Inured

Originally Posted Wednesday, April 24, 2013

We all need to be told we are geniuses, I guess.  At least I do.  Or at a minimum that I am doing a good job.  When that is gone (along with our looks), what is left? 

So I cooked dinner for my mother on Sunday, and she began talking about D-E-A-T-H. 

"What will you do with the stuff in my house when I die?" 

"I don't know.  Sell it?" 

"What would you do with the house?" 

"Rent it?  Live in it?"

"My friends have all been talking about it, getting their wills settled.  They all have more children, of course."

"Well. . . good.  What if I died first?"

"That would be a mess," she spat.  "You don't have a will.  I don't know where anything is.  It would all be tied up in probate court for a year."

"Well, I'll make a will.  Where do I do that?"

"You have to go to. . . ."

"Can't I just download one from the internet?"

"Yes.  Do you want to be resuscitated?" 

"No."

"I have it in my will not to resuscitate me.  I don't want to be hooked up to no machines." 

"Me neither.  You want some more wine?"

I poured her a little bit more. 

"You know, mom, I don't have much of a social life.  I don't go out a lot and I don't have a lot of friends."

"I know.  You need a woman.  Not one of those little girls you go out with, but a woman your own age." 

I can't write my response. 

"Well. . . what do you think YOU are," she accused. 

It was hurtful. 

"I know exactly what I am," I said to her dead on.  "I go to bed with it every night.  I think about it all the time.  You don't need to tell me."

Look.  I know my failures.  I know what I look like, how I've ravaged myself.  I work harder than most people to know who I am. 

So the next night, I went with some workers from the factory to make a presentation at a local high school after which we went to dinner.  I was with two young, good looking people who are hipper than I.  I was telling the female of the trio about my altercation on the weekend.

"Why do you think you did it?" she asked when I told her that I knew I was an asshole. 

I told her.  It is because I've reached a milestone age and can't stand it.  I know what time I have left, and I rage against younger, bigger, richer, good looking males.  The better looking, younger male with us said, "You don't look a day over 58." 

I had already thought about things like this. 

"You don't think that hurts?" I queried. 

But he hadn't thought about it as my mother hadn't.  I guess we are all supposed to be self-actualized and inured to ridicule. 


The girl I shot on Sunday, the one with whom I was infatuated, has had remorse.  I won't be showing any more of her here.  I don't like it, but that is the deal.  I won't be shooting with her again, either. 

And meanwhile, the girl with the Betty Davis eyes wrote to me to tell me about her success.  She was published on the Vogue website.  The are publishing a lot of girls there.  I guess she was just showing off, but it felt like she was rubbing it in my face. 

And apparently, even my writing has become redundant.  I'd like to say. .  ."You write every fucking day of the year and then tell me about it," but that is petty.  If you put it out there, you must take it all. 


I think the full moon is coming, though I don't keep track any longer.  It used to be a passion, but passions wane.  I don't seem to have any any more.  Moons come and go.  I almost said, "like women," but they only go now. 

I will try to keep going, but we shall see.  I'm not so sure any more.