June 26, 2011

Ten Things I Adore

  1. 1. My dog. The last of a pack of seven that lived in our tiny house (all together) from about 1995 through 2010 (in which year we lost four), he is a Scottish terrier of the type seen more prevalently in the early and mid-twentieth century: full size tail (not docked); longer, more pointed muzzle; and leaner, less boxy body. He is over 13 years old and every day with him is a gift. He is the perfect dog for me. I walk through the neighborhood with him almost every day, and I haven't felt that kind of pride since my grandmother sang solos in church.
  2. Good quality teaI have enjoyed loose tea since my teens.
  3. Wineregretfully. If you can enjoy alcohol irregularly, intermittently, the way you might enjoy David Foster Wallace, or tiramisu, fine. If notrun like hell.
  4. Women. I love women. Though they are famous for bonding, the best sorts of women are each little planets, little solar systems that sweep their families into their path but respectfully, charitably, deny the validity of other worlds ... other women. Women are so proud and capable and interesting. They thrive on challenges and admirably perform their duties. They enjoy a little emotion but relegate it to secondary place. They are wonderfully despotic, certain of their tastes (which are much less similar to those of gay men than is generally thought), and are trenchantly practical. Like stamps or baseball cards, if I could, I would collect them all.

June 6, 2011

Old Home Movies

Every so often I think something, or I say something out loud, that comes from long ago. That comes from a more permanent self than the present one. And I am reminded that I have forgotten to--have altogether dropped the habit of--liking myself.
     Perhaps the process of aging itself renders us unmanageable. Like a slender, blossoming cactus purchased on a random Saturday in early spring, in only a few years we explode in new, feeble growth, losing our original shape, cycling through every larger pot and sunnier location in the house until we're turned out onto a patio and freeze.
     I've been slow to comprehend the etiquette of being a mature person. Rules never suited me. But, slowly, it dawns on me that it is in poor taste as someone over 45 to bear too visibly the marks of passage: the regrets, the increasing loneliness, the body's betrayals and frightening changes, and--worst of all--the metastasizing of one's destructive qualities ... weaknesses enlarged beyond the ability of anybody to help, to stop it. One is condemned to his own biography ... long before the last chapter even begins. Youth is the shorter of the two halves.
     Into this chamber of horrors, the sound of my voice as it was at 25, or a habit of mind or truly characteristic response, comes as a comfort ... as a reminder that everyone has something rather fabulous about them--something that is usually all their own. Somehow, in all the world of people, unique personalities exist. I'm reminded of Sunday School, and although I doubt that Jesus loves us all, I do think each person deserves that love.
     The unanswered question for me continues to be: What constitutes success as a person? That statement, or something like it, was the focus of my first website--and my entry into the Internet--over six years ago. Most days, I'm resigned to answer entirely with adjectives that don't describe me: moderation, planning, caution, self-possession, popularity, restraint, good judgment, good health, patience, kindness, the respect of others, etc., etc. I cannot forgive myself for my failure--renewed each morning, like an unwanted library book.
     In warmer, softer moments, I take a more organic view. I think the Internet has placed the self-contentment of others, perhaps, a little too much in our laps. Oh! if we could only borrow the healthy children, the European vacations, and the herb gardens! Everyone my age is dieting, and they all look good ... if a little wrinkled, a little reduced--like chickens just out of the oven.
     How can I make something good of my life, something larger than these late-life efforts to avoid disaster? What was it I was supposed to do, anyway? 
     So far, the only thing I've come up with is remembering what life felt like--sounded like--in its best moments ... like watching an old home movie. Perhaps the only thing that has emerged consistently from me is the habit of looking inside--for everything. As if subjectivity, the plight of the individual--his true character--was the only reality.
    Ironically, I'm reminded of a book by the only poet I've ever (sort of) known, Alex Gildzen: It's All a Movie. Perhaps it is.