Still; Relevant. (Patreon)

Hello, my loves.

Love from my beloved homestate of Massachusetts. This is Menemsha Beach on Martha’s Vineyard.

I posted this offering on social media last night (photo by Brendon Downey) and this was my favorite exchange, on Instagram.

The comment went:

“Love you Amanda Palmer you will always be relevant”

My response was:

“I spent my 20s trying to make a living as an artist.

I spent my 30s trying to be famous.

I spent my 40s trying to find the truth.

I'm gonna spend my 50s trying to find peace.

But I'm never gonna worry about being relevant. It's a fool's game.

I'm relevant to my son, my friends, my lovers, the random people I delighted on the ukulele last night.

That's all I need.”

Relevant?

My relevance becomes more and more personal; more internal.

My relevance to myself can be shared; with you. It shows itself and winds and wends in the act of creation - paid or unpaid - it shows in what I make, how I make it, and who I make it with.

The entire exercise of this patreon - and of crowdfunding in general - is to reshape the idea of “relevance” and put it back in the hands of the artist and, more critically, the people moved by the art.

Sometimes it’s good to be still.

I got up extremely early this morning, before the house started shuffling into action, and found that the Facebook algorithm had helpfully pushed this rehashed but critical piece of writing by Anne Lamott up to the top. Let’s read it, together:

……

The people in my galaxy are terrified, heartbroken, and exhausted, scrambling in their minds to figure this thing out. I want to remind you: “Figure it out” is not a good slogan. No one has a clue what is going to happen, or what would be best. I was blessed to be close friends with Molly Ivins, and I happen to know *exactly* what she would have said this weekend when asked what she thought was going to happen. She would have said, “Sweetpea? Let’s have this conversation in a week or two.”

Everyone I know is calling or texting to ask what I think, and what the best plan is, and I tell them all what Molly would say, which drives them crazy. Of course we want to know how this all shakes down, right now. I do, too, but I was reminded this morning of the very old New Yorker cartoon of the two prisoners in leg chains and manacles, several feet off the ground, one of whom is saying to the other, “Okay, here’s my plan: When the guard comes in with our food…”

So my plan is not to try and figure it out What I know, however, is that everyone is exhausted by the nightmare of the last eight years of Trump. And that is absolutely the worst condition for us to be in, facing the very real prospect of him winning. So I dug up and retooled an old piece on dealing with exhaustion that I posted here, in the hopes that it might help:

My friend Mark Yaconelli gave a spiritual retreat to fifty on rising up, on renewal and second winds in these catastrophic times. One woman, who worked with children who had AIDS, came from Africa to hear his spiritual teachings. Mark talked all morning about filling back up, about energy reserves that are released by curiosity and (paradoxically) service. Then he handed each participant a cheap Mexican blanket, and had them lie down for a nap, like in kindergarten. The woman from Africa was furious with him for wasting her time. She had flown 10,000 miles to study with him. He tried to soothe her, but she stalked to the back of the room with her blanket. Everyone stretched out or curled up, closed their eyes, spaced out, and rested. The woman came over after the nap, and told Mark, “I slept. I dreamed. I’m beyond exhausted. I hadn’t even known that.”

We are exhausted in a brand new way, physically and psychically. We are wiped put by having been such good sports for so long and mustering hope in the face of the polls. We’re exhausted by the extreme stupidity and brutality of MAGA-and-Deep State-thought; by experiencing and trying to help the extreme suffering and death all We’re tired of ourselves. We need fresh horses but you know what? To paraphrase Obama, We’re the fresh horses we’ve been waiting for.”

Yikes, right?

But you always have to start where you are, where your butt is, and admit that you are sad and pooped. I wish I could give everyone a cheap blanket to curl up with today, but most of you have little children, or sick parents, and deadlines to take care of. It doesn’t really help to remind people that this too shall pass, but it will and in the meantime, there are things you can do, and not do. You can try to do *less* as a radical act; cross off one things you thought you needed to do each day—the world may keep on spinning if you don’t manage to buy that pad of graph paper today. May you will need a new packet of moist towelettes soon but does it really have to be today? I try to let myself do a few things way less perfectly that usual. (Perfection is the voice of the enemy, of the oppressor.) I say no a couple of times today to people who need something from me: No is a complete sentence. And my grandson’s 4th grade class had Condiment Day every Thursday. Ketsup: You had to catch up on some assignments. Mustard: There were things you absolutely must do, things you could t put off any longer. And relish: something that you loved doing, something fun or silly or any activity that brought you pleasure.

Relish, joy, and pleasure are one solution to exhaustion, just for today. So is a walk around the ‘hood, noticing people’s gardens, running from them when they come at you with grocery bags heavy with tomatoes and zucchini. Paying attention to real life (as opposed to cable news) relieves exhaustion, because it awakens us. It makes us laugh. Laughter is a battery charge. Laughter, once again, is carbonated holiness.

When I see a friend or a relative who is worn out, I intuitively know what to offer; a cool drink of water, a chair in which to do the sacrament of ploppage, a bracing cup of coffee or tea, chocolate or a mandarin orange, a mandatory time out. I try to help them keep the patient comfortable, and it remind me to do this with my own baby self all day.

My diocesan priest friend Terry Richie says the thing is not to try harder, but to resist less. Remembering this may just help today. Reading your comments and stories always gives me a second wind because it means we are together in this, and connected. This is the best possible news. I thank God for you and your good hearts. Left foot, right foot, left foot, breathe.

Just for now; which, again, is all we have.”

……..

Just for now.

I have spent a full week in relish.

I’ve surrounded my child with great minds, great conversations, great food, and vast moments of sand, stone, water and surf, with TV and screens far, far from our hands.

I’d been waiting years for this week. It’s a luxury, I know, and it’s a luxury afforded by - provided by - all of you.

It never hurts to say thank you.

Thank you for my vacation. Thank you to the people who are housing us here, especially. We have been the recipient of insane levels of generosity and abundance this week…across many homes.

Held.

Still.

Relevant?

Where needed.

Let’s rest; the upcoming season is looking perilous. Dark squalls on the horizon.

I love you all so very much.

Comment, I’m here for it. Let’s discuss.

Xx

A

P.S. As we set up this shot; this was happening above us.