50) 65.3 System Software: Loading

Glitching, pixelating and laughing through the hard parts.

I need to remember that it’s not usual to fly ten hours to another country for a week, and then back, and expect to hit the ground running in whichever direction I’ve landed. I mean for business people I suppose it is, but not me. I’ve been really out of sorts and in a self-created time zone where everything seems crucial, must happen, not a moment to waste. A nagging, acute sense that all I want is right on the peripheral of where I’m reaching, if only I’d stretch myself a bit longer, further. And then, nothing happens; moments become hours become an entire morning, an afternoon, a day, and it’s like the 65-year old life-software is glitching and my effort won’t quite load and become operational.

And then I feel bad and want to not feel bad, but I’m sober and the escape hatches are slim pickens, and the ones that are effective are quite expensive so it’s best to just be willing to do the work.

I say it mantra-like, over and over: I am willing to do the work it takes to achieve the outcomes I want.

Putting it on the page, hearing from readers, finding subscribers who want to come along because there’s something of a shared experience happening with us; this has been the glue lately. Some things languish, but I always turn up here and in a very non-literal, literary way, I get to crowd surf the support of the 55-60% of you who open and read what I write. I don’t really need to know these stats, but the format of the Substack dashboard platform is laid out in a way that tells us writers how we are doing in terms of numbers. I suppose it’s information that some know how to take and improve on. I don’t know how to get more people opening and reading. I just keep showing up, grateful.

I’ll put this here, because if I forget—well, Substack really doesn’t let you forget—so the reminder is that it makes a difference if you subscribe. Thank you!

Walking into my Austin house was a jolt. The stale scent of vacancy, the sound of my voice and footsteps reverberating off walls. Equal to the emptiness of human presence was the pet void. Never doubt the immense life force these little furry creatures infuse into a house. Tux is a scruffy wandering ghost in my former home, Gingerman and Rocky were recent memories, but at least safe and alive in St Albans. The pet void never left during the week of my stay: years of feedings and play, dead prey “gifts,” ball throwing, special napping places, the weight of their bodies next to me on the bed—all of it tangible and poignant. I had a good cry, amplifying the emptiness, and that was that. It got better from there.

Before it got better, there was this little issue: I’ve been having a series of disturbing dreams that I awaken from in the middle of the night. I won’t describe them because I think we can all agree that hearing someone talk about their weird, wild nonsensical dreams is boring. (With the exception being the dream I had many years ago that involved the entrance to the airport being through my cat Coconut’s butt.) In these more recent recurring dreams I’m being pursued and am trying not to be caught or discovered. I feel I’ve done something very wrong. When I awaken, I just try to dispel the unpleasantness and get back to my normal, dull litany of random brain firings or better yet, blank consciousness sleep.

Aside from two of those dreams, it got better being in Austin. Everywhere I went people knew me and were happy to see me. I forget what that’s like in England. Maybe it’s my fault—my pal Stacie who stayed at my place in St Albans made more friends in a week than I’ve made in 4 months. I might be putting in a tad more effort with London folks. Buoyed by the love, or at least the acknowledgment of existence, I managed to get through days of erratic jet-lagged sleep and still pack up the remainder of my stuff and rehearse with the Bluebonnets. I curated a small selection of people I’d not gotten to see before moving and made time for one-on-one visits, was treated to a fantastic dinner party where I thrived on listening. Listening to very smart, informed, interesting people talk about fascinating things. Realized how much I need some of that action in London.

The best part of home though was pulling up to the Continental Club for an early set and seeing a line down the block to see our kickass little band. I’ve waited a long time for people to wise up to how good the Bluebonnets are. Now that I’m gone, it seems to have happened. C’est la vie.

packed house at the iconic Continental Club

Speaking of dreams, I always enjoyed talking with my mom about her admiration for Fritz Perls and Gestalt therapy. In the Gestalt approach, every aspect of the dream is a fragment of our self. In Gestalt dream work, I’d have a dialogue between the images and events, all representing me, and in the dialog, an integration occurs that leads to an insight or awareness. I’ve made a point of forgetting the elements of the recurring dream, other than the basic feelings, so it would be hard to Gestalt therapize that one, but I’ve done it before on very mundane ones and it can be startlingly revealing.

This won’t work right because it’s an old dream that represented what a past “now” had going on, but here’s a sort of example how a Gestalt dialogue might go, using the Coconut Butt Airport dream:

(If this shit doesn’t make you unsubscribe then we are besties for life…)

I also like the Gestalt “do unto others” theory—turn that inner critic voice outward and imagine talking to someone else in the same way we can berate ourselves. Probably wouldn’t?

Fritz, as it turns out, had a few flaws, especially in his attitude towards women—which, as is the common case, was a non-issue and acceptable behavior in the not-too-distant past. This is such a common thing, but I take some satisfaction that it gets called out and increasingly noted.

My mom had good taste in philosophers. She also turned me onto Bertrand Russell, a very sensible British/Welsh philosopher and pacifist whose pulled quotes don’t do justice to the reach and complexity of his ideas and thinking. I should add—only slightly reducing the shiny glow of a mother and daughter discussing philosophy in the 70’s and 80’s—that most of these deep thoughtful conversations happened when we were both zonked on all night cocaine binges, buzzing and solving the problems of the world with bursts of enlightenment emanating from tight jaws and studied frantic line chopping. But still a cherished closeness we had, a closeness that became harder to find as time went on. More “c’est la vie” I suppose.

Unsettled, uncomfortable. Waiting for the joy tide to roll in, I know it will and like to think that in the wisdom of aging I’ve learned coping skills and have adjusted to accepting that sometimes things are hard. We figure it out eventually; for me I imagine kicking back in a sort of observe and tolerate recliner. Athletes and academics and some highly driven creatives are lucky; ingrained and trained to know that shit is hard, hard, hard. The rest are encouraged to savor convenience and easiness at all turns, and no wonder some struggle so deeply. Come to think of it, this is also espoused in the Gestalt therapy model:

What I’ve observed in my alone-ness is something I’ve been fighting—probably worried it signals a fundamental shift. I’ve fought acknowledging this as it’s anathema to any way I’ve ever felt or anyway I’ve seen myself. A simple, human longing is acceptable, I can allow that to happen. When longing attempts to morph into clawing desperation it gets my attention fast. Nip that shit in the bud. My support system and infrastructure are wobbly at best, and so, uh, no wonder I tried the dating app deal. Romance is the tried and true deal that gives the instant fix. Ta-da, someone is there for me, cares about me. Voila, integration, built-in new fittage and insertion into someone else’s friends, family, life.

Practically speaking, I do need to be proactive about meeting potential partners. It’s been nearly five years since my last relationship. I honestly wasn’t counting and have enjoyed my independence and freedom as I’ve always done—but those kind of time spans are entirely different at this age. Another five years and I’m trying to partner up at 70. I’m sure Raya is just teeming with eligibles looking for 70 year old women. So, my new deal is it’s the work that will keep me tethered; the writing, the music, the plans I’m cooking up. But I also need to keep trying to meet guys. I went back. I’m currently chatting with several eligibles. I’m surprised. I think everything is a numbers game and this is no exception, so I’m putting myself Out There.

Oh of course I have a song about it, called “Out There” yah, it’s good and I brought some recording stuff back from Texas. I can’t wait to set up my little studio here and I know some really cool stuff is going to get made. Music has saved me throughout my life and it’s there waiting for me to create again…for ears to hear, feet to tap, bodies to sway, voices to sing, babies to get made, music to dig, guitars to shred, bass to pull you inside, drums to make you never wanna hide.

The book will come too, we keep on. I hope you have some things you are reaching for and until that extra push and stretch brings you closer, don’t forget to laugh. xK