I don't have a Halloween costume this year. But I…
wonderin’
“I am of the theory that all of our transcendental connections, anything we’re drawn to, be it a person, a song, a painting on the wall – they’re magnetic. The art is the alloy, so to speak. And our souls are equipped with whatever properties are required to attract that alloy. I’m no scientist so I don’t really know what the hell these properties are, but my point is we’re drawn to stuff we’ve already got a connection to. Part of the thing is already inside of us.” — from God-Shaped Hole by Tiffanie DeBartolo
***
Mom was too tired to brush her teeth, and red Jell-O was all she wanted anymore. She slept with her mouth slightly agape, her teeth pink, her face white, her fingers blue.
In a Tijuana hospital, nobody spoke English well. I got her M&Ms from the corner store once, but she was frightened when I wasn’t there. I changed her bedpan, and then her diapers. The nurses and I salved her bedsores, turning her, trying not to hurt her broken hip.
Ella tiene dolor en la cadera.
It, too, was dissolved, like her ribs, her breast, her lung. She cried at night, she shit herself. I held her hand when they poked and prodded. I smoothed her hair and she smiled sometimes. She had big, brown eyes like a calf. Like a Black-Eyed Susan.
Por que los dedos azul?
I rode in the ambulance with her. Federalis in full SWAT gear patrolled the streets. I signed forms, I reminded the EMTs in broken Spanish to be gentle, that her hip was broken. I promised I’d be there when she got out from radiation. There were piles of hair around her bed, but she never went bald. She asked me if she was going to die.
Tengo miedo.
Whispering, too weak to speak, so tired. She slept at night, but I didn’t. I watched movies, I used music. I was delirious from isolation, from tending a frightened child who happened to be my mother. And I had to be strong.
***
Many years before all this, my best friend got the first rewritable CD-ROM drive of anyone I knew. It took me all morning to rip and compile the first CD mixtape I ever made. It took the rest of the day to burn it.
Even though I didn’t like him, my day-long labor included one Neil Young song. It was like… I had to.
Two years later, my brother and I drove six hours to St. Louis to see CSN&Y. I was happy that Neil played that one song. I felt like I’d seen something important, even though I still didn’t like him. Stupid whiny voice, shitty guitar playing.
***
A decade later in a hospital room, I was despairing and I was alone with my thoughts. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take it. One day I noticed that nothing that I used to love made me happy anymore.
Nobody quite knew what to say. So I corresponded with a friend of mine, an Iraq combat vet, who understood the depths of isolation and weariness and futility and the unfair demands to muster strength and comfort in an impossible situation. He said I was the only civilian he could talk to.
When Mom went to bed, the TV was on all night. It was comforting for her. I couldn’t sleep anymore anyhow; there were always sheets and diapers and a body to be cleaned. The nurses were gone.
One night, she wanted the TV off. It was too dark, and so I gathered in my laptop. I don’t remember how I found it, or why I was looking for his music, but I watched this video of Neil Young — who I didn’t like, who had a stupid whiny voice and played shitty guitar — over and over:
It made me happy.
***
I suppose there was a latent connection that was always inside of me, a Neil-shaped hole in my heart. And I suppose it just took the right switch to turn it on, to make me love more than one song, to magnetize the rest of me to his music. I couldn’t tell you why it happened, and I don’t think I’m supposed to anyhow; it would sound stupid and weird.
But it was just what I needed when I needed it.
***
When Mom died, she returned to the ocean, her ashes became foam. She loved the water. My two best friends were going to dress as Captain & Tenille for her funeral because my mother would have loved that, too. She was so funny. There will never be a headstone, because that’s how she wanted it. She promised to haunt me, and she does in a way.
When I breathe the salt air, I am with her. I am half of her anyhow, maybe more. And now Neil Young is part of it all, somehow, in a non-creepy way. It’s hard to explain.
Wow. That was beautiful and poignant and I get every word of it. Sometimes it’s weird how a person you’ve never met can create something that resonates so profoundly within your soul. And even for just one fleeting moment you feel eternally indebted and connected to that person and his/her creation. The art is indeed the alloy. Much love.
Thank you, Kyle. You’ve really touched my heart with what you’ve written…that’s just beautiful, as are you.
My Dearest Jennifer. Thanks for the cry! What you have so beautifully written about is so eerily what I went through with my mom (not Mexico and not cancer, but 24/7 for three years because of her MS.) I have always felt a sister/brother connection with you from the first time we met and discussed what we each went through. When you write, you shine a light right in to the heart of the experience. I love you for that and much more.
I know with the music that Rebeca and I create, people gravitate to the peices that in some unseen way, feel like their life, reflect and embody a personal experience, and for a moment afford them a detour from their pain or at least the challenges in their lives.
The poet Wallace Stevens wrote in Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,
“I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.”
So is it the experience or the reflection? Our reflections open us to fully embrace the meaning of that which just happened. So whether it strengthens us like rebar or holds us up like a crutch, it changes us forever.
What a gift that for you it was Neil Young. When I met Neil in 1967 while doing a concert with Buffalo Springfield, he was the most gracious and engaging star I ever met in the music biz; and I didn’t like his voice at first either, until I experienced his heart!
Wow! Thank you so, so much for what you wrote. I’m very grateful that you read this and even more grateful that it touched you the way it did.
I am really at a loss for words.
My good Friend Jen,
Just as Neil tells us stories through his songs…love him or hate him. You can’t deny that he takes you to a time and place we have all been at some time in our lives. Your stories do the same. Thank you for wearing your heart on your sleeve and sharing Niels music with us.
XOXO
Sasha
Thank you so much, Sasha!
Oh WOW. Jen – thanks for sharing that. You described things in such a way that I could see them – like I was there – and my heart was breaking for you.
My mother is so important to me, I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like. If your mom is half (or more) of you, then I know she was an incredible, beautiful woman as you are. Sorry I didn’t get to meet her.
Love to you
Lisa
You’re so darling, Lisa. Thank you for your sweet words.
My dear friend Jen,
Wow. I cried. You have an amazing talent for writing that makes me feel I was there and felt what you felt. I could feel your broken heart when you first joined the Mastermind group and I understood it then at some level. This post though brought it home even more so. and I didn’t know what exactly Neil Young means to you, other than him being a famous musician. Now, I do.
My hat is off to you in so many ways, and I hope you know that. You are one brilliant, big-hearted person and “wicked awesome” to boot! I have had the great fortune to watch you on your journey for some time now, and wow…WOW!
Big hugs,
Stephie
Thank you, Stephie!