Some people, as they age, become increasingly attractive—even beautiful. The smooth wrinkles etched above their eyes are comparable to the work of a brilliant creative artist—someone who transforms a damaged limb from a wind-ravaged tree into a stunning piece of sculpture. Fine lines gently carved into their aging skin display a patina of tender wisdom borne of knowledge. Time softens the rough and ragged edges of youth, expressing the enlightenment that comes from hard-earned experience. Their evolution can be likened to the rebirth of dead cedars, whose rough bark and sharp splinters are converted by waves and wind and salt into smooth, grey driftwood. But not everyone becomes more visually or emotionally or intellectually attractive. Some of the rest simply wither; their lengthy life experiences are expressed not as a patina, but as a rash. They portray the definition of decay. And then there’s the remainder of us. We simply disappear into the great unassuming, unimpressive, unwashed masses. Whatever we learn, we learn incompletely. We discover tomorrow is too late. We make our marks with water-soluble invisible ink.
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A photograph of a broad expanse of prairie beneath of sky full of clouds was among the images displayed by the screen-saver on television. There is no telling when the picture was taken, but for many reasons I believe it was captures at least a few years ago. As I stared at the screen, I wondered about the droplets of water in the sky full of clouds: where are they now? From there, I honed in on a particular cloud; then on a particular droplet of water in that cloud. Where is it today, I asked myself. And that question launched a cascade of additional questions about the water droplets and the molecules of air surrounding them. By the time I realized how deeply I was engaged by those unanswerable questions, the screen-saver image had changed several times. Was the time I spent thinking about those droplets of water wasted? Or does thinking about such matters have any value? If it does, what is the measure of that value? And if it has value only as mindless entertainment, what is the point of such unproductive pointlessness?
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Mundane matters occupy my time. A series of phone calls from my oncologist’s office yesterday reminded me that confusion and chaos can infect even highly-structured, rigid environments. First, I got a call to ask me to come in next Monday for another injection to increase my red-blood-cell count. Then, another call asked me to plan to go in for magnesium infusions for each of the next three in-office days. Finally, I got another call saying to cancel today’s visit…for some reason I do not recall…but to go in tomorrow (to a different location than usual) and Monday. Should I be concerned about the apparent confusion? I don’t think so. At this late date, it’s probably too late to be concerned, anyway.
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We thought one of our favorite series on Netflix, “Wrong Side of the Tracks,” had only three seasons. But a few days ago we discovered season four has become available. If I had more energy, we probably would have binge-watched the fourth season, but I have been unable to stay alert for more than two episodes at a time. This (I think final) season has eight episodes, so we have four more to go. The series is set in a fictional neighborhood in Madrid, Spain (filmed in Spanish…we watch with subtitles). Two of our favorite Spanish actors, José Coronado and Luis Zahera, star in the series. I recommend it…highly.
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I could write a lot more about the state of my health, but I am more than a little tired of dealing with it. So I won’t. For now. If I had access to pills that would give me selective, health-focused amnesia, I would down two or three or a bottle.
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Morally ambiguous is a term I find intriguing. It sounds less sinister than amoral or immoral, and so much more honest than moral. I do not believe in the death penalty, except in cases in which I am carrying the executioner’s axe. How about: I am the only person I would trust to carry the executioner’s axe? Are those morally ambiguous enough?
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It’s safe to say I am not in peak form this morning. It would be safer to say I should not have permitted myself to get access to the keyboard.
