Yesterday CJ’s dad and I drove to Kansas City to see CJ and their piece in the end-of-semester art show at the Kansas City Art Institute.
It’s hard to tell from the photo what’s going on. This colorful, cuddly snake (never thought I’d use those two words together) is surrounded by their comfort objects—a book for word search puzzles, a cheap composition notebook, and doodles. Above the snake—its dreams. Zoom in all you’ll see the characters of snake dreams: anthropomorphic clams and t-rexes beside portions of brain and mushrooms, blots of color, multi-dimensional lacy atmospheres. What does it mean?
“It means I like making these things.”
That’s the artist’s statement.
My brain, dulled by years of trying for conventional success as a writer, didn’t see that maybe my kid is miles ahead of where I am and gets it. “I like this idea of knitting a snake in its little nest of a bed, dreaming snake dreams.”
Okay, but at some point works like this will evolve to Saying Something.
It wasn’t until we were close to home after the second four-hour drive of the day yesterday that I realized that I was wrong. CJ’s work doesn’t have to evolve to Say Something. It says plenty. I can paste my own meaning into it like another piece of paper with a dream on it: the beautiful worlds and creatures in our subconscious when we strip down to our most base, primal selves.
Granted, I only got to spend ten minutes with CJ’s piece before I had to sit down.
From September until March, I was in physical therapy several hours a week to correct a bunch of compressed nerves that I’ve been hauling around since CJ’s birth. It was two-thirds successful: the middle of my lower back and the right side of my back are pretty good. The left side is the stuff of nightmares. And my doctor is moving out of state in two weeks, and I have six weeks until I see the Afghan Whigs in three cities in four days. Until yesterday I was under the impression I’d be on the floor at those concerts. Now, I’m questioning whether I can even go. Tomorrow, I’m asking my doctor for a pain clinic referral to see if something—anything—can be injected into my ass cheek so I can stand for more than 10 minutes without getting shaky and sweaty.
I have been in pain in one form or another since I busted my knees in September 2017. I’m 51. Can I quit yet?
Honestly, I’m not depressed. I know depression well, and this isn’t it. I’m disappointed about things I can’t do, struggle to do, and took for granted, but I’m not depressed. This is a sea change in who I am, kicked into motion by that awful week six months ago. I want to scroll through my Facebook friends and delete most of them. Whittle myself down to blend in and enjoy the invisibility women my age who aren’t my size or covered with tattoos enjoy (or hate).
Last week I kept pissing people off. A friend I haven’t talked to in years took issue with something they inferred from a post I made about the current student protests. I engaged briefly, then just let them message me over and over. I have no idea what the last seven or so messages said. I removed myself when it was time to go get some pain of my choosing—getting the first of my knee replacement scars covered with a tattoo.
Good distraction. I wish I’d had another one a few days later when I continued my reign of terror by pissing off author, New York Times columnist, and TV showrunner Lindy West.
(Lindy and me in happier days. Well, for me. I got the feeling I was bothering her when I asked a question during her Q&A and when I fangirled a bit as she signed my book.")
She was in St. Louis, speaking at a large fundraiser for Planned Parenthood’s local chapter (very good!). But the next day she posted a video, intended to be humorous, that fell flat for some of us St. Louisans. She was walking through the exclusive neighborhood where she was staying, pointing out boring absurdity. In the video, she included a map of her walk, which showed it started at the most expensive hotel in St. Louis. I commented that the scenery is more interesting when you don’t stay at the most expensive hotel in town. In jest, but also, true. I didn’t like the vague “the midwest is sooooo boring” tone of her video, especially knowing she was in town for a (very well-paid) speaking engagement for a reproductive health non-profit in a state where shit is dire for women. Especially when that non-profit paid for a $500 hotel room.
I was really surprised when she messaged me that she was in town for a speaking engagement. Before I could reply that I was aware, she posted the same publicly in response to my comment. I publicly replied I was aware, and said I hoped that the room was comped because, again, Missouri hates women.
“Okeydokey,” she said. I said I was disappointed and wouldn’t be buying any more of her books. And she said:
I didn’t get to reply because she restricted me from commenting. Which is fine and her right. I posted about the weird and disappointing exchange on my Instagram Stories and went about my day.
Hours later, I noticed that I had hundreds of strangers reading my Instagram Stories. Among them? West and her husband. And frankly, while I did laugh at how petty and dumb it all was, it also freaked me out. So I blocked one of my favorite writers and her husband from my account and changed my settings to private, something I have never done.
Which brings me back to this business of art and writing and creating. If having multiple NYT bestsellers and a successful three-season TV show optioned from your books doesn’t make you a more enlightened person, a less miserable person, what’s the point?
I’m changing my relationship with my writing. It’s just for my entertainment. I’ve always believed in the communication aspect of being a writer: the exchange between the writer and the reader. The things I’ve learned about people in the past year or so have changed that. Drastically. I debated whether to post anything at all and have been tinkering with ditching this small, unimportant writing exercise because … why? I could keep a journal, cocoon with my thoughts, feelings, and analysis of them, and just be done.
A few weeks ago I told my mom that I was going to concerts this summer: Afghan Whigs in Philly, Brooklyn, and Boston from June 18-21, flying home, working for three days, then going to Solid Sound Festival. Her response: “When are you going to grow up?” I laughed that I was grown up. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to afford to act like this. I stand by that.
But aren’t you tired?
I am.
I am figuring out who I really am, after a lifetime it’s taken to so slowly peel away what I thought I was supposed to be, to get to what I really am.
There was a time not that long ago when angering the friend like I did pre-tattoo would have left me shattered. And the Lindy West altercation would have gutted me. I can’t even imagine. I probably would have had a breakdown of some sort. I would have drowned in my shame.
That’s no way to live.
I’m looking at how I’ve lived my life, pushing through a multitude of kinds of pain for years to do the things I want. Maybe it’s time to change what I want. A quiet life with Woody, marveling at my kid—my real life’s work—while sitting on a heating pad doesn’t sound bad at all. I don’t know for sure yet. It’s a theory, though.
I want to test my own silence more than I want to test my voice. I know my voice works now. I figured out how to use it without it nearly killing me. Silence seems like the next frontier.
Amidst all this, the self-chosen pain of a new tattoo. On my knee across ten inches of deep scar tissue. Parts of it that I thought would hurt were fine. Other parts that I didn’t even consider felt like they were being carved with an X-Acto knife. But it was worth it.
In two weeks, I’m getting the other knee similarly tattooed. This gives me joy. My tattoo artist is one of my favorite people and even when I feel like she’s killing me she makes it funny and human and good. Kind of like after my first knee replacement, when I awoke and my surgeon asked if I felt like I’d been run over by a truck.” I said yes and he said, “Good. I did my job,” with a laugh. I laughed, too. If we can’t laugh at imagining our pain coming from something ridiculous, what’s the point? Maybe sitting with it in silence.
In the days leading up to the tattoo, I sat in silence with my scar. I never felt embarrassed by them, never hid them. Except for leggings when it’s cold, I’m almost always in knee-length or shorter dresses and skirts. So why am I covering the scars so soon—the doc recommended waiting two years to tattoo the scars and I made it two years and three months—at a big expense and with a lot of pain? Because I’ve fought my whole life to have some semblance of control over a chronically ill body, a body that everyone has always been the source of so many opinions that had to be dumped on me to deal with. To feel the pain I repressed from the times I was grabbed, groped, made fun of, the butt of the fat joke, cat-called, insulted, dismissed.
Or maybe I’m going to take the stance of my kid, the artist: I’m doing it because I like it. And not enough of us are doing things just because they give us some fucking joy in a bleak world where everyone’s ready for a fight.
It’s plenty.
This is great work, Robin. Thank you. It's funny that I'm reading it tonight when just today I started this book, which seems to be dealing with exactly what you're addressing... the final frontier of knowing oneself, of acting in ways that align with what brings us deep satisfaction and purpose. Thank you for modeling that for me! https://bookshop.org/a/17615/9787308230261
I’m sending you love and admiration. It’s weird, sometimes, the way internet interactions go down. I’m glad you didn’t get too upset. Also, a period of silence, if that’s what you have, can bloom (like your knees!) with much to say afterwards. And yay for CJ!