The Gero-Punk Project

Let me begin by telling you about my soundtrack: Various NPR programs (May I just say how relieved I am that Israel and Hamas have agreed to a cease fire?); Coldplay (The latest; hated it at first, but now it is growing on me, but only slightly. You may not know this about me, but I’m an incredibly loyal music fan. Once I love a band, it takes a lot to shake me off.); Foo Fighters (The latest. Dave Grohl=Rock Star Mench); Grouplove (Love them! Gotta prep for their concert in December.).

I almost always have a soundtrack going on in the background as I go about doing whatever it is I’m doing (though interestingly, I don’t listen to music while I’m running. I listen instead to the birds and the sound of traffic in the distance and to what my mind is up to).  Sometimes the soundtrack is internal, inside my body; sometimes, like today, the soundtrack is filling up the car or the house and can be heard by whomever is occupying space with me. The only whomever right now is Happy-the-dog — Izzy’s at a party — and if his behavior is any indication, he preferred the NPR programming and the Foo Fighters (he retreated to the backyard during most of Grouplove and was in my bedroom asleep all through the Coldplay album).

I decided to take today, the day before the Thanksgiving holiday, as a vacation day.  I wanted to have part of the day with my daughter Isobel, who will be with her father from Thanksgiving evening until Sunday, and with whom I experienced some pretty intense turbulence yesterday. We have so little turbulence in our relationship that when we do have it, it is a shock to my system and it thrusts me to the very edge of my capacity as a mama. Twice yesterday I found myself at a point of decision, and you may know the point I mean, the one where you ask yourself if you are going to breathe and wait before responding and ask questions rather than saying what’s what, or are you going to, well, not.  I’m glad to report that we resolved the turbulence last night but the emotional aftermath was pretty intense and I felt an overwhelming need to just be here when she woke up this morning, if for no other reason than to be in the same space with her. 

(What a great soundtrack! The song playing right now has the lyric “Love will save your soul.” Indeed.)

I also wanted to have a head-start on the errands and the cleaning and cooking-prep chores in preparation for Thanksgiving tomorrow.  I’m hosting again this year, though my motivation is flagging a bit. I love to cook beautiful food and offer it to my people, but much of what I’m cooking I can’t even eat. And I’m really tired so all the chores and tasks seem overwhelming.

Two Sundays ago I had a significant relapse of the “twisty guts” condition I’ve had since 2007, and it has only been since yesterday that I could eat solid food without significant pain upon digestion, and I’ve had only three nights of solid sleep in the past week and a half. Pain is tiring enough, but when you can’t really eat and rest, well, the situation can easily get out of hand.  The good news is that while Monday I was still only operating at about 75% of my capacity; yesterday I was perhaps at 80% and actually ate a respectable dinner; this morning, I managed to have a 3 mile run —  in between rainstorms — accompanied by a waterfowl-soundtrack, and eat some solid food for brunch. Hooray!

(Happy just came back into the house and plopped on to the couch—I think he may like the song that’s on now: Colours, by Grouplove. When I got up to dance to the song, he jumped off the couch, stood in front of me and smiled.)

As I’ve been cooking the things that can be made ahead of time (roasted peppers, eggplant, sweet potato soufflé), doing the laundry, washing dishes, tidying  the front room, scrubbing the bathroom, I’ve been observing the thoughts drifting through my mind:

Past Thanksgivings, what I cooked, who was there, what the vibe was; my father, from whom I’m estranged and with whom I’ve not celebrated a holiday for more than half my life; aspects of my life that I’ve written about and aspects that I’ve not written about and may never write about, and why it is that some things become externalized in writing while others do not; my life with my daughter and how rich it has been and how we are in a transitional phase—only this year and next year and then she’s off into her adult life; the men I have loved in the past and the man I love now and how it is different, and not; how some of the regrets I carried with me for so long have seemed to lessen, and wonderment about how that is the case, the lessening; the smell of sweet potatoes cooking; what I learned from what took place in class yesterday – there was a student-led group presentation on mindfulness and “unity consciousness” – and what questions I’m still pondering in the aftermath; nuthatches at the bird feeder; and my embodiment, how it feels to go through this life in the body I have, the body I am, what I’ve learned, am learning, from physical pain and impairment, and whether my now multiple decades of problematic embodiment will serve to prepare me for what might lie ahead as I continue to travel through the life course with a body.

Past, future, present. I’m a time traveler, but I know that the best time of all is the time I’m in right now, even when I am tired and in pain.

One of my colleagues told me yesterday that he always takes the day before Thanksgiving as a vacation day so he has plenty of space and time to enjoy the preparations and have some time to get into the holiday vibe with his partner; I think I may adopt his practice henceforth, and not just as a damage control stratagem.  Another colleague, one of my newest, shared with me some really exciting news about his professional work and his personal life, and offered to support work that I’m embarking upon; what an honor to behold and witness the uniqueness of other beings! In class yesterday, one of our students shared stories from her past that were raw, strange, and moving. I was in awe of her courage! My sweet little fantastic mommy spent the afternoon, after a long day working as a caregiver,  baking the best pumpkin and pecan pies on this planet; I won’t be eating any turkey tomorrow, but you can bet I’ll eat some pie, if only a bit, and I’ll look forward to being in my mommy’s presence. 

As if my soundtrack weren’t already perfect enough, guess what’s on now? A song with the following lyric:

“There’s a song inside this heart of mine, and I’d like to sing it to you.”

 Giving thanks.

Rationale:  An opportunity to be present in the present to what and whom is present; to exercise your contemplative and interpretive capacities; to expand your experience and awareness of your own and others’ embodiment; to enhance your appreciation of the multitude of styles of human embodiment throughout the life course, especially in later life. 

Process: Spend some time hanging about a public location (e.g., library, bookstore, café or park) where you can safely and inconspicuously dwell for awhile in the midst of a variety of kinds of human beings.  You will be doing observational and interpretive work only – no interaction or interviewing — so situate yourself where you can observe others in a non-intrusive fashion.  Be sure to have materials for taking notes about your observations; a notebook and pen is best. This is deep, rich, vivid work you will be doing, so before you begin intentionally observing the other humans (and other non-human creatures?) around you, take some time to write about your location and your initial feelings and thoughts. 

After you’ve made your preparations, you are ready for the main part of this exercise—perceptual shifting.

First, imagine that the bodies you see around you are primarily animals, organic entities that have biological purpose. Look at specific body parts as having particular kinds of functions.  What kinds of feelings and thoughts come to you? (Try not to engage in analysis yet – try to stay present to your feeling and thoughts without getting hooked by them and starting to analyze them. However, if you do find yourself shifting into an analytical mode, merely observe to yourself that you are doing so and return to your own embodied experience.)

Second, imagine that the bodies you see are primarily material representations of energy, and that the energy is the totality of each individual – each person is profoundly his or her body, and not only (perhaps more than) his or her body. What kinds of feelings and thoughts come to you now? (Again, resist the temptation to analyze what you are feeling and thinking, and why!)

Now— “Look to the side.” Relax, breathe, and let all of the different energies swirl around you.  How does this feel—when you stop analyzing and allow your feelings to flow uninterrupted?  How does your body feel right now – Where do you end and others begin? Where do others end and you begin?

Some other questions to contemplate:

• What are the various styles of bodies you see?
• What kinds of bodies do you find yourself feeling attracted to? Averse to?
• What kinds of assumptions do you find yourself making about different styles of embodiment? To what extent are your assumptions connected to the perceived ages of the particular bodies you have observed?
• If you were being observed, how might your style of embodiment be experienced and described by the observer?
• What is the experience like for you of observing but not interacting and conversing with others?
• How much about others do you feel you can know by virtue of observing their styles\\ of embodiment?

 Guest Gero-Punk: Jennifer Ortiz*

Like it or not, our identity has been intricately woven into the consumerist ideal. As laborers, we are disposable. As soldiers, we are dispensable. As spouses or lovers, we are replaceable. We consume to live and live to consume.  It is no surprise that aging is so negatively connoted in a society where that “new ______ smell” can provoke spontaneous olfactory orgasm. In turn, we become swept up into a palpable disdain for outdated models. It’s old versus new – the antagonistic, oxymoronic, contradictory super-duo.

We have perfected our roles as consummate consumers. As we are sliced and diced into groups and markets, our gender, age and habits have become valuable economic tools that are fed into complicated logarithms, thereby producing magical marketing formulas.  Our buying behaviors dictate today’s GDP and tomorrow’s dividend checks. We are immersed in lining up, trading in, and selling out to the latest feat of technology and convenience. That has become the meme in today’s modern world; our collective identity is wrapped in the constructs of insatiable consumption – dictating choices and influencing values.

Then there is that most confusing term, “planned obsolescence.” This is how long an item is made to last before it has to be replaced. Mostly associated with electronics and automobile manufacturing, it is a business model that keeps the products moving off the shelves and car lots. But aren’t we also “made”? After all, there is a process involved – energy and matter. We, too, have a lifespan – a sort of obsolescence, if you will. Is there a point where we view the human aging process as a trajectory to the obsolete? Do we unconsciously cast aside our relevance because newer models (younger folks) have replaced us in that age range?

Our lives can reach 100 or so years, perhaps averaging around 85. But that’s not when we begin to see signs of wear: 40ish or earlier is more like it. At first, we may lose some agility, some resilience. If we were cars, it would be the time we would normally contemplate a trade-in. Perhaps memory begins to fade a bit. The hair goes or grows into gray. As an electronic gadget, the latest model would already be unpackaged and ready to go, whilst the outdated model sits cast upon the curbside.

My hair is graying; aches are common; collagen is dwindling. Am I able to discern my own worth from the constructed reality that informs the consumerists’ palate? Some days yes, other days no. It is often difficult to establish transcendental value from the sort that is judgmentally ascribed to physical features and chronological lapse.Only when I am able see my middle age as a new birth, can I reach beyond my commercially bar-coded existence and touch the elegant tangents of my lifespan.

*Jennifer M. Ortiz is a social observer and Progressive Era historian. She holds a Master of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies from Marylhurst University, and has worked as a writer for the past several years in the non-profit sector. Jennifer and her husband live in Portland, Oregon, with their three sons. Note: New to Critical Gerontology and the Gero-Punk Project, she calls herself a “Gero-Clunk.”