Originally Posted Sunday, December 15, 2013
| "The way downward is easy from Avernus ... but to retrace your steps to heaven’s air, / There is the trouble, there is the toil." |
"There we were in Naples, like so many before us, suspended between the sacred and the profane, the silence of the cloister and the chaos of the world. Campa un giorno e campalo bene. Live for the day and live it well" (source).
Last night, I saw an old friend, the one from Yosemite. He came to my house by himself so we could talk without the crowd, and he wished to see the studio. What he wanted to know, of course, is what kind of behavior I have around all the naked women. It is a guy's fantasy that I am like a fox in a henhouse, but I disabused him of any such ideas. He couldn't imagine, of course, that I wasn't dallying at least some of them. Nope, I said. It's not like that. I am always flattered, though, that people think I am such a desirable man that young models would just fall over themselves about me. Trust me, it is not like that.
I'm a professional. Ho!
Then we went to his parent's house for dinner. I said hello to everyone and poured a glass of wine and sat down to chat, but the I saw why he wanted to come to my house to talk for a bit beforehand. It was impossible with the kids. At four and two, the two boys are a handful. But there is something hugely admirable in it all. It is a large Italian family with three boys and a girl, all married, all with children, all successful. The next day they were all getting together for an early Christmas, they said, before my friend went back to Cali. There would be twenty or thirty people. It would be like a movie, one that made you envy.
Early enough, I came home to my cat and a book. I made a cup of herbal tea rather than grabbing the usual scotch. I am going to quit drinking, I tell myself. I have to before my girth is the same as my height.
This morning, reading the N.Y. Times, I came upon an article that claims sociologists have identified the basic ingredients of happiness:
"For many years, researchers found that women were happier than men, although recent studies contend that the gap has narrowed or may even have been reversed. Political junkies might be interested to learn that conservative women are particularly blissful: about 40 percent say they are very happy. That makes them slightly happier than conservative men and significantly happier than liberal women. The unhappiest of all are liberal men; only about a fifth consider themselves very happy." (source)
I have been having some uncomfortable nights lately, so when I came to his analysis, it gave me pause. In identifying four basic areas that convey happiness, he opines:
"The first three are fairly uncontroversial. Empirical evidence that faith, family and friendships increase happiness and meaning is hardly shocking. Few dying patients regret overinvesting in rich family lives, community ties and spiritual journeys."
I thought about the night before. I am very self-effacing about myself and my life, and didn't mind telling my friend, "Sure, I worry about being alone and broke in old age with no one to change my shit bag." And of course, this sort of thing is said to make the "others" happy with the choices they have made. But the statement is mostly true. I wonder now, as I get along, how I will deal with the last years, the last days. I will not be surrounded by a large family, a wife, children, all of whom will have to deal with my struggles and passing.
But there are other truths, too, and when he seems to secure to the point of contentment, I say, "But then again, I don't want anyone around to change my shit bag. I don't care for anyone to see me that way."
And that is true as well.
After I read the article on happiness, I read the travel piece on Naples, and everything began to right itself again. Naples, it said, is a city obsessed with sex and death. To be Neapolitan was a different thing, much different than being Roman. And perhaps, I thought, that is me. Perhaps that is the difference between me and my friend, Naples and Rome. I began to garner a modicum of jolliness again.
At the end of the night (which was only eight-ish as the kids had to be put to bed), I heard the tone in his wife's voice that he must hear all the time as she carped about him not doing enough to help, and before I left, while we were sitting alone, I had to tell him.
"You know, you've asked me about how I am doing, how I feel about my life, and I have to tell you truthfully, I am pretty zen. I am able to do what I want when I want to. I needn't check with anyone. If I want to descend into decadence, I can. If I wish to become and angel and spend my time working with charities, I can do that as well. I exercise, I read, I try to write and make some art. It seems a good life. And truthfully, when I look around at my friends, I can say in complete honesty that I do not envy a one of them. I do not think I would change places and have their lives. I am, I have to say, pretty content."
It was a true statement at the moment, anyway. Would I have had my life take a different direction? It is a fruitless question, of course, and does not need pondering. There is little profit there.
Look at that painting. What a vision of life. Caravaggio was a madman, of course, catering to the wishes of the elite. Perhaps I am that old man suckling the maiden's breast. Suckling. That is what the reporter in the Times said. Perhaps it will bring back some youth. It is comfort, maybe, in the dark chaos, at least temporarily. Descending, though, is easy. It is coming back that is hard. I'll let you know.
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