Years ago, starting in my late teens and extending for another decade, my life was devoted to the music and record industry.  I started by managing a local progressive rock band, then added another band, and  gradually (and simultaneously) worked full-time, first as an administrative assistant, then as a publicist and event planner.  Eventually, I made the great leap of faith and started a small record company.  My first act was D., an acoustic guitarist, who was also a member of one of the bands I managed/booked/publicized.  We were good friends (yes, males and females can share relationships without sex!), and I had implicit trust in both his music and his judgement.  At a later time, I may write about the making of D’s first album … as I want this account to focus primarily on the current.  Briefly, the album was produced, released, and when I started to arrange interviews, and make plans to book D. as a solo artist, he withdrew.  There were no disagreements, he just slowly backed away, stopped returning calls, and we drifted apart.  I had another act to produce, but my financial backer (i.e. husband) scoffed at tossing any additional money in what he felt was a losing proposition, and I eventually gave up, and shuttered my fledgling music empire.  A few years after that, I started to notice that D. was once again performing.  Periodically, I would do an online check of his status, and more recently,  it appeared that his career had taken him far – garnering a Grammy and other accolades for his finger-picking style of guitar playing.  I was pleased for his success, but also a bit hurt that I had been the first to take a major gamble on him, yet  had not heard from him at all.

Through the years my life had taken a very different path from those record industry days as I have spent them caring for ailing aging parents (I’m an only child), and parenting (including homeschooling) a child with Asperger’s Syndrome.  I went to graduate school to study psychology, whereby I practiced psychotherapy, authored a book on homeschooling children with special needs, and served as a consultant for the latter population.  But, also through those years, I have often played that unpropitious game of “What if …”  wondering how different life may have been had I continued with the music industry, and especially with D.  Listening to his album,  I have often found myself transported back to a previous time, and I come away heartened to find his music still relevant.  I decided I wanted to experience another one of his performances … in 2010. 

Most might be put-off at the notion of attending a music concert in a church facility.  Initially, that was my first reaction upon reviewing D’s itinerary to learn that he would be performing at a nearby church in Long Beach.  But, I have attended and performed in a number of such concerts as a member of high school and college choirs – some of the latter with D.  And, the venue did not bring me to pause – until I actually arrived there.  The concert was held in the church itself … with an enormous cross on the wall, while the audience sat in the pews (do Protestants also call them ‘pews?’).  I sat almost all of the way in the back, beneath an under-hang where it didn’t feel so much like being in church.  The director of the music ministry came out on the sanctuary (stage?) to introduce D. and the other half of his guitar duo.

I have not heard D. perform in 20+ years, but given that he has won a Grammy, I just assumed that his talent has progressed naturally.  That his compositional abilities would have exponentially expanded to the point where I would just be blown away.   The set began with a song (unknown title) that took me back to the melodic  musings that I came to associate with D.; except that now, there were two guitarists.  I was buoyed, thinking that this was only a sampling of what was to transpire over the next 90 minutes.  Unfortunately,  this first song was the high-point.  Technically, his finger-picking stylings remain sound.  But,  if I had been told in 1985 that the D. of 2010 would be performing gigs of cover material,  I would have proffered a derisive row.

The songs ranged from “Nights in White Satin” by the Moody Blues to the theme from the Disneyland attraction, “It’s A Small World,”  and  “Viva Las Vegas” (aka The Viagra Song). I should have left when they broke into “Mr. Sandman,” as I still  haven’t been able to get that unfortunate song to stop playing through my mind.  The performance of original material – by D. ( or his music partner), were limited and not the least indicative of what I know him to be capable of producing.  Their folksy stage banter filled with private jokes exchanged with friends, as well as their record company staff, left me feeling as if I was in someone’s living room watching old movies replete with revisionist family commentary.

But, D. seemed very comfortable infusing his musical genius with the down-home schtick, and his audience seemed enthralled.  Except for me … who was expecting his   2010 presence to rival an infusion of the quiet, but powerful demeanor of an Andés Segovia,  with a Peter Gabriel (one of D’s music heroes)  edginess.  Unfortunately, what I got was “Hee Haw.”

D. was once an incredible talent, and I suspect that it still resides deep within him … someplace.  I sincerely hope that the old D. can somehow find his way back to that path that he once strode with so much authority.

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The photograph that accompanies this blog entry is not of the musician mentioned in the content.  The photo is of the rock group, America, which I shot in the 1970s.

If I had to describe the general mood of 2009 with one word, it would be “difficult.”  I experienced a lot of physical and emotional pain, but those tend to bring about changes, which frequently evolve into welcomed gifts.

The most prominent difference of the year was that I began to travel – something I had rarely done in the past.  Nothing exotic or especially adventurous, but I finally stepped out of my comfort zone, and onto a number of airplanes.  The first day of 2009 brought word that my mother-in-law had died in her sleep.  It was not unexpected as she was in her early 90s and miserably unhappy being alive.  She was a woman who never missed an opportunity to complain about her discontented life;  an affluent life where she wanted for nothing, and abhorred everything.  And everyone, who was not a white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant, Republican.  She especially despised the mixed breed recovering-Catholic liberal that her only child had married.  Two days after her death, I couldn’t stop crying.  Seriously.  While I didn’t especially feel sorrow at her loss, I did feel a visceral sadness that she had lived such a disconsolate existence for 90+ years … in her mind.  I found myself looking back over my own life, and wondered if I was headed in the same direction.  Intellectually, I could reason that I’d had a number of rewarding accomplishments and experiences throughout my life, but over the previous few years I had been spending most of my days inhabiting uninspire-dom.  I had no new projects or ideas to stimulate my intellect or sense of fun, which had been absent for quite a long time.  I needed to do something out-of-the-ordinary … I needed to break from my staid self.

A few weeks earlier, a number of friends from an online forum started to make plans to gather in New York City to attend a concert together;  but I had dismissed the notion of my attending.  I didn’t want to spend the money for four short days … NYC in January sounded cold … I didn’t really know any of these people – we were congenial online and in emails, but something about traveling thousands of miles to spend time with people known only by their online personas seemed …well,  irresponsible.  I had so much fun … why did I wait so long to return to living!  No real surprises with the people – there wasn’t a serial murderer in the bunch – mostly just regular people.  They arrived in NYC from other parts of the U.S., from Canada, and Europe;  both male and female;  all ages from a teenage girl with her father to other middle-agers like myself.  I spent the days exploring mid-Manhattan by foot, with camera in hand.  The city was experiencing a cold spell, and what had once sounded so uncomfortable to me, actually seemed to warm my usual weariness.  The nights were spent socializing with my friends – the first night over dinner and drinks at the Hard Rock Cafe in Times Square; the next night we shared a quick dinner before the concert.  After the performance we gathered together at a pub near the venue to wrap up our conversations, and exchange good-byes.

From this solitary decision, one I had initially felt to be irresponsible, I have derived so much contentment.  I have continued to maintain friendships with some of the people I had met;  some visited with me and my family during summer visits to southern California.  And, I traveled to a few additional concerts in the summer (see previous blog entry) – back to NYC, and also to the metro Washington DC area.

I have also rekindled a love of music … something that had once been a passion of mine, but had faded away with my youth.  Expect future blog musings on this topic alone.

Finally, in the fall, a new friend of a different kind emerged … a fuzzy one.  After my beloved Max died in September,  life felt so incomplete not having a cat padding about the house.  My husband said that he wanted to wait before looking for another,  and initially, I agreed … but had every intention of scanning rescue groups’ websites.  After a few dead-end inquiries, I saw the photo of a kitten available through Cats at The Studios, in the San Fernando Valley.  The face.  A calico whose eyes, I swear, flashed “Come and get me!  We can have fun together!”  I contacted the organization and the calico’s foster mother, who confirmed that this was a very sweet kitten, but she also cautioned that she was exceptionally active.  We made arrangements to meet at a pet store in her neighborhood for the group’s regular weekend adoption event.  Now, the San Fernando Valley is at the northern end of Los Angeles County, and I reside in the southern-most region – an hour drive, if the traffic gods cooperate.  Little Lia was a tiny precious purring bundle, who promptly snuggled into my neck and fell asleep.  I considered taking another kitten so she’d have a companion, but when I attempted to hold that one to my chest, Lia awoke, climbed on top of her litter-mate, and sat on her face as if to say “Kiss my butt, girlfriend … this is MY human … find your own!”  Lia was loaded into a carrier in my car and we made the trek down to the other end of the county … a slow-moving crawl through the Sepulveda Pass and past LAX.  Lia would frequently come up to the front of the carrier to make a chirping sound which reminded me of a child asking “Are we there yet?” during a long road trip.

She’s been a member of the family ever since, and her foster mother was correct … Lia rarely slows down.   Her energy is unceasing, and with it comes an assortment of kitty vocalizations, and one canine … a bark.  Lia lets loose with a well defined “WOOF” when she is most angry (generally directed at the ceiling fan in my room).  Apparently her foster mother had a dog that Lia was fond of.  It is impossible to remain in any kind of a somber mood if she is in the room;  her antics are impossible to ignore.

2009 turned out to be my year of the friend.

In the words of one of my aforementioned international friends … It’s all good.

I’ve never been one to spend much time reminiscing at the end of a year.  I prefer to examine events and my corresponding actions at the end of each day, or within a reasonable amount of time.  This method provides me with more accurate input, as opposed to waiting until year’s end to try to recall everything that transpired.  The longer the memory, the more apt it is to be revised.  Can’t learn much from what didn’t actually happen.

The same goes for New Year’s resolutions.  Setting a number of goals at the beginning of a new year makes good sense – new beginnings, and all of that.  But, goals without objectives as to how they will be achieved seem to be setting one’s self up for nonfulfillment.  And, how many people do you know actually take time from after-Christmas shopping, and holiday party planning to delineate the steps to achieve lofty goals?

While I am not exactly changing my practices, I have just experienced one of the most unusual years in 2009, and I would like to reflect upon some of the events that contributed to my mood and outlook.

First, the miserable.  The worst occurrence of 2009 was the death of my feline friend, Max.  He was 12-years old, and his health and demeanor had declined over the past two years – after the death of my other cat, Fig.  Finally, in mid-September, Max’s kidneys ceased to support him, and he died.  I still cry every time I think about him, and for that matter, for Fig too.  I’m one of those soppy individuals who cries more at the loss of an animal friend, than I do for most people.  Max was a wonderful being – a friend and muse.  In his short life, he spent hundreds of hours by my side while I completed research and wrote.

Which brings me to the next miserable incident of 2009 … the angst I allow myself to endure at the behest of my mother.  We have never been close;  we have never really gotten along, but I’ve always been respectful to her, and tried to accommodate her needs.  She has always been difficult – narcissists usually are;  but since my father’s death nearly four years ago, her temperament has worsened, and it reached an apex this year.  In September, she was hospitalized with pneumonia, and placed in a medical care facility afterward.  She has been physically inactive for most of her life, and even more so within the years since my father’s passing.  Her days are spent in bed, listening to talk radio.  She has been cared for by a Romanian woman from the neighborhood, who goes into her home for two hours each day.  My mother’s choice.   After having been ill for a couple of weeks, her already weakened legs were not able to support her walking, even with the assistance of physical therapy.  Similarly, the muscles in her arms had also atrophied to the point where she is incapable of lifting herself up in bed.   As a result,  the difficult decision was made that she would remain in the facility since she was no longer able to  live alone.   My preference was that she would continue to live in her home until she chose otherwise, or upon her death.  Unfortunately, since she dismissed all of my (and other family members’) suggestions to make viable arrangements to remain in her home, decisions that she finds unpalatable were made for her.

So, why has this created misery for me?  Because my mother always requires a scapegoat … someone to be blamed for all of the woes that have befallen her.  For years I have heard from others that my  mother frequently speaks of me in disparaging terms, although she has never voiced any of those sentiments directly to my face.  And, she still hasn’t … but she has increased her circle of those to whom she complains about me.  I have abandoned her … heck, I abandoned my father when he was dying … I only visit her when I want money.

Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s in a Mexican-Irish-Catholic family, I was very careful to be the good girl.  I went to school, got good grades, glowing reviews from my teachers … essentially did whatever my parents and maternal grandmother asked of me.  As a teenager my most egregious deed was that I brooded.  I didn’t ‘run’ with a bad crowd, didn’t get pregnant (of course, I would’ve needed a boyfriend for that … another no-no in my mother’s rules).  I continued the good grades in high school, I sang in the choir, and I graduated a year earlier.  Went to college, always had a job, ‘dated sensibly’ … still didn’t get pregnant or do anything to embarrass or cost her money.  I eventually married (which was paid for by my husband, myself, and an aunt by marriage, who hosted the ceremony and reception), waited five years to have a child, and always remembered my mother’s birthday, anniversary, and other special days.  Same with my father; my mother’s numerous siblings, their children, and so on.  In other words, I have always done everything that has been asked (or implied) of me … within reason.  When my son was young, I returned to college to finish my degree (the one that was interrupted at the onset of my junior year when my mother advised me that she and my father could not afford to pay for my education beyond community college); and I realized in a psychology class that my son has Asperger’s Syndrome (AS).  I completed my bachelor’s in psychology, as well as a master of science in clinical psychology with an emphasis in educational psychology. Rather than sending my son to a public or private school, I educated him at home, and within the community, to better suit his learning needs.  At nearly 26, he is an intelligent, well-mannered, and affable young man, but I suspect that he will always require assistance with a number of living skills (particularly managing finances).

Miserable thing number three for 2009 was that after years of body pain, fatigue, and other chronic nuisances, my physician diagnosed me with lupus – when altogether new symptoms developed.  Not really a surprise, but still not something to place in the pleasantries of 2009 column.  Throughout my childhood, developing any kind of illness was viewed by my mother as a personal affront.  She treated me with such disdain because she felt that my simple head cold would translate into pneumonia, and subsequent, death for her.  Even though lupus is not contagious, I was not anxious to tell my mother of my diagnosis.  She was nonplussed by my announcement, so much so, that I decided to not call her afterward … rather, I opted to wait … to see if she would call me back in a day or two to check on me.  I waited two months before breaking down and phoning her.  She never did ask how I was doing.  In fact, one of the things I heard about myself was that she was angry that I never told her about having lupus, that she had to hear about it from one of her sisters.

I finally decided, after years of being forgotten and maligned by the woman who gave birth to me, that I can no longer  see or otherwise, communicate with her.  I will continue to pay her bills, and I’m clearing through years of accumulated junk in her house in preparation to sell, and help finance her long-term care.  She’s not going anywhere – literally or figuratively.

Three big uglies for one year isn’t too bad, though, right?  Next up will be all of the positives I experienced during 2009, and how I hope those experiences will shape what I hope to achieve in 2010.

Happy New Year!

After blogging intermittently for a few months on this site, I stopped after going through some difficult life experiences.  When I went back recently to pick it up again, I found myself not knowing what to write.  It wasn’t that I didn’t have anything to say, but the tone of my previous posts were so … bleak.  I decided that since I was moving to another server, I would also go for a redux on my blog.

There’s only one post that I wanted to transfer over, so why go through the headache of  uploading all of the old blog files.  I will simply start anew … unlike real life where do-overs are unavailable.

Here’s the old post, and I will be back as soon as I finish migrating my other websites over to the new host server.

from late August 2009:

Back in L.A.

A truly enjoyable trip!!!  Well … except for the heat and humidity (hurricanes were churning threats in the Atlantic Ocean),  which together with my ever-present friend, lupus,  were not-so-kind in ’souveniring’ me with joint swelling.  Learning Moment #1:  Do not travel during summer months.  Even the jet-lag has been much more significant this trip, and as a result, my after-trip blogging will be dispatched in multiple episodes, or until my cognition fully recovers from limited sleep and eastern time.
Speaking of sleep … one of my trip highlights was catching up with my friend, India, the six-year old daughter of some friends from the U.K.  She and I had met one month earlier when her family spent some time visiting with my family in L.A. … we bonded quickly over our mutual love of ‘Hello Kitty’ and the color pink.  So, I met up with them as they concluded their U.S. holiday on the east coast.  We had made previous arrangements to stay at the same hotel in Vienna, Virginia (outside of D.C.) to attend a concert by progressive rock keyboard-violin master, Eddie Jobson.
The afternoon before the gig was spent with India going through my suitcase in order to pull together my outfit for the evening.  She did a splendid job of laying out a pair of cropped jeans with the only ’sexy’ blouse I had packed, and had completed the ensemble with a flattering collection of accessories.  It all would have been fabulous if I had not had a bra ‘malfunction’ which necessitated my change to less-sexy attire.  This was actually a turn for the better since the night’s venue was a very informal club located in a strip-mall.  India’s own outfit completely illustrated her keen eye for nightclub chic, while also taking into account that she wanted to complement Mr. Jobson’s traditional black stage attire.
Once situated in our seats at the club, India eventually moved onto my lap … for an extra height boost, and to facilitate our concert discussions without having to resort to raising our voices.   She was mesmerized by the performance, and thoroughly enjoyed being able to jump up, yell and applaud at the end of each song.  At one point, she was taken a bit aback when Eddie’s bow hit the violin strings and a cloud of rosin combined with the back-lighting to cast an eerie image that resembled the early stages of a fire.  “Is Eddie on fire?!” she queried with concern, and when I assured her that he was not, she stated with great relief, “I thought he had caught fire from playing the violin so fast.”
About midway through the set, India went completely limp in such a split second that I thought she was attempting to set me up for one of her jokes.  But, she had simply fallen asleep.  She reminded me of a kitten or puppy going from full-speed play to dead-sleep in rapid succession.
I experienced, in the remainder of the concert, what was probably the closest I will ever attain to a perfect point in time. For a brief, ethereal moment, I held a slumbering child against the backdrop of complex classically-tinged rock music …  two seemingly antithetical aspects of life which were now forever fused together in my thoughts and senses.
I hated to put her down, but she didn’t seem to notice that the concert had ended.  After about an hour she was fully awake and chatting with Eddie … she was still determined to solve the night’s earlier mystery smoke, and asked him to expound upon how he was able to play the violin so fast.  His adroit response seemed to satisfy her, at least temporarily.  The next time she sees him, he is probably going to have to remove his shirt to prove that “motor” theory of his.