RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,368
(it's all just payback now)
I never much thought abut getting
old and then failing; which is what
happens to everyone - except
those who never make it to the
'getting old' part. A definite and
solid make on the ends of time.
I'd seen any number of the most
definitely 'batty' old types who'd
flitted away their brains and led
themselves into a crazy world
of their own survival. All you
young tigers of different natures,
who have the liberty now of
deciding - for Christ and pity's
sake - what sex you want to be,
have never lived in the closed
world of good sense and decorum
anyway that was once the world
where - into the lexicon - words
such as Alzheimer's and Dementia
were not common at all, and were
so soon surpassed by 'Take-Out'
and 'Dunkin Donuts' - both of
which were quite the thing in
their days. Now, of course, all
is different, and not worth a
bother. Now they make the
machines that talk and think,
the cars that drive themselves,
and 3D printers, for making
guns and bombs.
-
What it comes down to is trusting
reality - what is real, and what
isn't. In the early 1970's, I'd
already I'd already met a few
old-timers who'd gone around
the bend. They'd mutter and
grumble, they'd misidentify
people and stories and things
which may (or may not have),
occurred. But it was all accepted
wholesomely, and the settled
life of an old crackpot wasn't
though that much about, as all
these farm families were large and
always had the needed caretakers
to keep Pops or old Mama at home
and kept in stir enough to get by.
The entire bunch stayed happy.
Nowadays? Well, nowadays we
have mandatory break-ins by
State personnel to make sure
Grandma's not being mistreated
or neglected. These oldsters are
given drugs to keep them sedate,
and probably sedated too.
Syndromes and conditions are
attached to them, health-care
providers carefully selected,
and they're cared for to their
very end by the 'expectations
crew' - which knows exactly
what will be occurring, what
deteriorations will set in, and
on what schedule too. But, hey,
who's complaining? Ha.
-
Dazed, old-time farmers were
certainly cool. When they weren't
tragic. There were a few suicides,
and falls and then the 30-car
processions would wend their
way slowly, right on up to the
cemetery out along the way to
East Smithfield where were
encased together the good and
the lowly, the fair and not so,
the sweet and the beautiful too.
So many times, and all things
ran together. Some crazy things
were, and yet remain, simply
unexplainable: how John Harkness,
in his mid-eighties and strong
and silent as whatever, got irked
about something, and walked
out to his old barn, and hung
himself, like a tragic mule,
just worn-out, dismayed, and
tragic. That was 1972, about,
and pretty much, by then, I
realized, this was all about
coming down and over.
-
I was always good with words,
and fairly sharp at numbers -
the relationship between words
and numbers (and they both had
connections and similarities), was
very difficult to explain. Akin to
an almost alchemic mysticism
the world turns onto its entire other
system when that connection to
the magical other tier is reached.
That's when an individual can really
start flying. And if you're old, you've
earned the right. (Alas, most never
first learn to exercise the 'damn
the world and all its compartments'
looseness that's necessary. They
just stay locked up, and
go looney.
-
I never thought, back then,
I'd lose my slop - but it's
happening, and I know it's
underway. For whatever
reason. But, you can't just
sit around listening to
Warren Zevon records for
the rest of your days,
welcoming in the fog
that's grabbing at you,
and trying to take you.
All of life ends up hurting,
and each of us gets to feel
it. I guess it's all just the
normal run of things. As I
thought to myself, lying on
a hospital bed, getting prepped
and sedated for heart surgery:
'It's all just payback now.'
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