Remember the Occupy movement? A series of protests in which demonstrators took over public squares in order to make a statement about capital and inequality. Occupy Wall Street, Occupy London, Occupy Kansas City. Over a decade later I’m engaged in a solo demonstration I’m referring to as “Occupy My Own Mind.” Which, in the attention economy, feels like the ultimate protest.
I haven’t spent this much time here in a while without interruption. It is vast and echoey and surprisingly small. I can access it through familiar portals: on walks, in the shower, on the patio at night, or at the downstairs desk or chair where I now sit. I see the cat stroll in the room and I envy her freedom. She circles the floor, mews sharply at the irony of my last thought, which seems to have reached her telepathically, and exits the room again.
Left alone with my thoughts. I am used to voids and crescendos, not this steady hum of mental energy. “Just sit with it,” I have been urged. But that is asking a lot. Better not to focus on anything too much, just let the thoughts drift as they would in sleep even if my body resists actual slumber.
The Pinegrove Shuffle song pops into my head, a stupid two-chord acoustic riff to which people everywhere perform the same dance move: a self-hug, a lurching step forward, and a splaying out of arms and palms. It’s the laziest dance trend I’ve ever seen, halfway between planking and a figureskater’s flourish. I love it, this form of nonverbal communication across society and space, the pressure of world events or perhaps boredom spitting out this absurdist oyster: chord, step, chord, step, upload, share, repeat.
Our workplace held a Wellness Fair in the lobby on Wednesday where different organizations and vendors set up tables to talk to us about things like nutrition, finances, and mental health. I stopped at the last booth and got a handout about Stress vs. Anxiety. One apparent difference is stress is caused by external factors and anxiety by internal ones. But I think the external can only press so deep for so long until it, too, becomes internal.
I need to let my membrane rest, release the pressure as much as possible for at least some period of time. It’s tempting to look for escape in intoxication or travel but even though flights to Bangkok across the second full moon of August are surprisingly reasonable and Kansas City is full of billboards promoting psychotropic herbs, I am instead forcing myself to sit with it, to occupy the inner basement rooms where the real levers and levels are hidden. And which slowly—with luck and patience— may become accessible.
In a book-length essay my friend Todd wrote about the creative process, he addresses the importance of honesty, of seeing yourself for who you truly are rather than who you think you should be. I’ve had to admit that I can be a very negative person, and if I don’t acknowledge those negative reactions they get suppressed and have a way of coming out anyway. But they are also just that—reactions—not the final word or conclusion on any subject. It’s often possible to see things in a new or more positive light.
Yesterday Till wrote to me from Berlin, a long-awaited reply after his surgery and recovery in March, which went surprisingly well. He was still off work but back on his bike in May and wrote to me about experiencing several “Lukas-days,” which he describes as magical spring days when you hang out with friends until 2 or 3 a.m. and ride your bike back home through blooming trees and nightingale songs. It makes me happy to be thought of in this way, like I still inhabit the hearts and cities I once though of as home.
This summer I am mostly staying in Kansas City. A staycation implies a settling-for-less, a making the most of things, a form of pretending you live somewhere exciting. Instead I am thinking of it as not missing out on what’s right in front of you. It feels nice to actually be in town for people’s backyard birthdays and pool parties and barbecues instead of sending our “would love to, buts…” In just this week I have taken the kids to a Royals game, the trampoline park, Winsteads, and Shakespeare in the Park.
This year’s play was “The Tempest,” which I’d never seen before but have been told by a winning Jeopardy contestant is the answer to almost any trivia question about Shakespeare. Southmoreland Park, just across from the Nelson-Atkins museum, is in its own way as enchanting as the theater at Epidaurus, with the glorious elm tree bending in front of the stage, the leafy branches swaying in the suddenly cool breeze and lightning flashing just as Prospero summoned the play’s namesake storm. In a moment of improvised comedy, Stefano snagged a handful of kettle popcorn from an audience member, prompting Ruby and I to pick up a bag at intermission as well. It was delicious and still warm.
The play sides with forgiveness instead of vengeance, a most welcome outcome as smog, sirens, and uncertainty swirl outside the familiar stone walls of Southmoreland and its annual 17th-century speeches. The storm seemed to get closer as the play went on, and with each lightning flash I worried that the drama would not conclude in time, that the marooned monarchs would be forever lost in the wilderness, Caliban eternally doomed to hateful scheming, and my own inner dilemmas indefinitely unresolved. But the rain held off, and the moon melted through the clouds just as the faithful spirit Ariel was finally set free.
When I got home I decided to stay up until the storm arrived, listening to occasional mortars in the distance as June officially became July. For some reason I decided to update my LinkedIn, adding skills such as: time travel, harmonica, listening to music and figuring out what chords they are playing, falling asleep on trains at will, and working with artists and writers to visualize and realize their book projects. It might be unwise to be sarcastic on that site but pretending to be 100% serious feels equally false. My friend Brooke recently said she heard that art decorates space and music decorates time, so in that sense at least I am telling the truth, so help me Basquiat.
While on the porch I listened to lots of old songs I hadn’t heard in a while, including some electronic power ballads by semi-forgotten or quasi-canceled recording artists, sparkly little indie gems unearthed by the algorithms, and the entire “Paint a Lady” album by Susan Christie.
Jenn woke up and came out to join me around 3:30 a.m. just as the storm finally hit. We sat at the tile mosaic table we’ve had for longer than we’ve been married, the flicking candles illuminating the empties, and I sensed my long-held tension had finally dissolved. Wind, rain, tiny flames, my bare feet touching the damp backyard earth and stone. Maybe a break in the heat and a rebalancing of elements was all I needed.
And I may be solipsistic but I’m not escapist. I know the fires are still raging, the rights and opportunities of the less-powerful are being stripped away, the mental health challenges I alluded to earlier are more present in those close to us than we often realize. I am an aging individual with a limited sphere of influence aside from raising children and making books. But small as I am, I want to be a force for good. To quote a recent comic by the artist Worry Lines, “What would change if, instead of feeling like a problem, I felt like a part of the solution?”
This week I applied for a grant to establish The Bureau of Wild Ideas and Urban Reimagination, an organization that will interview people across the city to solicit and share creative solutions for how to improve the world around us. The premise is that what seems utopian or even impossible today could be what helps make our cities livable in the future. Whether that gets funding or not, I’m sure we’ll find ways to keep having those conversations.
So if you’re an old friend or at all interested in these topics, let’s hang out or catch up soon. And if you’re a current colleague or prospective professional partner, don’t worry, I remain committed to the creative projects I’ve taken on and am happy to have such work, stressful as it may be. Lately I’ve seen good friends show incredible resolve in the face of genuinely difficult circumstances, and it inspires and reminds me to make the most of my own rather favorable lot in life.
Today I bought my first new harmonica in 15 years, a Hohner Marine Band in the key of G. I like harmonica because, in addition to channeling and redirecting the breath into lonesome wails and joyful trills, it’s an instrument you can play while driving or even riding your bike, though I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it. Self-care comes in many different forms, after all.
On that note, I’m shuffling off to do a few more garage rehearsals for an upcoming picnic gig. I’ll see you around town soon or over email or in some other fashion. Wishing you a blessed 4th, stay in touch, and may all your fuses light and all your sparklers be bright.
lucas wetzel 