15,647. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,311

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,311

(the emperor of nothing, pt. THIRTEEN)

I'd rather think strange thoughts than

be normal. I usually drift along on a

narrative of my own. Bits and pieces

of everything. When I was younger I 

used to think about these years I'm

now living. It's all very scary, because,

being born in 1949, I used to think

about numbers and age, the turn of

the century (which came and went

anyway, in a blink), and about 'when

I would die.' William Blake died at

age 70, and I always used that as a

guideline anyway. (This is where it 

gets scary) - I always figured that the

year of my own death would be 2022.

Damn it all, if that's not now! All of 

a sudden my usual good health has

been falling apart these past 3 months.

Nothing good at all. I've just turned

73, and can only think 'Holy Hell!'

In the past I'd imagine my last years

as a sort of deep seclusion, amidst

quiet and peace. I' figured I'd finally

have tome to do all that reading I've

wanted to do (having, like a fool, 

some 4,000 books on hand). So, I

am doing that, yes, and I have that

leisured seclusion I sought. But, age

has reeled me in  -  my wife Kathy

is deadly ill and it's spinning out of

control. I've got problems, doctors all

of a sudden, and really uncomfortable

realizations to deal with and face off.

For the most part, everything's fallen 

apart. So I sit here, doing my stuff, in

a seclusion. We both do. Trying now

to make each moment count  - for

something anyway. Getting old isn't

for the faint of heart, I'd say, but that's

a dumb statement too. The heart

matters now, faint or not! So I'm all

mixed up and uselessly confused.

-

Mind wanders, things go awry. Sometimes

I just think I'm dreaming: Kafka, Dos Passos,

Blake or Pynchon, any of them fit me well.

Where Jack Stove fits in ? I never know. I

figure this late in life, probably, a person

isn't really meant to be meeting new

personalities. The game is too far along,

the rings and outlines are already set, and

have been My stately manner of thought

now is all screwed up. Discombobulated.

I walked into a Walmart the other day, just

for some needed things from a household

list my wife had given me, and I got

bushwhacked (it was September 27th, mind

you) by that Walmart, on a Tuesday, taking

its retail calendar break and setting their

displays up for Christmas! And it was mostly

elderly people doing it  -  in these parts

somehow Walmart, and the adjoining Home

Depot as well, seem to have become havens

for either first-employers (immature kids, tats,

piercings, weird hair colorings and all that)

or doddering oldsters in an apparent surge

of post-retirement jobs, perhaps necessitated

by the porous and lame economy we now

live in. Made of mostly of junk, of course,

for which Walmart carries the banner. All

the things that I thought I knew where they'd

be had been moved and relocated, and all

were replaced by gaggles of Christmas items -

lights, wires, decorations, fake trees in fake

tree boxes, spray cans of scent, snow, frost,

and icicles too. The poor old people were

slaving away in little Walmart bibs and 

name tags - with a few of morons actually

like Santa-elf caps. It's actually a shame

that, in the name of lucre and commerce,

an operation as idiotic as Walmart can 

get away doing that to people. I could only 

imagine the paucity of life they must endure,

and I felt instantly sorry and just wanted to

flee. What must these people say to each

other? Do they admit to a failure of will

and imagination, schlepping ridiculous

Chinese-made idiot tokens of a false,

seasonal frivolity? Is there any truth to

their lives left? It was very disheartening,

and I yearned, really yearned, for a true

American moment of truth and reckoning;

but I realized there was none, and never

would be. Hell, I began cheering. Cheering

instead for the likes of Jack Stove, and my

stalwart friend Bob, and my farmer friend,

Ken  -  who apparently knows enough, as

he put it (see previous chapter) to  pull

his unit out to pee. Heck, that's a start.

-

So what's left? What are we given to work

with? I'm afraid not much. Like Jack Stove,

in his wooded shack-castle, with his eight

tendentious but happy dogs, the real glory

of the passing moment is in just living it,

sovereign and free and  -  if it comes to that  - 

alone. I can only HOPE to someday reach

their quiet sagacity, but I feel my days are

dwindling, and dwindling too fast for any

of that. It is, after all, already late in 2022.