Shojoskip 少女スキップ … So many names… Shoegaze, post-rock, post-gaze, bliss-pop… Whatever… It’s the sound. It’s the vibe. It’s the mood. It works.

On the downward side of another week, the Democratic Virtual Convention now finished and the outside world is in the spin. Hell, it’s not even a spin anymore. It’s like a pot boiling over and the top of the range catching fire. It’s just a mess. The Convention itself was like a Zoom Meeting from Hell. I can only imagine what a menu of hatred and ignorance, vitriol and invective the Republicans are going to turn out next. No, I don’t want to imagine. Nobody is undecided on who to vote for. The only questions left are those wondering if they will vote at all, and those wondering how to vote. The lines are pretty clearly drawn in the sand. It might be better at this point if we all just did a national Braveheart scene and rushed it each other and just got it all over with. Let the survivors pick up the pieces and decide what comes next.

I’ll vote but I feel very disconnected from it. A degree of detachment is the best way to go. The anger isn’t sustainable for anyone except the real psychos who aren’t thinking about the long game. They’re not worried about being consumed by the fire. They’re pissed off right now and that’s where they want to be. Who knows if they even know anything different anymore?

These thoughts are so at odds with the tone of the music. That shows my level of detachment. I feel like I’m floating above the fray and that’s speaking physically, not morally or ethically above it. It’s just a question of viewing it from an emotional distance. That’s how I’m going to get through it. Save the justified anger for those more capable of handling it and sustaining it. That’s what The Crocodiles would say. Leave it alone, man. You’re not up to it.

I’m not.

Detachment… distance.

Let’s make it clear though. I’m not detached at all. I’m just attached to different things in a different place or space. There’s a distinct difference. I’ve let go of a lot of things that there is no controlling. There is a part for me in all of it, but it’s a very small part and it will play out as it will.

Someone reminded me the other night that my birthday is next week. Of course I have been vaguely aware of it, as I am aware of the passage of days, months and years. A person can’t emotionally detach from time and aging. Not entirely. There is no profit in trying to slow the passage of time and it’s impossible to physically disconnect from it when shooting pains wake you in the morning and rock you to sleep at night. The face that looks back from the mirror doesn’t get younger, nor even pause for a while. There is no distancing physically from any of it. The day itself however doesn’t mean a lot to me. That’s symptomatic of years for disappointment in others’ recognition of the day’s significance for sure but it is what it is. The day lost a lot of meaning for me a long, long time ago. I let go. I’m not even entirely sure what people celebrate yearly. Then there are “landmark” birthdays, thirty and forty and fifty and sixty. Why are they more important, except we’ve assigned them as such?

It’s nice to be treated as special though. There is no questioning that. It might be better though to flatten the curve and treat people specially every day. Nobody is guaranteed their next birthday celebration or even the time between one birthday and another. Just acknowledge daily that you love a person and that they hold a special place in your life. That’s all. I do think a lot about that on a daily basis, beyond the idea of aging. Every day is special, mostly because every day is a day closer to the end of one’s days. That’s not MacGregor being bleak. It’s just that special fact that makes every day special in and of itself. Every day you wake up is a birthday and it could be the very last one you celebrate. Treat it as such.

No, I’m not detached at all. I’m just attached in a different space and place. I’m happy here.

This specific day… I seem to have injured myself a couple weeks ago and have been in excruciating pain… or at least off and on. This morning is particularly tough. It’s fortunate that I fell asleep in my outside clothes because I’m not certain I could get my pants on today. It’s something in my lower back and left hip. It felt like a bad pull or strain at first but then started going away so it was easy enough to ignore. Then it came back. Then it went away. Now it’s back and it’s a ballbreaker, and it’s time to get it attended to. Three weeks is long enough to wait for it to disappear on its own the way things used to fade away to memory. That’s what happens beyond the passage of decades though. Things don’t go away on their own. Physical injuries heal much slower than emotional injuries, quite the opposite of how it used to be. That’s the funny thing about aging. It makes me smile to think about being bedridden by emotional harms and now I’m afraid to take off my underwear for fear of not being able to bend down to put another pair on. Fucking hell, today hurts! It’s got a good soundtrack though!

That’s more important than anything else, to me. A good soundtrack for a day erases an awful lot of woes. It really is that simple.