BARELY SENTIENT PUDDING

Hello from America. I just arrived home from London last night. I skidded in like a meteor made of greasy, wadded up pizza boxes. I awoke yesterday in London at 6am, Saturday, then left for Heathrow at 8:25am GMT, flew 8 hours, then landed in DC at 3:03 pm EST. I tried to walk “casually” through customs and to my next flight as to not break a fifth sweat through my already pudding-y sheen. No dice. My sweat trickled down and rinsed my putrescence further into my flappy clothes. The terminals at Dulles are so far apart! I could not remember what comfort felt like for the life of me. I arrived at my gate in time to sit a minute before the one hour and forty five minute flight to Burlington, Vermont, where I touched down at the tail end of what was obviously a gorgeous summer day. My stepdad, Bill greeted me with my car which I took over and hustled us to grab some quick sustenance at a local burger place. I grabbed chicken which was way too hot to eat, so I had half a milkshake to compensate. I was already a wilted, greasy salad of a human being, so why not? I accelerated through the mountains and valleys for an hour and forty five minutes home to pick up my dog from my sweet friends who were watching her the last couple days of my absence. We wiggled toward each other with great joy, but I knew the shadow of the great, lead pumpkin I would soon become was about to block out the sun. My time upright was running out. I squeezed my beloved horse, Boon, and bid everyone “thanks” and goodnight. I dropped my stepdad at home and then limped the rest of the way to my front door. The threshold practically repelled me, my body was so heavy and repugnant. At least the cats all trotted in at different intervals to chirp their “welcome home!” 

Coco and I barely made it to the couch. I turned on the TV, which no channels worked on anymore save Netflix, which is usually the one that cancels itself on us. In a strange reversal it was the only offering. Netflix has so much tabloid trash on it I’ve pretty much given up on it anyway, but I found a show called “Life On Our Planet” narrated by Morgan Freeman about the evolution of life and its different dynasties from single celled life, to plants, to amphibians, to dinosaurs, to mammals, etc. It was very interesting, but what I had forgotten from twenty years ago since I had watched “March of the Penguins” is that things narrated by Morgan Freeman are far too soothing and put me to sleep. I happily shared my cold chicken with Coco then passed out upright where I sat; no shower, no teeth brushing, no change of disgusting clothes. I awoke with a nasty pain in my hip around four thirty am. I shakily arose and got myself up the stairs and into my clean bed. I had no choice. I awoke today at two thirty eight pm EST. I was shaken and shaky from very vivid and complex dreams. Nothing bad, there was just so much detail. I had built several worlds in my sleep. My body and mind could not stop working it seemed. Why?

I can’t speak for other cultures, save maybe a bit of Canadian, and I can’t speak for generations that come after my own Gen X, but as Americans we are not taught that rest, pacing, play, regeneration or paying attention to our physical and mental needs are real things. And illness? Forget about it! This sounds like a light hearted joke but it’s a very serious disease. Sadly, we are hardly able (or allowed) to survive unless we behave as that American gospel dictates. Work. Period. We are allowed to appreciate the extras like “fun” or connection only if we somehow manage to squeeze them at personal cost. And there is always a cost. We treat it like some badge of honor. I see younger Americans resisting this sickness and I am their biggest cheerleader. I see you, you fucking diamonds! :) 

I seldom try to write in this state but I wanted to catch something in words that I normally don’t; pre-system failure. A failure I somehow keep myself from completing, but am always dangerously close. Complete failure looks like meltdown, both emotional and physical as well as extreme guilt and regret. I have also been there. I am starting to realize there are darker levels as well; stroke, heart attack, severe anxiety, long term health issues, mental breaks and crisis as well as disassociation and loss of recent memories. We often, and wrongly, chalk it up to some kind of failure within ourselves. It hurts. Why do I let myself get so hip deep in this fucked up alchemy cult? Why do any of us? This sacrifice will never transmute to gold. And gold is only worth something conceptually, because we say it is. I don’t have the answers, but I have a feeling they look something like first detoxing from alcohol and substance abuse, then later taking masterclass after masterclass on setting up healthy boundaries.

Physically I am dizzy, hungry, and shaky. I am absolutely unsafe to drive a car or operate machinery. I don’t have much tolerance for some things and absolutely zero energy to take care of myself. I did however make myself shower and brush my teeth and eat a little something, but only because I have been accidentally studying this phenomenon for the last twenty five years, and know that omitting the basics is a recipe for absolute disaster. As for the work, I just came from the large scale organization, rehearsal and execution of the most fucking punk rock version of the the musical “Thelma and Louise” that I have been working on with my beloved team for the last eight plus years. I am beyond proud of what the cast and creatives have achieved. The three shows were stunning and we had standing ovations all three nights, in London! Reserved, polite London. It was a smashing success. I should be beaming and full. Truthfully, I am having a hard time remembering what happened and in what order. I see the last week as smears of color and the clenched, hyper focus that my neurodivergent brain is prone to. I very clearly remember playing every part and singing every note from inside my own body, from my seat high in the bleachers. I followed every dancer and felt their pushes and pulls, I pushed and pulled too, like we were all trying to overturn a hulking ship’s corpse on dry land. All my energy went out to those powerful, hard working artists as all their energy came back to me. I rode that complete circuit hard. I sobbed for three days of performances straight, the emotion of the piece coursing through me. This was a great and sacred privilege. I felt as though I were riding some huge benevolent dragon. This, a dragon I helped teach to fly. I am grateful I have that piece. But there were costs. I did not get to spend time with the cast or musicians after the shows to tell them how much they mean to me and the rest of the team. How proud and honored we all are to work with them. The small creative core team went back in shortly after the show to do notes with the producers, which I also get. It is crucial, and enlightening. I’m sure they know, but the last bit of the circuit is to share that gratitude with the players. It is also crucial, and enlightening. But the final night, I ate a quick, unconsidered meal, walked home and went straight to bed so I would not be hammered for my marathon flight home the next morning.

This post is in no way a complaint, I do love my many jobs and know what I signed up for, but I do know the methods also need to change. What of any of this description above do you recognize in yourself? How do we make sure all the boxes are checked and the work is great but it doesn’t shorten our lives or throw others under the bus? We deserve it all. All of us workers out there, no matter what our job is, or our dreams are. I am lucky, I love working even though it’s perceived demand will take a nasty piece out of me if I am not careful. Here’s to us, here is to our health and happiness. May we all strike that divine balance.

This post is dedicated to my bosom friend, bandmate and manager, Rachel, who gets it. She works like a demon possessed and wants to answer all these questions too.

The beautiful, big hearted cast and some crew of “Thelma and Louise.”