File Under S

Shadows, Selves, Setting Suns, Starbucks, Storage, Space, and one Sexagenarian

I was in Austin, having another phase of culling through my lifetime of accumulated stuff. It’s an absurdity that no matter whatever volume I manage to reduce here will be countered by a new assemblage of stuff in England. Some absurdities are best left alone.

This side of the absurdity has been compounded with impediments. The elevator at the storage place has been out of service the entire time and I’m on the third floor. That’s a lot of up and down, one box, one guitar, one amp, one armful of clothes at a time. And my lovely renters in my house who were supposed to be moved out hit a situation whereby they needed to stay, making it near impossible to get to and move through the stuff I left in the house.

I surprised myself with how calmly I submitted to these obstacles, a zen master couldn’t have done better. Every single friend offered to help; when I could accept, I did so. Also, non-gym workouts are the best kind. I’ll go home stronger and tougher, and we sexagenarians will take that bonus where we can get it.

How did I get this far into my sixties and never use the word sexagenarian? What a great word. I have a little over three years left to be one sexy sexagenarian and I’m into it.

In between all the huffing and puffing, driving back and forth and disbursing of things, I got some Austin socializing in. I spent an evening with some people I’ve known since I was 14 years old, teachers from Greenbriar—the alternative, “free” school I attended from 14-16. Greenbriar was in the country outside Austin. Besides being a commune for different varieties of hippies and standard issue society rebels, it was a school where kids could learn whatever they wanted to. I learned how to go on long canoe and camping trips down the Guadalupe River, bake bread, grow an organic garden, swim in the cow pond, and yes, academics. Everything was optional. Most importantly, this is where I learned how to play the guitar, started my first band, and played my first show.

Greenbriar’s track record for turning out well adjusted, productive and functional humans was leagues better than the public school system I’d been enrolled in prior to dropping out of high school my freshman year. That’s all another story. (And a great documentary one day, let’s do it, you indie financiers who happen to be reading)

One of my favorite Greenbriar affiliated people is 93 years old now. She still attends a tradition of weekly dinners with a group of other Greenbriar associates, they’ve done so for 35 years. I called Dave—my very first guitar teacher—and was invited to join them. It was a relaxed, lovely evening, despite the pervasive reminders of how time passes. It’s like a pop-up notification that you can’t turn off: hello, I’m aware, got it, recognize all the elements at play here.

On the good side, Dave, who must’ve been 31-32 when he showed me my first “D” and “A” chords out in the Greenbriar woods, is now an admirably fit 82. He is the same man I’ve known all these years; kind, content, knowledgable, with an intact, hearty good humor. Other attendees that were older than myself who I’ve known also played a part in an effect that I appreciated: “Hey,” I thought, “I’ll be fine if I’m like these folks in 20 years.”

(It’s a funny thing that happens—all those things one used to yearn for: other people’s jobs, cars, houses, spouses, luck, wealth—is out the window and replaced by an admiration and appreciation of their health and aging process.)

My 93-yr-old friend is now brought to the weekly gatherings by her son, who also looks after her. When I moved, top of 2024, she was unimpaired. Now she is unsure who I am, and here I’ll employ an over-used but unimprovable phrase; she’s a shadow of her former self. A shadow maybe, but a very pleasant shadow, who smiled and conversed with enough clarity to reveal the elegance that she’d always possessed. Without doubt, her son sees more decline than I will know, but I left the evening knowing I will very likely never see her again.

It’s an interesting paradox when a faceless corporation in a bland suburban shopping center infuses years of your life with humanity, personality, caring. And soul. This is what Audrey and I were discussing the other day, about the neighborhood Starbucks that we frequented with habitual devotion. Over the years we became friendly with a number of employee baristas, and none more so than Ned Coleman.

Ned watched Audrey grow from a pink Frappe swigging kindergartner to an oat milk cappucino sipping collegiate. He knew me as I entered my 50’s and 60’s, and noted each birthday of ours with free drinks and cake pops. Ned knew what I was up to from following me on social media and asked about my projects, travels, writing and gigs. Several years ago, Ned started his own Substack, A Careful Disorderliness where he revealed himself to be a poet of the rhyming variety who could write verse about anything.

I failed to notice that I hadn’t gotten his daily poem in some time. Maybe I’d paused the subscription button for awhile—as all of you Substack subscribers know, it can get overwhelming, the amount of missives that come in. I knew he had retired from Starbucks, but I stopped in anyway in hopes he’d be there visiting. He was that sort of guy. Across the room, I saw a couple of pages on the bulletin board, with a man’s face on one.

I knew instantly: Ned was gone.

That rush of shock and sadness can turn into a loop of regret and remorse pretty quickly—why didn’t I check in more often? did I let him know I appreciated him? why didn’t I express more interest in his life?

Because I’m older and wiser, I can nearly as quickly remove the ego and recalibrate to realize I was likely a small, but pleasant element in a very fully lived life. I made a rare stop to Facebook to confirm this fact, to learn more about his life posthumously, to reach out to his family and express my condolences and share how Audrey and I enjoyed knowing him. It’s all one can do really.

It was on his FB page that I learned another Starbucks barista we’d come to know over the years had also died. Damn. This one was hard too. Tommy was the kind of Texan you don’t hear about as much: devoutly religious while being a gay progressive liberal. I often said Tommy might be one of the bravest and kindest people I’d ever come across. Afflicted with neurofibromatosis, a condition that causes fibroid tumors to form on any nerve ending, Tommy could have chosen a workplace where he didn’t encounter the public all day long. It wouldn’t have been easy seeing the reactions to his appearance; his entire face and neck was covered in clusters of varying sized lumps and bumps—but he greeted people with big smiles and sweet spirit. After he moved to a new location he also kept in touch with me for a good ten years or so via social media, and I always donated to his NF charity bike ride. Which he rode in his underwear.

I know several people who are anti-Starbucks and refuse to step foot in one. But my life was enhanced by the people who worked at our local and who I came to know. It’s a reminder to remember that a shared humanity might be the only thing holding these broken, fragile times together.

Lovely people. Lyova has lost much of her memory. Ned and Tommy have passed

I’ve had cause to think about something lately and wonder what your thoughts are? Writing recently, I reflected on living under the threat of uncertainty of our own demise. And I’ve often posited on a theory that awareness of our human mortality is likely the fountainhead of many—if not most—neuroses, addictions, fervors, zealotry and general bonkers behavior. Would our pups be dancing around, tails wagging and excited to meet each day with dog enthusiasm if they had the consciousness and awareness that a human does: this could be the day that a car hits me, that I get an uncurable, terminal affliction, that a coyote jumps mom’s six-foot fence and kills me. (RIP Tux)

What happens when you know what is going to be the end of you? Does it change anything? I wonder if it helps or hurts the cause—of finding joy, of seeking peace and contentment in the precious, but unknown allotment of life we are granted. I’m interested in your comments.

东升西降

I thought I’d be depleted by now, but it seems I have an infinite supply of outrage, disbelief and disappointment. Just when I think nothing could surprise me, I’m dumbfounded by the crimes and audacity, the stupidity and danger, the staggering cruelty and recklessness of this administration. It’s like watching the fall of the west in some sort of weird, jerky stop-motion animation: entire systems and institutions erode. Powerful and influential corporations, companies, universitites, law firms, judiciaries, and media conglomerates bend, bow and scrape to protect or enrich themselves. We are waiting for what exactly? A leader to step up, the tide to change, the pendulum to swing? I’m mystified. Here’s a little tidbit I’ll leave you with:

The Chinese characters at the top of this section translate to: “The East is rising and the West is declining,” a quote from Xi Jinping in 2020. Political rhetoric aside, as a words lover and amateur etymologist, (some of you early subscribers will recall my etymological garden series on this substack) it’s interesting that the word “occident” which is used to describe the west, in particular, America and Europe, is from the Latin word “occidere” —which means to fall down, or to go down. Now, that’s really referring to the sun setting, as in the sun sets in the west. But it’s also poetically fascinating to imagine what self-fulfilling prophecy we’ve been accorded just from language alone—never mind the megalomania and greed of the rich and powerful.

this is me asking AI to give me an image with both a setting and a rising sun in the same photo. fail.

Kind of like nominative determinism, the questionable idea that people can be pushed to outcomes or careers associated with their names.

Yes, I’m mystified. I’m also practical. Time to start learning Chinese? The wealthiest people I know had their young kids learning Chinese back in 2010, I remember wondering then “do they know something the rest of us don’t know?”

Here’s the good part. Really it’s everything that isn’t terrible. I don’t know how you meet the day, but I’m acutely aware, kind of always, that tragedy befalls human beings every minute, non-stop. Something bad is happening to someone, somewhere. Knowing that, it just seems weird to not be grateful that for this period of time, right now, I’m safe. That is; my own little private illusion of safety has managed to go another round without being pierced or shredded. If that’s not the good part, I don’t know what is. Go see Downton Abbey and escape for a couple of hours.

Thank you for wading through my musings and thoughts here. Your time, attention, subscription, sharing—any and all ways of support and interest are the best reward.xxKV