6/25/24  Today I was walking one of my dogwalking clients in the arboretum.  It’s been very buggy in the woods lately because its so damp there, so we were trying to escape it.  My sweetie was with me and pointed out a feather on the ground along our path.  It was a feather from a blue jay and I picked it up.  It felt like a gift just to see it, let alone hold it or dare to walk away with it.  My sweetie looked up on his phone what a blue jay feather might indicate.  I found one particular potential meaning significant to me: “a message of hope from a deceased loved one”.  

There is a particular family member I have been thinking a lot about lately - my maternal grandfather.  I have been feeling his presence, I’ve encountered him in dreams, and sometimes I feel like we are having a conversation together.  This is all very strange to me because: I usually am not sensitive to the presence of deceased people and also - I barely even knew this man.

I don’t know much about Witold.  I remember him as a tall, lanky man with dark brown hair and big bushy eyebrows.  I remember he was always smoking cigarettes and having a drink.  I know animals loved him and would practically flock to him.  When mine and my sister’s markers dried out one time when we were trying to draw, I remember he told us to dip them into his vodka to bring them to life again (but I can’t remember if this actually worked or not).  Sugar cubes were a luxury item in Poland back then, but he would always sneak one for me.  I remember his calm and collected nature, the complete antithesis of the stereotypical Polish man of his times.  I asked my mom to tell me a little about him today.  She couldn’t remember his birthday, but said it may have been in October, 1934.  If I had to guess based on his vibe, I suspect he would be a Libra rather than a Scorpio (but who knows what I don’t know!).  Back in my 20’s, I found out that he wrote lots of poetry.  Today I found out that he also drew pictures a lot.  I don’t have access to these documents, but would give anything to see his drawings.  I did read his poems one time.  We were trying to compile a handmade book of his poetry as a Christmas gift for my grandma one time, sometime before 2010.  There was a question of whether or not we should give her the book because they were all love poems about other women from his youth lol.  It sounded like he loved a lot, and with much precious passion.

I’ve been reading the book Health Communism for several months now and I just finished chapter 2.  I have to take this book slowly, because it brings up a lot of fear, trauma, and rage inside of me.  I’ve been through the ringer of American healthcare for the past decade of my life and this book essentially sums up why.  After I finished the first chapter, I had to write a song in order to process what I had just read, not only to aid in its digestion but also to aid with the trauma rage.  I assumed I would just write another song when I was done with the next chapter, but instead I felt the need to write it out.  That is because it made me think of Witold.

Chapter two is called WASTE.  It has some history about attempts for socialized medicine/healthcare in America and the suppression of these movements.  It describes in detail how the “eugenic and debt burden framework” is an inextricable aspect of capitalism and how this is rooted in this country’s long history of racism, classism, and ableism.  In simple terms: if some rich guy can’t profit off of your body and the labor that it is “supposed to” produce - you are worthless.  You are an expendable body, a “malingerer”, a burden to society.  Basically, you don’t deserve to live.  This is the foundation of eugenics.  American eugenics are still in practice today, as seen in the recent face mask bans sweeping the country or this country’s complete lack of any regard for mitigating the spread of COVID during the ongoing pandemic.  (I still remember, back in 2020, when the CDC specifically told us *not* to wear face masks.  They already knew that COVID was airborne, but they didn’t want the American public to “panic”, so they told us to wear plastic disposable gloves and wash our groceries with alcohol instead.)

As my health significantly deteriorated over the past year, I had to confront (yet again) what it means to be an artist/musician given what is left of my abilities.  My hands don’t work so great anymore, so I no longer make a partial living off of tattooing.  I rarely draw anymore either, but sometimes I can still paint.  It hurts to write in my notebook, so I don’t do it for very long at a time, but I still do it despite the pain.  I can’t play bass much anymore, but I can still play drums and guitar as long as I don’t go too hard or too long.  Every day is now all about conservation of energy and ability: if I do this, will I be able to do that later?  I try not to dwell on what I miss.  I make daily attempts to refocus my energy on what I can still do with the time I have left.

My grandpa was very sick when I knew him.  My mother told me recently that he tried to get medical help but Polish healthcare in 1992 was a complete shitshow (see: American healthcare today).  She said a dismissive doctor told him that his symptoms can only be attributed to “laziness”.  He told him to get off his ass, and “get back to work”. 

Witold Nadstawny passed away on June 9, 1992 from cancer of the larynx and the stomach.  He was 58 years old.  Later that same year, my mom, my sister and I moved to the United States to join my father.  My dad was already in the states and had just secured us a small apartment in Montclair, New Jersey, with the help of one of his carpentry clients.  (He was a new immigrant after all, and no one would rent him an apartment.  This wealthy client of his offered to be the co-signer on the lease and it became our home for about 10 years.)  

I think about Witold all the time now, and I see warnings from him all over my body and every time symptoms flare.  He keeps reminding me to take care of myself and my health as best as I can, because this is one of the most radical acts one could ever commit to.  He also keeps reminding me to write poems and make art.  I’m not sure which comes first: being a sensitive soul or a delicate body (maybe they always go hand in hand? maybe only sometimes?). No one is immune to circumstance, obviously.  Fascist governments will always try to destroy the beautiful, the vulnerable, the truth.  But art will always win, because it lives far away from all that nonsense.