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.