“. . . those who expected lightning and thunder are disappointed. . .” (Czeslaw Milosz)

A bee circling cloverr

A bee circling clover

Today is today. I have to keep remembering that.

It’s almost (no, absolutely) a commonplace, people say it so often that it means nothing, that one must “live in the moment.”

I have a few moments at the moment. I can write—which is what my mind and body both tell me I should be doing—or I can do any one of the hundred other things I can think of doing simply by looking around this room without moving a muscle except to swivel my head.

Laundry. Vacuum the floor. Sort books to give away. Watch “Love it or list it” on the HG channel. Listen to the “news.” Make another cup of coffee. Practice the organ.

Practice the organ or write. Those are the real choices. The writing is winning out at the moment.

What do those 30-40-or 50-year-olds know about living in the moment?

Don’t get all philosophical or doctrinaire about it. I’m sick to death of being told as if were THE truth that I need to live in the moment.

People mean things like “don’t dwell on the past, it’s over—you can’t do anything about it.” Or, “stop worrying about the future—you can’t control it.” So live as if yesterday didn’t happen and as if there’s no tomorrow?

Yesterday DID happen. I wasted quite a lot of time doing things that didn’t accomplish anything much. Or make myself happier or more comfortable in that “moment.” And tomorrow WILL—presumably—happen. I need more time tomorrow. I know that already. I can’t do all the things I want (or need) to do.

Only a white-haired old man, who [is] much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be. . .

That’s living in the moment, I guess. The old man knows today is the end of the world, but he keeps caring for his tomatoes. Like Martin Luther who, at least in legend, when asked while he was planting a tree, what he would do if he knew the Second Coming was about to happen, said he’d keep planting his tree.

If you think you’re living in the moment, you should rethink. According to people who know (such as neurologists and psychiatrists) everything you’ve ever done your little brain remembers. It’s possible to act in the moment, but living there is, well, a fantasy.

I’ll stop talking to “you” and talk to me. I don’t really want to forget (or even to live as if they didn’t happen) the moment when I was 4 years old that I first discovered how much pleasure it gave other people when I played “Silent Night” from memory—and how much pleasure their pleasure added to the pleasure I had simply in the playing. And I can’t (I wish I could) forget the night about the same year that I woke up in my uncle’s bed with his semen all over my body.

Back to “you”: if you can’t face the realities of the past, you should not be reading this.

While he binds his tomatoes

While he binds his tomatoes

If you don’t like to read about my uncle’s semen, I’d suggest you read about Cyberloney. I don’t want to refer anyone to Commentary. It’s a propaganda rag for the most rabidly conservative and one-sided thinking in America, but this article is pretty funny and thought-provoking. (I tried to get the rag removed as a “scholarly” journal from the EBSCO databases, but failed to prove my point, as I single-handedly did with the equally absurd journal First Things—it’s no longer listed as scholarly in EBSCO. I’ll keep trying.)

So two absolutely opposing experiences happened to me at about the same time, and—contrary to the advice to “live in the moment”—both are still with me every moment of every day.

When you get to your 70th year, you might understand (you might not if you’re determined to be successful and happy and rich). And if you’ve never had a year in which two things so chasmally different happened to you and gave you a bit of confusion about “the meaning of life,” you are so lucky that you ought to be selling everything you have and giving to the poor without even a second thought.

Don’t ask me why I’m writing about those two events. Except to say that I need three extra days (thinking about the future) between now and Sunday because I’m going to play (there, I’ve said it—projecting into the future) the organ at one of the most prestigious (if not important) churches in the city on Sunday, a prospect that is both exhilarating and terrifying every time the organist asks me to substitute for him. Those two feelings at once because of the two experiences I had when I was 4.

And I need the three more days to make sure I’ve practiced enough to play well enough to give the church folks pleasure. And to give me pleasure.

And my opinion is that it would destroy my being who I am if I didn’t carry those two experiences with me always. I live in the past. No, I carry the past with me. Perhaps if I didn’t, I’d be the organist at a large and prestigious church or playing recitals all over the world. But I’m not.

For me, living in the moment is not the point (and it wouldn’t be very interesting). My goal is to carry the past with me always, but carry it in such a loving and grateful manner as to make the future—which for me is soon, oh too soon—bearable and beautiful.

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover.

So I want to stop worrying about “living in the moment” and find a way—finally—to hold past, present, and future balance. All of it. Good and bad.

“A Song on the End of the World,” by Czeslaw Milosz (1911 – 2004)
On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be

Czeslaw Milosz was a Polish poet, born in a part of Lithuania that was part of Poland after WWI. After WWII he was a Polish diplomat, and in 1950 he was granted political asylum in France. In 1960 he moved to the United States to become a lecturer in Polish literature at the University of California at Berkeley. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1980.

I hope James doesn't mind my posting his picture

I hope James doesn’t mind my posting his picture

“. . . as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire. . .” (Billy Collins)

OCD - any table clth will do for hiding

OCD – any table cloth will do for hiding

The other day I Googled “poems about aging” just to see what I would find.

It was a pretty depressing lot.

Now look. I’m not any more depressed than I was 20 years ago. Which ain’t sayin’ much. Yesterday afternoon after I taught my funny little class of adult ESL students—our reading from the news for the day was about that absurd Burger King Japan “black burger,” and we laughed together for an hour—and exercised at the fitness center, and felt just fine, I went to the supermarket and halfway through my shopping, something squeezed itself into my mind, and I wanted to cry.

Now look. Don’t give up on me yet. This is not same-song-100th-verse.

Here’s what’s different. I realized there was so much I wanted to get done yesterday that accomplishment was hopeless. The day could not ever have had enough hours. And that prompted my mind (not my brain—that’s what’s depressed) to think about setting some priorities

that’s an absurd phrase: if something is a priority, that means it comes before everything else, the “first concern” or “taking precedence,” so you can’t set “some” priorities—there can be only one item, idea, task, one whatever that’s the “first”

for the rest of this semester. Still thinking in semesters? The seven athletes I will tutor today for their required “Discovery and Discourse” classes are in the middle of the “semester,” so I guess I am, too. Truth be told, most of them are in the middle of the football season, and that is the real organizing principle of their lives.

So organizing my thinking by the semester makes sense because my schedule for the week is organized around those athletes’ lives.

This week I’ve added the necessity for practicing the organ for playing three services at the second largest Episcopal church in America (it used to be first, but a church in Houston has surpassed it in membership). THREE services on one day. Fortunately, the music for two of them is identical, and the third I will play on my favorite little intimate tracker-action instrument.

All of that—I know—seems much too mundane to be writing about here. Boring. Who cares what my schedule is?

Anyone who is “retired” knows what I’m talking about, I think. There’s all of this stuff to do and no time to do it. That used to be called “stress” or something, and we all simply coped with it. Now it’s called “OMIGOD, what happens if I die tomorrow and all this stuff isn’t finished?” That was never of much concern until August 1, 2014. There was always next week. Some stuff could be delayed simply because it wasn’t that important. Some stuff could be delayed simply because it could be delayed.

Last week sometime I received a voice mail message from some guy in Arizona who identified himself as the representative for my retirement fund saying it is imperative that I call him so decisions can be made about how I want to use the money—annuity, reinvestment, monthly withdrawals. You know.

An old-guy poet

An old-guy poet

I haven’t called him back.

Which is not unusual for me. It’s the sort of thing I’ve always been able to ignore—no, it’s the kind of detail I simply can’t wrap my mind around and get done. I’m not making excuses but simply saying the day he called I was in a state not only of dissociation but physical dizziness. It’s a wonderful experience to feel out of body, creeping through the day feeling as if nothing is real, and then suddenly my head that isn’t real spins around while I’m walking, so the most real thing I feel all day is stumbling and not-quite falling. So he called me about taking care of myself for the rest of my life, and all I can do is tell myself that I really must call him back now that my head isn’t spinning.

But I have to do this (write) first today. Then I have to tutor straight through for 9 to 4. Then I have an appointment with one of my doctors to talk about this spinning, and then I have to practice the organ until it’s time to go to a meeting.

I could barely keep that kind of schedule when I was 40.

So here I am, too old to have any fun (that’s absolutely NOT true) and working harder and being busier than I was just three months ago before I retired.

My cat Chachi (the snowshoes) had to go to the vet yesterday because he’s been scratching fur off his legs. It’s happened before. Some skin irritation. A little prednisone and an antibiotic and he’ll be just fine. But this time the vet says he’s bit OCD. OCD?!

I guess living with me has become more stressful than it used to be. And I’m supposed to be enjoying life in my twilight years.
Right. Maybe all those sad poems about aging are right—not because it’s sad to think about the end creeping (or rushing) up on me, but because I really don’t have time to “invite my soul” (thank you, Walt Whitman) until then.

My favorite of those poems about aging. Not sad. I’ve posted it here before. It really has nothing to do with what I’ve written above. I just like it.

“Forgetfulness,” by Billy Collins (b. 1941 –a real contemporary)

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

No time to invite my soul

No time to invite my soul

“. . . a partial temperature drifts down from the sky. . .” Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)

Meaning or actuality?

Meaning or actuality?

The last few days my writing has been bits and pieces, attempts to get something started that fizzle into nothing. That’s important only because it may be evidence of something shifting in my inner life, a “sea-change.”

For several days I’ve been in the grip of a physical anomaly that’s familiar yet new. It may not be physical at all. It may be in my mind, not in my brain.

If it’s in my mind, I think it’s not unusual for someone my age. That is to say, the disconcerting sense that “the center will not hold” (William Butler Yeats, 1865-1939, “The Second Coming”). If it’s in my brain, Drs. Agostini, Bret, and Daly better figure it out soon!

Dizzy. Dissociated. Disoriented. Dreamlike.

Am I alone in the experience of suddenly realizing I’ve not actually been “there” for the last (how long?) hour? That I chat for with a friend on my way out of the tutoring center, and, by the time I get to the elevator I’m pretty sure it never happened? That I was not physically there at her desk?

What’s that all about, anyway? A normal sense to anyone who stops to think for one moment? Especially anyone who has reached older age than many of the famous personages whose deaths are in the news. Wondering not only about the “meaning” of life, but also about the “actuality” of life?

One of my father’s favorite Bible verses comes to mind. “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isaiah 1:19). I don’t precisely think there’s such a thing as “sin.” And, if there is, I have no idea what it has to do with what I’ve written so far. The injunction, “Come now, and let us reason together,” I suppose.

Let’s be reasonable about this.

He knows what's "only"

He knows what’s “only”

I know dissociation is a common symptom of TLEpilepsy (back to that old song). It means “disoriented” and “dreamlike.” It’s an easy leap of logic from that feeling to one of intense religiosity, or at least spirituality. [What a ridiculous word! Even the bigoted and viciously fundamentalist atheist Sam Harris has written about it.] TLEptics know the experience. Not all of us see visions and dream dreams, but we all know the sense of the “other-worldly.” It’s right here. In our brains. Every day.

It may be, I think, what drives us to write, to try to make sense of the way we feel.

Make sense.

Very little veritably makes sense to me.

Not obvious things. Calling the Koch Brothers “libertarians,” for example, when everyone knows they are simply the greediest sons-of-bitches on earth. Or thinking Ebola or ISIS are a threat to the people who live in my apartment complex, when anyone with half a brain can see both are fear-mongering constructions of big business, the media, and complicit governments. Obvious things which, when one says them, immediately give one the aura of insanity.

Perhaps a certain insanity is a mark of TLEpilepsy. Cassandra (see The Trojan Women) was TLEpileptic? Amos (see the Bible) was TLEpileptic? John Brown (see American history) was TLEptic? Makes sense to me.

Supposed insanity is simply a mark of someone who has non-conformist ideas but is not smart enough to say them in any comprehensible or useful way (perhaps because they live in a haze of dissociation).

Or someone whose medications are out of whack or who has an as-yet-undiagnosed inner ear disorder. Or simply, as all gay men would say of each other, “A dizzy old queen.”

Not-so-obvious things don’t make sense to me, either.

I wonder how (if) Sam Harris would make his fundamentalist pronouncements differently if he were TLEptic.

But the reality of consciousness appears irreducible. Only consciousness can know itself—and directly, through first-person experience.” (Sam Harris, Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality without Religion).

Damn! I wish I knew what he means!

Sam Harris sounds a great deal like John Hagee to me.

Now, people who believe the Bible believe in this [that God established Israel because ‘Salvation is of the Jews’] too, and therefore their support for Israel is not a political issue, but rather a matter of obedience to the Word of God.” (Hagee, John, John Hagee: ‘If You’re Not for Israel, You’re Biblically Ignorant or Not Christian.’ Charisma News. 9/24/2014. Web.)

“Only consciousness. . .” “. . . obedience to the Word of God.” How, exactly, are “only” and “obedience” different?

So I’m back to my opening gambit here—wondering not only about the “meaning” of life, but also about the “actuality” of life.

In about 1995 I was in a seminar in translation at the University of Texas at Dallas. Because she was working in the UTD translation center, Edith Grossman, translator of Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera, talked to the class a couple of times. She introduced me to the poetry of Pablo Neruda. We used the book Translating Neruda by John Felstiner. I don’t know. It’s all mixed up in my memory. Perhaps Grossman didn’t actually introduce me to Neruda. I associate her with him because both were important to that class. And that’s not because it’s been nearly 20 years. It was mixed up in my memory while it was happening.

You see, Harris is wrong that “Only consciousness can know itself.” I know, I know, I’m quoting him unfairly out of context. And Hagee is wrong that some sort of “obedience” is necessary. That they are equally misled may be evidenced in that their ideas about Israel’s relationship with Muslims is exactly the same.

But, based on my experience—whether it’s born of TLEpilepsy or incipient old age or a simple inability to understand—I’d say Pablo Neruda has the question of reality about right. Perhaps I’m not in the middle of a “sea-change.” Simply a recognition.

“Unity,” by Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)

There is something dense, united, settled in the depths,
repeating its number, its identical sign.
How it is noted that stones have touched time,
in their refined matter there is an odor of age,
of water brought by the sea, from salt and sleep.

I’m encircled by a single thing, a single movement:
a mineral weight, a honeyed light
cling to the sound of the word “noche”:
the tint of wheat, of ivory, of tears,
things of leather, of wood, of wool,
archaic, faded, uniform,
collect around me like walls.

I work quietly, wheeling over myself,
a crow over death, a crow in mourning.
I mediate, isolated in the spread of seasons,
centric, encircled by a silent geometry:
a partial temperature drifts down from the sky,
a distant empire of confused unities
reunites encircling me.

Neruda