Do you ever want to catch up with an old friend, but it’s been so long, you know it’s going to be a long yappy hour on the phone at the very least, and you just don’t want to be on the phone that long so you don’t call for the catch up?
If you’ve read The Candy House by Jennifer Egan, you’ll remember the character Bix Bouton’s invention of “Own Your Unconscious,” a technology where people can download their memories to a collective consciousness and search, share and access other people’s. This problem, of wanting to reach out but not wanting the long call, needs a mini-version of that where two friends could download and exchange all the catch-up info before the big call, so it could maybe be a shorter 10-15 minute call where you just make a plan to get together? Hmm.
Having said all that, I did have an hour long talk with a dear friend the other night, and it was great, so maybe I should just go for it more often. Staying connected to people who matter to me, or that I share a meaningful past with, is a time + effort proposition, but it’s also a gift. A both ways gift.
Looking at it that way changes my perspective, I’m glad I started out with this: I needed to write it to realize it. As is often the case. Verbalizing, writing, making order out of a jumble of memories, thoughts and feelings, ideas, reactiveness.
I’ve been noticing how nature takes it’s course upon organic material in similar ways. Unfortunately, as far as nature is concerned, I’m just another lump of organic material. I’m trying not to be alarmed at the surface decay. The fray around my edges. There’s a lot more of me in the middle than on the edges, so it’s okay for now. I’ve got a long way to go before complete decomposure but…who knew?
I’ve written about this before, and I will some more, because one of the themes for Direction of Motion is "coming of aging” and disintegration is certainly an inevitable direction and (a very slow) motion. In an earlier post, several months back when I was in England, I remarked at how the light was hitting the skin of my arm and making it look creepily crepe-y. I had to get up and change the light to feel better.
Something worse maybe has happened now. Seems like overnight. It’s about a three/four inch section of my upper arm—the part that is against my body, luckily, not the outward, world facing part— this bit that’s decidedly devoid of muscle tissue. It’s whatever is under the skin that’s not muscle or ligaments or solid. It’s not fat, it’s just…sag. It’s sag. It’s not coming back, I can tell. I could lift weights, and I do lift weights (a little bit, sometimes, don’t get the wrong idea) but I know there is no way the top of that inner arm is going to look young again. Like ever.
I think, okay, I’ve had a good 64 years of a fit, solid arm, so be it. I’m going to accept this. I started forcing myself to be okay with it and was getting there, but then: yesterday I was looking at my bare feet. I don’t pay a lot of attention to my feet. They are about as far from my face as it gets, and I believe my face, or head rather, is where my true self resides. One could make an inept argument for the rest of the body, but come on, the head and face—that’s really where it all happens. That’s where I see from, hear from, smell from, eat from, kiss from, talk from, think from.
Gingerman and Rocky would agree: they think the body is just some meaty jungle gym obstacle course to climb before reaching the human at the top.
So, as I was saying, I don’t pay much attention to feet. I tried to like pedicures until I realized I hate them. I hate the chemical smell of the salon, I hate the weirdness of being sat in a big chair with another human being on a stool, literally at my feet, doing things to my feet. I hate that bin of water, I hate that cheese grater thing that makes piles of dead skin come off, I hate the ticklish sensation, I hate all of it.
I don’t dislike my feet though, I just ignore them, am indifferent. Except for the necessary nail clipping business and a good rub down after the shower with a towel and some magnesium oil (look it up, good for you.)
But I noticed yesterday, my feet look old. They aren’t coming back either.
Feet, edge of arms—the extremities, they are starting to decay. I’m glad my insides are ok, and a large percent of me isn’t decaying yet, but now I know: this is how it happens.
Just like a piece of fruit, a spot goes off, then it grows and spreads until it’s a big mush, ready for the compost bin.
Apparently in the 19th and part of the 20th century, it was very common to put “natural decay” on people’s death certificates as their cause of death. I’m not sure what I think about that, and I’m a little curious why it stopped but not enough to do a deep dive.
Enough of all this. I hope I’m never one of those olds who talks about ailments and illnesses. Decaying bodies, now that’s something else and I enjoy the solidarity of hearing about other people’s decay.
I’m Southwesting to Burbank from Austin. I’ve started keeping a notebook of things about humans I notice at the airport. There’s no better place to see such a smorgasbord of humanity, being and doing all the weird human things. I think it will come in useful one day, or I just don’t want to forget all the things I notice. Sometimes I think there are two kinds of people in the world: the noticers, and the blissfully unaware. I notice everything: not in a judgey way, just an observant way. I notice shoes and outfits, I notice hair and jewelry and carriage, tics and mannerisms, and I always, always notice crotches. Not in a pervy way, like thinking about a stranger’s genitals, ew, but in a casual way, the same way I notice everything else. You have to be very quick and subtle to notice that part. And again, I’m not approving or disapproving, it’s just kind of a funny part of our bodies, where our legs are attached and then all the business of crotch is right there, and pants have to be made to accommodate the whole leg attachment and business, and not show the parts, but accommodate them.
I bet I lose a lot of subscribers today.
So anyway, I had my little notebook out, because the plane was delayed and there was no lounge. I had full access to notice everyone. And there was nothing to write! No one stood out, at all. For the first time. The only things I noticed were that olds tend to travel as couples—you don’t see many old ladies or old men solo at the airport. I also noticed that there are very few stylish people. Most people dress very basic. Not judging, just noticing. Then I started wishing I’d invested in some sneaker company in the 80’s. I’d say 90% of people wear sneakers.
Please tell me I’m not the only one like this. Are you a noticer?
No new music to share today—I made a demo of Can’t Stop the World and Vacation for people I’m performing with to learn. Maybe I’ll do for real, a remake one day. I like the throwaway guitar solo I did on the demo, very Johnny Thunders. Check it out!
If you see a hideous candy apple red Dodge Challenger zooming around LA, it’s me. It was the only car Hertz had, which is just ridiculous. I’m trying to find the positve spin on this still, stay tuned.
I hope every single one of you is finding joy in your existence.
Thank you so much for reading, following, subscribing, sticking with me as I try and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do here, there and everywhere! xoKV
yes, there are some calls that need planning because the wormhole opens and time is forgotten, and forgotten, and forgotten.
meaningful pasts - yes
I marvel that my two feet... (just like yours)
have walked me to and fro for almost 60 years...
Those two feet.
The same two feet that I took my first steps with as a lil' one.
the noticers - love
"I bet I lose a lot of subscribers today"
haaaaa perfect counterpoint
the olds - love
funny i got a camaro when we went to LA a few weeks ago. it was the only car available. cool, but not built for comfort.
Can't Stop The World shreds
you are marvelous
I wanted to hear more about crotches. I'm a people-watcher. I definitely notice bunched crotches, or too tight crotches. I noticed yesterday a woman covering her crotch at a street crosswalk on Topanga and Sherman Way, and a guy itching his on Winnetka ans Victory. Now I'm curious what about crotches do YOU notice?
I came over from your latest piece I couldn't comment on (I'll have to upgrade). I love that you're feeling freer and confident enough to play upfront. In the 90s, when you and Dominique were recording at our house (Ian Gardiner's place), I saw you as individually artistic people, creating great songs. As a corporate cubicle dweller, I lived vicariously, dreaming of your cool confidence. Now, I appreciate your candid vulnerability--it makes you an authentic artist, but I really appreciate seeing you grow into your true understanding of your worth I, (a stranger) saw/see it.
So what did you jot about crotches?!