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.