Petty Resentment and Parenthood

 

resentment - noun - a feeling of indignant displeasure or bitterness toward someone or something perceived as an insult, injury, or unfair treatment. (Merriam-Webster.com)

Petty resentment, especially toward a parent, can linger deep in the waters of one's subconscious for decades but can swim up to the surface every now and then to take a breath.  

Case in point: Although I loved my deceased mother dearly, she wore the pants in the family and could be dictatorial–benevolent or malevolent–depending on the situation. To say that she was strict might be an understatement. For example, because she dreaded anything remotely related to funerals, my sister, two years older than I, and I were prohibited from wearing black: no black jeans, no black T's, no little black dresses. You get my gist. To even out the score, once I became emancipated, I wore black all of the time and still do. Could my perennial defiance be a robe, black or otherwise, covering up a petty resentment that I had and maybe still have toward my mother? Probably.

To tell you the truth, I am certain that my own adult daughter still resents me for a few mandates I put into place years ago when she was growing up. I do recall not buying her her own television when she was twelve. And I probably did not let her watch shows or movies with adult content in them on my TV. What self-respecting mother would? (I don’t know about today’s moms, though. Could they be a bit more lenient?)

Young people on the fence about becoming parents can use the aforementioned to justify not having children. Those of you who are already committed to parenthood know that it isn't easy. Raising kids to love unconditionally rather than to resent might just be the hardest thing you've ever done. After all, there wasn't a guide book handed to you in the maternity ward stipulating how to keep your kids from harboring ill will toward you. Since then, you’ve had to wing it the whole way, doing what your instincts have told you is right to protect the little suckers (sometimes, literally), and you’ve taken the risk of their hating you for it. 

Yet maybe it all boils down to balance. You and I resented our parents for something petty, so our offspring now have the opportunity to hit us in the face with a similar tasting lemon meringue pie, an apt metaphor as there is bittersweetness in the mix. Parenthood can be painful and so can childhood, adolescence, and adulthood, yet there are usually so many rewards that there can be no regrets. 

Let's hope that true love outweighs petty resentment in the end.

#resentment, #parenting, #blog, #blogging, #personal-essay

  

Do Black and White Mix to Create Bland?

 

bland - adj. - anything lacking strong features, stimulating characteristics, or distinctive flavor (Merriam-Webster.com)

Yesterday, as my daughter and I were driving to the New Beverly Cinema here in LA to see a screening of The Beatles' classic A Hard Day's Night, she remarked how the majority of cars before us in traffic were tinted either black or white. As she was driving, I had more of a safe opportunity to concentrate on the vehicles around us. With the exception of an occasion red or blue sedan or SUV, muted colors (gray, black, white, brown) were primarily represented, making our view on the bland side. I told her I missed the abundance of colors when it came to the paint on cars. I also missed the variety of makes and models that were once available. Once upon a time, people ordered their vehicles and had a choice of not only multiple colors but also at least a half dozen accessories. Which is generally not the case today since most buy their autos off of lots. 

But do black and white consistently create bland? When it comes down to cars, yes. When it comes to classic films, no. Case in point, the previously mentioned Richard Lester 1964 comedy shot in black and white, accentuating the phenomenon that was The Beatles, was and still is far from lacking in anything. Way back in 1964 when I was five, I had convinced my dad to escort me to the local movie theater, the Rialto, so that I could be one hundreds of young Beatles' fans supporting Beatlemania. Reluctantly, he agreed, but most likely regretted taking me as the screaming in the theater during the feature made it impossible to hear the musical soundtrack or the dialogue. I, of course, did not care. In terms of their looks and mannerisms, the Fab Four were so colorful that I don't think anyone noticed that the print was not in Technicolor. John, Paul, George, and Ringo exuded Technicolor just by being themselves. Last night, my daughter and I were treated to New Beverly Theater owner Quentin Tarantino's personal, flawless, print of the work in 35 mm. Like the film itself, it had not aged at all. Afterwards, I remarked to my daughter that even though many of the sets and costumes were dated, the boys themselves were not. They were and still are, timeless, part and parcel of their genius, anachronisms who were way ahead of their time. 

Black or white or otherwise, there are few music creators out there who exude the same colors as The Beatles. Which is why the New Beverly was packed and totally respectful last night. There wasn't a cell phone in sight. Most of the audience was made up of people under forty, meaning they weren't around when the band was actively making music. Which leads me to believe that all, regardless of age, are craving another natural phenom like The Beatles, who made it the hard way via working dark, dank clubs sans the opportunity to advertise on social media. 

As a singer-songwriter myself, I am very much aware that there is way too much content out there so that if another group like The Beatles were to be born, most likely they might never be discovered unless the members had wealthy or influential parents to finance their rise so that their needle might fall out of the haystack and be found. 

Because life is a balance, I hold onto the hope that maybe I'll see another incarnation of real, unmistakable, far-from-bland musical talent. However if I don't, it's okay as I have a DVD of A Hard Day's Night and a working DVD player so that I can cue it up, lie back on my queen-sized bed, and be immersed in all of the black-and-white colors of the rainbow. 

#black and white films, #The Beatles, #film, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #music

Relating Reciprocation to Bed Rot: A Stretch?

 

reciprocation - noun - the act of responding to a gesture, feeling, or action with a similar or equivalent one.

(www.dictionary.com)

It's hard to escape ubiquitous technology. Like it or not, it has taken charge of our lives so that more than a few are beginning to sit up and take umbrage, especially those whose livelihoods A.I. has erased. (I was just asked to contribute to the musical mind of A.I. recently. Guess what I answered? No, no, and no!) I could go on and on, but when it comes down to keeping abreast of cha-cha-cha-changes, I tend to let the New York Times to do my bidding for me. 

I am a big fan of the publication. Always have been. What can I say? I admire exemplary, objective (and occasionally subjective) journalism underscored with articulate intelligence. The other morning, I was listening to a podcast featuring Yale psychology professor Laurie Santos while I was preparing my daily fruit smoothie. The conversation broadcast had to do with happiness, a concept that can be easily intellectualized but rarely understood as readily attainable. Santos, a young member of the intelligentsia, mentioned "bed rot," a term that I had not heard prior to listening to her thoughts. For those of you who, like me, are oblivious to most of the modern lingo, bed rot is a condition associated with those who spend exorbitant amounts of time lying in bed surfing social media platforms, like Instagram, for instance. According to Ms. Santos, these individuals are not only experiencing loneliness but also unhappiness as the two are correlated. (Again, this finding is not new; it's common sense. Since so few have it, it is often erroneously seen as being synonymous with genius.)  

To defeat loneliness and/or unhappiness (neither of which I have time for), I tend to reach out to real friends, not A.I. creations, and invite them over to my place (a one-bedroom apartment) for dinner. Most are enthusiastically accepting of my generosity and reciprocate by offering to enhance the meal by way of contributing additional items of food or drink. Which is kind and decent of them, kind of like taking baby steps, though, as when it comes to reciprocating fully, taking giants steps forward, they don't, meaning virtually no one I know will return the favor and host the next gathering at his or her apartment or home. I can't help but ask whether bed rot has anything to do with it. Does allowing one's mind to rot via endless online activity cut in to the desire to return favors? Has it obliterated decency? Probably. 

Of course, every once in a while, those who continually depend on me to be the "cruise director," will assuage their own guilt by coming up with excuses as to why they can't return the favor and have us friends at their places. "I'm short of cash." Okay, fine but the invitees can supply most of the meal. "I don't have enough space." Don't invite a hundred; invite two. And let's not forget the classic: "I don't have time." Make time. What I am getting at here is that all things are possible. "If there is a will, there is a way," as my mother was so fond of repeating. By hosting folks, you might just be mitigating their loneliness and unhappiness in addition to your own, effacing the need to listen to thirty-minute podcasts like Santos's that aim to "optimize" happiness. In the time that it takes to hear all of her findings and subtle advice, you can be contacting friends and arranging a meetup. Just sayin'. You are at the helm of your own well being, not technology.

So there. I related bed rot to reciprocation. And it wasn't a stretch at all. Not bad for a common blogger.

#personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #loneliness, #unhappiness, #Laurie Santos, #podcasts, #A.I.