“So as not to be the martyred slaves of time. . . “

A funny story.

Twenty-ish years ago my psychiatrist in the Neurology Department of Harvard University Medical School decided he and several patients could benefit from a seminar on ending procrastination. One of those “life-changing” seminars such as play interminably on PBS during pledge campaigns. The psychiatrist intended to make reservations. Finally at about 5 PM the day before the seminar, he called and apologized for waiting until the last minute and asked if they had room for three or four more participants.

The woman in charge of reservations, he told me later, laughed and said, “Of course we do. We have almost no reservations. This IS a seminar in procrastination, after all.” Of course.

I forgot to go.

My psychiatrist’s patients were exclusively Temporal Lobe Epilepsy patients . . .

[If you read my blog, you’re tired of hearing about it. But, please, my writing yesterday was the beginning of writing about the gift I now understand TLE to be.]

. . .  which I have known at some level, since Dr. Donald Schomer gave me a name for it, is more a blessing than a curse.

I love “How the Universe Works” on the Discovery Chanel. 16,000,000,000 years ago. Physicists talk about quantum physics or parallel universes, ideas that boggle the mind. The Swiss Institute for Particle Physics and its atom-smashing machine. But my understanding of creation is stuck at laughing at Sheldon on “The Big Bang Theory.”

But there’s something about thinking about time. Is time real? How do we know we’re not going backwards? Or that everything in the universe is happening at once in a zillionth of a second and it will be over before you read the next word?

TLEptics experience dissociation on a grand scale. Lasting for days. Weeks. We also have astonishing déjà vu experiences. I’ve lived entire days over in a second or two. And no one else has a clue what’s going on unless the TLEptic tells them. Most of us never do because it would seem we were frankly crazy.

Perhaps we were (are).

Or perhaps we have momentary flashes of experience of the passage of time the rest of you don’t get to have. What does it mean to

First Methodist Church, Omaha

live a day again in a second? My neurologist says he can touch a certain place in my temporal lobe with an electrode (assuming I let him poke a hole in my skull) and give me as long a déjà vu experience as I want.

So what is time? Experience stored physically in the brain? And what time is it now? Who knows?

When I was in high school (we say “when” as if we are measuring “time” and some has passed since the experience we’re talking about—perhaps it hasn’t happened yet and I’m imagining it’s going to happen, or perhaps everything we know is happening all at once), I was a darling of the little old ladies (mostly younger than I am now), members of the American Guild of Organists in Omaha, NE.

The Guild met monthly at yet another church with some organist playing to show the capabilities of the organ. After a meeting at the First Methodist Church, I found a copy of J.S Bach’s The Little Organ Book on the organ bench. I brashly sat at the organ and played number 45, Ach wie flüchtig, ach wie nichtig!

Ah how fleeting,
ah how insubstantial is man’s life!
As a mist soon arises
and soon also vanishes again,
so is our life: see!

I played the little piece to the oohs-and-ahs! of the little old ladies. I’ve played it countless times [“times”] since, mostly at funerals with those congregations totally unaware of the appropriateness of the music.

A student in one of my classes would, by this point in her essay, have a comment from me to the effect, “What’s your point?” I would point out to her that she had not begun with a clear thesis, so her writing seems to have no point. So I’ll create a thesis right now [“now”]—or tell you what my point has been all along although you’d never guess it.

The passage of time may be a figment of our collective imagination. We have clocks, both analog and digital, to measure a “reality” that we cannot prove is real. I know this is one of those sophomoric twists college kids like to ponder and argue well into the night (as long as they have enough beer). I admit to being sophomoric.

Or. . .

I still play the Bach Ach wie flüchtig! I play it much more slowly than is normal (or than I played it to show off for the little old ladies). I like to hear all the notes in my old age. [You can listen to the Dutch organist Ton Koopman play it in the standard fashion here.]

Or perhaps I play much more slowly now because I think this is beginning to be the end of my life when in reality it’s the beginning. Or this very moment is eternity. Or we don’t exist at all. Or, if we do, we should be getting ready to die. Is that too startling, depressing for you? You should be a TLEptic. You’d have had a lifetime [“time”] to think about these things.

“Be Drunk,” by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
(translated by Louis Simpson)

You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”

Don’t read this if you’re skinny and immortal

‘You fool! This very night…” (Luke 12:20)

Yesterday a friend announced on Facebook he has slowly “somehow” lost 14 pounds over the last year. That’s not huge news except it’s almost impossible at our age to dispose of weight and trivial to find it again. Two years ago I dropped about 50 pounds. In the last year I’ve picked up 15 of them again.

I can blame old age—or something over which I have no control—for part of the repounding. If you read my palaver often, you might remember I fell a couple of months ago and hurt my right hip. Bruised the ligaments is the two-out-of-three diagnosis of my doctor, my PT, and my trainer.

The fall was not the result of old age. It was sheer carelessness. I was trying to put up the shower curtain rod which I had somehow pulled down reaching too far to clean my bathtub. I added the injury to the insult by standing on the toilet to reach the other end of the tub to tighten the rod. It was not a “help-I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up” moment. It was a “help-sometimes-I-do-the-dumbest-things” moment.

I’ve been in nearly constant pain since February 1.

The pain has kept me from walking. It has kept me from yoga class. It is kept me from getting started with my trainer after one session to analyze my condition. It has kept me from sleeping many nights. It has kept me excessively grumpy (how could you tell?). So I’ve been sitting around nursing the pain and being physically inactive. Add to that my spending half of my time with my inamorato for the last year and two months—and we do not eat particularly healthfully because we’re enjoying ourselves. The recipe for finding those fifteen pounds.

The pain is almost gone. The physical therapist is the miracle worker. Today I’ll join the fitness center at SMU and begin “water walking” in the pool. (My only fear is I might run into students while I’m in my swimming suit—or, horrors!—the showers! Perhaps the T. Boone Pickens YMCA is a better idea even if it is five times as expensive.

So I was thinking about why I want to take those 15 pounds off. The first and most obvious answer is to be even more loveable for my inamorato.  And then so I don’t feel quite so much like a fat old man when I’m around my students. And those new clothes I bought after I had taken off the 50 pounds. You know. If you’ve ever struggled with weight, you know.

Scene of the crime

This morning I’m adjusting the belt around my butt—yes, it may be true that the way the PT works miracles is to have me wear this belt 24/7. It keeps my ass from moving in ways that reinjure the ligaments (wear it inside my jeans, of course). On March 29, I used this pain in my ass to talk about the horrific racism rampant in this country—especially targeted at President Obama.

Today I have a different question. Why do I (why does my friend) (why does anyone) think it’s a good idea to lose weight? So we can live longer?

Seriously. I want you to consider before you continue reading how strong you are. How able to think about things you don’t want to think about. How you will react to my writing (once again) about death. If you don’t want to think about it, STOP READING. If you’ll think I’m suicidal or depressed, you may continue reading—but keep your opinions about my mental, emotional, or physical health to yourself.

I’m 68 years old. My trainer says my body is that of a 75-year-old (because of my BMI). I don’t like having let my body get into this condition.

Let’s say I get over to the fitness center and get to work and lose fifteen or twenty or thirty pounds. Great. Let’s say I live to be close to my parents’ ages when they died (92 and 97). So when I die, will I be equally dead whether that’s next week or in 30 years? Will I remember the 30 extra years I’ve given myself? What difference does it make if my apartment is unkempt and has no “style?” When I am dead, am I going to remember a chic décor of clean lines and beautiful things and the impeccable style of a gay boy any more than I remember my early-graduate-student thrift shop mélange?

Is that fool Rex W. Tillerson going to remember his billions any longer than I remember my $1334 per month Social Security?

“For you could not know that which is not nor utter it; for the same thing can be thought as can be. . . . That which can be spoken and thought must be; for it is possible for it, but not for nothing, to be; that is what I bid you ponder” (Parmenides of Elea. The Pre-Socratic Philosophers. G.S. Kirk & J.E. Raven, ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1964. 269-270).

But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?’ (Luke 12:20).

Early modern graduate student mélange

Do not fall in love with a poet (not me, silly)

When I started writing this blog a few weeks ago, I intended for it to be an outlet for my light-hearted observations about being 68 and (I might hope) getting older.

That plan has two inherent problems. First is that I am not by nature a particularly light-hearted person. Second is that growing older is not necessarily a process that brings out anyone’s light-heartedness.

Not too long ago I stumbled upon the poem “Poetry Anonymous,” by Prageeta Sharma. I was searching for poetry about Alcoholics Anonymous. Sharma, by the way, is a young American poet of Indian descent who teaches at the University of Montana at Missoula. Montana?!

At any rate, I love the opening gambit of her poem.

Do not fall in love with a poet
they are no more honest than a stockbroker.

Having for most of my life wanted to be a poet and realizing that I am not dishonest enough to be such—I have so little imagination that I can’t make up any of the metaphors and similes and such that make poetry. But I think it would be dangerous to fall in love with me simply for my desire to be a poet.

That’s beside my point here. One line of her poem caught my attention. I’m quoting it completely out of context, but

How does narcissism assist you (?)

became the inspiration for this post. I had been wanting to do this since I began but was afraid that this would be absolutely too narcissistic to be of interest to anyone but me. So be it.

Here’s the deal about this posting. As I reflect on growing older—I have said many times that I expected some day to be 68 years old, I just didn’t expect it to happen this soon—part of the reflection is to wonder if I am the same person now as I was, say, 50 years ago. It’s a really interesting question. So one of the ways I’ve been thinking about it is simply to look at myself.

My look at my-selfs-past is somewhat guided by another poem, this by Emily Dickinson.

THE BODY grows outside,—
The more convenient way,—
That if the spirit like to hide,
Its temple stands alway                 

Ajar, secure, inviting;
It never did betray
The soul that asked its shelter
In timid honesty.

So here are a bunch of my favorite pictures of me over the years. The ULTIMATE NARCISSISM.

About a year old—Worland, Wyoming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five years old (1950) with my older brother announcing the birth of our sister—Kearney, Nebraska. Our parents sent this picture out to all of their friends. The ’47 Ford was our family car until the Plymouth ’52 coupe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About 15, the three of us decked out for Easter—Scottsbluff, Nebraska. In 1958 we moved into a brand new house (parsonage). I don’t remember ever looking as dapper as this picture might lead one to believe I was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About 40, the wannabe concert organist—Salem, Massachusetts. This picture was in the Salem Evening News as I was preparing to give a concert for the 300th anniversary of the birth of J.S. Bach. Someday I will write about the importance of that concert in my life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My 65th birthday (I threw myself a party)—Dallas, Texas. At this time I was living alone because my partner had died six years before. I was on the verge of becoming a hermit and dealing with chronic depression.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over 65, practicing yoga—Dallas, Texas. I was still living alone, but I had finally determined not to let my isolation get the best of me and had begun to do many things to bring myself ’round.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over 65, substituting as organist in a Dallas, Texas, church. When the church where I was organist closed, I began substituting as organist at various churches, which I very much enjoy because I get to play the organ with no continuing requirement of planning and rehearsing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sixty-eight, writing this blog this morning, Dallas, Texas. I’m sitting the window-surrounded breakfast nook of my inamorato’s apartment in downtown Dallas early (6 AM) and doing my writing before he is awake. I am in many ways happier than I thought possible at this age.

So there you have it. My most narcissistic blog ever. But I want to know, am I the same person who rode around on a tricycle in Worland, Wyoming? I don’t know. I just don’t know.
Perhaps once again, Emily Dickinson knows (I seem to have Dickinson on the brain lately).

THE PAST is such a curious creature,
To look her in the face
A transport may reward us,
Or a disgrace.
Unarmed if any meet her,
I charge him, fly!
Her rusty ammunition
Might yet reply!

What’s this “CTRL+/CTRL— ” command?

A dissertation’s home

.

.

Yesterday I was reading one of my favorite blogs (click this link only if your shock level is at least moderately high). As you can clearly see—which I could not, even with my glasses—the post is for those of you with much younger eyes than mine. The blogger suggested that I enlarge my screen, and I asked how on earth I could do that.

He said, “Press ‘control +’” (English teachers: should I put a period on this sentence, or is + punctuation? I’m sure I don’t know.)

Control+. (Looks funny with a period.) You know—the screen enlarged!!!

I bought my first computer in 1987 to write my PhD dissertation (The Life and Musical Influence of Henry Kemble Oliver, 1800-1885—aren’t you glad you asked?). Somewhere in this apartment is the box of 5¼-inch minifloppy disks on which my dissertation resides.  Somewhere in two moves in Massachusetts, the move to Dallas, and two moves in Dallas my one print copy disappeared. I gave my sister one—because it’s dedicated to her—and I hope she still has it somewhere (send it to me, Bonnie?).

Or I have to find those 5¼-inch minifloppy disk fossils and locate someone who has a reader for them. But that’s another story.

Please, Genesis, use my CTRL- command

I want a CTRL+/CTRL— command for my life.

For starters, piled in my entrance-way is a bunch of stuff I’ve been meaning to (even trying to) get the Salvation Army, or the Genesis Benefit Thrift Store to take away for months. (If any of you Dallas readers knows how to light a fire under Genesis, please do so. There’s some stuff here they could make some money on. Remember the French provincial coffee table? The Futon has never been used—it’s in its original factory wrapping—but that, too, is another story. I seem to have lots of “other stories” today.)

I want a CTRL— command to make that pile smaller. No, to make it disappear altogether.

Much more stuff in my life could use a CTRL— command. My waistline for starters. My library. My depression. Car insurance payments. Junk mail. My seizures. Drone warfare. Student conferences next week. Obstructionist Tea Party congress members. Poop in the cat litter boxes. Barbara Cargill’s power to wreak havoc. You know, the normal detritus of life, in no particular order.

Some things I’d definitely like a CTRL+ command for. Time with my inamorato. My retirement account. Core muscle strength for Virabhadrasana III. Time with my inamorato. My salary. My memory. Colleagues for Tammy Baldwin and Jared Polis. Gun control. Time with my inamorato. Chocolate. Opera.  A trip to Easter Island. You know, the normal joys of life, in no particular order.

CTRL+ for a 68-year-old brain

All of this began, you see, with my learning something new at age 68—something as basic as the CTRL+/CTRL— command. How have I managed to use computers for 26 years and never known that command? How have I used my mind for 68 years and still do not know if I believe in God?

Where have all the bloggers gone?

Joanie. Unhappy.

Joanie is nine years old. Definitely pushing beyond catdom middle age. She was born feral and saved as a tiny kitten by an employee of City Vet in Dallas (her name, of course, was Joanie). Kitten Joanie was a mess, and by the time they spent money and time fixing her up (including setting a broken leg), they wanted a good home for her.

Enter the old fart (well, I was only 59 at the time) cat lover. I, of course, took her. She has lived uncomfortably in my apartment for nine years. She was mightily offended after a year here when the Cat Brothers, Groucho and, of course, Chachi moved in. Joanie does not love Chachi, but she has tolerated him for eight years. She tolerates his brother Groucho even less.

Now Joanie, for reasons I cannot imagine, has decided they both must go. Or she must hide. Her favorite place is under the bed. If I’m lucky, I can get her to come out long enough to have her picture taken. She has become a growler and hisser.

Joanie is about 60 in human terms, and she’s had it with these younger folks. I’m 68, and I still teach 60 nineteen-year-old university students every semester.  I haven’t had it with the younger folks. But I am getting tired. They are so strange (and they tolerate me about the way Joanie tolerates Groucho; I’m their means to an end—college degrees which will make them rich).

I have a problem in my right hip. How much pain did those old folks have to be in before they got new hips? Poor old things. I suppose there’s something creepy about a fat old man posting a picture of himself in tight yoga clothes on the internet for all the world (the thirty of you, at any rate) to see. But I want to demonstrate what I continue to do with my aching hip. Not bad, huh?

The old bridge.

This writing was going to have a point, but I think I’ve forgotten what it was. It had something to do with Joanie looking totally disgusted with everything (doesn’t she, though?), and my being able to manage Setu Bandha Savangasana even with a pained hip (it’s probably what’s keeping me from a steel one). From grouchy Joanie (wouldn’t you know—now that I’m saying awful things about her, she has come out from under the bed and is lying in her favorite position on my right foot and purring) to my painful hip I was going somehow logically to get to blogs. I Google blogs and follow tags about old age, trying to connect with other old fart bloggers and increase my “traffic.”

Joanie. Happy?

A really weird thing happens to blogs about about getting older. They stop. The last month in their archives tends to be January 2010, or March 2011, or February 2007, or. . . you get the picture. All I ask is that, when I remember too little or my logic is even more bizarre than it already is—Chachi just came in and Joanie growled and left, by the way—someone please get WordPress to remove this blog. Sheeeeesh! I want to be immortal, but not by what I leave behind in cyber space!

When I remember the connection between Joanie’s growling, the pain in my left hip, and blogs without bloggers, I’ll let you know.