52) Vigilance & Vegetables

Me strong. Falling and rising. Proud Texan. and more!

I’m back in Texas, courtesy of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, who are hosting a retreat in Austin. I was invited to put together a cool band event featuring some of my favorite women musicians here in town. The Bluebonnets will play a set and back up special guests Sue Foley, Carolyn Wonderland, Rosie Flores and Emily Gimble—all incredible players. It started out private, but if you’re here in Austin, reading this, I’ll tell you exclusively that they are releasing a limited amount of tickets at the door. It’s at the Continental Club at 8:30pm on Weds May 29th. We also have an 8pm set at CBoys Heart & Soul on Sat. June 1st.

Rehearsals are really fun. We’re doing some surprise songs and both are going to be banger shows.

Last week I was on one of my long, rambling, exploratory walks, taking in the scenery, noticing everything, as I do. Unfortunately, I failed to notice a root protruding from the ground. In a matter of seconds I fell hard and fast. It was close to a faceplant—my hands stopped that from fully happening, but I hit my head, leaving a golden bruise of a shiner above my right eye. Some of my jewelry popped off (I wear loads, it’s part of my getting older strategy,) I was scraped and scuffed up and my head hurt. I thought, “that was pretty bad, but it could have been worse.”

Wait. Why does my right hand feel like it’s wrapped in stinging nettles?

I walked the 45 minutes back home with an intense prickling, burning sensation running up my hand, wrist and forearm. Each hour, it increased, my anxiety right alongside. Nothing helped. Water felt like fire, certain positions felt like an army of ants was parading up to my elbow. I made the usual mistake of consulting Doc Google and finding several unheard of conditions to worry about. In the states, I would’ve gone to a walk-in clinic, but it’s not like that in the UK. Navigating the system, I learned I could go to the ER or get a phone call from a paramedic. I got the call around 10pm, he was calm and reassuring, but said to see a doctor in the morning.

After the call I began to panic, realizing the injury was on my “hand of fate.” Such is the name I’ve given my right hand, (also a chapter essay in the new book I’m writing.) “Hand of fate” takes place in the summer of 2012: a pair of flip flops, a puddle of water in the garage, and me on the floor roaring like a beast. The severely broken wrist, the surgery inserting a titanium metal clamp to meld the bones, the missed Go-Go’s tour, the ensuing despairing nightmare of a year folding into another five years of being forced out of my band. The whole sordid biz is a whopper of a story. Everything changed, hence, “hand of fate.”

Ultimately, good things came wrapped in that most horrendous gift. One of the magical things about surviving any loss or trauma is the crazy unexpectedness of goodness from badness. I see that as I organize and document life in writing, but in “All I Ever Wanted” the really difficult stuff was decades removed. There was a lot of buffer around it all. This sequel is a whole other painball, adjacent and fresh, and brings a lot of resistance to writing.

I digress. Back to last week—and because I ridiculously try to control what you’re thinking, let me add that, no I’m not prone to falls, hand of fate was 12 years ago. Surmising that my titanium metal claw that’s still clamped around my healed wrist bones had probably been jolted by the force of impact and pinched some nerves, I started tripping, this time in my head. What if…what if…what if…permanent nerve damage, emergency surgery, cancelling upcoming shows and work. Somehow, I fell asleep in the turmoil of those worries. In the morning, the burning and tingling had reduced somewhat, and I saw a doctor. By the end of the day my hand was virtually back to normal. Whew.

The incident is a reminder, for all of us, how danger lurks. Prior to falling, I had conversations with two friends recently about this exact topic, both of whom were suffering injuries from a freak mishap. We talked about how everything can change in seconds and we must stay vigilant, not let our attention wander while moving about in the world.

And now…a new installment of KV’s Etymological Garden. Newer subscribers: this is something I used to feature. Dragging you guys along on my word nerd deep dives. Sorry. You’re welcome. But surely you needed to know the link between “vegetable” and “vigilante?”

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I told the paradmedic and doctor: “I have a high tolerance to discomfort and pain.”

On the occasions when I say this, I say it with pride, as though it’s an enviable quality, worthy of respect and admiration. As though being anything else would make me a whiny baby. As though it’s a positive reflection on my character. This is a leftover from a belief I fed on for as long as I can remember: Weak bad. Strong good.

There is some inherent logic here: in a predator/prey situation, one is clearly the winner, and one is the loser—from the standpoint that intact survival is preferable to being maimed, injured or dead; a definite disadvantage in the game of life. This was never the sum of my perspective—it’s faulty and simplistic for numerous reasons, not the least of which is being victimized in any form has nothing to do with “weakness.” But as a child, I instinctively figured out that my home and parenting situation meant I had to crush neediness and needs. I had to be self-sufficient and capable and able to get on with things. Those formative molds of childhood can take some concerted effort to a) recognize, b) understand, and c) cast off.

The real game of life is nothing but nuance and shades. Relative and contextual goodness or badness. If one interprets Nietzsche’s concept of “will to power” —(which was never expressly defined in all his writing, was often negatively cast and was even misappropriated and rewritten posthumously by his sister for her nationalist beliefs)—in terms of power/strength and weakness, I might contemplate his references to weakness of character and lack of self control and was always taken with the approach of a weak character needing morality. Going back to our etymology, if I consider vitality and vigor as part of being in harmony with one’s own self, arguably it’s a strong person who can overcome self destructive habits to achieve a purposeful and meaningful life.

Anyway, I digress again, espousing from my armchair (or in this case, bed) laywoman’s (perfect) rudimentary perusal of controversial philosophical schools of thought. As a continually evolving, sober, mature human I’ve discovered depths of compassion and empathy that raise or lower like boom barriers when it comes to gauging another person’s tolerance for hurt. And nowadays, the conversation is more about vulnerability; a distinction that allows all us tough cookies to crumble. Nowadays I appreciate the connection of sharing pain, hurt, loss, doubts and fears. There’s a different strength in being willing to ask for support and help when I need it. I like the freedom of exposing a less perfect, less capable self. And yet. I still bask in the fallacy of pride that I’m able to withstand that which makes other people fall apart.

It’s like being from Texas—we’re always proud Texans, despite our state devolving into one of the worse ranked places to live in the country: second to last in education, health care, child care, voting rights, quality of life. The mystique lingers; living overseas as an American, I’ll get asked where I’m from almost daily. “Texas” always gets an interested reaction and comment, although I haven’t quite figured out why. It can’t be the allure of TV Westerns that used to enamor foreigners—in the 70’s I’d meet people in England who actually thought our roads were overrun with tumbleweeds and cattle. Next time this happens I’ll ask. Audrey says she caught me several times going “pew pew” while shooting two finger guns in the air after saying we were from Texas—to Uber drivers and people in Istanbul. I was aghast and don’t believe her.

Welllllll, still on the dating app grind and have met a very nice fella who I’ll meet in person soon, after several vid chats. He HAS NO IDEA who I am/was, what I do, what my last name is. Nothing. Nada. Likes me just from our talks, humor, reactions. I like the anonymous route. I’m in UK for a new life chapter and really don’t see why my past has anything to do with anything. Curious if any of my readers has felt this way? Just sort of, hey my past life happened, it was special, awesome, or not, and now it’s gone and let’s just start where we are today ?? Chime in! I love hearing from you guys.

What else what else. If you follow me on the social media stuff, you’ll know I had a thrill of a time sitting in at the Roundhouse with the Mountain Goats. Sigh. I love the way this band is. They, and a few other bands, make me long to be in a band again, a fully functioning, successfully working band. Here’s a You Tube video of the song where you can’t really see me, but it’s still cool!

This dispatch took a bit longer to get out than I wanted—the travel and packing up of the rest of my house, along with some doctor and dental appts here in Texas kept interfering. But I have a few upcoming cool things, music, and collaborations to share and some promised writing topics that are still on a slow boil on my backburner.

As always, I’m immensely grateful to be spared the dreaded writing into the void. Your time and interest means the world. If I may ask, please keep sharing and restacking and all that good stuff so I can keep doing it. Love, KV