Does This Make Me Look

Last weekend & this we went a’visitin’. After so long not being in the actual presence of friends, it was an amazing thing to spend time, tell stories, eat food, have drinks, and do all the things I’d both taken for granted and sometimes become socially anxious about all packed into two consecutive weekends. A mix of nostalgia for the way-back times and discussion on where I’m planted now. And I was surprised by how energized I felt. As a friend in New York mentioned, to spend time just literally hanging out—not getting particularly deep about things, just reviewing what’s what—was refreshing in a way I didn’t expect. Our first stop was to my dear friend of near-on four decades, Mary, who I’d been lucky enough to see here in Redlands recently, but visiting her place and lunching was fab. Then to LA where we stayed & dined with friends I’ve known since music dayz and who are now pals with Dennis too. My mind refuses on a pretty basic level to understand that it’s been three decades-plus since I’ve known them all and our stories, while dim in details, still feel fairly recent in a time-warpy kind of way. Revisiting moments in the past was comforting in the sense that yes, we all made it through, but also in a tree-falls way i.e., confirmation that certain things did happen even if we remembered them differently or as if they’re echoes. Luckily Russell had an actual photo album of a certain Lake vacation we all went on that confirmed our existence (to an extent).

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I came back to Redlands after the weekend smiling and honestly surprised at not being more emotionally tired. Maybe I’m getting more able to just relax in situations and conversations. Regardless…the change in who I am now versus then is weirdly amorphous: More comfortable in my skin now? Yes. Even as that skin is altering in ways I don’t always love…

Then today (Saturday) we went even further back in the time machine. My dad, Dennis, and I drove into Pasadena to visit one of his oldest friends, then went and found the house he, my mom, and I lived in when I was a little.

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Twas a trip. We lived in the old Busch Garden neighborhood of Pasadena. The house is still there. A new paint job and the shrubs/trees grown taller hiding the courtyard in the front, but yet, the memories dropped into me quickly. Because we recently had old home movies converted and I spent some time watching myself ride my bike around the front courtyard and have a birthday party, Christmas, etc. there, I was primed for the lived experience of the place, the street, the old neighbors. The two brothers down the street that I’d played with. Climbing out onto the roof of the house (second story) one night because…who the hell knows why. When I mentioned that today, my dad said “you did WHAT? If I’d known that at the time…” then silence. I’d have caught hell for sure. I remembered when friends of my mom’s came to visit from Northern California in an old school bus they’d turned into a camper and how they parked in the culdesac outside our house, then the paperboy had slammed into the back of them in the early-morning darkness. I learned (tho I don’t remember) that my first solo bike ride was to the Trader Joe’s down the hill and a few minutes away and I apparently had a basket where I packed in my few purchases and rode home. (The fact I still do that both here and in NYC is strange and makes me wonder about my cycling/psychic connection with TJs.)

Before we left town, we stopped into Vroman’s bookstore, my all-time favorite and most likely first bookstore ever visited. I bought some things. Driving home, it did occur to me how much I don’t remember. How in living moments, I took for granted one thing merging into the next. Until really recently–and sometimes still–I would worry Why can’t I remember that situation in detail, etc.? but overall I’m letting that go. Here are the things in life. Here are the people. Here I am now. Oh…and here is a most awesome mutt, our hosts’ pooch named Victor who, as you can see in his eyes, is just not bothered by any of it…memories, past, future….pffft. Just now, and maybe, why in hell are you taking my picture?

On my morning walk—early to get it in before the H.E.A.T.—I came across some random wildness that jived with where my headspace has been. Things that played into wait-what’s-that-doing-here moments. This was quite helpful in reminding me that you just never do know. That the unexpected can break through into a new view. First off, lost in thought and podcast, I spotted a shaggy four-legger running down Fern Avenue, which is a main, four-lane thoroughfare. I immediately wondered who’d lost their dog until I understood it was not in fact a canine, but a coyote. S/he didn’t look like they were enjoying themselves. Kept looking behind and around with a “what tha?” expression. No, I’m not trained in reading coyote expressions, so that was all a bit of anthropomorphizing. Wiley turned down Buena Vista, a residential street, and so did I. I lost s/he for awhile (I mean, I wasn’t necessarily trying to follow), but as I glanced down a small side street, there W. stood outside a house where there’s a barn-like structure in the backyard. I’m not sure if there are small animals in there, but since no one seemed to be home, I called Redlands animal control just cuz. The lady on the phone said they tranquilize and return all Wileys to the neighboring mountains, so they’d be on the lookout. I had been a bit conflicted about calling and secretly hoped Wiley would find their way back on their own. I did remember from my childhood that coyotes enjoy munching on small animals. (More than a few cats disappeared at night in my childhood Pasadena neighborhood, which was surrounding by foliage and such.) As I walked back around the corner, leaving Wiley behind, there was a woman walking her small dog. I told her about the coyote. She crossed the street and went the opposite way. There was a cat sitting in a driveway. I told him about the coyote. He didn’t care. A mom with her toddler in the front yard was my next target. They got in their car and drove away and I realized I was being a somewhat crazy person and to just carry on with my walk.

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The thing about stuff being in a place I don’t expect it to be is that it scrambles my brain in a way that can, if I’m open to it, reveal new stuff. Or, alternately, roll me into a defensive ball as I try to figure out how to make everything work the way I envision it should. Given I’m currently reapproaching my novel, a new perspective is wanting to be found. And because my brain often operates in extremes, I’ve entertained through thoughts of just throwing the first draft out and starting anew (side-note: There’s a much-published British writer who trashes her first draft. Literally. Throws it away. Then begins again. Even writing that makes me panic.). I’m not doing that. But what I am trying for is a way where I’m courageous enough to make a mess, let go, trust it will come together, or not. And if not, be fine with that.

So, honestly, this tussle with my writing along with the every day (hour?) uncertainty we’re living in currently needing to be elastic enough to keep up with new Covid realities is, er, interesting and testing my proclivity for catastrophizing. It’s a fine line I’m finding between panic and preparation. And when I push on that reaction to feeling, whether it’s being tired (DELTA breakthrough? 106 degree heat?), revising my book (why bother? why wouldn’t I?), I have to dig deep. As Dennis says, “I’m my mother’s daughter.” And while there are myriad ways I’ve gone in opposite emotional directions from my mére, in this I have inherited a deep sense of trying to control what might happen. By living in the what-ifs. Sometimes that can be handy, other times not so much. The trick is to understand the difference, pay attention to when something wild is up, a thing out of place, to try and take a beat and listen. Am I merely reacting or can I sit in it and see what comes?

So, okay, yesterday Dennis and I took at-home, rapid-response Covid tests because we’re going away for the weekend and we just wanted to be SURE. They returned negatives about the same time a delivery of earthquake readiness packs landed in our front courtyard. Hmmm. I’m gonna call it good information and preparedness, but I’m also going to keep an eye on my inner compass. If I set up a writing space inside a safe room, I trust someone will check me for having lost perspective. Unless we’re having a zombie invasion.

I’m currently staring at a white board across the room with index cards and magnets at the ready as I dismantle my current novel. I’ve also been repeating this Samuel Beckett quote: “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” It encapsulates my state of mind currently. Playing with the word “fail.” I’m Play-Doh-ing the meaning into all sorts of alternate shapes, pressing my thumbs into how it can become something other than a drag. How it can look like freedom. For instance, in the traditional sense of it, fail is not a word I’d use for Simone Biles, yet in her decision to step back from Olympic activities in order to pay attention to her mental and physical well-being, she’s opened up a channel to what it means to live with your own and everyone else’s expectations. And what it is to be brutally honest—in the public eye, no less—about who you are and what you need. To me, she is failing better. Failing to compete means failing to stand on the metals podium, failing to become the person the world has come to expect. And the strength in that is, I think, her allowing space in her life to figure out what she needs right now. To let herself fail in one regard is to make room for her to succeed in another.

My particular failure project is just getting under way. I received some notes this week on the book I’ve been working on and they were both startling and, in a very specific way, invigorating. I have a lot of work to do and while I actually knew that to be the case, it was still surprising to hear and wrap my head and heart around how much more work than I’d thought. Mainly because I’d built this whole narrative where my manuscript was close enough that I’d just need a few tweaks, then could submit to agents in August given the fall months are no good (that’s the season of author’s publishing and agents shepherding their progress). But as the saying goes “(Wo)man plans, the gods laugh.” So I had to take a step back and reevaluate. First though, I had to deal with my emotional self. There’s so much wrapped up in the exposure of sharing a thing your heart is woven into. As a journalist, I not only welcome but need the outside editing voices, which means my critique-receiving muscle is pretty well exercised, but yet it still (and always) stings. That’s just part of the deal. There were tears. There was inner embarrassment around having shared the writing in the first place. There was frustration in thinking I can’t do this. There was fear in thinking I don’t know how to fix this. That all ebbed and flowed as I adjusted the view. On one level recognizing failure is also freedom. I can do whatever I want with this situation. I can stop altogether. But I don’t think I’m choosing that. I’m leaning toward understanding this element of the fail and going toward a do it better place.

A few things have steered me in that direction this week: Checking in with my writing group and unloading all my fears post-critiques onto our forum. Because out of our group of twelve, five have gotten agents since our almost-year-long time together, and one of those five has been picked up by a publisher (after a bidding war, mind you). All of us came into the class in different stages of our novel and to be able to mix and match each other’s moments is invaluable. To be honest, for me there’s a sense of panic in not wanting to be left behind, which taken as a motivation to drive me is fine as long as I don’t let my I-want-that-too whiny self consume the conversation so that I stop doing the work. I got into this class after being accepted on the strength of my writing sample, which is just the beginning. The work of it is the thing. I revisited one of the sessions about editing/revising where the writer talks about how eager some authors are to be rejected because they’re in a hurry to send out their tenth first draft. And by that he was saying you can revise a first draft to death, all you’re doing is moving around sentences, you’re not actually getting at the hard stuff of eliminating scenes, characters, sharpening plots, moving the story forward. And right now I’ve been spit-shining my first draft. Not yet started the hard work (I mean, it was work to actually write the thing, but this is a different requirement, less world-building whimsy, more brutal, tactical decision-making). To me, my first draft of anything is a blob of clay I’ve fashioned into something, but if I don’t remember to step back and take in the whole thing, I can’t see that there are parts popping up in the wrong place. The thing has three noses, eyes on its toes, no damn clothes….

Also helpful this week: Listening to author Douglas Stuart, Shuggie Bain (winner of Booker Prize), on Write-Off, a podcast about writerly rejection. Brilliant in that he talks about the book being rejected by 30+ publishers, not because they felt it was badly written, but because they didn’t know how to market it. Okay, so sure, everyone can relate to a rejection/redemption story. But the part of the podcast I loved was the bit where he talks about his first draft. It was 900 pages long, single-spaced. For a first draft, that’s not out of this world because the point is to just let the story rip. Build the world, place the people, etc. Yet, the thing that made me smile was that his husband read it and attempted to give him notes, so at first there are thoughtful questions and comments, then about a-quarter of the way through his hubby started writing things like “NO” and “Stop” and “Do better” in the margins. Douglas was laughing about it, but at the time he said it was unnerving in that he didn’t quite know how to fix anything. But he did go in and fix it. He worked on it on and off for ten years. He started another book as Shuggie was getting rejections. When asked his motivation, he simply said “I have to write. That’s the thing.” Another favorite podcast, This Jungian Life, had an episode on Letting Go: When Is It Time. The topic is broad-ranging (relationships, personal connections, etc.) but for me it struck a chord on the topic of creativity, writing, and publishing. What resonated: That if there’s still passion in any way for the thing you’re doing, if a voice says yes keep going even as other voices may try and talk you out of it, to take the time to listen to your gut despite thinking you’re just having indigestion, then that’s an indication to keep. going. Recognize the why of doing it rather than only the what it might mean to the wider world or someone else.

That’s not to suggest I don’t still want a novel of mine to see the overhead light of a bookstore, library, etc. Sure I could self-publish, but I’m not interested in that mainly because there is a process of editing and the input of others that I love. The writer in our group who is furthest along with agent/publisher activity has been taking us along on the steps. First, after getting an agent there are changes they suggest having to do as much with what they know publishers are looking for as with making the book better. A writer takes and makes as many of those changes as they feel resonate. Then once the MS is sold developmental edits are sent to the author. In her case, her UK and US agents have combined their notes and changes and given her some months to make the ones she agrees with. She says she’ll make most of them, but reject others, which is part of the process of listening to your own vision for your work while also allowing others to offer perspective. There will be line and copy edits once the work moves into the final publishing stages. It is always a living breathing thing up until the moment it enters the printing press. And her perspective has shifted, where once she was afraid she’d never get a good draft done and find an agent, now she realizes how weird it will be when there’s zero chance of any changes being made because it’s out there in people’s hands. Her book has changed tremendously from the first draft, but the bones remain. While some people wonder, well why not just send what you’ve got, since the thing changes so much in the end? But no, as the author/owner of the story—the parent as it were—you have to fortify the bones, help it grow. Develop its muscle so that when you meet that novel in an alleyway, it can immediately tell you who it is and why it’s there. Inventing, raising, nurturing. Skinned knees, falling down, getting back up. Learning to walk. Learning to fail and trying again. Aiming to fail better.

Dennis and I just got back from a couple of days mid-state attending a funeral for his cousin, Karen. She’d been ill for a number of months and died in October, but due to our 2020 global health crisis, the ceremonies for her were postponed until now. I’d never had the pleasure of meeting her, but through stories—both from Dennis and his family, along with the service and celebration—a picture of a vibrant, active woman took shape. The service was Catholic and held all the moments you would expect a traditional service to hold. The Father officiating the service had married Karen and her husband, baptized her two daughters, and was clearly a presence in her world throughout the past decades. Listening to his eulogy, I was struck by one comment in particular: That we rejoice when a baby is born and mourn when a person dies, but instead we should be wary (he didn’t exactly say “mourn” here) when a child comes into the world and rejoice when they pass on. On a couple of levels I was seeing his point: If you’re viewing this world as a place stocked shore-to-shore with challenges and obstacles, then yes, there is caution ahead. If you view end of life through a lens of specific religions, then yes, there is a better place to go if you’ve been kind and good.

I wasn’t raised in a religion with that sort of view on endings. I actually wasn’t raised with any formal religion although my mom and dad did take me to occasional Science of Mind services, which if I was going to describe that belief system as seen through young eyes would be a kind of StarWars-ian, the force is with you, type of thing. As I grew into teenage-hood I explored all the mysticisms (reading Carlos Castenada, diving into Tarot, wanting to speak to spirits…sort of/not really) and also trying to understand what Jimmy Page and Robert Plant were writing about without getting into any Aleister Crowley–ness. (I was too squeamish to cross over into darkness.)

So Karen’s service felt like a place for me to observe a formal religious ceremony around the finality of life. The front pews holding her mom and dad, he literally bent forward in grief. The solemnity of people taking the communion or a blessing at the end. While I felt like an observer, I felt happy to be getting a certain view into this woman’s life as I looked around and saw all the adults in her life who had known her on one level or another. But there was no one there under the age of eighteen, which seemed interesting. Afterward there was a Celebration of Life at a local spot where food, drink, a slideshow, and many tales of Karen were told. There were kids here, as if the more casual setting was appropriate where the church service was too solemn. There was still a cloud covering of sadness, but the idea of her having gone to a better place continued to prevail. The stories people told in this space contained more laughter, from the nervous to the joyful. There was an ice cream station, a fully-stocked bar, comfort food. All things she loved. There was also all the messiness of emotion. Palpable anger and resigned peace from her father and mother respectively. He not hiding at all his sense of “I’m just getting through this,” while she was beatific with the memories of the last heartfelt conversations she was able to have with her daughter at the end. And what struck me as wonderful is that they both, in that moment, seemed completely at ease with letting each other have the emotions they were having along with being aware they were in it together. Of course, when the slideshow came on and the soundtrack of heartrending music played behind the photostream, I came completely undone. I have mentioned that I had never met Karen. But in these photos there was life, poignant life, while the visuals floated on a raft of music that was pure emotion. Of course I got angry at the music for flying that flag. (Folks who know me are aware of my ongoing battle with music. How when it makes me feel, I get mad. Yes, I realize there’s work to be done around that…) But interestingly, thinking about the Father’s sermon I realized this visual reminder of her life was bringing intense emotion to everyone in the room because they would never get to see her again to make new memories, take new pictures, which of course is selfish.

I don’t say that in a derogatory or negative way, just simply that we love the people we love to be in our lives. When a baby is born, it’s Yay, I get to spend time with this cutie and watch her/him grow. When a person dies, it’s Noooo, I won’t get to spend any more time with that person. Of course, we’re human, that’s how it works.

In the car on the ride home we had a few hours to catch up on podcasts and wouldn’t you know it, the RadioLab we queued up was The Queen of Dying about Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, she of the five stages of death and, separately, of grief. It’s a fascinating episode about not only how the public takes an idea and whittles it down to a pocket-size theory where it loses all nuance, but also how a woman who rose into a very prominent public figure was also so very misunderstood at the end of her life. What also really struck me about the story was how Elisabeth brought the dying into the light. When she began her practice, which today might be seen as palliative care but back in the sixties classified her activities under a more scientific rubric, she understood that dying was not discussed. That a doctor did not tell a terminal patient that they were going to die. That they were quite literally placed in the far reaches of hospitals out of view so not many people would pass their rooms. When she began to hold seminars at the hospital where she was doing her research, she got a lot of pushback from doctors and laypeople who felt the whole conversation around death was exploitive. It was meant to be so personal as to be n.e.v.e.r. talked about. But the conversational tapes she made with these folks are insightful and heartbreaking. They wonder why people won’t just talk to them about their upcoming death. They talk about feeling invisible. They wish people would stop telling them to think positively. Again, I was undone (and there was no musical soundtrack to blame this time).

Invisibility. The sense that to hear someone say, I feel seen. I feel heard; those aren’t throwaway lines, but the very essence of an ache to be a part of this world in every stage of life. A baby asks for this attention as a birthright with no sense that s/he wouldn’t get it absolutely. No reason yet to believe that sometimes that attention slips away. At what point do we start to think we’re being greedy for asking? And in a gendered way, how much earlier do females switch into that realization than males? Overall, being able to see Karen even on a screen and after she’s been gone from this earth for more than nine months, the essence of her was made visible through photos and stories and I was happy to get to know her like that even in memorium. And for her loved ones, they carry her inside themselves differently.

That night I was standing in the window of our hotel staring down from the fifth floor onto the pool area where a bunch of teenagers were having themselves a Friday night. One by one they started waving. I smiled wondering who it was for, then realized they were waving at me, standing in the window staring at them. I lifted my hand and waved back, slightly mortified at realizing I wasn’t actually invisible.

I’ve been 24-hours at 60 years old. No discernible difference re: life and stuff. Altho Dennis points out that now when I take a survey or some-such, I’ll be checking a new bubble range (60+). Weird. But anyway… the last week was a great way to not think about surveys, except I did fill out a good amount of reviews regarding our accomodations. Travel is back, my people, and it’s really interesting to see the various and sundry ways folks are rolling with the Covid-careful, personal-choice issues in the places we passed through.

A 6.30 AM flight to Seattle started me off. It had been so long since I’d traveled that I was nervous. I had my vaccination card at the ready. No one asked. Everyone looked tired. Palm Springs Airport is very small, which is great. Going through security, I almost knocked over a stretchy-rope lane separator because I’d clearly forgotten how to roll my luggage successfully. Anywho, no one yelled at me. I got on the flight. Everyone was masked (yay), I had a two-hour flight and thought about napping. By the time we’d touched down I remembered that I’m not a napper. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I try and just can’t seem to let go into nap-land. Dennis was still working and meeting me at the place we were staying, so after I failed to nap, I wandered around the neighborhood of Greenwood. Found a consignment store and bought some clothes while listening to You’re Wrong About, a podcast my friend Windy turned me on to. (So good.)

Once Dennis showed up (in person after five weeks away. Oh.Mi.Good.Gawd.), we made up stories about the people who live in the home-exchange house we were staying in. There were no clothes in any of the closets, so that confused me, as this wasn’t an Air B’n’B, but a real person’s house. Anyway, I got over it, we went out to an excellent dinner (Gainsbourg), got a good night’s sleep, got to see Dennis’s sisters and one brother (I missed the other brother whose house Dennis was working on. He and his wife are in Bellingham–up the coast not down).

Next up, Florence, OR, where we Air B’n’B’d it in a place with a hot tub, a sauna, and a guy who did massages. Oh my-my, it was that whole idea of downshifting. The room smelled like eucalyptus, patchouli, with a mix of all-good vibes. Even when there was a brief power outage and an extension cord sparked when the electricity came back on, it was nothing but mellow. We all stared at the charred carpet, then worked out what time our massage would be the next day. Something in the air. Speaking of…

As we drove into Ashland, OR, the next day there was smoke. The Bootleg fire had just begun to grow (and still is growing over a week later, only 22% contained. Fire season has started early. Of course, it has. No joke, humans, the crisis of climate is coming faster than the predictors—otherwise known as scientists— predicted). Ashland is the location for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, although they haven’t quite gotten up to speed post-Covid. It’s a great vibe and we were staying in a home-exchange house, so were treated to an amazing space filled with choice modern art and a very cool garden with plants and sculptures. This was the kind of place where I could really sense the people who live there: Retired, drawn to a place with culture, walkability, etc. (I mean, I kind of make this stuff up, even though one of the owners and I have had some email conversations.) Then there were the deer. Wowza, they are literally everywhere. A mom and her two littles in a yard next to a four-lane main highway (think Park Avenue with the median in the middle). Terrifying, yet they wander. Eat out of the yards. Maybe attend the shows. who knows.

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Next day we were off to Eureka, CA. Driving Highway 101 through the Redwoods. At 3.15 we turned up to snake our way through and found out the highway shuts down Monday through Thursday from 3 to 7. Really this was our only way to get to our next destination without a five-hour drive back the other way, so we went to a fishing town nearby, ate some food, then got in a line of cars inside the forest to wait until the highway reopened. The cool thing was that they let you drive six miles into the forest, so you’re actually in this beautiful space waiting. You’re also with many many dozens of other cars also lined up, with people inside. I imagine this is what it’s like to queue up for a concert, then get to know your fellow travelers while you’re stuck in line. I mostly observed the happenings: a guy who was desperate to get people to play quarters with him (making money on the side?), the couple in front of us got out of their car and just plunged into the forest. I was a little scared for them, but this is apparently what hiking on trails means!?!? A golf cart with park employees came by with water and granola bars. They were very friendly and all-in-all it was good. Dennis and I meditated. A car played very loud music, we continued to observe our breath. Just regular life really. When we started to move, we were rewarded with a stunning view of the sun setting on the Pacific Ocean with majestic trees in the foreground. I mean…come on.

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Next up: San Francisco. Yo. It’s cold and damp there. Have I gotten spoiled by sun (or seasons)? Yes, probably. But also I think I’ve been ruined for other cities after New York. We’ll just leave it at that. Our neighborhood had a great hole-in-the-wall Japanese place. I had some awesome ramen, Dennis had some tempura, we drank hot sake. San Franciscans are on their mask game. One-hundred-percent covered inside and out. I appreciated that. Even in Golden Gate Park, it was masks up. We spent a whole day walking…again, I am spoiled by my NYC. I mentioned to my dad, how did SanFran become all that. He said, Gold. Right. That would do it. We wandered into the Haight neighborhood, went to a bookstore and a Goodwill, where I bought a sweater because I was cold, found a silly restaurant, prepared to take off the next day.

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To Morro Bay where there sits a majestic rock. I cannot really tell you much about the rock, but it’s pretty cool to see! The drive down Highway 1 is ridiculous. It’s like all those movies you’ve seen about the California coastline. And there are actually some houses built on the side of cliffs, which doesn’t seem altogether smart, but really these people are richer than Croesus, so I got nothin’. We listened to Jeff Buckley and Led Zeppelin. This made sense to me somehow. And we drove and drove and found our Air B’n’B, then found an amazing restaurant where everyone knows everyone else and they all have dogs and we sat outside and sipped wine and it was pretty great. This felt like California livin’. Then we left yesterday to travel on down to Redlands.

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A really great way to spend my first day of 60, traveling along the coast, remembering some things from family vacations spent in Carmel and Ojai and Alisal ranch in Salinas, from teenage beach days (of which there were very few. How did I not take more advantage?), from seeing these views as a kid and appreciating their beauty but not quite ready then to slip into the majesty. I was ready yesterday to do that. And even though we hit traffic from LA to our Inland Empire home, that’s part of the landscape. An unfortunate byproduct of all us humans taking up this space, but yet having traveled through Redwoods thousands of years old, a shoreline with cliffs and rock formations equally historic, the realization of being a speck in time was just the right kind of reminder on this milestone day.

Hello. I’m Renard, your guest host for this week. Lauren and Dennis are off in a hot tub or something so I’ve stepped in for a guest spot. A sort of a John Oliver moment and I only know this because you Americans like your talk shows. I’m French and much prefer something literary…but anyway. I seem to have found my way to this keyboard so I’m going to tell you my story before she comes back and removes my plush paws, then sits me back up on a shelf or something. So. Where was I? Right. About five weeks ago I made a slight mistake in timing and got in the truck with Dennis for a ride up to Bellingham, Washington. I overheard them discussing a road trip down the coast and I don’t trust either of these loompah human things to remember to bring me along, so I took matters into my own rounded, stuffed hands. Here was the problem. Time. Five weeks. That turns out to be made up of a lot of minutes and things. (I mean, seriously, I’m a plush toy. The fact I’m even doing this is crazy.) So…there I was just. waiting. sitting. staring. Maybe some thinking.

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Until we could get on the road again. Finally Lauren turned up. Sheesh (or as we say in French: chich). Let’s go already. Of course, on our first stop in Seattle, I was smitten…

But she turned out to be too one dimensional. We had a wonderful two nights, then it was time to hit the road again. (As I understand it, there is a man who sings a song about this. It’s a bit whiny for my taste, much prefer Edith Piaf.) Off we went down to a town in Oregon called Florence. Lots of nice scenery. I have no opposable thumbs so can’t show you any photos. But use your imagination. Very green. Lots of trees. Farms. Cows. Sheep. Fields. Streams.

We made it here last night, and now I sit for a day while they wander around, drink coffee, pet dogs (aaahhhh), get massages and climb into large tubs of hot swirling water. Then there’s some room that steams up. They both seem to enjoy this kind of thing. Seems to make them both a lot slower, and they weren’t exactly rocket scientists to begin with. Not complaining though. I’m just hanging out in this lovely room. No idea where we’re going next, but wish me luck. If I can figure out how to post this thing before Lauren gets back, that will be huge. Thank you for reading and if you like, please to let her know. Maybe it’s time for some new blood–or rather stuffing.

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The summer so far: Hot (hot in the literal sense rather than in a swipy-sexy-time way that the kids are using it currently). Quiet (Dennis has been away for over a month; also reason hot is referencing temps rather than temperament). Starting with former, while it’s not weird for weather to do what it is currently in places like SoCal and NYC, the fact that all the way up the left coast—Oregon, Washington, Canada—they are roasting like marshmallows over a campfire is disturbing, yet not surprising given how the planet has been treated in the past many hundred years. Yet, still, as the reality unfolds and the headlines prevail, we scramble. My friend in Canada (hi, Judy) spent the day at the beach with her husband and pooch, Tessa. She sent the most adorable photo of Tessa discovering water and apparently deciding to never leave. Because she is smart. Dennis is working at his brother’s place up in Washington where AC isn’t a thing, because why would it be? Degrees in the hundreds are not. actually. ever. expected. And yet… heard an interview a couple of weeks ago with Katherine Hayhoe, an atmospheric scientist, talking about how humans are prone (er, likely) to ignore warnings, talk of, etc. about things that are dire until they’re affecting them directly. Actually in their face, in their space, in this case melting, flooding, tornado-ing, burning, droughting, and all other climate change byproducts. This magical thinking is deadly. How do we deal and adapt? Not being any sort of inventor, scientist, climate biologist or any other sort of big-funded thinker, I do not have the tools to help with the larger picture. But on a more meta level, I try. I’m happy as a vegetarian and am working on my dairy consumption (I love you still, cheese.) given their effects on our old planet. I’ve lived in Cali now for a year-and-a-half and haven’t bought a car because we’re in a place where I can ride my bike, walk, and the bus system here is fantastic and why don’t more people use it???? I’ve also set up a very great car-share with my dad. (Thanks, dad.) So here we sit. I, literally, in the inflatable pool with redwood surround in our backyard. As you can see in the pic above, I constructed a kind of de-facto soaking workspace. (Dennis sent me an oh-mi-gawd-strike-forehead emoji on the risky computer-near-water situation. I have been known to suffer for my hairbrained schemes. In this case, all has turned out fine.) And whatever else I can do, I think about while trying not to get too overwhelmingly freaked about where we sit right now in the crisis of it.

About that quiet part of my summer: With Dennis working out of town, I’ve gotten in a very nomadic groove. It’s one that suits my writing schedule. It’s also reminded me that I do enjoy my solo time, whether that’s a byproduct of being an only child….maybe? This is a rhythm Dennis and I have done before. In NYC, he would be off doing a show or working on a job and I’d have the apartment to myself, but I had a busier social scene there too. Between moving and COVID lockdown, that part of my world has shifted a bit. Being a person who embraces her introversion, I’m actually fine with that. But—an important but—there’s such a thing as having both the person you love around and the ability to write and have solo time. And over the ten-plus years with Dennis, I’ve worked to figure out how to claim the time I need and enjoy the time we spend. So the question becomes balance. The proclivity I have to please before I claim what I’m craving is always a balance in progress. I work on it.

Between, hanging with my dad, the wonders of FaceTime, and bonus visits from my friend who drives in from the beach (Hi, Mary) to do early morning strolls, I’m finding out-of-my-own-head chat time. I also do talk to Gladdy&GrayBoy, the cats who show up in the backyard. One-way conversations, but still… Here’s the thing: This Wednesday I’m flying to Seattle so Dennis and I can drive down the coast for ten+ days. I’M VERY EXCITED. So very very excited. Note: there won’t be anything posted in this blog-space next weekend, but the following I’ll be right back in the scene. Please feel free to talk amongst yourselves. Stay safe, find the cool, and I’ll see you in two…

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This week I celebrated the wonder of paper. The newsprint kind, card stock aged 46 years, and a laminated card that’s been with me for the past 37.

Let’s start with newsprint! Last Sunday, top ten day all around! I finally got to give my dad the LATimes with my essay-ode to him on Father’s Day. I’d been carrying this secret since March, but wasn’t totally sure it would happen until the Monday before the publishing. My friends, I was sooo nervous. Had all the feels, as the young’uns say. Not that I didn’t doubt his reaction would fall somewhere between thrill. love, and wonder, but the nervous-making thing had more to do with the expressing of all those emotions. No great secret here: I can be exquisitely uncomfortable around extreme emotion. Whatever it is: uproarious laughter , soul-gutting tears. I just don’t know what to do with my hands, my face, my voice. But that’s a topic for another time. Alright, fine, I’ll go there a little now. As long as I’ve been over twelve, I’ve noticed that when I’m swept away in a deep feeling, there comes with it an out-of-control sensation. Well of course. That’s the point, isn’t it? high and low emotion is by definition the letting go of some bit of control and feeling. Somewhere along the line I decided that wasn’t a good look (or a cool one) and I would stop myself from just going for it. I’ve worked quite a bit on it–knowing it, exploring it, accepting it, and going from there–so I sit in a place much more able to let myself go than I used to (thank you therapy and all kinds of other time-developed things) but yet, always aware of it.

So, that stated, last Sunday was a biggie. And giving this essay to my dad was one of those wonderful moments where I knew I didn’t have to say or do anything. Just hang out with him and enjoy it. And they were–and continue to be–awesome. There was surprise, happiness, some overwhelm, the chance to tell him how it all came about in print, and how true it all was. No matter that he might say, “Aw, I don’t deserve this.” (Possible I got a bit of that emotional discomfort from him?) We then went out and had a tasty fun brunch.

Another amazing thing about my LATimes piece was the fact that people dropped me lines via my laurendeanspencer.com website. So all throughout Friday and Saturday I kept getting alerts that I had a message waiting. It reminded me of the thrill I’d get seeing someone on the subway looking at SPIN and wondering if they were reading a piece I’d written (this was pre-internet times, for those who remember). The messages I got last week were really cool ranging from a woman telling me the story of her transatlantic flights to spend time with her dad, who passed last year, to a woman who wanted to know if my hair was real, and if it wasn’t, could I please share where I got the wig. But there was one message that stood out: “I just enjoyed reading your piece in the L.A. Times and wondered if you could be a long-lost junior high school buddy of mine. Bravo on the piece and welcome back to California!” Because I am crap at remembering anything before my behind-the-wheel drivers test (so scary) and then it can still be a bit spotty after that, her name did not ring a bell. But she was in fact that buddy. And her memory is amazing not too mention her way of preserving artifacts because after I told her I went to South Pasadena Junior High, she wrote back: “If you saw Elton John at Dodger Stadium in 1975, it was likely with me!” Holy, Captain Fantastic. YES! The pieces came back and when she sent me photos of her school ID from back then along with this ticket (so incredibly well preserved. Why was I not as conscious with my stuff?), my mind was blown. Not only did I remember her, but the experience of my mom dropping us both off at Dodger Stadium at FOURTEEN years old. Us going to the show. JUST THE TWO OF US/fourteen to see ELTON JOHN. Then my mom picking us up after. In the parking lot of DODGER STADIUM. Mind blowing again. How did that even happen? I envision it like that great scene in Almost Famous (top two favorite movie ever) with Frances McDormand dropping off Patrick Fugit (whatever happened to him BTW) at a concert. (1:41 in on the trailer). Side note: My dad once dropped a friend and I off at the Forum, going to see Van Halen, maybe, and he’d brought a thermos of martinis, then sat in the parking lot listening to a baseball game and having his cocktails until we turned up and he drove us home. Yep, them’s were the days!)

Anyway. My point. This piece of paper paper took me right back to a specific time, because of course it did. No matter how hazy my memories, these formative moments were and still are so real and hearing from my old friend, someone I’d lost touch with and who happened forty-plus years later to read words I’d written now, then she got in touch is just … well, I’d use the words mind blowing again, but I think there’s a limit. So what fires me is just how weird and synchronic the world can be. I was here, I left, I came back. I wrote about it. I was then brought all the way face-to-face thwap back to some really good moments of pure pleasure. I can’t say I remember anything but happy adrenaline from looking up on a stage, general admission and as I remember it close enough to see him in his sequin Dodger Uniform with Elton 1 on the back and LA on the cap. The heat, lights, crowd, euphoria of the music and the moments. Melting, smiling, just so happy. I’ve been aiming to achieve that level of abandon and merge with sound ever since. And I’ve succeeded quite a bit. (notwithstanding the one time I merged too much with the music after someone spiked my coke at CalJam II and I thought Ted Nugent was actually on fire. And that was not good.) But this knowledge of music’s power is also a reason I’ve found disappointment in it over the last little while. The seeing-behind-the-curtain business of it hacked away some magic. Maybe my expectations are too high. But yet, this specific memory became a happy gateway for others. And for that I’m profoundly grateful.

And on another laminated card stock situation: This week I got an email from the NYPLibrary telling me it was time to renew my card. I blithely wrote back saying I was out of state, so what was the best way to renew from a distance. And Bernard, from the help desk wrote back, “Alas, [yes, he actually used Alas. I love librarians. so. much.] … Our funding comes primarily from New York City and State taxpayers, as such … we must restrict access to e-books and database resources for non-residents.” So in essence, I now must give up my NYPL card. The one I got while probably wearing a sweatshirt whose collar had been torn off à la Flashdance, a tank top underneath, a load of o-ring bracelets inspired by Madonna, and a hairstyle I was never happy with. I lived in the Lower East Side and went into the branch on Tompkins Square Park. I’m taking this loss much harder than I might have thought. I mean, I have a library card for our local A.K. Smiley, which is awesome beyond, but it’s not yet holding the history this red&blue card holds. Of afternoons in the Rose reading room at the main Fifth Avenue branch where Patience and Fortitude, the stone lions out in front, would greet me before doing hours of research for my graduate thesis on Henry James and Edith Wharton. The branch across the street where I’d look at magazines before going on interviews for said magazines so I knew their style but didn’t have to purchase them. So. Broke. at the time. The Washington Heights branch I rode by on my bike from work where I’d have books on hold. And on and on and on. But at some point soon, my card will expire. And that’s the way of time. And I’ll get a new card since I’m sure we’re not done with the city yet. If there’s one thing I learned from this week, it’s that surprises and history go hand in hand.

Hello, my lovelies. I’m shaking it up. Blog-land wants a new approach (OK, I want a new approach). So I’m going to do some daily musings, then on the Saturday I’m a’gonna pop the whole caboodle up on the site. Here we are at Sunday. Folx, the week ahead is gonna be hella hot. Triple digit funtime. The small pool out back will no doubt see me floating. But here’s the thing about California: Somewhere around twilight, the weather fairies begin adjusting the temperature even as the Cali sun insists on dominating an “I’m still here” with a Bettie Davis/staircase attitude. The place settles down into some breeze&gentleness throughout until morning. My friend Mary was visiting last weekend and totally called the shift. “Did you feel that?” she asked. And, yes, I did.

So today before the blazing began, I read the NYTimes, tried to not get too worked up about stuff, read the usual Book Review&Style section, then headed over to my dad’s. On the way, I listened to a RadioLab podcast about breath. The first segment had to do with the deeply amazing and weird fact that babies are submerged in water throughout their whole gestation and only receive air through a little trap door in their heart, which is connected to the mother’s breath. When one of the hosts said, “It’s funny because it is a little story of the necessity of trauma” I cried a little. Not just because it’s unbelievable how an actual human is formed inside a woman, but that trauma is an act that has to happen in order for any of us to live. Our first memory/experience is literally the trauma of having our air supply cut (which is why babies are blue at first) until we’re shocked into learning how to operate our own lungs. So, there I was, driving my dad’s car (we’re doing an auto-share thing while Dennis is away), and having to do some deep breathing of my own to concentrate on the road. Anyhoo. I made it safely, walked in his place, where he offered me an egg salad sandwhich (I decined. Just ate.), and asked if I would drive his neighbor down to the Rite Aid. So I turned around, headed next door to her place to complete my mission. She told me she’d had a couple of beers so did not feel comfortable on the road. Responsible. Once there, she grabbed wine in a box, a pack of smokes, and then looked at me in disbelief when, after asking what the tonic water I was buying was being mixed with, I said lime and she fled to the cashier shouting “I have to get away from this boring person.” She had a mask on, so it was muffled. I had a mask on, so both my laugh and frown were equally camouflaged. Heading back to my dad’s place, we passed a corner where a couple of trucks had set up some tables selling some stuff. They had flags–also for sale–mounted on those trucks. They read Trump 2024 and Fuck Biden. Apparently when the revolution comes, we will be squaring off with the mentality of surly teenagers.Raise your hands if you didn’t know that already. Right. No hands. Which isn’t to minimize it. Surly teenagers are effin’ scary as Sh%%t (that frontal lobe not-closed-yet thing. aaahhh.).

My dad and I spent the rest of the afternoon on his porch discussing the section in the LATimes that was devoted to the Big One–meaning the mammoth earthquake that is scheduled to be here any day now. And we need to be ready. And, yes, I am suitably freaked out enough to prepare some go-bags (one for the fire emergency. One for the earth shaking moments. Both may have generally similar things given a tiny foldable shovel can be used in a variety of ways. My next challenge will be how to figure out what’s needed for the zombie apocalypse, because that’s coming too, I hear. And then what to do when the guys with the flags on the corner come for us…it’s all making me need to turn on Ru Paul’s Drag Race and remember when I wore makeup…although not quite like that). Then my dad drove me home and I extolled the virtues of the bus and he agreed that if there was a shuttle anywhere near to make his life convenient, he’d love to give up the car. I gave him a good-bye kiss and wandered around the apartment doing stuff for awhile. Till tomorrow…

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MONDAY: Hello. Today I planned ahead. Knowing it would be a million degrees (100 degrees F), I decided to take a long walk before 10AM after which it would become full oven sensation. No surprise that there were many people out doing the same thing. Some with canine furries, some just hoofin’ it along like me. A surprising amount with masked faces. I had mine handy in case there was some sort of tight-quarter pedestrian incident. But there wasn’t. A crowded sidewalk in Redlands is basically defined as two people, each walking a dog, approaching each other within a half-block radius. An absolute pedestrian nightmare is two couples walking at least one dog each approaching within feet of each other. I see that and I’m crossing the street, where chances are very good there won’t be anyone at all. One delightful meet-up I had today was about halfway down Grant street (short street, charming houses), a plump gray cat popped out from behind a hedge and sat down in the middle of the sidewalk as I approached, looked at me and meowed. There were jangly name tags and a collar around her neck, so I knew she wasn’t feral, plus, as mentioned, she was a chubster. I crouched right down there and gave her some petting. Since Gladimus hasn’t showed up in ages, I’ll take it where I can get it. That and the pretty flowers, dewy leaves, and quaint, social commentary lemon-giveaway notes (see above) were about the height of it. Getting home, I caught up with my friend Judy in Canada, got a tour of her new awesome house, then worked on the edits the editor from the LA Times had on my essay. Which is in the newspaper. This. SATURDAY. (So basically today, as you read this.) Of course I’m nervous after hitting send, and hoped I did what she was asking for. We’ll see.

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WEDNESDAY: A quiet day started happily with the return of Gladimus community cat. The cast is off her leg (as you can see in the first photo, that back leg has been shaved and looks like a little peg-pirate leg, yet as witnessed in the second photo, she’s on the move as always). She trotted in, let me give he a good pettin’, then headed out to find some shade. I, also in mind of relief, took a brief but vigorous walk around the nabe, listened to a couple of Aria Codes, then came back and settled in, typing in the notations on my novel draft (um, in the pool…where I made a de-facto desk. photo on far right above). Also looked at some final edits on the LA TIMES, LA Affairs piece. I’m lucky to be working with a very cool editor who, even though she had to trim by A LOT, it still reads really well and she didn’t sacrifice all of my darlings. It’s funny to know (pretty) absolutely that it’s happening, since of course I’d gone through all the regular creative doubts in my head: They decided it’s not good enough to publish. It’s not going to run. And on like that. Amazing how I can entertain huge doubts, then tell myself it doesn’t matter if it’s rejected (when of course it does matter), then I hold my emotional breath. Having talked to and read interviews with so many other writers, I know this mindset of doubt is what many many many others have also. Hell, it’s the way of most humans–most especially, it seems, when it comes to ideas and creating.

THURSDAY: This was the day I really remembered what it meant to be edited. There were more cuts to be done (I very much remember this from magazine days when space expanded and contracted). There are basically two versions: Online is longer. Newspaper slightly shorter. The piece goes online on Friday, then is in the print edition Saturday. As I went over both for the final time, I read them out loud. Under my mask on the bus on my way to see my dad. I ferreted out any typos or misrepresentations or dropped words. All the things editors and writers do when something is about to go out the door. It’s a rush and I enjoyed it. Also felt lucky that she is an editor who communicates. By the time I stepped into parking lot to meet my dad, it felt like everything was ready to roll. The big challenge was keeping it a secret from him. I’d toyed with telling, but have decided to wait until I can hand him the actual paper.

FRIDAY: This morning I woke up to a message from a total stranger saying this: “Hello
I just read your story this morning in the LA Times. It made me laugh, and almost cry, at the same time. Having young children of my own, I only pray that my daughters come visit me when I’m your Father’s age. And having a living Mother who is now 84 and aging fast, it makes me realize the importance of longer visits. And spending quality time as life gives us only a precious amount of time with them. Your story made my day. And I pray that you have many more memories with your father. Thank you!”

Wow. I cried a little at that too. The surreal part of knowing people you’ve never met are responding to your words… That is all. I am verklempt. I also scoped out the local gas station where they say they sell the LA Times, even though they were sold out at noon. So I’ll have to get there early and grab some. A different world than when a newsstand lived on a lot of corners and you could buy a newspaper. But no worries. I’ll track one down. Here’s a link to the online version.

SATURDAY: Hello. A discovery: It’s damn hard to find a brick&mortar that sells actual newspapers. Primarily the LA Times. At the risk of getting sentimental on your a#*, I miss that about NYC. But, to be honest, the newspaper stands in NYC have dwindled quite a bit as well. I did prevail though and found one at a store I had vowed not to go to again because they were pretty lax in their mask mandating during the pandemic. Yet, I walked in and bought two copies of the LA Times anyway. Made me think about how the rules get bent depending on the desire. I’m not proud of it, but at the same time was not relishing a drive into Pasadena (or to a nearby airport) in the Rocket 88 (what we call my dad’s car) in order to secure what I needed. So now…the fun will be to give this to my dad on Father’s Day.

Thank you for hanging out all week, and I’ll see you back here next Saturday! XX

Yesterday I did an interview with a guy about what it was like to work at SPIN in 1991. It wasn’t lost on me that the last few weeks have been a series of revisits to the past while also processing feelings around entering into this new now (focused more on how the world feels different regarding the inner landscape rather than just what it feels like roaming around outside with the bottom half of my face visible). While it’s easy to go back inasmuch as memories are rascals and rarely represent the real-deal, it was fascinating to talk to him about some connections to thirty years ago and then, an even further reach, fifty years ago and a possible thread that runs between them culturally. While I’ll leave that thread for future pondering, having just finished watching the documentary 1971: The Year That Music Changed Everything, I felt pretty ripe for the conversation. First off, this docu-series is great. The archival footage amazing, rare, jarring, entertaining…could go on, but highly recommend. I was nine&ten in 1971. I was awkward (witness photo above of me negotiating the end of my skipping days, yet the beginning of what I’d do with my limbs instead. Moving my arms and legs in a way that might suggest confidence. This, I remember, was a challenge.). This was a time of first love, music-wise. Led Zeppelin and Elton John were my mains. I didn’t understand at the time EJs sexuality outright, but had transferred my crush to Bernie Taupin given he wove all the amazing stories (“Tiny Dancer” still slays me). Watching the doc and talking to the guy yesterday, I realized how much my budding libido informed my musical choices. These weird sensations were being delivered in music that dove deeper physically than I’d ever understood before. Given the choice, I was more Rolling Stones than Beatles because there was something…a bass line, a blues progression, a drum beat…that resonated down down down. It was scary. It was thrilling.

Fast forward to 1991 there I was living in the world of musical angst, sturm, drang, surge and slow that moved me emotionally and physically. It wasn’t so much that I’d learned how to handle the sensations/feelings/emotions better than I had at years 10 to 20-something, but more that I was now getting paid to investigate those moments. Soundgarden, Nirvana, Pearl Jam gave me access to rolling around inside the emotions while having to (try to) keep a subjective distance. That worked for awhile until 1994 when my heart broke. I’m pretty sure I recognized that it happened—I mean the collective world mourned Kurt Cobain’s death ergo the removal from the world of his songwriting and self—but it seemed weirdly absurd to ascribe that kind of deep emotion to my career. I had a job to do, damn it. But yet something broke overall. For me, it was deeper than just his suicide. Music stopped existing as a place of magic and became what paid my bills, which then, over time, became just painful. Did I really mourn it? Doubtful. I more or less just went away from it. Shut the door on it.

I had some amazing conversations with friends last week about changes both in our way-back and recent past. About how I disappeared for awhile post-music days. Hid out. Wanted the old to go away while I carved out a new. At the time, I thought using a relationship/marriage as a safe room would insulate me from having to investigate my reasons for running. It didn’t. Everywhere you go, there you are. Talk of of letting people go, not in any sort of post-pandemic, if-they-don’t-serve-you-see-ya way that all the media is talking about, but more how difficult it is to let go of a close relationship without chewing it over and relitigating, swearing I’ll get it right this time. Nope, that hasn’t worked for me so far either. Maybe instead, truly wish the person well and release them back into their natural habitat. Then there’s grief. The time spent actually recognizing that human-size hole and sitting in it for a bit.

Even though I feast on fiction mostly, I’ve pulled in this side dish: a slim, powerful book, Notes on Grief by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Also I’ve also found my way back to music in a way I would never have figured (isn’t that always…). A podcast called Aria Code. Its focus is opera. What? Yes, all those languages I don’t understand, yet, here’s what does translate: emotion and storytelling. Right! That’s what I love. That’s what I’ve missed. That’s why my heart broke and I couldn’t figure out how to find my way back. This series takes one aria at a time, invites a few people in (a singer, a historian or some-such person to talk about the story overall), then grounds the song in the here and now. Example: An episode from a past season on Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro: Count On a Reckoning explores men abusing their power. The show features a singer whose performed the role, a historian, and a journalist who has explored powerful men’s tantrums (looking at you Brett K.) as a way to gain and keep power. The place I’ve come to while listening is that the story carries me on the back of the chords, the rises, the falls, the melody. I can do this. But only if I’m willing to understand the pain will come. It won’t kill me. Also there will be wonder.

No surprise then that with Dennis, who is steeped in opera, his always-loved music, has been offering bits&slices of opera for the past 10-year-plus of our relationship. It’s not like I really got it though. Appreciating it through him has been only partially successful. I’ve gone to a few operas by his side, most recently Der Rosenkavalier, which, I think, is a super-celebration of aging women BTW, at the Met in NYC for his birthday in 2019. I did much dozing in the third(!!!) hour—okay, some in the second hour too. I would wake up to high notes and cool costumes, then my eyes would close again. Mind you, it also had been my last day at Hearst and we were days away from moving to the west coast, so a lot going on. But anyhoo, still I didn’t really understand the music. The story. The connection. So color me surprised when now, with 2020 resembling nothing so much as a crazy take on The Arabian Nights, stories of survival to keep us all alive, I find my way back to music slowly through a form where the story is told most often in a language I don’t understand. But the emotion I do. The fact that something is unfolding filled with all the drama of life, I get. The connection. Pain rolled into joy rolled into the unknown. And imagination. (Side note before I sign off, speaking of imagination: The Children’s Bible: A Novel by Lydia Millet is absurdly good. Dark humor. A kind of Lord of the Flies updated. Revolving around a group of teens [& a couple of littles] who are dragged along with parents on a group vacation. An apocalyptic climate event happens and the masterful way the author exposes not just the failings of the parents in their care-taking of the planet, but also of their own kids, is brilliant and funny and sad and hopeful.)