Saul Good and Co.

Gimme a Beat

Albums I Have Loved: An Ongoing Saul Good and Co. Series

 

Subject 7: Control by Janet Jackson

 

I've been listening to a lot of Janet lately in preparation for this post, and it turns out that I'm back in love with Rhythm Nation 1814, which is a lush and deep and wondrously eclectic album that I had sort of forgotten about. Control, however, was formative for me and so I will talk about that one here. Basically you can't go wrong with any of the JJ catalog (Janet., for example, is so cool and vibe-y and significant to a different time in my life - it's more sexy and less socially conscious and there is nothing wrong with an artist branching out in that direction), but start with Control because of "Nasty" and "What Have You Done for Me Lately" and "The Pleasure Principle."

 

I got the tape when it came out and I would get into my dance onesies and dance around my house to it like the aspiring showgirl that I was and if you don't believe me watch any of the home videos in my family's collection circa 1986-89. On second thought, please do us both a favor and take my word for it.  That sound though! Listening to it now, it's still fresh and timeless. I can't get over how much I took "When I Think of You" for granted all those years, because that single SHIMMERS. It's such a fucking gem. Jam and Lewis and Janet forever and ever. So yes, Control is infinitely danceable. It's also such an interesting record for a girl in those impressionable not-quite-a-woman years, to absorb these celebratory proto-feminist lyrics about what a woman deserves and how she should expect to be treated. She's no passive object. This lady is grown and in charge. Then there's "Let's Wait Awhile," the unsubtle safe-sex ballad that brings the party to a halt but makes it sound like waiting is the most romantic thing in the world. I didn't listen with the intention to learn anything, but it sunk in. I was indoctrinated with the message of Control. In retrospect, it's revelatory.

 

"Control," the song as well as the album as a whole, is an incredibly important statement and must have been such a triumphant game changer at the time. I never gave much thought to what Janet went through before this album, but with an experience-granted adult appreciation of  Janet's history and what she was up against, it's breathtaking. Think of the years and years she spent in the industry--she was TWENTY when Control dropped, holy burritos--she'd long been a child actress from a wildly famous, not to mention famously abusive, family. A female child actress from a famous abusive family. A female child actress of color from a famous abusive family. When she declared that she was in control at that point, you have to believe that she earned that damn control by every bead of sweat she perspired and every scar left by an army of creeps and parasites and predators. Every single one of these factors could have kept her down, but she beat them all combined, and she flourished. There she was, on top of the charts and the world, seemingly on her terms. She still got banned from the Superbowl because a nasty boy ripped her top off and that makes me angry as hell. 

 

Just go meditate on that while you listen to Control.

 

 

Why So Sad, Saddy McSadpants?

Don't know if you've noticed, but I write about grief a lot. Like, a lot lot. I know that my blog identity of late is that of a giant downer - "bummer" has morphed into my brand. I'm an emotional piece of work, still not conditioned to let the injustices of the world roll off my back, and if it's not your cup of tea, nobody asked you to read it, Brenda. 

To be fair, though, I never think that writing about the loved ones I've lost is when I'm at my downer-est, or even a bit morbid. Dedicating space to the memory of those who have meant so much to me is my sincerest expression of love and gratitude. There's pain to get to the point of writing, but when I write, it's the sign of beginning to move on. Honestly I think it's my calling to pay tribute, to preserve legacies, to keep the memory of the dead alive. I've been working on my memoir of personal loss on and off for some time and I do intend to see it through, and maybe  it sounds like such a sad and sorry thing to be doing, but I don't think of it that way at all. There's joy in it, and release, as if I'm polishing my recollections like gems to be held to the light the way they deserve.

Maybe you've heard of the "love languages," well language is my love language. Writing is how I show my feelings, occasionally to those who are alive, even (but if I haven't written about you yet, it doesn't mean I don't love you, you just might need to count on reading about yourself after you're gone, sorry). In seriousness, when my subject is a person I love, writing about them means everything to me, and as such, I'm not satisfied with anything I've ever written about anybody. I could go back to every single piece I've crafted, including my entry about Linda, and keep working on it forever because even with every thought and tear woven into the text, nothing does the people you love justice. My memories are precious and writing about them takes forever because they are the hardest to get right.That won't stop me from doing it. I'll just keep trying my best, and, occasionally going back and doing it again, in a different way. Sometimes I think I'm stuck in my past, but what's really going on when I revisit old times in my life is that I'm using them to make sense of my life now. 

 

The novel I've been putting a lot of energy into these days is markedly different. It's not autobiographical, for one. I mean, a lot of what's in it is based in my life because that's how it is when you're a writer, you draw from wells of honesty. I guess you could say that it's an alternate take on my life during the first year of college, using the sliding doors theory and letting it run wild, and in that way it eulogizes any regrets I might have about the way my past didn't go. It's freeing because it's so different from what I've shown again and again in my nonfiction, yet there's always that thread of letting go of something to truly appreciate it.

 

And THAT is happiness! YAY!

 

 

Linda, Toujours

I'm not sure if Linda was my mom's friend first, or if Linda's daughter Tricia was mine. In my memory it all happened at once, Tricia joined my Brownie Troop, my mom was a leader and all of a sudden our families were doing everything together. We've been friends a billion times longer than we were Girl Scouts. I spent so much time with Tricia and her parents-- we vacationed together, we were invited to each other's family events, we were so much in each other's circles that we truly became family. I have so many memories and adventures racked up over the years, from the plays we were forever putting on for the adults to the day trips and camping trips and sleepovers that followed one after another. I never would have seen Disney World or Washington D.C. had their family not invited me along. Tricia and I are two years apart and when we entered our high school years we grew apart a bit, like you do, but our families stayed close and we've remained dear to each other as only happens with your oldest heart-friends. Even if we don't see each other as much as we check in via text and holiday cards and on social media, we still belong to each other in a way that is forever. I in no way exaggerate when I say that Linda was a second mother to me for much of my life.

Linda passed away last year and I never mentioned it here before now. 

I guess you could say I've been sitting on my feelings about losing someone so integral to my life because losing her wasn't real to me, not yet. I hadn't seen Linda in person for years before she was diagnosed with cancer, and I didn't see her after, so when she died it didn't change much in my psyche, in practical terms. She was no more there or not-there than she'd been before because when I grew up and moved away I took for granted that I'd see her when I saw her, and that she'd always be there when the time was right, and then... Well. She didn't want a memorial service, so without that ritual of finality, she was able to go on living in my world. I'd catch myself every so often remembering that she died, and I'd stop and say to myself, "I can't believe it." Then go back to not believing it, not really.

This past weekend the community center where Linda worked before she retired held a benefit for a scholarship fund in her name, and my siblings and parents and some other families and friends and I went and though it wasn't technically a memorial service, it functioned as one for some of us, me included. The most important thing for me was to see Tricia and her dad there, and though we didn't get to spend a ton of time together, we did some reminiscing, some catch-up, and it felt so right to be together. There were laughs and smiles, and also tears because I can't pretend Linda is alive any more. Mourning is necessary. I needed that gathering for my soul and for the processing to kick in and for a million other reasons. 

Tricia got up to our hometown a day earlier than I did and had some time to go through old pictures and she sent me a ton, including this one of me, her and her mom on one of our excursions. It's not a great picture, Linda is almost totally blurred, but in its way, it's the best picture because it exists.

There are hundreds of pictures of Tricia and me together, but unfortunately I don't have any recent ones of Linda. Here's one of me cutting my bridal shower cake, that she made, which makes me smile.

She also made the centerpieces for my wedding reception as well as the "diaper cake" for my baby shower. She officiated my sister's wedding. Once time she caught wind that I mom-failed at decorating my house for Halloween when HR was little and she handcrafted an all-purpose ornament--it was a wool sheep with a sash on it that you can change to reflect the current season or holiday so I'd always have a decoration. It sits in my living room to this day, ready to go from the mitten sash to the flower. Creativity, craftiness, generosity and a great sense of humor are Linda's legacy. I'll always remember her for her love of driving and for working her butt off in any job she was doing and her perpetually pin-neat home and her laugh. I'll remember her for being such a great friend to my mom and the way those ladies took care of one another. All these memories remind me that she was here, and because of them, she always will be. 

Rest in peace, to a very special person. Love to you, Tricia and your dad and your family. XO Forever. 

It's All a Wave

I feel like I'm over the whining, for a spell, which is nice for all of us, even though things seem especially intense right now. I get that times are always going to be intense in some way, and sometimes I'm just better at adapting to the intensity than others. HR has been going through a heart wrenching anxiety phase related to going to school and I think I finally understand what it's about. We're seeking the guidance of a pro to help us help him but oh, child, I apologize that the legacy I've handed down includes childhood psychosis in addition to those janktown pre-braces teeth and autoimmune issues. I was hoping that part especially would miss you. I'm banking on my love (and my clear memories of what it was like to be in your shoes) being enough to make up for it, at least partially.

We've got big weekend plans that will be mostly fun, with an emotional component that I'll go into next week when we're on the other side of it and I'm ready to break it all down. 

Before I go, because we live in these 24-7 cuckoo-ka-choo news cycle times and I can't remotely keep up with topics I've missed since my last entry, I don't want to miss that somewhere in there our Gen-X beloved Luke Perry passed away and it's one of those celebrity deaths that just got to me. Not even because every Perry is automatically considered my kin and he's also my spiritual cousin in stoner-surf fashion. Anyway, I made this tribute. 

If you catch me drunk on wine coolers and reading my teenage diaries later, be kind, I've had a loss.