Month: September 2021

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And Pains

It’s a cliche, I know, to complain about getting older and what it means to you physically; it’s one of those things that has become so rote, so unoriginal, as to almost become meaningless — as if a complaint about your mother-in-law had inherent insight or merit, or any kind of commentary about millennials and, well, anything, really. Nonetheless, dear reader, as I sit here and write this, I have to tell you, I am a broken man and it’s something I have decided to ascribe entirely to aging. Maybe some cliches have an element of truth to them, after all.

I am, simply, aching. I did some yard work — not even a lot, just an hour or so — and the price I’m paying for it feels entirely ridiculous and over the top: a day later, I just ache from head to foot, with particular pain attention being paid to my legs and, for some entirely unknown reason, the fingers in my right hand. Specifically, it’s my bones that are aching, as if to be even more cliched; I am literally bone tired. If nothing else, I should take it as a sign that I likely need to do far more exercise than I do… or, perhaps, less yard work.

As I ache, I find myself thinking things like, this didn’t used to hurt so much, did it? or is my body trying to tell me to take it easier? as if there’s one simple reason for the dull maladies I’m feeling all over. The feeling of, well, just being still but still feeling that throb of messaging from all over that you’ve over exerted yourself is something I’m putting down almost entirely to getting older, more than actually doing too much or treating my body too unkindly. It’s easier that way, almost; it’s expected, almost — the cliche is cliche for a reason — and unavoidable. If I ache because of aging, it’s not my fault. That’s easier than admitting that maybe I should take better care of myself.

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Sunk in Reverie

Sometimes, I think about the idea of inherited nostalgia. Or perhaps borrowed nostalgia is a better term; no matter what I call it, the idea is the same — the idea of feeling some kind of longing for something from the past that didn’t really mean that much to you at the time.

Oddly, it’s a record that got me really thinking about this. There’s a new quasi Primal Scream album out this year, although it’s officially credited to Bobby Gillespie and Jehnny Beth (that’s not a typo; it really is “Jehnny”) — the rest of the band act as backing band for the credited two vocalists — and it’s a good listen. It is, however, also an album that borrows liberally from the past, and that’s where things get complicated.

The issue isn’t that it’s a Primal Scream album that steals other people’s sounds and ideas; it is, after all, a Primal Scream album. Listening to it for the first time, though, I’d hear echoes of influences and songs and recognize them, thinking, Man, remember how great that was? even though I was thinking about things that I didn’t really have any direct contact with first time around. It was as if it had become institutionally “classic,” worthwhile purely because it was old, and because I was aware of the reference, I instinctively felt a fondness for it.

I’ve caught myself doing the same when it comes to movies and comics lately, too. Scrolling through HBO Max, I’ll come across movies I’ve never seen but half-recall being promoted — the poster will be familiar, or even just the title or the star — and I’ll have a flash of, Those were the good old days before remembering that I have no basis for actually thinking that beyond a onesheet I saw in Premiere magazine way back when.

Is this merely a sign of being old? Am I losing track of what actually matters, in the grand scheme of things? Or is there an argument to be made that there’s more of a coherent shared popular culture consciousness to be found than I’d previously believed…? You be the judge.

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Goodbye Summer

Somehow, it’s September. I’m torn between being surprised by this — honestly, didn’t we just start August? What happened to that month? — and being oddly grateful about it, because September means the end of summer, and that really couldn’t arrive fast enough for me.

My relationship to summer has been an ever-evolving one, I admit. It was only a couple of years ago that I was convinced that I’d finally gotten over a years-long aversion to the season, born of my dislike of the heat and being sunburned, as well as the events that the season traditionally brought out thanks to my previous relationship (too many garden visits, too much being outside in conditions that I didn’t enjoy). I had, I believed,  come to find, a way to enjoy summer on my own terms, from the long days to the cool glasses of lemonade it afforded me permission to drink. Finally, I could join that vast majority of sun-loving humanity!

And then the last couple of years happened. It’s not a COVID or lockdown thing, for once; it’s that there has been record heat in these here parts — 110 or thereabouts for an extended period of time, twice this year alone — as well as a significant drop in air quality due to wildfires just outside of the city. The combined effect of these two things have made for especially uncomfortable, difficult summers for the last couple of years, especially this year, and reminded me that, oh, that’s right: I hate summer. And I was always right to hate summer, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

It’s been oddly freeing to come to this realization, and not just because it makes me feel as if I had the early pass on having the right opinion all along. I’ve always been a fan of the fall, and suffering through such genuinely difficult summers feels as if it’s confirmation that it’s really not the sunny months that bring the most joy to people. Give me overcast days and chilly nights. Give me the sun setting when you’re eating dinner, and leaves crunching underfoot. Let’s say goodbye to that Beach Boys time of year and find something better to smile about.