Ageist Realities and Tu
Superlatives
I’ve observed that as people approach death, experiencing it as imminent, everything they consider takes on a superlative value:
The greatest Song, movie, book, meal sex, dream, conversation, EVERY thing, the greatest EVER.
Either god has it set-up to make us wait ‘til the very end to get to feel the best, or death has a way of playing with us by whispering in our ear that Poltergeist is the greatest movie ever made and that now, knowing this, you can die a happy man.
I’ll let you guess which one of these choices seems most likely (hint; there is no god, so there is, you know, that.)
There Are Days
And I’m afraid this may be one of them. When I want nothing more from my fellow man than to be left the fuck alone.
And on such days it might be wise Of you NOT to thank me for my patience.
SLOW LEARNER: Four Takes on Love and Marriage
Making the Bed
Every day it’s the same thing; Patti: “Wanna help me make the bed?” and me: “Sure.”
Every day a silly question, and every day a lie for an answer.
Welcome to domestic life —
It’s Come Down To This:
She says, “I’m gonna make grilled-cheese sandwiches with some of that sliced chicken breast for breakfast.”
And I say, “Great!” and I mean it.
And now, it’s all I can think about.
Almost Naked
I want you naked on this bed. Sheet casually, haphazardly, draped across enough of you to suggest a hint of mystery but easily thrown aside so that when I lie down next to you there we’ll be and there will be...nothing left to question or think or wonder about.
Apologies
Waiting for an apology, owed me by someone I love too much.
Waiting waiting, each second to a minute to an hour demands it more and bigger and makes it harder to imagine ever, eventually, accepting the fucking thing.
And yet, I always do.
And yet, she always does.
(Of course, it could be worse: incell-world-the-raptures-of-the-ruthlessly-unattractive)
Un-fuckin’-avoidable
There is at play, in the unfolding of life, unavoidable truths in the way things turn out versus the way one might have wanted them to be.
Clichés about cream rising and everything seeking its right level can be deeply reassuring or disastrous depending upon how well you end up in that unfolding.
Schadenfreude exists in large part as a nod to karma, your wicked little smile hidden by turning your face away from someone else’s much-deserved pain.
“Such is life,” is another useful, hackneyed phrase. Enjoy it because weeping or laughing ain’t gonna make fuck-all difference to the universe.
It is confusing and could be worse as evidenced here Balancing acts & ampersand!
Why high school reunions are hard
Your High School Reunion & Mine
No one was talkin’ so I broke the ice with a joke about oral sex and blind midgets.
Suddenly, everybody seemed a LOT older.
NOT a sentimental or feel-good piece
Growing up as a child
Dear Hallmark Company,
My old man acted like he hated me most of the time.
My mother was good early-on but as her alcohol problems increased her reliability to protect me from my father wavered and couldn’t be trusted. I couldn’t count on her.
Here’re the facts about we humans: in our 20’s we begin to see who our parents really were.
In our 30’s we hate them for it.
In our 40's especially if we’ve had kids of our own.
We begin to forgive our parents but we never forget.
In our 50's we should be forgetting about them, all together, after all we’ve got our own fuckin’ problems.
In our 60's and 70's we realize how insignificant they were relative to how enormously we’d had to count on them for survival, life, continued existence early on, until we realize what-the-fuck we’re gonna just die later rather than earlier anyway just like they did— and by the fuckin’ way, they’re already long gone and since we’ll soon be as long gone as they are and equally as forgotten and forgettable only then are we able to understand how important and unimportant and relevant and irrelevant they were then, are now and have always been and will always be.
Facing Approaching Loss of a Beloved Pet
And of our own ending
Some photographers take pics of graves.
Some painters carefully render still life images of a bowl of fruit and so on.
So I guess it’s alright if I think about and type up this:
Our old dog Ruby…
… older than I am in that 7 times 1 calculation of dog time to human time, lies here near me on the floor of my office. The soft Berber carpet cradles her old bones as I type this.
This is the exact kind of relationship I’ve always wanted with a dog and now that I have it I hope and pray to a higher power in which I don’t believe, that Ruby has a much longer life.
Much.
Longer.
And yet, as I said, Ruby is even older than I am. I’m a human, in my 70's. She’s a canine, in her 10's. We both tire more easily than we once did,
We are both still capable of great and passionate engagements with life from time to time inspired by, or perhaps because of, our deep capacities for the fatigue of the aged. So why worry about this now? Because when I look at Ruby who injured herself the other day and who exacerbated that injury by refusing its recognition and chasing two other dogs she found annoying, she seems so tuckered out as to be close to death.
In fact, just yesterday she struggled even to rise or manage the stairs; we had to bring her food bowl to the side of her bed where she could eat lying down. She seemed to be on her last legs.
Until now, today she’s regained a bit of strength and appears simply elderly once more.
So, what about Ruby and me?
A few moments ago she walked slowly downstairs and lay down near my office door. I hear her breathing and she glances at me, smiling as always, and I ponder what immortality we may someday see.
Or not… Maybe not… Probably not…
But then again neither Ruby nor I know anything for sure.
And if wisdom is an informed and detached concern for life itself in the face of death itself — Well, I can easily convince myself that Ruby and I are hot on Wisdom’s trail and getting closer every day to our happy endings.
I envy the hopeful and stupidness of their “simple faith” because sometimes facing the obvious truth is almost too much to bear.
Boomer Stares Down Mortality
(In this version of this story I’m the Boomer in the title but Ruby is my wing-girl, deeply, sorely missed and beloved.)
Happy Ending(s)
Ruby and I are more or less the same age. I’m a human, 70. She’s a canine, 10. We both tire more easily than we once did, both are capable of great and passionate engagements with life from time to time inspired by, or perhaps because of, our deep capacities for the fatigue of the aged.
When I look at Ruby who was injured the other day and who exacerbated that injury by refusing its recognition and chasing two other dogs she found annoying, she seems so tuckered out as to be close to death.
Yesterday she struggled even to rise or manage the stairs; we had to bring her food bowl to the side of her bed where she could eat lying down. She seemed to be on her last legs.
Until now, today she’s regained a bit of strength and appears simply elderly once more. So, what about Ruby and me?
A few moments ago she walked slowly Downstairs and lay near My office door. And I hear her breathing And she glances at me And I ponder What immortality We may someday see? Or not… Maybe not… Probably not…
But then again neither Ruby nor I know anything for sure and if wisdom is an informed and detached concern for life itself in the face of death itself. Well, I can easily convince myself that Ruby and I are hot on its trail and getting closer every day to our happy endings.
