Ideas that once seemed interesting, clever, or otherwise intellectually stimulating seem to have grown smelly and stale. They once carried the stimulating aroma of new-mown grass in the Spring. Now, though, they remind me more of the stench of mold; like partially composted weeds and leaves. Metaphors and similes are the best I can do to describe the transition between youthful exuberance and the gradual decomposition that accompanies the golden years. Physical changes are more obvious, of course, but the energic thinking of youth begins to fall flat over time, as well. Enthusiasm declines over time as reality overtakes idealism. The fortunate among us are able to adjust, turning the passion of youthful thought into intensity and conviction in later years. Those people learn to blend judgment with wisdom, transforming tired, time-worn ideas into exciting concepts—simply by viewing the world from new perspectives, born of experience. How does one become one of “the fortunate among us?” I suspect there is no single method; no process that works for everyone. First and foremost, though, it takes commitment; marshalling all of one’s mental strength. I write as if I had the answer.
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My late wife’s sister is undergoing a lumpectomy this morning. Mi novia took her to the hospital this morning, will wait during the procedure, and will take her home when the process is complete. My Mexican brother’s wife underwent a biopsy of lumps in her breast a few days ago, after flying the U.S. for diagnosis and treatment. I may hear something today about the results of the biopsy. My two remaining brothers have had cancer diagnoses and treatment, and so have I. My late brother had cancer of the kidney. My late wife had a mastectomy to treat her breast cancer. The prevalence of cancer stuns me. Until the last several years, I knew cancer diagnoses were widespread, but only after it began to effect my family so much did the scope of the disease really sink in. Even learning of treatable and/or curable cancer is bone-jarring, but the breadth of the disease, past and present, in my own family suddenly seems to almost overwhelming. I look outside at the thick grey clouds, leaving the morning in darkness even at this late hour, and I feel that the sky is echoing the depression I feel at the moment.
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A dream I had two nights ago is etched into my mind. I do not remember all of it, but I recall enough to remain disturbed by it and to wonder why the hell its bizarre experiences took place in my brain. Do we dream more vividly as we age? Are our dreams more closely connected with experiences in the past than they were in our youth? I wonder about dreams, but nothing I’ve read satisfies me with answers about what they are, why they take place, what (if anything) they mean, and so on. Perhaps intensive psychotherapy could shed some light on my dreams; or, instead, maybe it would reveal darkness I do not presently know is there. Probably not. I know that darkness.
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Depending on the ultimate results of the vote counts, I may consider joining the Canadian armed forces to launch an invasion of countries that threaten the Canadian way of life. If that were not to pan out, I think I will offer my services to the joint Icelandic/ Camaroonian Space Exploration Program—I could well become the first person to step onto the surface of Gliese 667/Cc, which is only 22 light years from Earth. With advances in cryogenics, I just might make the trip alive. In distance that’s a little easier for me to understand, the exoplanet is 129.338 Trillion miles from home. Those Icelandic/ Camaroonian space explorationists really shoot for the stars. [John was executed by an inexcusable pun enforcement firing squad.]
