newton’s cradle of grief

newton's cradle.gif

This month has been a lot for a heart to take and to process.

A massacre. A rock legend’s death. Potentially hundreds of people dying in on an island with barely any power or not enough clean running water. The exposure of sexual harassment and assault at the hands of one movie mogul. The cascade of stories of survival and the exposure of other perpetrators. Wildfires destroying more acreage than the size of New York City.

Another rock legend dies from brain cancer last night.

I took yet another break from Twitter because I was starting to sound shrill and sucked into this vortex of pain and anger. For me to leave because of an emotional contagion is saying a lot, because that’s not usually my bag. The people I am friends with on Twitter are my main community, which I am chagrined, but they are real people, real people who really matter. So it’s kind of a big deal to me when I’m not there.

And I’m not the only one who has left for Twitter for a spell. It’s more than OK to take a break from things when they aren’t serving you.

I also left because astrologically, Mercury is conjunct Jupiter in Scorpio and I wanted to focus more on improving my writing and editing business, to dip my silver tongue in the stars and say all the right things to all the right people. But emotionally, I’ve been a lot distracted, even with my sabbatical from Twitter.

And actually, Mercury conjunct Jupiter, in Scorpio, has probably created the climate of this fixation on sharing pain and anger.

And my heart just pours over…

Gord Downie’s death last night was one that Canada has been bracing for since he announced his battle with brain cancer and the subsequent final tour with his band, The Tragically Hip. It was a band I knew about back in 1996. I loved the song, “Ahead by a Century,” but I had no clue how big the band was in Canada and how much Downie meant to his nation. I learned a lot about that last year.

It’s weird how his death allowed me to shed at least one tear for Tom Petty. I’m listening to him right now (Highway Companion, for the record) and I can finally do that a little more, listen to his music. It’s like all the pain and trauma from this month is in a Newton’s cradle. This new loss of Gord Downie, and the grief of a whole nation, knocks through all the grief from before and starts at the grief at the beginning of the month.

I can’t even comprehend what happened in Las Vegas, though. It’s unfathomable, even though people die of violence here, and elsewhere, every day. What’s going on in Puerto Rico is closing in on genocide due to chosen negligence.

My conscience is seared all the way around, but maybe it’s the only way to get through the day so I don’t collapse under the weight of the all the pain and sorrow that’s been very heavy lately. It’s fixed, like Scorpio energy can be.

And then there’s my own stuff.

Not to roll out the scroll of my own suffering, but living here has been triggering memories of living with my family of origin, of how unpredictable it was due to living with someone who has untreated mental health issues. That came to a(nother) head today when I once again woke at 5:30am in the morning to the smell of brewing coffee, which derailed my whole day. It took forever to go back to bed, and then I woke up too late.

If something gets tripped up like that, over and over, to mean it means it’s time for healing. So today, I was planning on doing some work-related things, but today was a day to work some of those old emotions out: forgiveness and self-compassion and grief and anger.

New things knocking around old things.

And I imagine that’s what it’s like to hear these survivor stories–being triggered as others tell their stories. I only hope that healing can occur as Newton’s cradle of grief goes back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

This may sound really rah-rah and strident, but in this increasingly fixed and stubborn energy, I want to think about solutions. Especially if you’re any kind of marginalized person, you already know the world is a fucked up place. You’ve tried, in your own way, to heal yourself, to bring healing to your corner of the planet. Yet sometimes Twitter can just become an echo chamber and all you can hear are endless screams and cries and groans and yells. It could be an empath’s burden, feeling everyone else’s feels so easily. But one can only feel so much…

As I was telling a friend today, I’m so tired of hearing people glibly say that we’re all gonna die. I’ve gone through hell and back too many times for that sort of existential resignation.

I don’t have any overarching solutions right now that don’t involve a lot of money–as my friend today has surmised. So right now, the best thing I can do is to make sure I can make some so I can donate to causes that support marginalized people, i.e., take care of myself so I can take care of others.

What else can I do?

I love the people who love me back hard.

I continue to find compassion for myself as I look at my old stories with fresh and kind eyes.

I try to push back the dark, rolling clouds of doom that tried, and failed to overwhelm me today.

I keep hope close to me, but not too close so it smothers me with exaggerated optimism.

I cry if I need to.

I attempt to be more grateful and rejoice if and when I’m successful.

I look for the threads that hold things the good things together. Tie those thread tighter.

I do the best I can and know that it’s enough.

I can even look forward to things, like having my own family and not living here and/or in Florida anymore.

For now, I have to focus on the work that’s in front of me, which includes fighting to be here and not drowning in doom. If I’m sleep deprived like I am today, it can be really hard. But the fight is worth it.

To find joy and hope in the midst of immense suffering can seem impossible. But in order to survive and really live, it’s necessary.

May we all keep fighting to be here and to be happy, loved, and safe.

lengthen the fuse 💣

learn to savor SOM

Again and again and again…hasn’t really been my thing.

As I’m writing this, I’m listening to Lana Del Rey’s Lust for Life on repeat. It just makes me want to lay on the floor and smoke, maybe cry. It’s very airy (and Lana is a Gemini).

I’m not really used to listening to albums over and over—which I believe it what most people do if they like a song or an album. Usually a few times is enough, or I’ll spread it out over time. I don’t want to get tired of it so soon. I want to make the pleasure last as long as possible.

I’m not sure what kicked this over for me, to allow myself to listen and watch things repeatedly. When I evacuated to Chicago to escape certain power failure at my house due to Hurricane Irma, I stayed with a friend and her 3-year-old son. He loves the Disney movie Moana—and (now!) I do, too. In the 12 days I was there, I saw it on at least three times. I never do that with movies, even with the few that I own (then why the hell do I own them?🤷🏾‍♀️)

But then, a couple of weekends ago, I watched the “San Junipero” episode from the Netflix TV show, Black Mirror again. It was really transformational the second time around, and I watched it to feel better. I ended up feeling like my heart had been busted wide open—I got a lot more I bargained for.

Beyond Lana Del Rey, someone who I didn’t even want to be into but Lust for Life is a damn good album, this week I’ve been listening to music I like over and over. This week, I also kept listening to The Cranberries’ Something Else, which is mostly an acoustic version of their hits with two new songs. Listening to that has been grounding somehow, very calming. I keep going back to certain songs and listening to them.

Turn towards the good (especially) when things are bad…

One thing I forget is to turn to music when things are hard—or even just to turn to it at all. But it’s been there for me so many times.

I remember being semi-homeless around this time 3 years ago. I was driving the big hills of Clermont, leaving my last Airbnb for another itinerant stay on the other side of town. I was driving with the sunroof open and the windows down, singing to this K-pop/rock dude in Korean. It was such a liberating feeling, with my consolidated life in plastic bins and suitcases, with the wind whipping through the car. Even though I had no real home, that felt really…good. I felt at home in myself. Even going back to that memory feels really good.

I do wonder why I don’t turn to good things, especially when things are bad, or just not so great. There’s even science behind how savoring is good for your wellbeing. 

It’s been a rough few years down here, but I withhold feeling good until circumstances are good, like I need to feel safe to feel happy. And, well, that’s terrible. So why not be like my friend’s son and watch the same movie over and over, play the same songs over and over?

The ever-annoying Mr. Cancer Sticks 😤🚬😷

If you follow me on Twitter, then you know the ongoing saga of living with this wizened old white dude in his early 60s, whom I disaffectionately call Mr. Cancer Sticks, because he’s a heavy smoker. His excessive coughing along with his not working (he’s on SSDI and lived in the woods for 12 years before living here starting in May), makes him a constant presence in an otherwise peaceful and quiet home. He was even smoking in his room for a few days. 🤦🏾‍♀️

These are the sort of stressors that can cause me to have a short fuse. I don’t ever blow up at this guy, although I’ve resented having to teach him how to clean up after himself and just be a considerate person while sharing a small house with two other people.

Turning towards the good, though, can help lengthen my fuse before I explode (or implode). Lifehacker had this post on how to teach kids to calm down, based on their age. For teenagers, the advice was to learn how to “lengthen the fuse” when you’re going through a stressful time. Engage in activities that you enjoy—talk to a friend, listen to your favorite song, exercise, etc. It also helps to know when your fuse is already starting to shorten. Maybe it’s teeth grinding or shallow breathing—we all have our things.

To be a kid again

I don’t have kids (yet?) but I better understand this impulse to continue to make yourself happy with the same thing over and over again. It may be annoying to hear that stupid toy make those stupid sounds for the umpteenth time, or to give your kid that piggyback ride, again, as she giggles in glee.

When I first got to my friend’s place in Chicago, I played with her son. We played this game of throwing couch cushions at each other. It was a workout because it seemed like an eternity as I pummeled him with the cushions and he’d collapsed in peals of laughter.  From hanging out with him, I remembered that as an adult, I’ve made pleasure and fun a rarity and not a right.

I could stand being a little kid again.

Back to the promised land

From when I was little, music has always been the milk and honey from my Canaan. It was a sanctuary as I would listen to music (mainly Christian, but increasingly alternative and R&B) with big headphones on my dad’s fancy tape decks. I could block out the world and just be in the space that those musical artists created.

Playing classical piano music, first on a keyboard and then on a piano, was a haven from my family’s devolution due to my father’s growing issues with mental illness. Even those lessons ended because my dad was unwell, something I haven’t been able to forgive, although I understand and can comprehend the source of the irrationality and inherent selfishness of his decision. It still hurts, over 20 years later–the untimely separation from my first love.

I look back at my time here and I still don’t know why I didn’t just immerse myself in music. It should be a habit, like brushing my teeth. I always feel better after I listen to music.

I want to create music soon, but I am still on this path of creating the foundation of stability from which all other things will grow. But in the meantime, as I deal with obnoxious housemates, financial instability, and an extended period of aloneness, I must find the good where I can.

I have to find my own pillow fight, my own Moana movie, my own song that I cannot stop listening to, my endless pleasure center that I can hitting and hitting and hitting, again and again…

The promised land isn’t when my circumstances get better. The promised land is where I go to feel better. It is a land within me, created with melody, harmony, rhythm, and silence…and I can visit anytime I want.

It’s time I set up a permanent residency…

 

 

it’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

time to move on SOM.jpg

I have been dreading writing this blog post that I didn’t think I had to write until Monday evening. I don’t think I will be able to get this right. But I’m going to try.

tom petty RIP.jpg

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers had just finished their 40th anniversary tour, playing their last show on September 25th at the Hollywood Bowl. At this point in my life, I wasn’t really following much of what they were doing as a band. I knew that they had played Wrigley Field in Chicago this summer, and I had kind of wanted to see that show, just because of the historic venue. They had played Tampa in May but I was out of town. I didn’t even know there had been a couple of albums of unreleased music that had been released in 2015.

The only time I saw them was at the United Center in 2008–and that was enough. It was a bucket list concert for sure, and it was a lot of fun. I went with a friend that I used to sing with–a singer-songwriter who played guitar and piano. It was like a big ole sing-a-long.

On the heels of one of the worst massacres in history, when I read that Tom Petty had had a massive heart attack, I was in disbelief. Could there be even more loss today?

He’s 5 years younger than my father and two years younger than my mother. I’m almost as old as his band (I’ll be celebrating my 40th year of life this year). Heart attack? I didn’t think of him as a hard-livin’ man anymore. He was chillin’ in Malibu.

Then Twitter killed him, via the LAPD and CBS News who had erroneously confirmed his death. But TMZ had said that his family had removed life support and that he was clinging to life. After what TMZ had done with bungling the news of Li’l Wayne, I wasn’t trusting them. So I’m angry, but then hoping he’d miraculous pull through.

But eventually, Tom Petty did pass. He was another part of my childhood and adulthood unexpectedly stripped away from me and so many other people.

And just like Prince, he still had some music left in him. I didn’t know there was going to be more music from the Wildflowers session that was going to be released–and who knows what else.

I learned a lot about Tom Petty this past week. Although I’m an erstwhile musician and singer, and I’m an avid lover of music, I’ve never really cared that much about musical artists’ personal lives. I only seem to care when they were gone, which is probably why I love musical documentaries. I watched a four-hour documentary on Netflix, Runnin’ Down a Dream. It was really great to have a better sense of him and his bandmates. But I didn’t need it to appreciate their music as is.

I read most of the obits and tributes I could stand. Some were stupid and clearly written by people who didn’t do their homework (not even worth noting). But most were pretty laudatory, as they should be. I loved reading what my friends had to say about how much his music meant to them.

Petty was a gifted singer-songwriter who wrote for the underdog because he was one. I think Petty was an everyman for a lot of Americans. He was able to capture that American type of restlessness and drive to do better, to be better, to transcend one’s problems and station in life. His songs also have a sense of place that is easily accessible, even if you’d never been in the San Bernardino Valley or in an Indiana town on an Indiana night.

He was also the guy that hipsters and indie rockers aspire to but maybe will never become–because it’s really hard to do. You’ll never hear any of his songs on commercials. He assiduously fought record companies to be paid fairly and to keep record costs affordable. From the documentary and all the articles I’ve read, I learned a lot about Petty’s sense of fairness, his struggles with drugs, his depression after his divorce, his deep sense of loyalty, his championing of the marginalized.

My favorite tribute/obit was from The Bitter Southerner (what a great name for a publication!) because it wasn’t completely fawning–although he more than deserves it. It showed a bit of his Libra double-edginess (which, fighting with lawyers and record companies is pretty Libra already). It was a fuller portrait of a musical legend. The not-so-shiny parts made his shiny parts even brighter in comparison.

My Twitter friend, Bearded Stoner, and I have been kind of mourning online together. I kept sending him tributes that I thought he’d find interesting. It’s been helpful for me to have someone who gets it, as we’re both Southerners. It’s made this grief a little more bearable, especially since what I haven’t been doing is listening to a bunch of his music. It’s too painful still.

And it’s not to say that “Yankees” don’t get Tom Petty either. That’s the beauty and genius of writing great music is that if you’re really good, then it’s not just about the musicianship–it’s about everything. But it’s just different, in my opinion, if you grew up in the South and listened to him, since Petty was from Central Florida (Gainesville, which is just 80 minutes up the I-75 from me) which is pretty rednecky and Southern (well, certain pockets are). The only regret I have is not being able to see him and the Heartbreakers play with the Black Crowes–a band from Marietta, Georgia. I probably would have lost my shit, since I loved that band, too, for very roots rock/Southern reasons.

Even beyond what the album Wildflowers meant to me and other memories of his music, like singing “I Won’t Back Down” in church, what matters to me most in the wake of his untimely passing is me living here. And maybe this is where the blog post should truly start.

Tom Petty inadvertently welcomed me to Central Florida when I moved down here five years ago. I was in the middle of a terrible move with a disreputable moving company. I had to stay with my cousin and his family for two weeks as I waited for my things to bump their way down the East Coast.

The first full day I was here was a Monday, and everyone had gone to work or school. I was watching some cable channel and they were showing Tom Petty, I believe, in some high school gym or auditorium in Gainesville. There was a show back in 2006 when he and the Heartbreakers went to University of Florida, but I don’t think that was it. This seemed to be more of an intimate show. He was really happy to be back. Watching that show, while I was waiting for my new life to start, I felt like he personally welcomed me home.

Even though the next few years were humiliating and gut-wrenching, playing any Tom Petty music, especially the album Wildflowers, made me feel like I belonged here, even if it was just for a few minutes. Besides the warm weather and having access to beaches, this being his home turf was the only thing I could take pride in. Even Wildflowers reminded me of those few good minutes I had with my friends in my youth group while it was hell living at home.

Tom Petty, with or without the Heartbreakers, had been part of the soundtrack of my life for at least 25 years of my 40 years of living. In particular, the wisdom from the song, “The Waiting Is the Hardest Part,” is something I’ve championed over and over. It was something I constantly would quote–partly as a pacifier for my own impatience, and partly as a way of commiserating with others, “I get it. Waiting sucks.”

Yet with Petty’s passing, it definitely makes it even clearer that it’s time to move on from Central Florida. Waiting for something decent and good to happen here is not what I’m destined for. It’s a weird and eerie coincidence and a strange bookend that I never expected, but it is definitely a sign that I will take to heart.

There is a magic and a beauty about living in the South, even with its bloody history. Some of that magic and beauty left last Monday night…

I’ll leave you with a song, “Walls (Circus),” that I was obsessed with right before Tom Petty passed. I don’t know if that was some omen, or just that with better headphones, I could appreciate the brilliance of this song. For me, it’s the background vocals of Lindsey Buckingham that make it so wonderful. The song is also definitely emblematic of the Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers mantra: “Don’t bore us, get to the chorus,” because I immediately just get stuck in the chorus in a beautiful earworm loop.

I know that Tom Petty knows how much he was loved by his family, friends, and fans, but I didn’t know how much I cared about him as a person until he was gone. It’s a cliche that no one wants to find themselves in, but it seems to be part of the human condition to not be able to fully appreciate someone until something like death, or close to it, happens. I hope he was able to feel the love from all over the world streaming into his hospital room in Santa Monica as he transitioned.

Thank you, Tom, for sharing your gifts with us.