Hello Friends,
This is a personal letter. I already vented about my new West Coast situation. It’s all doing fine, actually. The vaguest suggestion of rain happened yesterday, the only precipitation in the month I’ve been here. I’m surrounded by opportunities to exercise, and that was a big factor in the choice of this community, but that exercise bicycle I had back in Massachusetts didn’t get used every day, to be honest.
I no longer own an exercise bicycle. Also gone are the electric lawnmower, the garden tools, the in-window air conditioners, washer, dryer, drum set, old baby grand piano that needed constant maintenance, unlovely furniture from Salvation Army or neighbors’ front yards, rugs, snow shovels, bags of ice-melt salt and much junk that was in the garage. I’m not missing them yet.
But lest you think this is where I fade away – retire – I still dream of having the garden tools and fruit trees and garden again. This is a step on the way, a means to an end. Two moves in the last two years have cured me of much hoarding predilection, and I’ve scored some really nice stuff to live with here: tall shelves and file cabinets for free, nice little round table and chairs from the Restore, bed, bureau, and a beautiful L-shaped desk that I’ve yearned for – $100 delivered.
Now, I’ll bring up again that the moving truck has yet to show up. A protest is filed with Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration. There are important material things involved, but I’m really OK, and for the moment have all I need for a simple existence. This in the middle of the world going mad.
The right wing of my L-shaped desk still does not have the electric piano keyboard that will facilitate my writing music (the moving truck) but I like sitting here and things are getting done. It turns out that at my age, to consult with a financial advisor, legally I’m required to have my grown-up son present, so I don’t get taken advantage of. Funny, just when I have been feeling I’ve finally achieved some good executive function in this world, it’s now in question.
I’m submitting to the constant treadmill of executive work, booking gigs for next year. I tend to live in the future; employment on the weekend of September 26 in Kansas makes me happy for the day. I’m plotting the next maybe two trips to be via Amtrak. Worth a try, I’ve thought of doing a “train tour” for years. Promotable, and more ecological, I think. The bicycle tour is not going to happen, but alternative to airplane seems a good idea to test out. Seats much bigger on the train. My default for years has been Southwest Airlines – two free bags and A-list for extra legroom. They’ve gone to the dark side, now both baggage and legroom cost more, considerably more.
So, with no immediate touring for a few weeks, I walk the dog and meet all kinds of interesting animals and people. All ages, ethnicities and gender presentation are thriving here, LGBTQUIA, well represented, from elite athletes to folks with walkers. There are lots of squirrels, and I’m warned, an occasional coyote. Many birds amid the tropical vegetation. It’s about a mile walk around the edges of this community, many courtyards that look similar but each premeditatedly different. I think of the “Emerald Necklace” of parks Fredrick Law Olmstead designed for Boston. I believe he’s also responsible for Central Park in NYC (just looked it up, over 100 parks across America). Well, someone made a nice mini plan here, each courtyard has a tree or two, and several rocks protrude, I would guess they were here but now orchestrated. Boomer the dog loves each one and I go off the cement walks and walk on the grass with him, his permission to run on a long leash, or is it me on a long leash?
I juxtapose all this with the world situation, growing stranger and more ominous every day. A mad man President is such fodder for all the movies to be made in the next couple of decades like the denouement of the Vietnam War. I’m certainly involved in all this stuff, you can be assured, but I don’t want to write about it, enough pundits do. And the disposition to sit around and talk about it without doing anything is something I have which I have no patience.
I am not rich by any means, but I’m constantly reminded how privileged I am to be here, writing this. We have four months to do something to save democracy, civility and justice, and the fate of the Earth. I plan to be busy, the criminals cannot get away with this. Justice is slow, but I believe in it. Every bit of time or money we can afford at this time is critical. I know, you’re likely comfortable too, and being asked to behave differently is not what we want to hear. But let’s please do something different, dedicate whatever we can to affecting that looming election. The candidates need your money, and the movements need your participation, and Nature needs you to care. I usually try to say “we” and not just “you” (try to use the “I” words). But you, my friend. I hope you find this interesting and I hope we can work together.
Here is a song about nothing – ostensibly - that I wrote a long time ago. (But watch out, once something gets mentioned, it has power).
My friend Chuck Wiggins, (hi Chuck) who is responsible for me doing this Substack thing, wishes I would say more often that your contributions to keeping this going are much appreciated - to fund the creativity of a suspiciously old poet and musician. Thanks, if you can.
In peace, Jim
This Song Ain't About Nothin' Jim Scott ©1990 This song ain't about nothin'. There's no subject that I'm on. Just some harmony and some words to sing to leave you when I'm gone. This song ain't about nothin' there's no big thing I'm goin' through. It's just a feeling that comes over me when I think about sittin' 'round with you. It ain't about how love conquers all. It's not about lies and truth, Or how the summer turns to fall, or glimpses of fleeting youth. I won't hold forth on war and peace, or the fallacy of "might makes right," Or law and order, or Homeland Defense, or young boys spoilin' for a fight. This song ain't about lonely hearts, or loveless, homeless, sleepless nights. Don't need to tell you 'bout hunger or the struggle for human rights. This song ain't about nothin', but I'd just like to say That I hope it makes you happy. Too late, I played it anyway. I won't take on the mystical, or where disembodied spirits go. Won't get too outspoken political, they'd never play it on the radio. It's not about feelings either, don't want you to think I'm blue. I just like to hold this guitar, and the instrumental comes right on cue. This song could be about healing, but I won't play doctor here now. The music's power can be revealing of all that our hopes and fears allow. This song ain't about gratitude, This moments so brief, but memories last so long, so Thanks you can spare me the platitudes, just say: "Remember when Jim was playin' that song? about nothin'."
