May 2024


Claudine Jones | Scene4 Magazin

Claudine Jones

surely this view will get me 10K steps on my teeny walking-pad

It's official. The news is putting me to sleep. It's a self-protection apparatus and I have pushed it, or more accurately I have let it get pushed to FOUR naps a day at its worst.

Given the amount of work that still needs to be done around here both aesthetically and functionally, and creatively let's not forget that, how can this be justified? For example: I opened a "door" yesterday that seemed fairly stuck. I waited and marshalled my forces, metaphorically put my shoulder to the task. Took a big breath and by God got the sucker cracked open. It's just that the amount of effort involved in doing that possibly uses up all my energy capital. Back to the naps. I'm hoping not.

Sadly putting it to the test this morning. The only freaking reason that I'm still awake is because I can't dictate while I’m asleep; I mean I could if I was talking in my sleep with a microphone on. I suppose that would be interesting to see what came up. Note to self perhaps I can try that except that I know that I don't talk in my sleep, never have never will. Not really. Maybe a grunt or so but.

Now that brings up a bit cringy subject. I actually had a dream from which I awoke this morning and I remember it in pretty vivid detail: I had decided to leave a particular either meal or conversation or gathering, don't quite remember which, but in any case I exited with the specific and quite aware desire/plan/objective to find a male prostitute. I then proceeded to chat with this person who appeared to be nonspecific ethnicity, but not white, and as I was chatting away—about old family grudges or unresolved disputes with my late husband from years and years ago—I proceeded to vigorously masturbate. And my gigolo’s job was to observe and encourage me. He was very nice actually.

At a certain point he left the room possibly because as much as I tried I wasn't getting anywhere and maybe he was bored? Anyway he began to walk across a four-lane street. It was dark and as I followed him as often happens in dreams, you try to walk and you just can't, so there was a car coming. I just stopped because duh didn't want to get hit by the car even in a dream. My fella came back and made sure I was okay. I remember thinking well I don't know if he's bored but I certainly am. End of scene/dream.

I started this by making a correlation between lack of energy and the extent to which I was being sucked back into crapola about the next few months, whether it be politics or health or choir, whatever ridiculous subject you choose. Like books, or food, I have so many recipes I'll never get to couldn't possibly either cook nor eat the whole mess.

So the connection appears to be that succumbing to lassitude as a result of this information overload is in a sense capitulation. But it's also a sign of the recognition of that paradigm. Means I actually still have all my marbles. If I can make a choice to sit here and babble as an antidote to that weakness or sense of fragility, then maybe there's hope.

And! This is really cool, I actually got excited about learning a piece of music yesterday. Not like I haven't enjoyed a few of the pieces we just performed, I mean hell we were in the middle of a drumming Circle on Sunday over by Grand Lake and spent an hour just spontaneously recreating four or five bits from our concert. And while I am happy, as I demonstrated in South Africa, mind you this was before I broke my hip, I'm happy to be dragged up on stage to spontaneously dance, I just feel like the distance between 2018 and 2024 is starting to be of consequence. I see all these youngsters, and by that I mean people in their 40s for crying out
loud. Even our choir director just turned 40. So there's that.

But I just feel fucking old sometimes. Granted there was that audition for Man of La Mancha years ago, when I go up in there for the dance portion and I’m shocked to realize holy crap I'm really not able to move the way I used to. That was a little humiliating to have to fudge. My body just wouldn't do what I told it to do. It was tired.

It occurs to me now that I am boring myself and I feel the urge to put this down and scoot under the covers. Oh dear. What's the antidote? Sit quietly and wait for the answer. Stay awake.

The other day I had a not-so-funny encounter with my sister-in-law in which I remarked on her shoes and she snapped at me. Totally overreacted to the fact that I even made mention of them as though it were a commentary on her health. Last couple years she's had a lot of surgeries to correct damage to her feet from an accident, one procedure in particular involving ankle reconstruction. I think it must have been a year ago I accompanied her to a sports shoe store right in the neighborhood and just observed while she tried on different styles—all with the goal of avoiding pain and making sure of stability. Aesthetics were a distant third.

Fast forward to now and she's past that, which is good, nay fantastic one might say so why the reactionary crap? The new me specifically absorbs that, reframes it as not about me. It's emanating from her pain, present and near past, plus mad tailoring skills and (no judgment here) a personal clothing aesthetic I have pretty much zero energy for. So this week without really planning it, I accompanied her to the fabric store that she always goes to and we had a lovely time. And screw
polyester, btw.

In fact, it doesn't escape me that there's a correlation between how little I have gotten a chance to chat in the previous few days let's say, and my volubility when I do get a chance to chat. So yeah I come up with all kinds of weird memories and stories and shit I haven't thought about in years. I'm a very good Storyteller so I know when I'm on a roll, I've got my audience, only issue this time is making sure that I don't distract the driver. That's something of concern Sister-in-law certainly knows how to hit the horn.. Yeah a little discretion involved there, lifesaving, you know.

Shoot I hate to say it but a nap is looking really good right now.

This will wake me up.

I probably said this before but I remember precisely where I was and what was happening during 9/11. I was in a gym class doing dance exercise, I remember at the end of the class there was palpable nervousness in the air. Looking at phones wasn’t a thing like it is now but whatever the equivalent of that Obsessive Behavior was, it was very hard to escape. I fled. Even in the ride back home it was on the radio and then I got back just in time to see live coverage on TV which I won't go into. I think my response then was never to go back to that gym or ever resume those classes much as I loved them. It was self-punishing even though I hadn't done anything wrong.

Yep. Different news. Same feeling.

So funny thing, I'm treating myself to episodes of This Is Us , absorbing and sometimes cheesy as all get out—more sap than a Sequoia as they say—and in the middle of one I get a text sound-notification. My immediate reaction is kind of inexplicably over the top: oh my fucking God if that is a fucking political solicitation I'm going to lose my fucking shit!

All they just BEG is 10 bucks.

I just wanted a lunch invite.



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Claudine Jones | Scene4 Magazin

Claudine Jones has a long, full career as an Actor/Singer/Dancer. She writes a monthly column
and is a Senior Writer and columnist for Scene4.
For more of her commentary and articles, check the Archives.

©2024 Claudine Jones
©2024 Publication Scene4 Magazine




May 2024

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