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.