Does This Make Me Look

Awhile ago, after finding a trove of little-me home movies in my dad’s shed, I sent them to a place for digitizing. I also dropped in a betacam cassette that I’d been carting around from my SPIN days, which, although it said ABC interview on the label, I couldn’t remember anything about. The little-me digital files came back a couple of months ago with a note that the place was unable to grab anything off the Beta. Dennis, though, found another place and off it went again. This week it (can watch it here if you’re so inclined) arrived in digital form and hitting play, I was dialed me right back into a period of my life that was both a beginning, a middle, and an end in some fundamental ways. Doing some sleuthing—not too difficult as there was a calendar on the wall behind me—I placed the interview at February, probably 1992. That would put me at the age of 30. The topic under discussion was the “Seattle Sound,” for which I had a ton of thoughts. The first time I watched the clip, I was agitated, cringed, became uncomfortable. Not so much for the words—although my opinions on Madonna shows “You will enjoy them,” which is absurd because, my friends, I’ve never ever even once been to a Madonna show, and Hammer, because I apparently had an opinion on Hammer and his effect on the youth and music, which hearing those thoughts now mortify me shaded as they sound with a racial tinge—but the thing that made me both stare and look away was the view of myself at that point in life. How my face moved, my presentation, how I listened. I saw confidence, which is so interesting because while I did have some and had knowledge about the words coming out of my mouth, I also remember the squirmy misgivings on the state of my emotional world, bill collector’s on my phone machine, questions about what might come next…just the regular young person stuff. The other thing that struck me in the watching was remembering how the outfit, my go-to interview dress, infused my confidence.

It was royal blue, scooped neckline, bell sleeves, the hem fell a few inches below my straight-armed fingertips, slightly form fitting, but not Mariah-Carey style, if you know what I mean. I thought it brought out my eyes. It didn’t do weird things like ride up or fall down. It worked for me and gave me that bite of confidence for when I was having to be seen in a more professional way. Gotten at Fiorucci, the coolest—to my mind—clothes emporium of 80s/90s New York.You’ll see from the photo above that the ABC interviewer was wearing what worked for her as well: red blazer, blonde-bob. She was around my age in years, but her work uniform distinguished her career choice. There’s no doubt whatsoever that my relationship with clothes was a driving force in how I moved through my work world. I had a short, wide-elastic waist, skater skirt (similar to this) bought at Unique Boutique on lower Broadway that when I wore it with leggings and my motorcycle boots, often with an extra-long sleeved t-shirt or flannel, sleeves unbuttoned (it was the 90s, after all), I felt truly bad-ass. This was my interview-bands outfit. Then there were the high-waisted striped jeans (similar to these) that I wore when I was editing other writers, because I was working with mostly guys, so this look aligned me with a tougher vibe—no gender distraction. I had a weird blue&white striped on top, solid blue on bottom pullover dress I found at a thrift store that I wore to shows. These were my go-tos in regular, heavy rotation. I had a NYC-size closet and no budget (see “bill collectors” above) and these outfits influenced how I stepped into the world. How I was seen and how I saw, or rather, felt my power.

I’m watching a Netflix show called Worn Stories and it’s much more poignant than I expected it to be. Focused on who the person inhabiting a specific piece of clothing is inside of the memory, the choice of it, the adventure (or non) around it. It brings to my mind not only the power of clothes when they’re on your back, or torso, or feet, but also the life they’ve lived along with you—and in some cases before you. I’ve been a thrifter my whole clothing-consumer life and more and more I wonder about the stories held in every Goodwill, Salvation Army, second-hand store I walk into. Where have these clothes been? Parties, funerals, interviews, proposals. Sometimes I make up a story: the elbows are a bit worn on the sweater. Did they lean forward regularly in class to catch every word? Stuff like that is fascinating and well worth my flaneur-style wandering through the store wondering if A) would this work for me? and B) what’s the story, morning-glory? (Pretty rarely do I ask “do I need this?” because almost always the answer would be “no.”) I’ve mentioned in a blog post before how my friend, Denise, plays the game of wondering why the person gave the thing up, and I love that. Then one step back is how they wore it (or why) to begin with.

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The mini-me home movies had me marveling at the cute little onesies and dress, top, short, capri combos I was dressed in from ages 1 to 7-ish. How I wore them. The easter hat scene where while hunting for eggs the topper got caught on a tree and I was both surprised and just over it. Took the thing off and gave it to my mom. But when it was time for me to dress myself, the statements I remember making were all to do with the rock t-shirt: Elton John, Led Zeppelin, Alice Cooper, all ordered from the back pages of CREEM magazine. Then onto the mimicking of the bands themselves. The frippery of a white frilly shirt, dubbed New Romantic, when I went to see Adam and the Ants at The Whisky a Go Go on the Sunset Strip and I got called out for my, er, poseur-ness. I think that was the shift into deciding I’d figure out a style for myself. What I hadn’t altogether figured on was the emotional power those decisions would bring. Clothes make the (wo)man? (Wo)man makes the moment. Around and around we go.

I realize from the photos I post with this blog, you may think no actual humans exist in this town. Although I do write about them, I just don’t take photos of their faces, etc. Some whole human carried the above pair of sunglasses on their face (or at least somewhere on their person). I did not see that situation since I came across them abandoned. I imagine they tumbled out of someone’s bag/pocket/kangaroo pouch without them knowing, then some other human picked them up and set them here, maybe figuring said person would come back looking for them. Or, in some alternate universe, the owner broke up with them. Maybe they got in a fight. “You don’t actually shade my eyes as well as I want you to.” “Well if you’d wear me correctly, actually on your face rather than pushed back as a hair holder, I might be able to do my job.” “No, I’ve decided that you really don’t suit my style anymore. I’m just going to set you here on this ledge.” “WHAT? NO. You can’t just leave me here. Alone.” “You’ll be fine. Someone else who loves you better will pick you up.” Person drives off.

I make up stories about all kinds of things, a lot of them actual humans. Outside the office window where I write I can watch the neighbors pass by on foot every day. They’re on foot because their canine companions need them to accompany them in their daily exercise/relief ritual. Dogs need that type of teamwork and it looks like the humans attached to them enjoy it too. There’s Winston and his three-legged dog. They journey out multiple times a day. He’s a chatter (Winston, the human) and has told us his origin story (widowed, lived here for decades) along with his pup’s, whose name I’ve forgotten (gah), and how the little guy lost a leg to cancer, yet adapted in no time and always looks like he’s smiling (this is actually true). The story winds its way to a happy moral end of “see, we can always be glad for what we’ve got and overcome challenges,” then Winston and the smiley guy move on. Lately, Winston has had another wee-one on their walks. This little lady belongs to the neighbor. She (the owner) is under the weather and so now fluffy (the dog) accompanies Winston and his pal on their walks. Billy and Barb (humans), across the way, have two little ones as well. One of them is a barker in that way that happens when small dogs want you to know they might look tiny, but damn, they’re tough as hell, so don’t even think of crossing them. She/he achieves a sort of levitation when the barking gets going. We all understand this pup, between the two of them, is the most sensitive. The other, I feel, is the tough one, silence being deceptive. ANyhoo, Billy, Barb, and crew also go out multiple times a day, although recently Barb has been absent from the excursions and I’ve grown worried, Being a nosy neighbor, I’ve kept an ear out to see if anyone might ask Billy how (or where) Barb is. Yes, I know I could just ask him myself, but I’m often shy of starting conversations I may not know how to get out of. People round here are quite talkative. (I sometimes don’t actually understand how I was a journalist for my career.) But my dedicated listening out the window has informed me that Barb has been under the weather. Nothing too serious (i.e., she’s not in the hospital) and I’ve seen her moving slowly around in the past week with the strong-silent furry, who appears quite patient about their new slower pace. Then there’s perpendicular-man, so-called because he has three large dog pals he walks on the regular who are very strong (one German Shepherd, two big mutts) and he must lean all the way back, balancing some sort of tension between the leash and his person in order to keep control and not be pulled off his feet. At least I think that’s what’s happening. It’s a bit like a circus act really. They set off and sometimes I won’t see them for a very long time. The other day, on one of my walks near the library where there’s a park, a car pulled up and perpendicular-man got out, the dogs scrabbling from the backseat, and they all romped.

Then there are the solo fliers. Those folks who just sally forth animal-free. Backward-walking man is one such character. He has no leash to hold, yet he does always have a walking stick, a safari hat, and a mask. He literally walks backward out of our complex and down the sidewalk. Sometimes I worry he’ll trip, but I guess that’s what the stick is for. One day I saw him a couple of blocks away—walking forward—stopping here and there to pick up trash. I appreciate him. (He and his wife also made comment on the Biden/Harris sticker proudly displayed on our truck last fall. He was happy to see it, though he commented that we were brave for having it out there for all to see since he wasn’t sure how the neighbors might feel about our politics—naturally this made me sad and incredulous. He also let us know how angry he still was at Hillary for blowing it. At that point, his wife intervened with “now, dear” and he grumbled into his car.) It’s funny how all these folks pass in front of me and to a certain degree I write their stories in my head. I get a lot of inspiration watching them. Then there are the strictly aural moments. The Bickersons (as I’ve named our constantly fighting next-door neighbors). If I could make them into music, he’d be an endless about-to-explode, low rumble b-flat bassoon with her plink, plink, c-sharp hitting over and over and over. Reminding me of a John Cage performance I went to in NYC early days at Brooklyn Academy of Music. At intermission, I felt I was supposed to say something to the people I was with about the piece, but because I didn’t understand it or like it, not to mention, it made me want to flee, I nodded my head as everyone talked about its braveness and groundbreaking qualities. The Bickerson’s are neither brave nor groundbreaking. They make me sad. But then there is a woman who walks in the early morning who sings scales and that’s lovely. She manages to balance out the Bickersons on occasion.

Yesterday, Dennis got in the truck with his tools and headed up to Washington state to be a kitchen remodeler for his brother. I tra-la-la’d around getting my solo sea legs under me. This morning, as we talked, he wondered how our friend Rennard was. (He who has been featured in a few earlier blog posts and a character who traveled cross-country with us. Yes, we are adult people. He is plush.) He normally sits on a ledge above the head of the bed. When Dennis asked this morning about him, I said, “he’s fine.” I was then asked to check on him and imagine my shock when he wasn’t there. It seems he’d stowed away in the truck to take the ride with Dennis out of the state. (Again, yes, we are grown humans talking about a stuffed fox.) Here’s the thing about that: I’d been so used to him (Rennard) being in his spot that I took it for granted he’d be there. Have you ever done that? Just assumed, sure that thing that’s always been there is there. Don’t even see it anymore. I now realize how my observational skills go so easily into auto-pilot. I obviously know Dennis isn’t here. I both miss and appreciate him in his absence. I’m also appreciating the opportunity to fly solo for a bit, which helps me not take him for granted. Sharpening the eyes and ears, rooting out some more characters for my collection.

I did my final volunteer shift at the vaccination clinic this past week and while I’d entered the front door hoping to be stationed at temperature check or directing people to an available chair to get the shot, I was placed front-of-house on observation duty, which meant being armed with disinfectant spray to wipe down the chairs after folks completed their 15-to-30 minute after-shot watch period. I’d done that before and wasn’t at all mad about being placed there. My main reason for wanting a solo job had all to do with the anxieties I feel around interacting with folx for seven+ hours. So, I was joined on disinfectant-spray duty by two young women (30 and 23) and Sonia, a nurse practitioner in charge of handling any medical emergencies that might happen post-dose. At some point soon into the shift, as I sat waiting and watching people rotate their just-stuck arms, I overheard my companions talking about upcoming surgeries they both had scheduled for this summer. How they’d be convalescing for almost six weeks and what states they were traveling to get it done. My immediate thought was what’re the chances they both need the same thing in the same time period? They talked about the thousands this was going to cost each of them and I secretly damned our healthcare system for outrageous pricing. As the words lift, rounded, shaved, enhanced bounced between them, it dawned on me that I was rolling down the wrong medical road. When the woman nearest me pulled up a photo of Kim Kardashian’s posterior in a thong, then leaned over to show me, I got it. They were both going under the body-sculpting knife. Eyes widened, I kept on listening. They repeated cautionary tales (never have these procedures done in the Dominican Republic: unregulated), financial planning (monthly payment deals are a rip-off), tips (no heavy lifting for at least six weeks; let someone else do the laundry). This conversation hooked me on a lot of levels, but top among them was the matter-of-factness of the discussion. They were architecting and redesigning their bodies to fit the mold of what they saw in the world/wanted for themselves in a literal way. They weren’t afraid to talk about it, tell anyone who’d listen, and compared notes like seasoned consumers. To my ears, this was grounded in a different type of body dysmorphic mentality than eating disorders, which are to a high-percentage and, I think detrimentally, kept hidden, often connected to deep feelings of shame (one reason talking about it in a safe space is so incredibly helpful). These ladies were conversating about their physical remake/remodel in a completely matter-of-fact way comparing procedures, cost, alterations. At one point a nurse came up and shared her own recent surgery (stomach-flattening procedure). All the why’s were rolling around my skull as I looked at them. My 59-year-old self saying (inner voice), “Ah, ladies, when you get older you’ll look at yourself as you are now and appreciate how gorgeous you are. Just wait.” They never would have listened to me. Just as I wouldn’t have at that age. But just then Sonia came back from her break. She lasered a look at them (I backed up against the wall so as not to be caught in the white-hot of it) and asked, “What are you talking about?” They told her without pause and she lit up, firing off all manner of reasons from age to intelligence and finishing on a strong Biblical note. As the flame singed my chin in the crossfire, I understood I was in the presence of tough love. I thought they might cry (I felt I might), but they shrugged, smiled, said, “Oh, Ms. Sonia, don’t worry about us.” She shot back, “I do worry. Why do you insist on being ignorant.” Then they took lunch and she continued to mutter ignorance, ignorance. I wanted to tell her how I’d appreciated what she’d said, but she scared me a little, so I just kept disinfecting the chairs. Later, when one of the women asked me if I believed it was possible to be in love with two men at the same time (one her husband and the other someone she’d known since childhood), Sonia once again stepped in with, “Why are you still talking about that? Stop being ignorant. And no, you can’t love two men, you can only love your husband,” then some more scripture. I didn’t know if that was altogether true, but her certitude was phenomenal and I wondered if she might have some extra to lend me. Later in the afternoon, I did have a chance to tell her I thought what she’d said was awesome and she smiled. That was all, and it honestly felt amazing. Leaving the clinic after my shift, I reflected. The last five weeks had held a completely different emotional experience than I’d thought it would. Because of course it did. Sonia could have told me that nothing ever looks like you think it will. I could have told myself that too.

A year ago, May 25, 2020, we’d just gotten done installing in our back area an inflatable pool (with a beautiful redwood surround built by Dennis), then we turned on the news and watched George Floyd’s murder under a policeman’s knee, filmed by a young (teenage) woman on a sidewalk while her 9-year-old cousin stood feet away inside the store Mr. Floyd had just left. My body went cold and my ears rang. Breathing was hard, yet it was not lost on me that I still had the gift of it. As the days went by, the emotion built, certainly in the country and the world, but also inside of me. The fact that I would not be physically joining a protest as I normally would do to channel my outrage meant I had to find another way. And as I searched and found a place where I could do something, White People 4 Black Lives, I thought a lot about what drove me in this particular social justice moment. I wrote about it in a blog post (The Stake), hoped I wouldn’t lose the forward movement over time, having come to know myself around passion projects, my proclivity to go in 187%, then burn out and fall away. I wanted to pace myself like it was a marathon, which of course making any bit of headway around systemic racism both in myself and in this country is. So now, almost one-year later, I review: Yes, I’m still working virtually with WP4BL sending letters, emails, petitions; I’m still contributing to BLM, The Loveland Foundation, Girls Write Now, Native Land, Feeding America. I’m glad I found a way to stay in the exploration and work in a way that feels balanced. There’s always more, which is why I was sad on a couple of levels to see this article in the NYT today about the falloff of momentum in BLM’s movement among the larger public one year later. A portion of the sad was that I wasn’t surprised. There may be an incremental change in police accountability—yet still I read today about two young men in separate incidents dead from police bullets. The NYCity mayor’s race is hinged on a healthy amount of consideration regarding policing. Chauvin was convicted. But the interesting thing for me is that although I know change takes time…so much time…which requires patience, the vision of what I think the moments will look like are out&out different from what’s in my head. If you’d asked me what I imagined my involvement in racial-social justice movements would look like, I might have envisioned holding a bullhorn with lots of people listening. Funny what the imagination does around the ego. When I started volunteering with Get Out the Shot: LA, my inner script was “helping people who couldn’t otherwise get appointments,” and, yes, sure this mostly happened, but the balance fell into a category of folx who actually could operate a computer—probably better than me—had excellent wi-fi, but had signed up with GOTS because they felt we were an excellent concierge service. This was humbling given the commitment remains the same: just do it. And honestly, I love doing it. For the vaccination center, I envisioned myself in some sort of benevolent usher role (consistent smile, all the right things to say to calm the needle-and-mRNA-phobic, walk them to their chair for the shot). That I entered data and sterilized things was less sexy but just as crucial. Sonia would have said “Do you see a man who is wise in his own eyes? There is more hope for a fool than for him” (Proverbs 26:12), and she wouldn’t have been wrong.

A year later and still I strive. Best we can do, us humans.

Update on last week’s blog re: the neighbors. Following the crash of glass and long moments of fury next door, and thinking because of that the seemingly fraught, always arguing relationship must be over, she’s now moved in. Nothing broken since, but a good amount of verbal aggro continues. And as for my furry friend: Gladimus has not turned up in our backyard for a week. I’ve missed her. Once again, what I thought might be is opposite land.

In a world where a girl buys a new set of colorful masks (spring/summer collection) because she’ll be going out and about a bit more often given her fully vaccinated status (as of last Tuesday) and then the CDC says “go ahead, take ’em off, frolic bare-faced among the people,” well that girl (who is me) thinks, Huh, I’m still going to wear these masks when they arrive because I’ll just feel better doing that. Is it because I’ve become so well-conditioned to wearing them that it’s second nature? (Like putting on shoes.) Because I’m still legit unsure of who among my fellow travelers is vaccinated, and even though I can’t spread the virus, then subsequently infect my loved ones, so the science is finding, I still feel weird about having my face exposed? Probably a bit of both. Everyone has developed their own gauge of risk assessment in this past year+. And most of us have probably also developed a much more honed muscle of resilience around all the many experiences life has thrown (& continues to pitch) at us daily. Last year the rollercoaster ride of personal, medical, global, racial, political, climate events—plus a whole host I’m sure I’m forgetting—invited us to strap in for the ride. Some maybe chose to ignore a couple of those cliffs and dips, but keeping as emotionally limber as possible seemed to strengthen a muscle in me that has me more able to deal with the unknown. A lot of that has certainly come from the stun of months that kept me in a state of both quiet terror and loud rage. But also deep appreciation and discovery of strength. I’m a damn sight closer to being more confident around cutting through emotional BS than I was in 2019. The moments I used to go along—in conversation, in emotion, in agreement—because I didn’t want to raise a ruckus, rock a boat, upset someone, has become more and more uncomfortable. I have way more in my emotional workout to lift, but a little flex here and a stretch there is keeping me moving. That old chestnut patience—a key word during these Covid times along with epidemiology and pods—pops up frequently.

This week at my volunteer gig, I was paired with a young woman who, for the seven hours we sanitized clipboards together, told me about her life. Very matter-of-factly. Her uncle had just died and his girlfriend was suspected of overdosing him, her ex-boyfriend had just died mysteriously. Her dog had died the day after she’d broken up with said boyfriend. Her half-sister was in foster care. Her mother’s boyfriend was not lovely in ways she didn’t describe but looked angry about. Her grandmother, with whom she lived, had been evicted from the house she’d lived in for three decades at the beginning of the pandemic. Now they both lived with her dad. Her current boyfriend’s family does not approve of her and is tracking him by GPS to make sure they don’t see each other. I was wearing my mask (a beautiful embroidered one my friend Judy sent me) and it caught my jaw over and over again. But here’s the thing, these moments were not delivered as woe-is-me. They were interspersed with fantastic ideas about how to help with refugee resettlement, ways to house the homeless, suggestions on including mental-health advocates during police interactions. How she stopped going to UC Riverside and enrolled at the community college so she wouldn’t rack up debt while she decides what she wants to do big-picture. Whether she might convert to the Muslim religion. (Her boyfriend’s Egyptian, she’s first-generation from Mexico.) She speaks Spanish, a bit of Arabic, and thinks she wants to study abroad. Or maybe move to Maine where one of her friends is going to college. She’s twenty-one and all this is of course early adulthood. Except that the moments of personal death and loss seem a lot. I was reminded how differently my youth unfolded. Of course it did. I had definite privileges as a white girl that she hasn’t had as a Latina woman in this country. The death and disease I witnessed, and/or experienced in my early-adult years did, in memory, contain the elasticity of youth, but every moment ended up somewhere inside to be dealt with at one time or another. And over the years, looking those moments in the eye has been really key in understanding why I react to things the way I do. My volunteer partner reminded me that resilience in the face of what life serves up, how we talk about it, then process, makes a world of difference in how we live on this planet. No matter how much time it takes.

Around this Redlands neighborhood, I’m noticing both the absence and presence of resilience in more personal terms. Next door, there lives someone who is angry in a way I haven’t been near in ages. It’s bald-faced misery. No secret. I’ve known people, and also been myself, miserable on the inside, but with a sheen of “it’s fine” on the outside, which fashions its own special hellscape, but this guy wears it for all to see. He is the caretaker of his 95-year-old grandmother and it’s clearly something that is slowly (quickly?) driving him mad. We all see it, we all hear it. He lets us know he’s misunderstood and taxed in ways no one can understand. That’s true. No one can know what someone else is going through, although he is not shy about letting us see his pain. It’s the daily explosive yelling events that are the biggest signpost. Usually aimed at a girlfriend who for the last many months has been there pretty regularly. And each day they yell, “you don’t understand.” They shout, “you don’t care (enough).” And it’s exquisitely sad and scary. I keep wondering why she keeps coming back, but can’t know their cycle of drama. Do they think this is love? Their form of resilience? Always bouncing back to each other on repeat? Dennis and I have talked about what to do if it sounds like Grandma is being abused or if it becomes physical. Last night it seemed to come close. A particularly explosive event: shattered glass. Crying. Silence. Murmured fury. We listened and I wondered if it was time to call the police, which is something I’m so disinclined to do for a variety of reasons. When she left soon after and we heard the sound of the vacuum, I thought now it’s done. surely no more. Jury’s still out on whether that’s true, but there’s no doubt that anger consumes. And resilience is not a thing with feathers in this case.

What is? Apparently, a furry creature who doesn’t speak my language gives a good example. Gladimus the cat turned up last week with a cast on her/his leg. Except for shaking it a bit as if it might just pop it off with the effort, Glads is loping along like always. Under the fence, napping on the chaise lounge, running along the sidewalk, chasing things. And when in full flight, the cast tap-taps on the ground like a kitty-fied Ginger Rogers in the catly Rockettes. Vigorous leg shake, tap-tap on the ground, leg shake, tap-tap. What’re you looking at?, she throws me over her shoulder as she heads off to explore the many mysteries of the landscaped bushes. I’ve got this.

And, yeah, she does. I look to her. Thinking that’s some resilience.

Hello there. The picture above, taken on our way to a last Broadway show one month before we took off cross-country, evokes a whole host of emotions. Viscerally, I feel both nostalgia and agita. So. Many. People. Sharing such a close space. Looking at it as I was, from one-story up in a food stall, I remember thinking how it was kind of miraculous that this mass of humanity could actually function to move forward, sideways, backward. Cars, bikes, buses all negotiating their own space just feet away. Something I love about New York City is the range and breadth of people. Another thing I love is having space, whether that meant retreating to our apartment, or currently, a backyard. This last year-plus has cleared out the crowds (although I hear Broadway is making a tippy-toe, partial return in September), but when people ask me what I miss about the city, besides my friends, people-watching is top of mind. Nothing better than peeping from a distance the parade of life and, in my case, making up stories about them. (Speaking of, my friend Diane suggested a slim book of essays I just finished by Zadie Smith, Intimations, written during this last pandemic year and containing character sketches of people so well-rendered I feel like I now know them. A read that is great, thoughtful, not macabre but yet clear-eyed, and buoyant in a non-frivolous way.)

I didn’t actually realize how much I missed people-gazing until this week when my volunteer assignment at the vaccination site was front-of-the-house, watching over the people who’d gotten their vaccine and were now waiting the requisite fifteen minutes (thirty for some) to make sure they didn’t have an immediate adverse reaction to the shot. My job was to swab down the chair with an antibacterial wipe and antiseptic spray bottle once the person had been cleared by the nurse to exit the building. The set-up was like a socially distanced performance in the school gym. They facing us, us them. Except no one in the chairs paid the least amount of attention to what I and my two volunteer cohorts were doing. They were, with only a few exceptions, staring at their devices. Here were the exceptions: the man who somehow decided this waiting area was a good place to hit on women. A total creeper. After he asked my fellow volunteer a series of inappropriate questions and came inches from being spritzed in the face with the spray bottle, he went and sat six-feet from a just-vaxed woman and attempted the chat-up. She immediately picked up the inoculation fact sheet and studied it like there would be a test. He then moved over to another single woman who literally turned her chair away from him. He harrumphed (I saw that happen even with his mask on. Body language amazing). He looked around. The nurse had her eye on him and when his fifteen was up, she turned him out the door. There was also the Maytag man who just barely made it after his shift, still in his worker blues with scripted Sam stitched on his coveralls. The buddies: two eighteen-ish boys in a band, converse high tops, tats, rips in all the right places; two middle-aged men maybe comparing their muscles, though probably just flexing the arm that had just been jabbed. (There was a lot of rubbing and windmilling of the poked arm.) Then there were the families. A lot of families. Moms, dads, kids. A quadrangle of sisters. Moms and daughters. Moms and sons. I watched them especially closely. Curious about the bonding.

Mother’s Day. I have a lot of strong opinions about Hallmark Holidays. Mother’s, Father’s, Valentine’s to name a few. I mean, while the greeting card, candy, flower factory also brings us nurses, administrative professionals—previously known as secretaries—and bosses day, not to mention groundhogs, although they don’t have a special card section, it’s the mom, dad, love days that I have a particular reaction around. Not just because it seems slightly offensive to mark one twenty-four-hour period to acknowledge someone or thing that’s beyond a greeting card, but also because I think these holidays float on layers of very tricky emotion. By spotlighting the existence, there is often an emotional magnifying of the lack. And so often the lack goes undiscussed, as so many spiky topics do. This isn’t to suggest that I don’t actually acknowledge my mom and dad on Mother’s and Father’s day. I do. (An aside: standing in a local card aisle this year I was flummoxed by my choices. Since my go-to card shop is actually across the country, I was faced with glitter. So. Much. Glitter. pastels. lots and lots of words that made my teeth hurt. For the dad’s day, I know the card-style will offer wood tones and golf clubs.) I buy, I send, I call, I visit if possible. But this year, I’m also thinking about what it means to become a mother. And also what it means to choose not to become one. I didn’t pick up any clues one way or another while watching my mom/daughter/son combinations at the vaccination site except to say it was fascinating to watch their interactions—or lack of—but since discovering the treasure trove of home movies from when I was a kid, it has been rolling around my skull the idea of how families connect and exist.

The choice to not have kids is one that has rarely if ever come up with my women friends. If I think about why I don’t bring it up, a thin line appears. On one side It’s Personal, on the other Hard to Explain. Why hard to explain, though? What buried emotional treasure chest is that a holdover from? I’ve grown up in a time and a place when more and more women, having made the choice to forego motherhood, are stating their desires, living their lives, and really doing quite fabulous in the child-free zone. I acknowledge that this is a very geographical view. It’s not lost on me that still in many parts of the country, and of course the world, a woman with no children is often met with a smorgasbord of pity, suspicion and a lot of entrees in between. But from where I sit, I’ve only occasionally dealt with the side-eye. Still I rarely talk about it. It’s not like between choosing my wine and appetizer I say to my girlfriends, “So, ladies, what a relief, the menopause. No more birth control. No more worry about pregnancy. So relieved. How bout you?” Because I was happy (icky hot flashes notwithstanding) to cross that threshold, yet I am also aware that for some women, the onset of menopause is deeply sad. An indication that if they haven’t given birth, that they never will. So my celebrating that felt somehow callous. But I never really asked. I have no idea how many of my friends who are nearing or into the end of their childbearing years have made peace with that fact or are secretly thrilled like me. And these are women I’ve had some deeply intimate conversations with (I’m looking at you, masturbation). While I’ve talked about choosing to not give birth or have children, I don’t know how deeply I’ve gone into why. And even that may be an evolving, moving target. It’s true I’ve never felt the urge or tug in my heart or womb. That the only clock that ticked for me was the one where my alarm went off and I got up for work. I have always been so happy to keep my own company. Here’s the funny thing, even as I write that, a wet washcloth of am-I-terrible? smothers me and my face scrunches up. Why? I have no problem saying that I am one-hundred percent certain about my happiness and joy in the life I’m living. So, go deeper. Over time it’s become clearer and clearer that I need to be curious when something makes me uncomfortable. Why do I squirm? Where’d that washcloth even come from? I know if I don’t look, the thing will grow and obliterate in some sideways, didn’t-see-it-coming, hand towel or supersize beach blanket. So, like that room as a kid when someone said it was haunted and I just had to push myself to go in, making public this conversation around choosing to be child-free is inside that space. The door is cracked open. A little push, a jump back. Re-approach, a bigger push. Jump back. Wait. Get closer. Step up to the threshold, feel inside for the light switch. Wait to have hand eaten by monster. No monster. Open eyes. One foot in. Wait. The other foot in. Wait. Nothing. No big-fanged beast. Maybe a moth. Run to window. Open it. Check escape routes. Begin to breathe. Discover closet in the corner. Begin adventure again.

I didn’t ever want to have children. And rather than position it as something that is a lack, as I stand in the middle of that room being curious I actually get that there are no big ogre-like reasons. There are a lot of little fluttering moth-like moments. Sometimes to do with fear around loving too much or too little. Sometimes focusing on my life plans that didn’t include a tiny human. Mostly though, celebrating that I was able to make the decision I wanted even as I still wrestle with how to have a conversation around it. This piece in the Times is a great one on the topic. Maybe someday an all-out gab fest about the why’s and what’s surrounding us women who chose as we did. One that will include all the shades of compassion, empathy, celebration, acknowledgment, and like that. Maybe a new Hallmark holiday: It’s-Just-Not-For-Me Day. (I’m not gonna lie to you. I just googled Women Without Children thinking maybe there is a day like that and the sorriest list of terms came up with the oft-repeated childless. Again with the less, people. NO. not less.) Here’s to tomorrow. Please to all, have a great one.

You know it’s been a minute since I’ve talked to strangers in person beyond the odd “Thank You” to and from folx in stores and the like. To be honest, meeting/chatting with people I don’t know well has never been a favorite activity of mine. Over time I’ve come to recognize my level of social anxiety and be fine with it. Or at least I’ve learned how to know it better and work with it. So much has to do with what I think I need to present and maintain when it comes to spending time in an unknown person’s presence. Parties are not my favorite thing by a longshot because at the end it always feels like my cheek muscles have been paralyzed in a strange up-pull. It’s not like the torture is always ongoing. Many a time, once a span has passed and I’ve found a groovy stranger-chat partner who for whatever reason I relax with, then I’m good. It’s just the initial entry into the situation that has me wishing I didn’t have to go. And as I get older, I truly cherish the people who I know intimately and am my complete self with and don’t feel the need to expand my social circle. Since leaving a job where I had to show up each day and possibly/sometimes talk to new people in meetings and what-have-you, I’ve been really happy being able to be solo and focus on that most one-on-one task of writing. Not to mention, there’s been this little pandemic situation happening, which has really eliminated socializing…well…completely.

Somehow, though, I keep stepping into things that have me interacting with people. Maybe I’m thinking I’ll get better at it. Maybe I’m willing to have the discomfort if the event is important enough. In the case of my most recent excursion out in public, it’s probably the latter reason. Which is why I’m finding myself one-day-a-week going to Arroyo Valley High School and volunteering at a county vaccination site (which I described more in detail last week). Anyhoo, so this week I was back at the desk doing data entry, staring out at the lines and the humans who were waiting for their superpower infusions and I was seated next to a person named Brandon. Another thing. I don’t mind the mask (see cheek muscles above. With a mask on, there’s no need for my lower face to do anything but rest). His vibe was quiet and I appreciated that. About an hour in, though, he asked me a random question. Maybe something along the lines of “You’re volunteering, eh?” and we started talking. The busy-ness factor of this vax site ebbs and flows, so there are pockets of time where I’m just sitting staring out into the sea of happy, tense, many-things-in-between humans. Sometimes I’m checking my phone, but mostly just sitting. Brandon was actually pretty easy to talk to. A Mormon—there are a lot of Mormons out in these here parts—he was a design student, just graduated from college who kept saying things like “our generation” while flicking his thumb back and forth between us. This made me laugh inside because maybe masks are the great disguiser of age. Sure, why not. That he thought I was also in my twenties was something he was only disabused of when one of the supervisors came over to talk about when we all graduated from high school. (She was working some sort of theory, for which I was insanely unhelpful. Because I’m old and actually had no idea what she was talking about. It had to do with rallies and chants. I don’t know…maybe that happened in my graduating class. Probably not. See: “went to alternative high school” from last week’s post.) When I said 1980 was my graduating year, I could feel wee Brandon doing math and realizing I was literally older than his parents. I smiled, under my mask. You can have so many expressions under there, it’s awesome. Happily, we continued conversing without weirdness and he stopped thinking I was part of his generation. I also found I was really curious about his missionary years (the thing Mormon’s do mostly when they’re young. And mostly guys, certainly a reflection on the patriarchal take of that dogma). And as I was asking him all sorts of questions, I remembered I’m a journalist. And I chose that career. Wonder why?

Certainly wanting to be around musicians and music had something to do with it, but also when I thought about it, there were always boundaries around the time I would interview people. There was a start and an end. That made me happy. I could gird myself for the event, then, even if something ran long, I knew at some point I could step away because those were the rules. When it was someone I was enjoying—a musician who turned out to be filled with ideas and made normal eye contact—that was great. When the person was a tool—a musician or adjacent sort who was way off on their own ego island and could not even figure out how to use their eyes to focus—then I could count down the minutes. But in this case, volunteering, sitting next to Brandon, I thought, wow, I’ve got another five hours in this chair, what if the conversation just gets ponderous. Then I remembered I could just stop talking. Weird to remember I actually have some self-control. So then I relaxed. The conversation clipped along just fine, until one of the supervisors came up and told me I’d made a mistake that had thrown off the whole facility’s dose count and it had taken some effort to figure out what I’d done, but they’d fixed it, and please be careful and don’t do it again. I briefly thought I might get fired and wondered how my ego would respond to being let go from a position I hadn’t actually been hired for. Still mortifying, I think. I didn’t get fired. But I did realize I needed to concentrate and stop talking. Like being in school. So I turned my attention fully to my work. And when there was downtime, we chatted a bit more. Very natural. I know it may sound strange to be surprised by this, but two things were going on. One: It occurred to me that it’s been over a year since I’ve had any reason or opportunity to even flex this meet-a-stranger muscle. I’ve called people I don’t know on the phone for the vaccine hunting, but that’s never more than to get information (except for the one guy who really didn’t want a shot, but just wanted someone to talk/complain to. Easy enough to move on from that. Said bye. Hung up.). It’s weird to realize you haven’t done something you haven’t really missed. Two: It’s not that bad, but also not a thing I feel the need to do on the regular. I’m not gonna lie to you, I had a little panic as we said goodbye yesterday about what if I get sat by him again next week? We DEFINITELY do not have anything else to talk about for another seven hours. I don’t think that we do, anyway. But why am I worrying about this now? Why has my meditation done nothing for the live-in-the-moment attitude I keep trying to achieve?

Last week we got our second dose of the Covid-shield, so we’re a week and change away from full antibody protection. With that shot came relief along with a bone-tired very long nap immediately following, but also a realization that some of us will be pushing our snouts out the front door like hibernating moles waking up post-terror to test the waters and see what and who we feel like doing and seeing. This NYT article makes some very good points about naming the feeling many may be experiencing. One little-bitty step at a time.

In the meantime, because we are not well or safe unless the rest of the world is too, the stories from India are horrific and a word much more heavy than heartbreaking. Here is a link if you’re curious about how to help. And lastly, if you know someone who hasn’t been vaccinated and needs help, whether in the appointment- making or in the supporting-them-to-just-do-it areas, sending lots of good vibes your way to help them see why it’s important, because it seems we’re now shifting into the vaccination period in the US where those who were always going to and had access have gotten their vaccinations. Now it’s time for the nitty-gritty bits to happen. I’m up for it and if you hit a wall, let me know, I’d be happy to walk the walk with you to help someone roll up their sleeve and enact whatever body language they do when a needle goes into their arm.

I spent some time on a high school campus yesterday volunteering at a vaccination site in San Bernardino. A couple of things before I wander off on the road of rumination: This mass vaccination effort is insanely impressive. The style and scope of where I was yesterday is replicated thousands of times over across the nation: a school gymnasium, convention center, armory-style setting. Dozens of doctors and nurses and otherwise capable shot-givers, twenty-or-so intake humans in the parking lot at a mobile site and on into the location itself directing folkx what to do and where to go. All of it with seemingly very little drama (except for the occasional fainting, which I didn’t see any of yesterday, but I hear does happen), and for the most part pretty happy/relieved vibe. I have not ever been around so many needles going into so many arms and marveled at the various approaches people employ in the face of the shot. The full owl-like head-turn in the opposite direction (what, a shot? in my arm? no. I’m looking over there at…anything, really. tra-la-la nothing to see here.) Then there is the fully engaged curious-puppy approach. (what’re you doing? what’re you doing? that looks…ouch.) There’s the stare straight ahead I-am-a-statue pose and the hey-i’m-talkin’-here, what we’re done? style. I’m of the gabber variety. Anticipation of pain puts my mouth in overdrive. Pity the tattoo artists who have worked on me. Very challenging.

On a cookie break, I wandered around outside of said Arroyo Valley High School, where no students have been for a year and I noticed two fully occupied nests built up in some rafters above the quad area. I’m thinking these nesting birds have not had such a complete run of the school’s real estate in … ever. Staring into the area, I remembered my own brush with high school quads. In fact the photo above reflects my junior year at high school hanging out on smoker’s hill—because apparently that was a thing back in the late 70s. We did actually smoke on that hill. cigarettes mostly. probably. University High School in Irvine, California. Hadn’t really thought of it for years although recently, Ezra Klein, a writer for the NYTimes, mentioned he’s an alum many years after me. He turned out pretty cool, it seems. (In fact his editorial today touting the realistic ways toward a more humane world makes important points about the very real terror inflicted on animals killed hourly in the pursuit of satisfying a ravenous nation of meat eaters.) In my senior year, I left Uni High for an alternative school named SELF, which was definitely an acronym for something, but hell if I remember what. (Suggestions welcome. I just googled it and only found this story about some SELF kids being arrested during their prom in 2000.) It was actually the perfect place for me to feel more at home and engaged with learning. We studied the lyrics to songs for social studies and got PhysEd credit for riding our bikes to school. This is where my love for the two-wheeler was sealed, although looking at old home movies (I mentioned we found a box in my dad’s shed that have now been digitally converted), I realize I always enjoyed the bicycle over the car.

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As the stroll around those high school grounds reminded me, you think you have a clue back then about where, when, how you’ll go forward in life. Maybe it’s tiny, but at least something that propels you forward into some level of “Yeah, I might like doing that.” I was no different, although certainly fuzzy on the specifics. I could cobble together what I liked to do back then: listen to music. Especially Led Zeppelin and Van Halen, although any job opportunities connected with them seemed to involve heels and makeup (both of which I was less-than-good-with) and a certain suspension of self-governance, or let’s just call it what it was, objectification–big word, didn’t understand full meaning–that I couldn’t quite get how to approach. Naturally I’d have taken the job of muse but I had no idea what school you went to for that and groupie didn’t pay well and required the aforementioned heel/makeup, object combo. I enjoyed eating Doritos and sometimes putting Mr. Bubble in the apartment complex jacuzzi. Neither of those were a career path. I loved to read. Wasn’t sure how to get paid at that. I really liked to write. This offered possibilities especially when combined with music. So in finding myself cross the country after two years of journalism classes at Cal State Long Beach, I finished my degree in New York and became a music journalist. It wasn’t that I was surprised by the career, more felt it was a product of momentum. Which was good. And also complicated. And I wouldn’t have not done it. Of course, as with many things, how would it have been to take the knowledge of now back to the activities of then? Instead, taking the knowledge of now and having compassion for the person of then. That’s more like it.

After my cookie was gone, I went back inside to both people watch and do vaccination data entry. I ended up talking to a traveling nurse, Ms. Tanesha, from Mississippi whose been in the area for a month. She’s been on the road since February of 2020 and gone to almost every state in the union to assist in Covid nasal swab testing, set up mass sites like the Javits Center for overflow coronavirus patients, and, finally, now, to work at this vaccination location. A full arc of the virus in one career year. She has three kids and a husband who she’s seen only occasionally in over a year. She loves Southern hot sauce. She misses them all terribly. As she travels, they put her up in hotels, give her a per diem and, as she says, fully appreciate that she’s there. They also pay well, she told me a bit under her breath. The gig ends in June and she’s looking forward to going home, and although she acknowledged that this year has been incredibly hard on her family and the world, she also appreciated the chance she’s had to do what she’s done. A mixed bag, she said. Then added, I never would have predicted I’d get this kind of experience or meet the people, visit the places I have. And there are a whole lot of us out there who are doing this, she added. You just never know.

I thought about the people this year who have worked inside and on the edges, pulling a common thread through our lives that has helped with our survival. And all those shrugs of I-never-would-have-thought-I’d… moments that this pandemic has brought into personal view for many many folkx. Lives are always filled with rewrites and plot shifts, futures altering. I know that logically, but have started to get it more emotionally too. Here’s to pedaling on and getting some life credit at the same time. And to the many people like Ms. Tanesha who have literally shown up. I’m so appreciative.

When I’m not finishing the first draft of my novel or appealing to my favorite new designer Ella Emhoff to work on a collection of Kevlar-lined knitwear to protect citizens from gun violence (I’m thinking pullover garments for black and brown folkx to slip on while walking or driving or just generally living, given the high risk of police pulling firearms on them at all times; and for the general public who go to the store—or any public place, really—work in warehouses, factories, go to school, well, hell, just anyone who ever goes outside or stands near a window). Unfortunately, I don’t think kevlar cowls would help if you’re prone facedown with a policeman’s knee on your neck. Will keep thinking on that one. So I wonder if Ella is available to help, since there are a majority of politicians who will absolutely never even consider moving the needle on doing anything about the issue of guns (I include here a great article from opensecrets.org–source rated here nonpartisan–that features a list of congress and house members who are intransigent, immovable on gun control issues, many of whom were cold to 20 small children being executed in Sandy Hook, so, ya know, they’re not likely to listen to their better angels today. Those angels most likely filed for divorce decades ago. And while publishing those politicians names here and sending a steady stream of shame-on-you social media messages will have exactly zero, literally NO effect on their decision making, I suppose it makes me feel both useless and useful to try. So that was a long wander away from my original intention in this here space. The incomplete sentence above is: When I’m not [see above], I’ve been volunteering with Get Out the Shot: LA .

I’ve written about them before, but since a month+ has passed since I started, it’s dawned on me how I’ve gotten a view into—or rather made up, to some degree—the many&varied personalities living through and coming to terms with this pandemic. First off, the volunteers themselves are all fantabulous. I’ve only met them through tiny photos on the dedicated FB site we post to, or the occasional zoom call with regulatory updates, but the steady stream of helpful tips and reaching outs when help is needed has been a pillar as we all take on the calling of people who have left their names and numbers needing assistance to crack this often-confounding appointment system to get a vaccine. I’m not going to lie to you, when I first signed on I had visions of grandeur. I would be a part of a group who were serving the most underserved and shut out of the system. So it made complete sense that during my first call, the man on the other end—not underserved, very capable—commented on what a great concierge service GOTS was. Brought me right back down to earth. Because, as the administrators had pointed out, we’re not there to judge, and if the person was truly qualified, then help them, fer fux sake (they didn’t say that last bit, but the message remains). So I dialed again and met someone awesome on the other end. Someone who legit was qualified and stymied by the system. A man who had lived in NYC during the eighties and nineties like me, who’d worked with legendary photographer Albert Watson and at Cynthia Rowley‘s Soho boutique, a place I wandered past on the regular while salivating during the early nineties. He’s an illustrator and you can find his designs on these Adam’s Nest t-shirts. When the world opens back up, we’re having drinks. There was the woman living in Seattle whose 91-year-old mom lives in West Hollywood, who doesn’t drive and needed to get inoculated, and was baffled how that might happen given she was uncomfortable getting into a car service (too-risky & germy) and every single pharmacy within walking distance was either booked up or out of the vaccine. To make things more exciting, the daughter’s phone broke while we were figuring everything out. We managed to communicate the old-fashioned email way, found her mom an appointment, and one of our volunteers agreed to hazmat up and accompany her to the clinic, drive her home, then take her for her second dose. In the end, the sheriff’s department set up a door-to-door program and came right to her. This was such a great outcome and everyone nodded happily. The daughter was so relieved, she sent me a photo of a cute puppy (see Ernest Hemingway, above). Speaking of daughters, there was the man I called who asked me, not unkindly, “How did you get this number?” When I told him, he said, “Ah, that’s my daughter’s doing. She lives in France and wants me to come see the grandkids.” When I asked if he wanted to see the grandkids too, he said “YES, but they won’t let me out of the country til I get this shot.” So we set up the shot. And now, as soon as we can all travel again, he can hold his family.

And on that topic of relationships: The man who called and said the only days he couldn’t get the vaccination were Tuesdays and Thursdays because he played golf, then added he didn’t have a computer or cell phone and had made it into his seventies without them and didn’t intend to start now, so would I be so kind as to get him an appointment. Of course! Done. The next day my phone rang and a demure voice said, “My husband called yesterday and forgot to make me an appointment too.” Erps. She and I decided the ball was in her court regarding his communication skills, but I could absolutely get her one right alongside him. She was really averse to needles, had flinched every time the graphic of people getting the shot came on the news. Could we just find her a one&done situation? Of course. Done. But then her hubby, heard down the phone in the background, said, “I want that too.” So. Okay, let’s see. The stars aligned and they went in together. one. and. done. They sent a lovely thank-you card. The stars often align. For the woman who cried with relief that she could open her store back up fully vaccinated, the lady who would soon be able to visit her dad again, the waitress who could go to work without panic attacks, the post man who could stop being terrified, and the just plain relieved folks, including the mom who chalked up another surprise of the pandemic when her 17-year-old son actually wanted to get a needle stuck in his arm. All of it aces.

But also the heartbreakers and the frustrations: setting up an appointment for a woman, her husband, and son. They could only get off work on Saturdays. The one-shot J&J would work best for them. They were all scheduled together last Saturday when I got a text that she and he had come down with chills, fever, nausea and would have to cancel. (I’ve since checked in on them and they tested COVID positive, but I’m not letting them go.) Then J&J went on pause, and while, yes, there are doses of Pfizer and Moderna in fair supply, the issue of those who need the ease of just receiving one shot, whether for reasons of access, time, lifestyle, means another barrier to getting those who need it most vaccinated. Then there was the man who became my white whale, goldilocks. During his intake, he told me all about his tour(s) of Vietnam, his shame at watching the January 6th insurrection, his frustration with broken government systems. I made him an appointment(s). First one he walked away from because they weren’t offering the type of two-dose he wanted (Pfizer), second one he walked away from because there were too many people in line. But I would not be stopped. Set him up a third: small pharmacy, Pfizer, twenty-minutes from his house (just right, I thought). He didn’t even attempt to go to that one, saying it was too far away. That’s when I realized he was not interested in this working out and I had to let it go. And that was damn hard for me. But it was also good practice. Over the many, there have definitely been the few who treat the process similar to concierge-comment-man. Bringing their expectations to the party along with a large dose of entitled. So those I’m getting better at arming with information and stepping away. Sending them an aggregate website so they can do for themselves. (Here’s a good nationwide one, findashot.org, if anyone would like.)

And then the stories from other volunteers: One who set up appointments for a made-homeless-by-pandemic couple (you guys, THIS is another crisis. I won’t wander off here, but a good article on a Canadian man building small shelters for unhoused people). She managed to get their information before their cellphones died. She then printed out their appointment confirmations and drove to the neighborhood they’d said they were encamping and circled the blocks until she found a couple she thought was them. It was them. She gave them the printouts and crossed fingers that all would go well. It did. She got a confirmation from the pharmacy that they’d shown up. Mission accomplished. They got their one-shot. Now they need a home. Then the volunteer who helped a woman whose father had just arrived in the country. He had no viable ID but she was desperate to get him vaccinated. She worked with another volunteer who spoke fluent Spanish and who met him at a vaccination event and walked him through the process from beginning intake to end sit for 15 minutes. These are the stories that keep me coming back. As someone who would rather never use the phone, this instrument of information has kept both my mind and imagination going with the possibilities that we can do this. See the mess through and be there for each other. One long needle at a time.

Last Tuesday, Dennis and I got our first dose of the Pfizer and I was reminded of what it feels like to let out yet another breath from a year-plus of holds (see January 20, 2021, for the first exhale). I suspect on April 27 (2nd dose), then May 11 (two-weeks later, antibodies in full force), I’ll be remembering what it is to fill my lungs all they way to my soul. A few things in the last week have had me catching my breath in interesting ways. We headed off to Los Angeles after the shot where Dennis was helping to construct one of those restaurants build-outs happening on sidewalks in cities across the nation/world (bye-bye, street parking). I decided to go along and use the time/space for a self-directed writing getaway. We had use of a friend-of-a-friend’s empty apartment in West Hollywood that was such an old-school bungalow style that I expected Raymond Chandler to be sitting on the couch.

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I’m finishing up a first draft of a novel that wants me to remember what music felt like. Really deep down inside. How notes, lyrics, instruments smashing together would move me in ways that mixed pain and pleasure. Over the past years, and for a variety of reasons I’ve only just begun to tip the iceburg around, I stepped out of the playground of music. Now I’m circling the slide and merry-go-round again, testing the swings. So imagine my surprise when I wandered out our West Hollywood front door and found Barney’s Beanery up the street. Much like CBGBs (RIP) in NYC, the place looks a helluva lot different in the light of day. This was where, after seeing X or Duran Duran at the Whisky Club up the street or when I came to LA during my journalism days, I’d end up, either hoping to spot a rock star while hovering around the pool table or trying to coax a story out of one by not hovering around the pool table. I’m crap at pool. What with COVID restrictions, the current Barney’s did not tempt me inside, but it did make me think back on who I was and what I hoped for back then: age-appropriately confused/naive and filled with grand plans with road maps that were fuzzy. Climbing up to Sunset Blvd, I came to the corner where Tower Records sits/sat. The sign’s still there. The business not so much. And again, my mind did a little memory dance. Although Tower wasn’t my local record store (I’m looking at you Licorice Pizza, Huntington Beach; the Wherehouse in Newport Beach/Fashion Island, which we called Fascist Island–although it might have been in South Coast Plaza…anyway…), I spent plenty of time at this Tower Records when journalistic or record company business took me there. And, boom, I think that was where the issues sprang. By then music for me was a biz of moneymaking rather than a fizz of passion. I went back to our bungalow and thought on it.

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The next day I hoofed it to the LA County Museum of Art, where they’re open for a-few-at-at-time entry. Approaching the building, I saw the Tar Pits (right outside the grounds of the museum) and had a flashback moment. First because I used to go there with my dad, and there’s an installation of a mammoth being trapped in the tar during the ice age while the rest of the mammoth family watches helplessly. It made me sooooo sad!!! Back then, to distract from that little emotional trauma, we’d go to a restaurant across the street called The Egg and The Eye, a quintessential cafe/bookstore where I’d feel very grown-up and pick out lots of books to buy. It’s now a craft store that’s closed because of the–wait for it–pandemic. But the Victorian building is painted up colorfully, which was lovely.

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Yoshitomo Nara selections

I headed into the museum. I hadn’t paid too much attention to what exhibit I was going to see since just the idea of going to a museum was enough. So imagine my surprise when I stepped inside and found in Yoshitomo Nara‘s art exactly what I needed in the moment. In the first exhibition room, one wall was covered with record albums from the sixties and seventies. Come to learn that Nara had grown up in a small Japanese village and was a fairly lonely latchkey kid who found joy and escape through music and art. There was an audio offering to go with the exhibition that I thought would be the blah-blah that happens when someone tells you about what you’re looking at. But, NO, it was a soundtrack of songs—”Eve of Destruction” and “Both Sides Now” chosen to go with the time and vibe he was working in. A total suffusion in how music moves a hand across the page. And the images were the perfect rendering of how I remember music making me feel: manic, mischievous, movement. Powerful. I wandered round and round, soaking it up, then went to the gift store and just barely managed to not invest a small fortune in all things Nara.

Starting my walk home, I’d decided earlier to play music rather than the podcast selections I’ve been walking around with lately. I shuffled, hit play and goddamn it if Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California” didn’t cue up and fill my head. Stop it. But yes. I walked. Through that and Nirvana’s Unplugged “Where Did You Sleep Last Night” (a performance I had the great, good fortune of seeing) and Rein Wolf “Are You Satisfied” and on like that. And I did feel the power and I stayed in it as best I could. I reminded myself to roll one foot in front of the other, breathe. Let my feet walk me and my emotions while I tried to figure out just when it was that I’d decided to put music to the side so as not to really have to feel it. Then decided the when didn’t really matter. Just carry on now. And breathe.

My excellent friend Mary recently mentioned being curious about what this place of Redlands is like for me, not only as a place different from NYC, but just basically as a place I now live. Interestingly, it coincided with the arrival of a whole lot of home movies digitized from film found in my dad’s shed. Footage of me as a toddler and up into an awkward pre-teen. California Christmases, Easters, and vacations. My childhood here on the west coast. Watching these short clips, I’ve been having that surreal sense of Wow, I remember that chair, those patchwork jeans, that bathing suit, that house, the lemon tree, sunshine, and backyard. Being amazed at how many friggin Christmas presents I received: A bike, a pedal car, Matchbox cars and track, every iteration of Barbie (OG. Malibu, and Skipper–Barbie’s little sister) that ever was introduced from 1964 to 1967, plus a Ken or two. As an only child, I was showered with presents (&love) from parents and grandparents. I seemed happy. Even my geeky pre-teen wander-alone moments, while slightly cringe-worthy to watch given I’m sure I was talking to myself, seemed fine, not excessively tortured. I saw the moment at one-year-old when I apparently became enamored of magazines and music, not to mention the first sign of really wanting someone to help me (down some stairs), but not really wanting to accept that help (pushing away hand, shuffling feet in frustration). And the outfits!?!? Man, some of the pleated dresses and bloomers are adorbs. For Easter there were actual bonnets and gloves. And I wore them. Although in one harrowing sequence an errant rose bush grabbed my hat, which had an elastic band under the chin, while I was reaching for a hidden easter egg and tried to strangle me. Not altogether life threatening, but confusing as hell for a four year old.

And so here I am, back in the place of my birth, teenage-hood, youth, college confusion. I’m not actually in Pasadena, Newport Beach, Irvine, Long Beach, or Huntington Beach, all the places I lived until I moved in 1984 back east, but even an hour-and-a-half-ish inland, the air, the foliage, the plants, birds, vibe, are all very familiar. It couldn’t have been weirder to move back on the cusp of a pandemic tho (duh. I’m betting almost every one of us couldn’t have had a weirder last year), but yet, wandering around Redlands on the regular has brought a sense of connection to the place that has more to do with the structures than the people. I see folx walking, biking, wandering, shopping, but there’s been no dining-in or connecting at yoga or what-have-you. Not gonna lie, I’m perfectly happy connecting to surroundings by making up stories about the people who live inside the houses I walk past. This area used to be all orange groves and some of the houses are just stupid with history and a kind of grandeur that suggests old-school wealth. Even the ones that are falling the F apart have levels and cupolas and detailing aching for Miss Haversham to step out and start screaming about. And then there are the basic Cali bungalows. Stucco. Acres of it. There are also quirky moments of street art—some of it chalk drawings on the sidewalk most likely made by kids and also some much edgier graffiti from taggers that may get done after dark.

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The difference between the streets of NYC couldn’t be more stark and if there hadn’t been a full on go-inside-immediately scenario, not to mention FaceTime/Zoom connections with my back-East pals, I suspect I’d have had a much more severe sense of culture shock. People did keep asking if I’d had that. A jarring from one environment to another, but except for missing the parade of people-watching fun NYC had to offer, and given that there wasn’t a chance of that happening in 2020 anyway, I’ve not felt a lack. Again, this last year offered it’s own very special distraction, but letting the sensations of I-know-this-place hook&eye into my here&now has been a kind of great merge. Sometimes I go through the photos I take on my walks and realize that discarded masks are the most photographed item in my album. That’s not to say there aren’t actual human beings around, it’s just that, well, I’m only seeing half their faces (if they’re being kind and doing the right thing), so there’s a kind of freedom in just wandering people-free. Plus, pedestrian traffic is pretty light. It’s not lost on me that when I see a sign telling me the neighborhood is under some sort of protective cop-watch, I understand I have white privilege in being able to wander through without fear of the police being called because there are some areas where that would absolutely be the case.

The curiosity is that as everyone ever-so-slowly comes out of their homes, if only to get their vaccinations, I might be introduced to the neighborhood from a more inside perspective. Restaurants perchance, back to the amazing AK Smiley library, some author talks at the University of Redlands, but until then, I’ll keep wandering and snapping.