Liars and In-no-cents

The US attack on Syrian chemical weapons facilities last Saturday garnered little viewership from the American public.  Certainly the Stormy Daniels interview had better ratings; television in general has lost its centrality in our lives.  I couldn't help thinking back to the Desert Storm airstrikes we watched from our sofas with a bit of nervousness and yet the detachment you feel watching someone else's video game.

It was a small maybe calculated distraction from the smeary smutty onslaught of the latest Trumpery-- an executive wielding of power from our clown-at-the-helm who spent the earlier part of the day bashing James Comey in characteristic unpresidential  excrement-slinging-- his usual weapon-of-choice.  Comey... with a quasi-presidential-scale faux-pas on his permanent conscience, or whatever the political version of poor judgement might be called... will have the last laugh in massive book-sales; there will surely be a seven-figure job for him out there...

Then there was the Zuckerberg testimony... the wide-eyed, studious false sincerity of a billionaire who sold out our privacy, claiming his innocence with every sycophantic reply, sugared over with
an overdose of courtesy and those huge, bloodshot deer-eyes dripping with candor, watery from his contact lenses.  It rivaled the Steve Cohen testimony... he didn't remember, he didn't know... who was actually less culpable than these Facebook thieves.  Nothing in this world can be undone.  The sins of the billionaires have shifted the axis of our political and social morality.  Nothing is free; everything is bait... and we like fish have hook-holes in our palates.  Nothing will ever be the same.  The end of the innocence, what little there was in the well-trod sites and pages of New York before the 70's, the 90's my friends visit frequently... anything but this.

The Wall Street Journal reported that the vast majority of medical and drug trials are not reproducible... that data is manipulated, cooked... so we are given medications and treatments to benefit manufacturers, and do little for our health which is nothing but a vague platform for massive financial gain.  We are the poor guinea pigs, obediently swallowing things, following instructions like schoolchildren... led down useless paths in our quest to cope with pain and the sicknesses that are byproducts of our culture.  There will be a small slap on the wrist.. and then we will go on... Zuckerberg's net worth will dip and then re-surge, as he promises vigilance, having thrown us all under the bus irrevocably.

An eight-year-old this week brought a knife to school and slashed his fellow students.  Sort of a flip-side to the story of the pre-school teacher who threatened a toddler with a slashing.  As I read the online version of the eight-year-old article, a huge pop-up ad accompanied the text-- some new state-of-the-art men's underwear in my face, eclipsing the news... like some kind of obscene big-brother shout-out-- the incongruities of this life-- the disconnects and random juxtapositions, the senseless acts of violence which seem to stem from some underlying emotional seismic rumbling-- the discontent, the warped and confusing version of democracy that is America.  How does anyone process, prioritize these disproportionate images, the flash-like brainwashing of Instagram-style imagery... pop Goddesses and queens with very little content but huge coverage-- Beyonce and her untouchable Coachella moment... the new Statue of Liberty? And it is as though she believes her own legend.  The Midas ass.

Where is compassion, where is humanity when the great God of money seems to have cast a golden shadow over us all, like the looming sky-touching penthouses which shadow and obscure our values and connections?  What is truth when lies dominate.. and win?  No longer does the tortoise come out on top.... they are choking on bad meds... while the hares are full-speed ahead with Ritalin and fat purses.  I see fewer and fewer real faces--- features altered and tweaked, bodies re-shaped-- even our most beautiful actors and actresses are compelled to make themselves more beautiful...  Television ads baffle me-- everyone is being urged to change their emotional state, their skin, their hair... Some days I feel as though I'm conducting a social experiment... trying to maintain a truthful commitment to my values, my modest goal to leave something behind in this world-- not a giant monument or a building facade, but a few songs or lines or poetry that might somehow find their way into a heart and sit there, like a tired passenger-- like company.  I am left behind... no seat for me on this bullet train of the culture which lies to me, which poses and manipulates and convinces... we must all be beautiful, we must all be young.. we must all watch this and that and have this and that... and those that cannot are angry and bitter and desperate.  All of us unhealthy... and there is contagion.

Yesterday on Lenox Avenue I collected 41 pennies between 110th and 126th... lying there on sidewalks like a trail left by some lost angel, like tiny sentries of some lost currency-- little copper discs that somehow made sense although very little cents... in 2018 terms... no one else wanted them... and I collected them.. from the damp street.. like tiny rescues... I tried to make some meaning of the small weight they became, of the cumulative purchase power... of the fact that they were free, they were gifts.. outside the Dollar store where people were hoarding bargains they mostly don't need-- piling packages of cookies and chips and frozen dinners into huge sacks... I wanted to stop them... to tell them something... but no one is going to listen to an aging woman who seems poor and powerless and maybe a bit mad.  I am mad.... I am angry-- not slasher-angry but beating-heart upset.  A penny for my thoughts here? No, actually, not even that.

Temporary Beauty

Satur-days I am in Chelsea.  Way west, toward Chelsea Piers, the gentrification is extreme.  Commercial square footage is among the priciest in the city now, and the extravagance of the mandatory volume requirements (i.e., vast empty space) in these galleries and occasional fashion boutiques flaunts money.  But for me, it's a proverbial walk in the park-- especially at 11 AM, before the crowds.

Most of the art these days is predictable or pretentious.  The best of it is studenty and overpriced.  Something must pay these rents.  That means you, Mr. 21st century trendy collector with the decorator and the art advisor with the birkins and Balenciaga and absolutely no sense of 'context' or taste.  There used to be a benchmark.  Go to any estate sale at an auction house these days--- there are the 'A' level works of art-- the eccentric furniture and porcelain objects, like an inanimate 'menagerie'-- lush carpets, jewelry… some hideosities and mistakes--but the sense of a personality--- the sense of passion and a point of view.  Of things cherished and used-- of a life.  Not so these days:  apartments look cold and excessively under-decorated.  Furnishing priorities are design, status and then comfort. The paintings are awkward and uncomfortable in their environment--- like they are waiting to be resold.   Like the exhibitions, these works of art have the permanent vibe of the Temporary.

Whatever.  Among the 'shoppers' and tourists in Chelsea there are also the rich young dwellers of these overpriced apartments and loft-like condos which are selling like caviar hotcakes in a city where one million dollars no longer 'cuts it'.  They are buyers or renters of this transient art which has become the biggest status symbol of all.  On Saturday mornings the young handsome fathers are out with their kids--- with the scooters and the bikes and the painted skateboards and the designer hoodies and hats.  They look slightly hung over and exhausted--- yesterday's club kids having to get up on the nanny's day off and 'feel' fatherly.  Many of them have dogs-- these distract and lighten their load with the kids who are often annoying and cranky.  This is their 'day'.  All week they have to follow pre-school rules and vie for their nanny's approval.  But all bets are off today.  They are going to milk their exhausted Dad for everything.  Of course there is always shopping-- a new toy or a $9 cupcake pacifies for long minutes… but nothing compares to a meltdown or a tantrum outside of Comme des Garcons.

Yesterday one of these Dads was lighting up against a 22nd St. wall.  He was boyish and handsome, his shirttails out… his hair uncombed, his face unshaven in that charming way.  His 5-year old daughter was poised perfectly on her Razor, designer helmet on, blond hair cascading down, shiny and smooth… but his 3-year old… was laid out on the sidewalk--- screaming, pounding.  Ohhh yeah, I am thinking, as the father actually pleads with me-- Help.  What do I do now?  I note the absence of a wedding ring.  This, I don't say, is what you get for cheating on your wife.  She has stuck it to you now.  No more weekends… your youth is going to be eaten up with tantrums and toilet training and teachers whining about your lack of participation and manipulative teenage drama.  And not only that.  He is thinking---we had this baby--- this perfect little angel, here.  Magazine-ready.  Looks great in clothes-- sings like a young Beyonce.  So… we go for another.  This is the Manhattan baby competition.  And the second one--- colicky, cries all the time, has sensitive skin, constant diaper issues-- up all night… all the ingredients of a potential high-school nerd.  You go for cocktails after work… you flirt with your co-workers, come home.  Weekends you feel guilty that you 'love' one child more than the other.  And you-- you're the Dad… the girls go shopping, you're stuck with the baby boy.  He doesn't like you either.  He prefers the nanny.  So do you.  Your wife's best friend hints about it… and now you've got 2 pricey apartments, and no more free Saturdays.  You're even losing your urge because it's no longer a quickie and a cheat, it's another potential baby craver.

Yeah, I had one of those husbands.  I mean--- I could smell it on him-- the okay, now I have everything I ever wanted---the wife I craved, the baby…and now… for my next….  And the thing is--- I felt this too.  I felt the 'what now' claustrophobia and restless malaise.  So I left.  I let the guy off the hook.  And I took the child with me.  I didn't want my baby boy to have tired cranky Saturdays with a father who craved a bottle in the same way his son needed one.

The Chelsea father joined me on my art jaunt.  I carried the 3-year old.  He just needed a little bit of love.  A cookie.  His mother.  His Grandma.  I could do this…I was going home, going to a gig… no kids, no nagging wife, no parental angst-- not these days.  Sure--I have plenty of guilt.  I'm sure my son could tell tales about his deprived youth, although that is unlike him…and I did not actually have the second, less magical child.  I did have a pregnancy-- a daughter-- with a young lover who wanted me but not really the child.  We didn't plan it, but this is a consequence of love and passion, as every teenager knows.  And once you have an actual child, the act of terminating becomes more weighted.  Besides, I wanted a daughter so much… maybe in a selfish way-- the sister I never related to,  my alter ego-- my companion in female crime, my kitchen helper, my fashion consultant, my back-up singer… There I was, Ms. cool single Mom with the sexy young boyfriend, 4 months pregnant still wearing my tight yellow and black checked vintage pants and jumping around with my bass onstage… and it went on and on--- my young lover didn't want to share me, but he couldn't leave… the pregnancy goes on… miraculously-- has its own life---you are radiant and curvy and ripe, and those biological conversations you have with your unborn child-- like no intimacy you will ever experience with any man or person…

Months passed… and after a strange accident on the subway, and a few days of worry, everything seemed fine--- until an early labor pang… and I found I had to give birth to a perfect little girl who was too perfect for my world.  It is an unbearable loss.  I never had a funeral, or a service, and standing there with this father on Saturday, holding this strange miserable little boy-- I relived my dilemma.  Maybe I felt I didn't deserve closure.  How could I celebrate my grief, when I failed this baby in the way that this father was failing his son… somehow--- I was so cavalier and took things for granted--- my adorable son.. and now he would have this perfect sister-- little Edie was her name-- she would have braids and a rag doll… I could see her in the sonogram, sucking her little elegant fourth finger, just the way I did… she was graceful and talented… and now she was a loss, a failure--- an angel, a provider of perfect little organs for other newborns, a giver… and I was the loser, the mourner, the lady in black.

The father asked me for my number.  I gave him a look… he needed a mother, too.  A friend.  I don't have a phone, I said.  I'm not letting him off the hook, even though I'd like to… even though I let my husband off the hook because I couldn't bear having him look at his son with this utter disappointment which wrecks kids.  And my little Edie…  who never disappointed me;  it was I who disappointed her.  Still, after all these years, I pray every day that her little rag doll spirit has been born into some island culture where children aren't competitive possessions and eating disorders and plastic surgery and Coachella is not on the agenda.  As for me--- I have a newborn-shaped hole in my heart which is quite permanent, at least in the temporary context of my so-called life.