Last week our little girl cat had a polyp removed from her ear and as you can see from the photo above, Lucille seems both indignant and annoyed by the whole thing (sure, I’m anthropomorphizing here, but for real, her face does reflect infuriated). Perhaps that solar system surrounding her little head seems a bit larger than called for, but since it’s meant to stop her from scratching the whole ear/neck/incision area, it’s what works. Explaining that to her is clearly not a thing. And so I watch her negotiating doorways and banking off walls trying to understand how this new navigation system works and when it just seems too much, she sits down and stares straight ahead probably wishing it would all just go away. I know the feeling well.

I also had a little something removed from my arm this week. Nothing worrisome at this point, but also needed to be done. While I have had this basal cell removal procedure done a gazillion times (side note: SUNSCREEN people), the aftermath still startled me since the cut was sooo much bigger than the actual spot (margins, baby). The line of stitches are currently gnarly and fresh, not painful just ugly. As I dressed the thing this morning, it occurred to me that these tiny things, when left unchecked, can leave a bigger mark than expected. I mean, when we took little Lucille in for her surgery, all we knew was that there was a hidden something deep down in her ear driving her batty. And for me, when I stepped into the office to go under the knife, I wouldn’t have even been able to point out where the spot was given the biopsy had been taken a while ago (also the thing is near one of my tattoos, so I don’t know, blending?).

Naturally, this led me to thoughts of hidden things and the often necessary mess that’s made when excavating them. As I root around in my emotional closet, reaching for the boxes marked music on the tippy-top shelf where all the malarky, hoo-haw, and plain pain have been stored, I envision the thing falling and crushing me. Or maybe I pull it down and breathe in the toxic dust that’s layering the lid, then fall over and die. Perhaps as I pull off the lid, I just see a million snakes and they proceed to strangle me. Or none of that. Instead, the pull-down, the opening, the dumping on the floor, and the one-by-one investigation of stuff makes a big mess and while I might feel crushed, poisoned, or strangled, those will be internal and temporary moments. Or at least as temporary as I choose to make them.

A couple of words scrawled on these stored-away emotions read disappointment and expectations. And at the time, shoving them away made the most sense. I wasn’t interested in investigating why I felt those things. I didn’t want to see the ugly bits. I still ached for perfect.

There’s a French expression jolie laide, which means in essence ugly-pretty. Of course the French would have a phrase for that and while its limitation to a female form focused on outer presentation pricks me annoyed, I can turn it a bit and appreciate ugliness being interesting.

Recently after an amazingly meaningful conversation with friends (and really, I wish there were a stronger word than friends to encompass how close they hold my heart&soul, but anyway…), I really took in a couple of things: the shifting sands of narrative around who I see myself as—forward facing smily, compassionate, chill, all-good girl—alongside the elements under the surface—spiky, angry, disappointed with humans on a more regular basis than I admit. Oh, also, judgmental. Yep, ooof. So, yeah, I’m all that and I have work to do on how to arrange my emotional face to make room and embrace the whole range inside myself.

Also inside that box’o’stuff sits a grenade of deep feelings. The pin is all shiny and intact. Never even thought about pulling it. The idea makes me slightly nauseous but at the same time, I know without a doubt that until I pull that pin, I won’t be able to write anything real about myself, music, or, in essence, anything.

For sure my besottment with this merry band of Måneskins has supercharged all my feelings about how music can be sexy, glittery, beat-driven, fun. And I’ve got a newfound need to roll around in those moments again. Excavate that unabashed joy that doesn’t need to be laced with expectations of acceptance. But in order to do that, I’ve got to open those boxes. Pull that pin. Step back on the L.Spencer All Access tour bus. Memories in that side mirror may appear larger than they are, specifically around how I was received in that world of music. Not how I received myself but more specifically how others received me. How they held the power to either make me visible or disappear me altogether. So I disappeared myself instead, figuring I’d avoid the humiliation of dismissal.

In the ensuing, I worked hard to achieve an “I don’t give a fuck” mindset. Pinpointed a moment toward the end while at the record company when I first realized how I (thought) I was being seen. As part of the corporate machinery. A person doing a job. And that was all. I wasn’t personal. But that was the thing: I WANTED it to be personal. The dots began to connect that when I was a music writer, whoever I was interviewing needed me to see them in a certain way, so the package of good-time charlie was what I got…mostly. Yet the role I played in the business was just that: business. A drip-drip set in and I didn’t know how to stop up the flow that ultimately drowned my joy, my ability to listen to a song, see a singer, watch a band without the marionetting of the industry blocking my view. It was personal. And I didn’t want to admit that. I’d thought I was different.

I mean, yes, I’m different. (Aren’t we all?) Layered and flawed and perfectly excellently broken and jolie laide in all kinds of ways. It was just that at the time my expectations were a center that couldn’t hold. The vision of how I wanted these particular magic people to make me whole was too bright. And, sidenote: They weren’t magic but excellently flawed right alongside me.

So I stand, craning my neck, staring at that box of life stuff, understanding that to pull the pin on that grenade will release it all. A combo of glitter and sharp bits. Who doesn’t kind of love catching the shimmer out of the corner of the eye of some glittery bit from a celebration long ago? And the sharp bits, even the tiniest of them, can sting the most (because, paper cuts). But also the courage to make a mess of it all is necessary. I’m clearing space.