalanced and in need of re-configuring; feelings I had that were pressuring me from the inside but not demanding anything dramatic. I employed gentle irony, tried to understand others, accepted the situation I was in because it was all new to me—adult life—and was interesting. I’m thinking mostly of my early Cambridge days living with Drew, our neighborhood friends, my job selling popcorn at the Orson Welles Cinema, frequenting of Charles Street coffeehouses in Boston, being the supportive girlfriend when Drew would play there. Most things were not “heavy.” I thought I’d always be working part-time; always have hours to sit on the front porch teaching myself to play the recorder, always have freedom of mind to bond with my electric typewriter and create odes to my motorcycle and to my Frye boots and to the frizzy-haired lady who lived upstairs with her toddler and was on welfare, always be eager to make plain vanilla love when Drew was in the mood. I developed a determination back then to never become a “professional” anything; college was not in the cards, I thought; neither was taking my art, music, or writing seriously. It would have been too much work, and it would have over-defined me.

In 1971, inhaling the last of the hippie ethos in the air around Harvard Square, it seemed to me that life was for enjoyment, if possible, and though I knew there was suffering in the world, I wasn’t experiencing much of it myself. Having crashed and burned early on, I was rising again from the ashes. Drew and many of our friends had experienced the same thing; we were all alumni of the famous mental institution a few towns away, and so understood each other and handled feelings and ideas with care.

I very much wanted to be part of an “established” couple, yet I did not want to be part of the “establishment.” We had no intention to marry. But the tentacles of conformity and patriarchy were already reaching out toward me. When Drew had his motorcycle accident and returned to his parents’ household to recover, I was forced to throw in my lot with more conventional young adults. The Marsh Folk, as I called them, still trying to be whimsical. These roommates, who were total strangers at first, were pursuing “careers” of sorts, and I was slightly lost. My full-time, minimum-wage paste-up job that I managed to get at South Shore Publishing Company did not compare, and I knew it was only temporary. Because we pooled our money to pay rent on this house by the sea, I benefitted disproportionately. What came out of that situation, for me, was a lover and then an actual husband; a woman friend who encouraged me to apply to art school; and a taste for luxury, or at least high ceilings.

I am not sure why I’m rehashing this background stuff. Because obviously, things are different now. I did keep my inadvertent vow to never become a “professional” anything, but nothing I see around me reassures me that I was right in any way about that, or even “true to myself.” I eventually got paid for writing, yes. I got paid for music sometimes, too. I got paid for doing graphic design and for teaching it. None of it brought in enough money, or felt just right. My various activities seemed to jostle amongst themselves for supremacy, but all of them lost big-time to the need to make a “decent” living—as a secretary, it turned out. Meanwhile, the new Alabama husband I found (and bonded with) pursued his artful interest (magic) perfectly and consistently, meagre as its rewards were. We’ve scraped by, basically. If we hadn’t bought this tiny house in 1998, we’d be in bad shape. The culture changed, the cost of living soared—at first slowly, then drastically—and now, suddenly, we are old folks. I’m older than he is; I’m verging on “doddering,” and I’m still confused about what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Do what you feel,” they say, but I have ALL the feelings (or none). Nothing stands out. Some activities are self-perpetuating, like songwriting when I’m halfway through a song and want to finish, like reading when the material interests me, like cooking when there’s someone there to enjoy the food. Other activities, like going to open mics and putting myself on display, are not self-perpetuating, because there are no rewards for such as me, and my very being balks at having to do it. I enjoyed performing with my band in the 1990s. I do not enjoy performing solo and having to accompany myself. Something almost always goes wrong, and I re-learn every week that I “should” have studied and done it “professionally” long ago if I wanted to be any “good.” I do it mostly to increase the chances of people (whoever they are) suddenly developing an interest in my SONGS. But they don’t. And probably won’t.

Unfortunately, I do not care for most other local musicians’ repertoires. The few solo performers I know and have heard frequently do not give me much pleasure (with one or two exceptions). I realize that “songs” these days, covers and originals, are more about “mood” than narrative or harmonic content. And I presume my relatively interesting (to me) narrative and harmonic content may be lost on most (at least here in Huntsville) and might come across as wordy or pointlessly complicated. Yet, since I have started going out to play (when I have the energy), I find it difficult to ignore that possibility. I feel obligated to keep my “foot in the door” in the real world of other people, despite my worry and embarrassment for every misstep. I have no idea why some of my new acquaintances get full-on paying “gigs” and I do not, except for the farmer’s market last summer and open studio nights in the hallway at Lowe Mill and one or two short sets at ukulele events (at least back when I was taking uke lessons with a local personality and curator of such shows).

I have several excuses: 1) I am very old, and so I look weird. I’ve always had an overly-earnest unsmiling expression when singing, with wide-open mouth slightly twisted, and a pained look in my eyes. Add to that my 74-year-old wrinkles (not just on my face, but all over my body), and my now-too-thin, unsteady, scarecrow figure in out-of-date garb, and I am just not something anyone would want to look at. (Recording is the way to go for the likes of me, but that’s another story.)

My instrument is also a problem; the ukulele, even though I strum a baritone, is not taken seriously. I am getting sick of the sound of it myself, even though I have worked very hard to play at a higher level of expertise on it than most local ukulele players. Even if people like my “act”—sometimes they say they do—I don’t, and won’t, get hired by proprietors of bars and restaurants. And perhaps I don’t want to get hired. I don’t make myself available on social media, don’t have the right videos to show, and I am not prepared to play and sing for three hours until late at night while people talk and drink and pay no attention except for the requisite clapping at the end (which means nothing).

And here we come to another problem: I no longer drink. Yes, abstinence has finally settled upon me. I foresee no change in that condition. But my relentless sobriety has not helped me make new friends, at least not the kind of friendships I see others enjoying. I will never be able to joke, goof around, make faces for selfies, and be an all-around good sport the way other (especially female) musicians seem to do. And all but a few of them are genuinely more skilled than I am, although they usually apply those skills to songs that seem dull to me (as I mentioned). Of course, I must never say this out loud! I must pretend that it’s all very worthy. But my recent experiences listening to local “regular” music, even bands, have made me question whether or not I like music at all anymore. Thank god for jazz (which I indulge in as occasional singer, harmonica player, and mostly appreciator, because, well, the personnel are often closer to my age, and it’s much more interesting musically).

Finally, and this has to do with age also: I need written music to get through most songs. I have tried using a computer tablet, but it doesn’t work for me, so I’m up there with my music stand, portable light, reading glasses, and a three-ring binder. What a pity. Unacceptable.

Social media is killing me these days. Almost every Facebook friend on my sparse new “Anna Kamilla” page is a musician. And they post notices from many other musicians. There is no night of the week in Huntsville that doesn’t have music being performed in multiple places. All of these players and bands (except maybe for the heavy metal ones) I feel I’m supposed to “support” for the sake of the local “scene” or to prove my loyalty to a new acquaintance whom I don’t have the actual energy to have a “real” relationship with (if anyone has those anymore). And it is often impossible to decide WHICH show to attend, since everything is happening simultaneously.

But, to my dismay, I find myself not WANTING to go out at ALL unless I would have a chance to play or sing. Looking at all these opportunities others have is very confusing and daunting, and my jealousy (there is some of that) devolves into dismay, guilt, and even disgust. Why is this activity of playing and singing in front of people so revered? Who goes out to listen? I was never that person who went out to listen! Not to most of the music on offer locally, anyway. I remember concerts I attended in the old New England days during which I paid no attention and even wandered away from. My likes, in terms of music, are few, and that’s the truth.

I actually LIKE my own recent songs, but not as performed on the ukulele by me. I am almost finished recording all of them with Jim Cavender at Startlingly Fresh Records, and it remains to be seen what will be done with them. Since I cannot bring myself to advertise or promote or tout myself, probably nothing will happen. (The songs for my “musical” are another matter. I think most of them are pretty good, but they are of an evidently unpopular genre, and my home recordings using digital instruments are amateurish.)

And now I’m not sure why I’m re-hashing this detailed MUSICAL stuff in addition to the old-days stuff! There are many other things that demand thinking about! Like my brother Brian’s situation—he’s still living here with no end in sight. My mounting anger about this is having to find subtle outlets (like making loud disparaging remarks to the cat) because I cannot risk actually talking about it with Brian. Our house also needs some major repairs (toilet), which we can’t afford for several reasons. I also realized a couple of months ago that I should increase my exercising if I want to stay alive, and have done so, which means I have slightly less time for other things. Going to the gym cuts into my “psyching up” time at home, without which I would not start a session on ANY project, so work on the “musical” songs has slowed down.

Why do I need to accomplish anything? Why do I feel I’m running out of time? Why do I feel my life’s been worth nothing if I don’t have a huge completed THING to point to and say, “I did that!” I’ve actually completed quite a few things in my life, including scholarly papers that I’m proud of. But I want to have completed something that ordinary people might get a kick out of, I really do. I couldn’t get serious about this before now because DEATH wasn’t imminent. Now it is, I guess. I give myself another ten years, but not much more. My numb feet and bad balance, my aches and pains, my odd thoughts that blur the lines between sleeping and waking, my growing animosity toward certain types of other humans. My time is about up. No one will want to put up with me much longer, and I don’t want to need anyone’s “help.” The least I can do is provide some parting entertainment (which will wind up seeming completely from another “era,” incomprehensible to younger people, and probably something Artificial Intelligence could have come up with anyway).

I have forgotten to mention that Maggie is gone. Her kidney disease was getting serious. We took her to the vet's for euthanasia between Christmas and New Year's, and buried her in the backyard on New Year's Eve day. Perhaps some of my angst about all of the above is an expression of grief. I won't be getting another dog.