Love for theater, literature forms bond between ‘old fossil’ & student
I was going to a huge gala wedding shindig for a close nephew in a swank venue in downtown LA on Amtrak’s Surfliner. Photo by Stacey Warde
By Dell Franklin
We pulled out of the San Luis Obispo Train Station promptly at 6:11 in the morning, and for a couple of hours, at least, I had a seat with a view of the California coast and nobody beside me, until we stopped in Isla Vista, a UC Santa Barbara enclave for college students, who began piling onto the train, like a mini-stampede of young people heading home for the beginning of the Veteran’s Day weekend.
In my bag were the rolled up remnants of the only semi-respectable attire left in my closet. I wore shorts, a hoodie and sneakers. I had been taking notes as I always do on trains as I studied students seeming so young as to look like children.
It seems young college students are not only disinterested in conversing with old fossils, but have grown so inept socially they wouldn’t know how.
Then a young person stashed a bag above me and, without even glancing at me, sat down and turned partially away from me, withdrew a book (Salem’s Lot) by Stephen King from a smaller bag and began reading.
I continued taking notes. I was not affronted. It seems young college students are not only disinterested in conversing with old fossils, but have grown so inept socially they wouldn’t know how. I was at first unsure whether this was a small boy or girl by the attire—baggy cargo pants, hoodie, black leather shoes, dark hair cut fairly short, large rimless glasses.
But I noticed the hands were small and white and delicate, a girl’s hands.
I continued taking notes and, since she was turned away, the notes were mostly my conjecture about her. Then I put my notebook away and we stopped in Santa Barbara where more students piled on until there was standing room only, which meant for the rest of the trip to LA, people would be standing and awaiting vacancies at the next stops to grab seats.
Somewhere between Santa Barbara and Ventura, the gal beside me put the book back in her bag and withdrew writing material and began jotting notes.
“Are you a student?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said in a soft voice, turning to me. She was pretty, her expression pleasant, but presented no sexual edge whatsoever.
“What are you studying?” I asked.
“Theater arts,” she said.
I asked her if she acted in plays and also if she was a movie buff. She said she was. I asked her if she liked Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller and Edward Albee, and she said she did and that she had been in a play by Tennessee Williams in school but that lately she had been captivated by the Beat Generation writers, and especially Allen Ginsburg and Jack Kerouac. I asked: Did she like “Howl” by Ginsburg? Yes! She loved it. The Beat poets were her favorites. Had she read Gary Snyder? Not yet.
I said I’d noticed her jotting notes and asked if she wrote, too, and she said that writing plays and stories and poetry was what she really wanted to do – and was doing. She then mentioned that she noticed that I was jotting notes and asked if I was a writer. I told her I was, and mentioned writing for a local online news and opinion outlet, and having a couple books out.
Somehow, we began discussing just about everything literary. Our conversation transitioned from cautious to curious to comfortable to trusting.
She had originally gone to a small prestigious theater arts college in New York City that she loved, but then the pandemic hit and she was inside for days and weeks at a time and she has ADHD. She said ADHD made her think and do crazy things. She melted down in NYC and came home broken and desperate, saw a shrink, who put her on Prozac.
“That stuff’s horrible!” I expressed.
“I was on it two months and went crazy. I actually thought I could jump off tall buildings!”
“So what happened?”
“I went off it. My mother doesn’t believe in any drugs anyway. I went to junior college in Santa Monica, where I grew up. And lived with my mother. I did two years. I got back into the theater. They have a great program at Santa Monica JC. And now I’m at UCSB.”
“How do you like Santa Barbara?”
“I love it. It’s beautiful. I love where I live. I’ve made a lot of good friends.”
A lot was divulged, all on her part, about her mother, who is a divorcee and frustrated ex-hippie artist and lifelong CPA. Her father? Very little. In about an hour, I heard her life story—so far. She was a thoughtful, sweet, sensitive young person, probably around 21, who had nevertheless struggled, but was doing better; yet I wondered about her future, as I know nothing of ADHD and what it does to people in the world in which we currently dwell.
All this trauma kind of stuff is new to me. Did not exist in my youth as a teenager or college student or young soldier in the Army, before there was PTSD. Looking back, it seemed all of us were somewhat “fucked up” one way or the other, but we just plowed ahead, did a lot of boozing, survived as best we could.
When we arrived at the magnificent Union Station in LA, we said our goodbyes and finally asked each other’s name.
“I’m Shel,” she said.
“Oh, like Shelly…?”
A shake of the head, and a firm, “No, Sheldon.”
I was not surprised. I don’t understand much of what’s taking place these days, but one couldn’t find a more pleasant and stimulating encounter on a train than this young person–whoever you are.
Dell Franklin writes from his home in Cayucos, Calif. The Surfliner leaves for San Diego from the San Luis Obispo Train Station, just minutes away, first thing in the morning every day
Diogenes the Cynic could rock the boogie, once telling Alexander the Great to “please step aside; you’re blocking my sun.”
By Stacey Warde
Since arriving here two months ago to take refuge at mom’s I realize how small I’ve lived: Feeling watched, under a microscope, careful not to err. Forming unclear, fluid boundaries. Staying small to avoid upsetting others. It’s all coming clear. Is this where it all started?
Finally, at 65, I’ve realized, “Wow! I gave up a lot, mostly my own soul, power and dynamism, to please people who were never going to be happy with me, no matter how hard I tried.” Early on, I adopted the “good Christian” approach to life, which made sense, given the culture in which I grew up: Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Give until you lose yourself. Which, I’ve learned, is bad, really bad. The flip side of that equation, of course, is not giving enough. Which is also bad.
And what did I accomplish with that approach? Not much. Lots of lost time, toxic heartbreak. Redundancies, not the most favorable kind, mistakes, mostly. Some luck. Yes, a lot of the good in my life came solely from luck, and a little bit from making healthy choices. Also, from pursuing what I love, even when material rewards were limited.
I’ve heard it said that the way to success comes by welcoming failure not by actively pursuing success; “fail as often as you can,” the saying goes, “until you get it right.” If nothing else, I say, be persistent and learn from your mistakes, which is really the same thing. So what if you’ve little to show for it? The important thing is effort, and endurance (in today’s vernacular, “resilience”). That’s how one lives large — by enduring, putting in the effort, no matter how seemingly impossible the task, and keeping one’s wits, not falling into the trap of emotional attachments to “success” as defined by others.
My ideal life at this late stage would be to become a sage, though by most measures that’s impossible. Diogenes the Cynic is my primary model of the day, but I would not live entirely as he did, taking shelter in a massive wine jug that was popular some 2,500 years ago, parked in a public place, defecating and masturbating there with little care for or acknowledgement of community standards; however, I do embrace calling out, as he did, all the posers who think they are something when they are not, and seeking out honest people, those who live according to nature, and who don’t subscribe to the false coinage or customs of the time but according to their own deeper thought-out purpose.
Apparently, Diogenes, a sage by any standard and who held up his own character, virtue, and self-sufficiency against any and all who might challenge him, could rock the boogie, once telling Alexander the Great to “please step aside; you’re blocking my sun.” Alex, a protector of the Greek city of Corinth where Diogenes held court, had heard of the wise curmudgeon’s exploits and wanted to see the man for himself. As he stood there, likely expecting to be worshiped as a god, Alexander asked the old man, “Hey, you know me, conqueror of the known world. Is there anything I can do for you, bro?”
“Yes! Absolutely! Please step aside!”
How does one “get it right” in a world changing as rapidly as this one, when more and more of what we know to be true gets tossed aside for the latest fad in technology or social media? When all the world seems riveted by celebrity, wealth, and fame?
I’m still adjusting, reinventing myself with what little time I have left, stepping aside whenever necessary to let the warming light shine through, focusing on what is most essential and real rather than getting lost in the detail of false narratives and the conjured morality and supposed superiority of con artists and “influencers” who do not contribute to the overall well-being of those they influence.
I’m still failing in these attempts at living well and being free. And, I hope, I’m learning. I’m lately discovering the deep dark world, as we’ve been informed by the experts, of things like AI and other promising yet untested new technologies. Lessons can be painful. As I imagine it was for Alexander when he learned that he stood in the “great” man’s way. Alexander, we are told, when his soldiers laughed at the foolish old man living in a wine jug, supposedly hushed his men and said, “If I were not Alexander, I would rather be Diogenes.” Me too.
And, as some other wiser folk have said, what good comes of boasting, especially when boasting of things that were not earned, things like good looks, old money, health, and other inheritances that came merely as an accident of birth? And, even if you worked your ass off and acquired by your wit and luck more wealth, celebrity, or fame than you could ever possibly use, what good does boasting prove? It accomplishes little, and shows that one has not yet really “arrived,” or become a sage — which we all need in our lives — or found any lasting freedom. Yet, boasting and “influencers,” people on the make, trying to be “successful,” are everywhere we look.
I watched a YouTube video of a half-naked “influencer” dressed in a skimpy cheerleader’s outfit attempting to justify her slutty presence on a high school campus by pulling the old “do you know who I am” trick? The people shooting the video didn’t know and didn’t care, and instead tried to persuade her that she was in the wrong place (in view of the high school football team) to broadcast her sexy influencer status. I would not put her in the class of iconoclasts like Diogenes, protesting false coinage or tired old maxims, but would question the value, as does commentator Joey B., of her contribution to the betterment of the world.
I want to boast too, but can’t find a place for it, not in my past or even so-called accomplishments, which will soon enough be forgotten. What are they, exactly? Just stuff. I have stuff. I’ve done stuff. SO. WHAT. The devil’s in the details, and there’s plenty of detail in me that doesn’t amount to much, certainly not for boasting. I excel and often go overboard while attempting to please others. I guess I can boast about that; the devil, however, appears most often when I lose my sense of self in the effort to “be” somebody, and liked by others.
I’m codependent, meaning I have acquired and mostly lived a toxic approach to life, depending on others for status, connecting with them by doing more than is necessary to get their attention and approval. I have little to boast of because I haven’t been very good at setting clear boundaries to keep the meddlers and naysayers (the most annoying creatures I’ve ever met) at bay, holding them at a distance, creating a safe space for myself, to do what I love unmolested by those who think I should be doing something else.
I spent most of my years growing up seeking approval instead of persisting in my own particular and/or peculiar interests and curiosities, which weren’t always in alignment with my parents’ 1950s outlook on life. For the most part, I did not share my parents’ traditional values or interests like cleaning the car every weekend. Another example, when granola became a popular food item in the 1970s my parents thought it was weird and gross, and I loved the stuff, even if most people associated it with “dirty” hippies and annoying whiny tree huggers. I found my way, slowly, laboriously, learning to love what others decried as deficient or “weird.”
Traditions and values come and go. Granola is everywhere now. So, I guess, are half-naked “influencers” who claim to make a living, and the world a better place, by taunting perverts.
Growing up and during my years as an adult, not aspiring “influencer” status, I hid myself, the part of me that dreams and wonders, the part that wants to scream and shout and play music and dance and fuck and act silly. I hid because I needed to be practical in this “practical” world and, as dad would say, use good common sense to navigate its often treacherous obstacles. (By “good” I think he meant not criminal. By “common” he’d say, “It’s not so common.”)
I’ve been busy since relocating to this concrete jungle, from which I fled almost 40 years ago, working in mom’s yard, attempting to garner some appreciation and love from mom, who’s in her 80s and appears generally happy, though she seems to “putter” less in the yard and reads more books on the porch these days.
I set out each day to do what I love, starting with meditation and gardening, sometimes yoga, and recovering from the culture shock of moving here after nearly three decades of a quiet rural life.
Yes, I’ve returned out of necessity to what is referred to in the neighborhood as the “Concrete Jungle’’ (Orange County, Calif., where my family first settled more than 150 years ago, and agriculture ruled. My great-grandfather, Joseph Smith Thurston — was there ever a more Mormon name than that? — grew and sold the popular “Thurston” watermelons at Laguna’s Main Beach on hot summer days, long before the automobile became the predominant OC archetype).
I try not to be a “people pleaser” any more, hard as that is to avoid, and hope instead that what I’m doing now, limited as it seems, is ok. I have yet to fully reacclimate to an Orange County that feels like a foreign country with its endless freeways and rush to go nowhere in the most expensive cars money can buy.
Mom’s garden is tired from the neglect that comes with age. I’m happy to give it a new life. It makes her happy too.
Stacey Warde has returned to the Concrete Jungle, where he was born and raised. This essay appeared first on Medium.
