I've heard the part of your life after
the kids leave referred to as “Part 2.” This does glide over the
tongue better than “lonely decrepitude.” Spuds is all wrapped up
in his final childrens' theater performance and I barely see him. He
has a night off from rehearsal. Himself is teaching so for the first
time in a while it's just me and Spuds sprawled out and eating on the
couch. I know that human contact is something you can't bank but I
still try to drink in my time with him in deeply and consciously,
remembering that he's leaving in August and I'll only see him a
couple times a year. We talk about people we know and his
observations are razor sharp yet compassionate. Himself can talk
about ideas until the cows come home but he, unlike me and Spuds,
isn't much interested in people. I confess we do our share of
gossiping but we are both intensely curious about why people are the
way they are. We have such a nice talk.. I realize how much I will
miss this and turn away so he doesn't see me tear up. How sad it is
that when your kids reach the point when they're low maintenance and
interesting that it's time for them to leave.
There are other changes afoot. I will
be moving my office shortly and have no idea where. The mover comes
to make an estimate. I open the door, he sees the film racks and he
gasps, “Oh my God!” My sentiments exactly. Come autumn there
will be no breakfast to prepare with vitamin and Xyrtec neatly
arranged on the napkin and no oatmeal ever. Most likely I won't be
crossing the Hyperion Bridge into Silver Lake. I don't know where
I'll be going in September and it's been over three decades since I
was able to say that.
I guess to heighten my sense of drama
with the pending big shake up I decide to try a trail near the house
that I've always been afraid of. I've turned into a really good
walker and have no trouble with stairs or hills. But, I totally
freak out walking on loose ground or rocks. The path is steep and
narrow and really rocky but I cover some distance, steadying myself
with my hands a couple times. I must have taken a wrong turn because
it ends abruptly. I try to traverse the brush but it is too dense.
The thought of returning the way I've just ascended is terrifying. I
think of calling Himself on my cell phone but it is 6 a.m. and short
of ordering a helicopter, there is nothing much he can do. Finally,
in desperation, I slide myself via derriere down to the street. The
early hour I think is to my advantage because I'm pretty sure there
are no witnesses. I guess the lesson is that I need to be more
selective about which fears I struggle to conquer.
Today is my sister Sheri's 70th
birthday. Joe College has shadowy memories of the the two trips we made to
visit her in Las Vegas. Spuds has no memory of her at all. Sheri's
daughter Cari is staying at my house, in town to visit her own
daughter and granddaughter. I make her breakfast. It pains me that she
grew up with the at sea sensation of having been surrendered for
adoption. I was only 7 when the decision was made but as the last man
standing of the family I still feel culpable. I do have happy
memories of my sister but if I were to characterize her life, I would
say it was a sad one. Sheri sacrificed everything for men who did not
deserve her love or even love her in return. She never got to prepare
her daughter breakfast, or teach her to drive or watch her graduate.
My sister's granddaughter Marlene only vaguely remembers her and her
great granddaughter Penny is born 14 years after her death. It is
Cari's first Mother's Day as a grandmother, Marlene's first as a
mother and Penny's first as a person. Sheri's life seemed to overflow with pain but her good is memorialized in this equation.
I am fearful about Part 2 but oddly
some of the terror was assuaged at a Yo La Tengo concert. I've
blathered on too much about why and how I love the band. The truth
was I was tired and seldom go out during the week these days. But
with YLT it's sort of like the High Holidays. I just can't not go.
I even forgive them the show where they spent half an hour reading a
Spongebob script and the fact that Ira never changes out of that
striped Linus t-shirt. The show starts an hour late. Himself is
grousing. I am not enthralled by the new album but they rework a
couple of the songs to good effect. My favorite song (Stockholm
Syndrome) is omitted but there are soaring moments during the show
that reinforce how music for me is inextricably bound to faith. It is
a revelation and a reminder of how sublime I can be made to feel. .My
boys will be with me for Mother's Day and the anticipation of this is
another reminder of how good it is possible to feel. I don't know
when I'll next spend another Mother's Day with both of them. Part 2
approaches. For the first eighteen years being a parent is pretty
compelling and absorbing business. I can't minimize how much I will
miss the kids but I've gotten complacent, just sitting on the couch
and being with them. I'm not up for any more rocky trails but maybe
I'll walk on the wild side and once in a while drag myself out on a
weeknight to hear a band.
Happy Mother's Day!
2 comments:
YLT did eventually give a good show, part-pastoral and then after a long and mysterious intermission, feedback. Funny to think Mr. Kaplan of Sarah Lawrence (and still those striped t-shirts) graduating into a career in indie-rock and still doing it thirty years later, and well. Ms. Hubley from an avant-garde NYC countercultural upbringing may be an ideal muse for Ira who sought to shake off New Rochelle, while Mr. McNew stands stolid as most bassists do, playing off that pose with a funky command of riffs and quite a falsetto. The noisier portion reminded me of the immensity of feedback and layers of drone, and how amplification (even if applied to a man in his mid-50s spazzing out, but think how many pay $$$ to see Keef and Mick at the Staples Center this weekend) can create beauty layered on bursts.
I certainly respect YLT at this stage more than the Stones, for the indie band continues to create fresh music and remains delighted in it, whereas few bands of their duration still concoct worthwhile explorations of sonic possibility. Wire and The Fall starting from five-seven years before in Britain, and in the U.S. perhaps Eleventh Dream Day and that's about it for near- contemporaries not relying on rehashing the hits outside of YLT, who for me have long remained the best American ensemble, after REM wearied before the end of the last millennium. Although I like their folksier or rowdier incarnations from the 80s or 90s, they weathered maturity well, and despite their affinity (not mine) for Tin Pan Alley updated into jazz-tinged, soft-focus, or groovier bossa-nova inflected beats lately, in concert they eventually come around to blast out textures and striation.
You don't know where you will be in September? That will provide another entry at least. Glad to know surprises still may happen. xxx me
Don't be embarrassed. I've also taken scary downhill trails on my butt. In fact it's my preferred method of safe passage. Perhaps you remember Kauai? Happy Mother's Day!
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