Song-righter

All young mothers are aware of their children's 'witching hour'... that time of day when little over-simulated egos seem to disintegrate into a state of non-cooperation.  Some have tantrums; experienced parents become skilled at ignoring these, teaching their kids a healthy lesson that drama has little traction in this world.  But for others it becomes a contest of sort-- two emotional sticks rubbing against one another until there is fire.  It escalates.  

Since my son and I were often alone, one on one... there wasn't much 'currency' in escalation, in all-out war.  We had cues... My Baby Does The Cranky Spanky, I would sing, under my breath... and he would 'get it'.  It took the edge off both of us.  We were connected enough so that he somehow knew I needed a break.  How he grew up-- learned some things from me, but mostly via his own childhood charm and curiosity, is a mystery... a small miracle.  He turned 32 last week.  I can scarcely recall being that age myself-- between marriages, hard into the 80's, wading in every kind of musical water I could find, trying to shed the Ivy League shadow which followed me, sewn to my heels as it was, despite my rebellion.

Now that I'm a senior, I have begun to notice my own elder impatience.  Maybe it's the subconscious awareness that time is short-- although waiting seems painless, temporal space is tolerable... it's more the me-as-audience that is demanding and disappointed.  Are things just 'less' than they used to be?  There's a whole sector of journalism devoted to these subjects... even some of my old Professors, emeriti as they are, reminisce and complain that students today do not have the depth of the older generations.  This could be the nature of nostalgia-- everything in memory seems veiled in some poetic optimism, the beauty of 'gone'.  My local library branch shelves are depleted and limited; surely this must reflect the preferences of the current patrons.  After all, with screen time averaging seven daily hours, something must give.  The deep experience of solitary book reading seems a no-brainer.  

I confess to watching too much pandemic television.  But the new shows-- the Netflix, HBO, whatever I am mostly denied by my economical cable subscription-- they don't tempt me.  My preferences are vintage-- new wave French, Fellini, early Almodovar, Fassbinder... Kurosawa, Bergman... odd things... and anything that shows my New York the way it was, with the yellow taxis and street cars, the deco architecture and men in hats and suits, elegant women... even Harlem in the 40's and 50's looks styled and choreographed.  New shows and series-- their scripts disappoint-- the acting, too. And I fail to see the appeal for grownups of superheroes.  I am maybe missing a gene.

Genetically I come from cranky stock.  My father was the all-time criticizer.  My poor mother slaved over meals; while she was a superb cook and baker, his rare compliment was asking for a second slice. He squinted up his eyes at me, declined to comment even when I had a stellar report card... called me an idiot and a moron, didn't even open the gifts I gave him at Christmas-- or made a remark to the effect of 'just what I wanted' when he had not even looked in the box.  The coffee was always too cold, the toast not burned enough, the soup too thin, the spaghetti overcooked.  Whatever.

Yesterday I found myself standing in line at a Starbucks, redeeming some gift card, tasting a $3.54 cup of stale, tepid coffee... pondering whether I return it, comment and designate myself a cranky old pot who needs attention... or suck it up and drink it.   I looked around and not a single person looked unhappy despite the unappealing pastries and the overpriced boutique drinks that smelled like artificial pumpkin spice.  Everyone was in their phones.. either scrolling, speaking or paying.  I had a card and the process of swiping it and deducting the price of coffee was challenging for the cashier.  I could sense her hatred of all humanity over the age of 60.  We're slow and we don't speak their language.  Our orders require conversation and questions.  What I wanted was the only cup of coffee I didn't brew myself in many months.  I wanted it to be hot and fragrant and exotic and dark-- I wanted it to take me to some mountainside in Africa or Jamaica-- I wanted to be charmed and sated.  What I got was soupy and cold and insulting.  The line behind me was snaky and vibrating... the amount of exhalation in the store was way beyond what is medically recommended these days.  Someone offered me a pour-over but that would take fifteen minutes.  And then what?  More disappointment?  

Is it me?  Are we elder people on a sort of bellcurve of satisfaction, where there is an unavoidable path of return to the crankiness of a toddler-- the impatience, the inability to communicate what we want... Am I unable to experience pleasure? Thrill? Exhuberance?  I sorely hope not.  I do know when I walk through a museum... the paintings are not just decor-- they are landmarks.. they are stories-- I know who painted them and when and what they meant.  When I hear music-- original music--  I can decipher the parts;  I understand the lyrics-- the construction.  I am experienced, in the Hendrix sense. I know this. But I am a little clueless and uninformed re: current culture.  I have to keep asking my son what he means when he uses buzzwords.  Am I defective?  Deficient?  I read... I am interested  in current events... I can't possibly digest the amount of newsworthy text I receive daily from umpteen online journals.  I try.. I read my Facebook messages and empathize with friends... but honestly I am aware I have lost tolerance for the masses of posts and stories... for the music... there is just so much I can process-- just so much I even want to.

Maybe it is overload-- or the residual anosmia from having had Covid. Maybe that coffee will never suit me. I do shun gifts and meals... although my beloved friend anonymously delivers fresh fish to me. This is something I can manage... the color and the sheen and the simplicity.  It comes from the sea... it is simple, relies on me to prepare.  

But maybe it is my slow-hand adjustment to pre-pandemic 'normalcy'. Truly, I have never been normal.  I expect more from artists and friends, even from local coffee culture.  Our masks suppress a certain amount of disgruntlement and horror.  With my eyes I expressed revulsion at the family of loudmouths on the subway Saturday whose tasteless criticism of urbanites maybe rivaled my feelings toward them. Go away, I wanted to say.  Maybe I need another quarantine from which I'll emerge fresh and loving and non-judgmental. Unfortunately I have a brain. 

I've watched umpteen live concerts on television.  Last night I was feeling my habitual disappointment at the Jackson Browne live special on PBS.  We're old.. it's been done.  But then I heard the beginning of Late for The Sky... It opened my heart to student days where we lay in bed with this on the turntable,  aching with life and passion... trusting our vinyl treasures to narrate our romance... to navigate life with these iconic songs that were not just personal, revelatory.. Our ears were unprotected then.. not stuffed with earbud content and endless beats.  And the piano player-- probably my age-- sang harmony with such humility and sensitivity... and soul.   

I remember my mother shunning the sounds of rock and roll and putting on her old Frank Sinatra records. Maybe this is my version of nostalgia, of backstory.  Maybe I'm just cranky... but I feel I'm not alone... drinking in JB's immortal words-- and I think they will be so-- 'trying to understand how our lives had led us there'