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.
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).
