DAY 87:
My Library/Day 87: Walden and Other Writings of Henry David Thoreau
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Tag Archives: Essays
My Library/Day 29: High Notes: Selected Writings by Gay Talese
DAY 29:
My Library/Day 23: Biographical Essays by Lytton Strachey
DAY 23:
[Essay] Aging is (an) Action
I wrote this essay for the podcast I co-host. If you would like to listen to me read it, please follow this link.
This is a story of juxtaposition, not judgment—of presentation, not character. This story is not about tattoos, piercings, or other modifications, nor does it concern itself with plastic surgery, Botox, hair, makeup, or clothes. What I am talking about is skin, human skin. Aging human skin.
Aging human skin is not shameful. It is not a punishment. It is not an albatross hanging off of our increasingly wrinkled necks.
We live with our faces; we live in our bodies.
Aging is an action.
That is normal, that is healthy. Skin is not decorous; it is a hard-working, highly-functioning organ. It will eventually crease.
As long as we live, we age. This is an inescapable fact of existence.
We lament the aging process when what we should be lamenting is that women are not allowed to look like they age. How unkind, unrealistic, and misguided.
****
Aging is a study of shifting perspectives. We are not meant to look 20, or 35, or 60, forever. The use of apps, Photoshop, and filters has us believing otherwise.
Social media hypnotizes us with its ubiquity and lulls us into accepting its rapidly changing aesthetic standards as our long-held collective reality. We gasp in protest—maybe—then pretend that all is normal. That things were always this way, or, at least, should be this way. But this is not Shangri-La. No matter how much we filter ourselves further from reality, we will still wake up inhabiting our skin, wrinkles, and all.
While scrolling through Instagram recently, I saw two magazine covers in my feed. Back-to-back. They were for different iconic publications. Image number one featured a fifty-something entertainer. Technically, she looked fantastic but, upon second glance, was blatantly Photoshopped into some weird non-human fantasy realm where imperfection does not exist. Her skin was a glossy mask—entirely free of wrinkles, pores, and blemishes. This, it must be said and said forcefully, is not even a beauty or fashion periodical but a widely read general interest weekly. In one of the most bizarre hazards of modern life, we are forgetting what real skin looks like. We’ve already lived in this “new” normal long enough that we do not always instantly recognize what is happening. For younger people, there is scarcely a before to ponder. Social media is full of teens and twenty-somethings bemoaning the state of their skin. The most vocalized issue is the appearance of any texture. What they see in the mirror differs radically from the artificiality promoted on apps.
We are trying our damnedest to meet standards that do not exist away from our screens. How quickly we have been duped into thinking that filtered images are in any way true to how people look.
Image number two was a different matter. Vogue Italia. October 2023. Isabella Rossellini, photographed by Zhong Lin, with every wrinkle intact. 71 years old and as arresting as a Renaissance painting. Owning her age. Powerful. Forceful. Beautiful. Vulnerable. Unapologetic. But I do not need to tell you how to feel. Much like when confronting the individuality of impasto on a portrait, you will be moved by your own emotions.
Isabella wrote on her Instagram page that she felt “some trepidation” in sharing this un-retouched photo on the world stage. A move so bold is likely the result of years of grappling with the subject and of living as a woman growing older under an unrelentingly bright spotlight.
Ultimately, this is not about beautiful people aging beautifully. It goes deeper to the core of what it means to continue existing VISIBLY in a world that thinks you should disappear from relevance because you have the guts to be comfortable in your wrinkled skin.
Age does not need to be retouched, warped, or annihilated to be accepted. It can just be.
For Frank on Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day
[Intermezzo] When Words Are in Short Supply
I have a cold and am exhausted. Still unpacking from the move. My studio remains a work in progress. Too many unopened boxes. Need a new (gargantuan) bookcase. Art is wrapped in Kraft paper.
My feet are cold (literally).
Tea helps.
Tea always helps.
(Does it for you?)
Decided to suck it up and add to today’s NaNoWriMo word count anyway.
108 good little soldiers.
Better than nothing, right?
Until tomorrow, I have the laziest of intentions:
Sweet Repose by Victor Gilbert (circa 1880).
Happy dreams!
[Intermezzo] Rainy Days and New Duvets
It’s drizzling. Cool. A haze of rain. Grey. Nonstop. A wall of grey.
Haven’t stepped foot outside since the last sunset. Don’t plan on breaking this chain. Not today. Today my will is adamantine. Hard as a scimitar. Laziness, my chosen luxury.
Furthermore…
Someone else brought a package in, retrieved the mail. All junk, anyway. Glad I didn’t waste those fifteen seconds. Time spent under a new duvet is precious, irretrievable. Pushing it off is forsaking a cloud in favor of the gutter.
Furthermore…
Tea doesn’t steep through telekinesis. Mugs aren’t self-sugaring. Spoons do not come with ‘automatic stirring’ buttons.
Furthermore…
Books exist to be read. Aged pages feel good when rubbed between fingers, the scent produced intoxicating.
It’s drizzling. Cool. A haze of rain. Grey. Nonstop. A wall of grey.
***
Rain on the River by George Bellows (1908). Collection: Rhode Island School of Design Museum. Public Domain.
[IS THIS AN ESSAY OR REVIEW? EVEN I DON’T KNOW.] RELIX by Thelma and the Sleaze
DISCLAIMER: I fucking curse in this review, so beware! I know, I know. Why is a dainty book nerd like myself wielding profanity? I am a many-petaled sunflower, okay?
RELIX
While y’all are sitting around watching Super Bowl LIII, I’m listening to Thelma and the Sleaze and drinking cheap booze. In other words: when it comes to gen-u-ine American pleasure, I’ve got you beat by yards.
Wait, who? Thelma. and. the. Sleaze. Remember those words. You’ll want to remember my name, too, so you know who to thank later. You’re welcome, by the way.
AKA
LG and LG’s Pals.
Queens of Rock.
From Nashville, Tennessee.
You’ve gotta see ’em live. That’s imperative.
As musicians, they kick ass all over any stage brave enough to hold them.
LG is the eye of this hurricane. She’s raunchy, rowdy, and fucking hilarious. But, she doesn’t do it alone: everyone up there with her is worth the price of admission any damn gig they play. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Their energy is its own entity. Ultimately, you need to be in the same room as that shit to understand its pull. Trust me on this. I could describe a TATS show down to the smallest sweaty detail, until you felt fucking transported to that place and time. Virtual Reality Level: 10. It still won’t do it justice.
Fortunately, there’s something that is closer than anything short of seeing them live.
RELIX
That’s a magic word, right there.
Your ticket to TATS nirvana.
What is a RELIX?
RELIX
Oh, hey! Thanks for asking. It’s just…the best.
“Officially” (via LG on Facebook) RELIX is an “open concept not album.”
Or (in my-speak): it’s a sixteen-song treasure box whose contents keep changing.
I bought version two on Friday, when it was still pay-what-you-want-or-can. By the time you’re reading this, it will cost $217.00 or an original poem. But, probably not. Or, maybe. See, it’s that kind of exchange. Elastic, symbiotic, fiercely creative. Ya know, art. The real deal, brought to you by demos recorded, I believe, at home, and left unmastered.
Imagine trying to bluff your way into a hip stranger’s house party. You’re a bit shaky at the prospect: dry mouth, moist palms. “Do people really do this kind of thing? Is it normal? Am I an idiot for even trying?” You ring the bell. The door flings wide. Maybe you manage a few mumbly words of greeting. Nothing you say matters, though, as you discover there was no reason to worry about being caught and called out for trespassing. You weren’t invited, because no one was: everyone’s welcome, the food and drinks are plentiful, the conversation is actually interesting. Better yet? Some richly talented chicks are hanging out in the living room, playing lit-as-hell songs. As you wander from room to room, meeting new people, getting wasted together, you keep hearing the musicians as they run through a bunch of songs. Sometimes the music is loud, sometimes the music is low, but it’s always radically compelling. Of all the waves in the universe to inhabit, everyone in the house is sharing the same one. (Except for Janet, who has shit taste in music. Fuck Janet.) What are the odds? (That’s rhetorical. I’m not a statistician, so please don’t come at me with your fancy numbers. Also: I don’t care.)
The party breaks-up. People go back to their lives. The only remnant of that night, aside from a short-lived collective hangover, is the whisper of “Oh, my God! Have you heard of this band?” to friends and strangers alike.
That’s the joy of RELIX.
I hope you’ll listen, and join the chorus.
****
So, here we are. What’s left to speak of, except for:
Mutual generosity, getting-and-giving, the vulnerable transaction between creators and consumers. Are they mere ideas, or the lifeblood of every artistic project worth a damn?
RELIX is simultaneously a gutsy experiment, a middle finger to corporatized art, and a gift to those music lovers who will, in turn, give a damn right back.
****
When I bought RELIX a couple of days ago, I paid xx amount of dollars of my choice. I wish that I could have paid more dosh, but, ya know, bills. The majority of my bills are due on the first of the month. That’s adult life, right? I told LG that I would write a poem to pad out my contribution. As you know, when it comes to indie artists I try to put my money where my mouth is. After all, I am one and I respect the hell out of creative types who forge their own path. Look out for my next post (which is going live in a few minutes). It, I believe, more than fulfills my promise.
****
THELMA AND THE SLEAZE LINKS:
THELMA AND THE SLEAZE FACEBOOK
THELMA AND THE SLEAZE OFFICIAL WEBSITE
It’s only rock and roll
National Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day
It’s that day of the year again.
This was originally published here on 7 December 2012. In what is turning into an annual tradition, I am re-posting it today in honor of its subject, my buddy Frank.
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 