Maundy Thursday

So it's April... for all of us fools. In two days the weather has dangled a bit of midsummer tease and barely twelve hours later punished those of us who packed away winter gear.  I went walking through Harlem, comforted by a single pair of geese in the Meer pond... they looked elderly, black-faced, leathery and thin. Fearlessly they came to greet me and took that pose geese couples seem to prefer-- one standing and one roosting. 

With my sack of cheap groceries I thought about my financial adventures... I began as a student with extra jobs and hourly tasks, found myself doing well selling art and making music. In my punk-rock phase, one of the guitarists squinted at me over his shades: You can play, yeah, but you play like you've got a day gig, he observed. Taking his dare, I quit-- I crossed over into full-time musician.  Not easy-- alternating the 'for art's sake' bands with more lucrative ones, still managing to avoid the grind of club-dates and cover-music.  I was working.. earning cash to pay bills.  In black jeans and motorcycle boots I'd never felt so 'pure': I had a purpose, a calling. I loved going home on the subway at 4 AM with cash in my pocket after sometimes two shows.  Daytime I ran around from rehearsal to studio... a bass on my back... I was connected. 

While I passed on some lucrative opportunities, there were a few highs and lows; I managed to buy an apartment, have a baby, move to London and back. As a senior musician, I have lost so many friends and bandmates to industry and life attrition, it's truly wearying. My steady gigs have imploded, many of my favorites have either left the earth or retired. The ones who remain are less reliable; there is illness, injury, arthritis and hand issues--joint replacements-- and just plain exhaustion.  As I've said hundreds of times, the pandemic aged us; it changed the culture radically. My only safety net these days is a barely-adequate social security payment. Despite a progressive city mayor, our government is deteriorating. America is like a dysfunctional family... absolutely no stability even among the questionable presidential circle.  No predictability either, Pam Bondi being the latest to bite the dust. 

It mirrors the fickle tide of instagram culture-- this turning on and off, the 'it' girl of the moment becoming a future victim of the current foundering system. The future itself is unreliable and ominous-- war and the monsters of Hollywood are looming.  Portioning out the few dollars available to me, I regrettably must pay into a failing medicare system which I once believed would protect me.  There is no protection for the poor... and the debt-burdened middle class who choose to imitate the rich-- well, no one will bail them out either. 

Circling the park, I couldn't help hearkening back to the early pandemic weeks when this was my life: the braver among us venturing outside, viewing one another with caution, hiking our urban paths with palpable dread. At least money was a little less pertinent; everyone was vulnerable and the rich were as deprived as the poor. One bright spot: our government took pity on the self-employed and reached out and supported us musicians.

On a bench close to 110th Street a man was washing his feet.  I suddenly remembered Maundy Thursday. Beside him was his friend in a wheelchair, with no legs. He waved at me... smiling a warm, gap-toothed greeting.  Running around was someone's little dog in a quilted coat and booties.  The man in the wheelchair held out his hand; for me the irony was too much. These days I'm always on the edge of tears. 

In Trump world, we're on our own. No sympathy, many devils. The inconsistency of a truly incompetent leader is unnerving. I am waiting for this to be over. We march, we protest... for a few hours we feel a sense of solidarity and comradeship.  We are democrats-- we can make decisions and preserve freedom.  But can we?  These midterm elections will be a challenge... the very system is being undermined. The stock market level baffles me when it seems all bets are off. But the rich are adding to their stockpiles.  America is going to the moon once again... March Madness generating more money than ever.  The enormous gambling/betting industry is not just a trap of illusory hope but also erodes our faith in the innocence of sports. 

Some of my struggling friends obsessively buy Lotto tickets. Others post relentlessly on Facebook soliciting viewers and promoting gigs. A few get paid to entice people into online games.  It's humiliating.   I'm still living with no frills, putting every spare dollar into yet another printed book no one will read. What matters is what we do, not the admiration or remuneration we receive.  In spite of the mess, something of this old vision must remain. 

April brings the return of pigeons to those of us who live on single-digit floors. I've said many times the only thing worse than fucking pigeons is pigeons fucking... which they do-- often, with loud lust in the courtyard outside of my bedroom window. Flying rats, my neighbor called them.  I feel mean; sometimes I cannot help admitting their iridescent beauty and other times I see them as a swarm of fat predators soiling my sills and the sidewalk. I tried this morning to remember the heroic among them-- the carriers in wartime, the John Wick Koch Bridge flock. It's hard.  Maybe they are the city welfare class of birds. They seem to stay away from the park where other breeds thrive. Sometimes I do talk to them but have learned that little tilt of their head means nothing and they don't care. 

Meanwhile we have the ubiquitous dog population-- supporting a whole canine industry of fashion and insurance and cuisine that dazzles. I love animals in general... but now I've read they are contributing massively to climate change. And for those of us who work and write in our apartments, many neighbors are unaware their dogs are vocal during the day... maybe they are agitated by the pigeon antics. In city courtyards it's near impossible to identify the source of sound-- it is like a cavern, with echoes bouncing in all directions.  And with city building ordinances, it's more than likely that one of the adjacent buildings will be repointing with its own relentless decibel assault. 

And yet we April fools love our city life-- well, most of us, anyway. The rich will take off summer weekends, return tanned and refreshed.  Me-- I'll sweat it out again. I gave up my straight gig for the life of a musician... the guitarist who dared me passed away long ago... but he changed me. The dream was real, and I loved it.  I still love it. Not sure where I belong... but it seems to have its own properties, this quandary of my own design. As one of my newer songs concludes, 'There's nowhere I belong.'