With the announcement of an Oasis reunion (seriously doubt this will actually happen) and the revival of SPIN magazine with B.Gucc.Jr. back at the helm (Oh, I have some very very serious thoughts about this, see below*), along with Trump’s* go back to some mythical greatness ragings, I’m struck by these current backward time machine yearnings?

[SIdenote: I’ve decided to use Trump’s actual name rather than “orange menace” or what-have-you monikers because doing that trivializes him, which is perilous. He is not a side-note, silly-person with a marginalizing nickname but someone who with all the sycophants around him is 100% powerful in wrecking us so thinking of him as anything less is dangerous.]

I can be as reminiscent as anyone about times in my life that were thrilling (side-stage feeling the music and face-to-face with Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Beastie Boys, Reading, Lollapalooza, and on like that). I also remember massive confusion (all of my 30’s, most of my 40’s) and paralyzing self-doubt (predatory, bullying behavior meant to make me tougher?). But yes, the high points ran equally alonside the low ones. But I’m not that nostalgic about them (the good ones) and I’m 100% not interested in engineering any sort of repeat, especially since it would never feel the same as it did then.

So why not forward? Why not take all the moments that were special and all the learning curves that were steep and propel off into something new and exciting and also terrifying. Maybe that’s the thing: newness makes your heart beat, reminds you you’re alove. If I’m honest, what were those really good days? Yes, the aforementioned electric currents of creativity. Being in a place that really did feel like a scene, a movement even if I wasn’t totally sure I belonged that feeling had more to do with my own insecurities. What else? Sure, my skin was more supple. But did I even notice that? No, I didn’t. I was too in my head. Worried about being broke, or misunderstood, or alone, or insecure, etc. I did quite often feel really cool though. The youth moments of magic possibilities. That when I watched the sun rise over NYC from some Lower East Side roof, that I was filled with happiness to be exactly where I was at that moment. But I do not want to stay up all night anymore, and that sense of happiness is a place I can get to walking down the road I live on and seeing a family of deer. The sensation is tainted for sure, painted with age and grief and joy and love and fear and all the things I had back then and still do now. But the difference is that these days, I can see all the feelings where they live. They don’t crush me the same. It’s more “Oh, you again. (sigh),” as the house of emotions hurtles through the air aiming to crush me. I’m a bit quicker at getting out of the way—or letting it land and crawling out faster—than I used to be. Why would I want to go back to a time when the muscles I had to lift myself up, out and forward were not even identified yet?

On a purely literal moment, I was on a walk last week and about a half-mile from home I saw Roquelle crossing the road. She was about a tennis court distance away (I’m silly-bad with numbers of feet and what-not). She was in between where I stood and where I live. She stopped and turned toward me. I’ve never had a black bear look at me. EVER. It’s not a thing I want to revisit. For 85 minutes we stood like that. Fine, maybe one minute. But still. The question for me was Should I wait until she turns away and disappears into the woods, then continue walking? Or Should I turn around and walk back to where I’d just been, away from my destination? She finally loped off on her way into the woods. I still stood for a minute thinking, what if she’s just at the edge and seems me and wants to have a word or something. I waited until a car was driving in the direction I was walking, then quickly used the car as a shield for a few steps and continued in the direction of home. I made it.

My point is: There was nothing to go back to. If I’d turned around and walked the half-mile I’d just come, sure I’d see the beautiful field and view, maybe a new family of deer, but I’d be farther from home. From the next thing.

Let’s all go forward. Please vote. Please do something to make that vote be a forward movement rather than a backward one. And let’s Don’t look back in anger. Because, why? Let’s look forward with intention. I’m writing postcards through Center for Common Ground/Reclaim Our Vote (thank you to my friend W for introducing me to this group!) while wearing my ultra-fab Michael Chabon–designed Rock the White House hoodie (with all profits going to the Harris/Walz campaign). And here’s some Freedom (This one especially for my friend, M) to get our heart pumping.

(*See below for SPIN post if interested in those feelings.)

(I posted this on my social medias:
I have some feelings about the revival of SPIN and B.GuccJr. Back at the helm (see Billboard magazine for details):

Does no one remember why Bob lost control, he may say “gave up control” of SPIN? “In 1996, Guccione and Spin were sued for sexual harassment and discrimination by Staci Bonner, a former fact-checker for the magazine. Guccione was cleared of the harassment charges, but found liable for promoting a hostile work environment and not paying Bonner comparably to a man with a comparable job position.” (Wikipedia)

I was there and while my formative years as a music journalist were amazing, the environment was not, something so many many many of us ladies who worked in the music biz knew and survived, although didn’t much talk about. Why I finally took part in the trial by taking the stand for the prosecution. In the ensuing years, I have been so buoyed to feel/see the #metoo movement grow stronger and stronger, yet also saddened to see/feel backsliding.

This SPIN revival news roils me. Convenient amnesia. This man (white as can be) stepping back into the honcho role. I’ll be looking at the masthead to see if/how diversity is represented tho my gut tells me I won’t find what I’m looking for.)