I Got Cancelled

My sister stopped engaging with me several years ago. “My therapist thinks it’s better this way.” My brother decided the same this past Christmas. “You’re no fun to talk to.”

Linked as children by our sweaters. (Columbia Icefield, 1972)

I had never got along exceptionally well with either of them, but I did strive to maintain at least a superficial relationship, if not for anything else, to stay connected with my nephews and nieces. I haven’t seen my sister’s son since he was seven; he’s now finishing his undergraduate degree in Italy.

The final descent of my sister’s Iron Curtain was triggered after our mother’s death, the last of the preceding generation, meaning there was now no one to say no.

My mother in the backyard of my childhood home in Toronto

The odd thing about this is that we all share financial stability as well as similar social and political grounding. There are no real axes to grind, no addictions or houses burned down. The main point of contention stems from 2006 when I sublet my sister’s Manhattan apartment and a couple of curse-laden messages were left by my former girlfriend on her answering machine.

My sister arranged a group therapy session with my brother and I. The session foundered the moment the therapist instructed us to step back from our conflict and share a personal issue with which we struggled. I shared my regret about never having children. My brother offered that he could get frustrated with fund-raising issues at his linguistics lab. My sister’s answer was exceptionally terse. “There’s nothing.” “Nothing at all?” The therapist prodded. “Nothing at all.”

My penchant for getting buried began in Anna Maria Key, Florida

I should have seen the writing on the wall at that moment, but I also knew that her operating mechanism was to avoid emotions at all costs. Which of course leads to my cancellation, a choice that’s not actually surprising given our current cultural climate.

No matter the reason – difference of opinion or indifference – our odd world continues to devolve into a social media platform where faces are deleted, voices silenced with a tap on the screen. Different perspectives aren’t negotiated but blocked, the sphere ever smaller, down the worm hole with the AI avatars, where the friendliest and most wonderful perspective of all are offered, where friends and brothers are always compliant and understanding, where my sister is probably talking to her new AI brother now. That jerk.

Finding an Antidote for Poisoned Music

The shitty (tragic?) parts of my life have tended to poison things that I love, including favorite music. Low, a band I once saw in concert every year, has been off my playlist ever since Mimi Parker, a member of the duo, died suddenly of cancer. It’s been three years now. As much as I miss the music, I can’t listen. Not yet.

Alan and Mimi play Low music in Fargo (2010)

A similar grief hit when my friend Gord Downie, the lead singer of The Tragically Hip, died although I was more prepared for his death, given his prognosis. It wasn’t grief as much as mourning, as Joan Didion differentiated in The Year of Magical Thinking. I attended one of his final concerts, and then he died. As much as I miss him, his music provides comfort.

Gord singing and contorting at Fort Henry in the ’90s

The poisoning is more intense when it comes on a personal level. I very much enjoyed Modest Mouse until a student I associated the music with committed suicide. And then, as they sing on Polar Opposites, I’m trying to drink away the part of the day that I cannot sleep away.

I’ve had a couple of relationships turn terribly sour and drag the joy of the music with them. The death of an ex made The Red Hot Chili Peppers feel dark and awful, while Sufjan Stevens, once a great passion, was dragged into a quagmire of triggering memories. I’m working on getting his music back into my head.

Sufjan plays Christmas Unicorn at The Bowery Ballroom

In the end, this self-cleaning of music, loving it once and then not, allowing it to creep back in, knowing it again, almost feels like wisdom, or at least the closest I will ever get to a thing like that.

Phil plays one of his last shows at The Capital Theatre