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I imagine my recent “Get rad, blah blah blah…” might seem odd or immature or self-indulgent. Going out riding mountain bikes (for example) feels active and provides some sense of adventure while surrounded by nature. Each time I do it I inevitably accomplish some maneuver I didn’t entirely think I was capable of and it makes me feel more confident to consider pursuing acts I’m on the fence about. And sometimes I crash, or nearly crash, and that feels exciting too. So when I say “get rad” it’s my own little activity mantra that I’m having a fun little adventure. A few months ago I graduated college at 5’10” and about 230 pounds. I think weight can overall be like age and how you feel is more important than numbers, but for context I’ve been this height since I was 15 and throughout my 20s when healthy weighed ~165 or so. I haven’t felt very good for years; the numbers are for context. (This isn’t intended to make people compare their individual weight or body shape. All of our vessels are different, this is just a rumination of the body I’ve lived in for these 39 years) Sometimes it feels like the entire world of adulthood endeavors to muck us into a quagmire of inactivity. Sitting in class. Siting at work. Standing in lines. Computer, computer, computer. Sitting at soccer practice, at ballet class, at rowing. Parenting can turn us into professional lounging spectators if we don’t make a point to also be active too. And on top of it – being a writer – probably wins out somewhere in the “least calories burned” category of professions. Then add that oracle of data acquisition in our pockets, the goal of which is to make us slow down and input information so that we can be more effectively be sold more products related to the idea of what we say we’d like to be doing instead of actually doing it. We adults and parents must make a point to do things that make us feel good, otherwise those things won’t happen and our brains and bodies and souls suffer for it. We need to make time for, oh yes, to GET RAD! #ridebikes #getrad #adulting @salsacycles #writerlife #parenting
As with most things, I stumbled onto the music of Kevin Morby long after everyone else had. It was by way of seeing the video (below) for I Have Been To The Mountain.
After awhile I bought the record, Singing Saw, and have enjoyed it, but while driving with the windows and moonroof open for the first time I was stunned by how the music didn’t capture the way I felt while watching the video. I realized, on the winding two-lane 55 bordered by hopelessly saturated farm fields, that the absent ingredient was the theatrical dance performance by Nathan Mitchell. Context informs everything, and my context for this song had been the playful, expressive, tattooed and dying character in the song’s video.
Probably a year ago, I received a wedding invitation that requested an RSVP with three songs that would, “Get you on the dance floor.” I agonized over that until I had to send back the RSVP. The problem wasn’t which songs, it was the idea that I would move my body in a way that might somewhat mirror my emotions. I don’t move with emotions. I’m a poet, a writer, sure I’m artsy with my feelings in a way, but where I grew up boys and men were never taught a vocabulary for moving expressively. We were taught to fight back when necessary, or maybe to throw something in anger (like dad), but never to be open with our bodies in any way. If anything, we avoided dancing (and feelings, surprise) until pulled onto the dance floor by a woman whose attraction we couldn’t deny.
My last semester in college I had all electives left over and took a drawing class. At first drawing made me anxious and frustrated because I could immediately see that I wasn’t good. I knew logically that drawing is a skill – like anything else – but I always expect a lot from myself. Once I calmed down, increased my dexterity, and found a groove, I was stunned by how emotional I felt while drawing. I’d be sitting in a class rendering the instructor’s arrangement of arbitrary bowls and cups and boxes and I’d nearly begin to cry. Moving to create or to feel seemed so alien to me that it almost drew me to tears for confusion of feeling. I am 38 years old.
The irony is that my 11-year-old is a dancer. Ballet, specifically. My kid doesn’t even walk anymore so much as pirouetting, or executing Grand Jete (more or less leaping forward with arms in the air – remember I’m not a dancer) from place to place. I never expected for a ballet dancer the way I’m sure my parents never expected for a poet.
When I was a kid the option was baseball, so I played baseball. And it was fine – old farm fields converted to dusty diamonds surrounded by developing cul de sacs. Not a place where men learn to express the language of thoughts and feelings. If anything, expressing yourself in those surroundings can put one in tangible danger of other men who lash out with a feral anger they can’t rationalize regarding expression. I think often of BH Fairchild’s epic poem Beauty deliberating on men expressing and encountering beauty; how radical to hear a man utter that anything is, “Lovely.”
As a child, never at any point did I have any clue what my dad was thinking or feeling, unless he was shouting in anger. He was like the brackish void up there in the driver’s seat, at the helm of the recliner with a newspaper, on the other side of the baseball I flung above the suburban lawn.
Sometimes I feel like an emotionally blind man trying to guide a child somewhere toward a vocabulary of feeling and assertion and communication. So I just talk a lot. By the time my kid was three I’d probably said more than my father told me his whole life. I don’t know what else to do, and that makes the most sense to me. I guess we’re both developing a vocabulary, if anything I’m probably at the handicap compared with the honesty immediacy of a child. Children will help you if you let them.
I looked into this Nathan Mitchell, the fella dancing in the Kevin Morby video, as I tend to do when stumbling on artists whose work makes me want to know more. Turns out (I gather from his Instagram presence) he rides motorcycles, goes fishing, doesn’t seem to take himself too seriously. Overall, not too different from me. The big difference being his mother opened a dance studio when he was two years old. We learn the environment we’re simmered within. The context. I wonder if he sits down to type and is stymied by linguistics, the way movement appears to flummox me.