Bavarian Daffodils

Once again daffodils are blooming in Huntington. As I am sure they did in the spring of 1938 in England and Bavaria. No doubt folks as old as I am tottered out of their cabins and admired the sight, dreaming of warmth and summer gardens .

There is, of course, always trouble in an unknown future. People mostly stay sane by ignoring the possibilities and concentrating on the exact day in the immediate neighborhood. Events just move along and we deal with them as best we can when and if they impact us .

I imagine that like today some people had strong resentments based on old horrors and current difficulties. Some yelled loudly. Some hoped things would work out. Few 78-year-olds thought they had much say in how the world was run .

The daffodils bloomed again a few years later, in spite of bombs and tanks. But life had changed drastically for most of the old folks who gazed at them fondly in that final spring of relative calm .

Well, I also go out and admire the daffodils. I touch the internet gingerly. I’m afraid I strenuously avoid thinking about possible futures .

It is not a good time to dream of what may come. Anyway for now, after the daffodils, surely the roses .

Relaxed Art

Off and on through the years, I have sketched and painted seriously. As many people have discovered, art (or serious craft) can be magical. There is a wonderful sense of accomplishment and a re-enchantment with the world .

Decoration has served many purposes throughout the ages, and I am not one to judge degrees of worth. These days of abundance surround us with inexpensive beautiful artifacts, often in limitless quantities, turned out by machines. A miracle in itself, also enriching our lives .

Now Joan and I participate in an art group, and I have reason to contemplate what I am doing, why I want to do it, where I want to take it. I’ve always tended to be hasty and immersive – I like to totally “lose myself” in what I am doing for as long as necessary. I rarely linger over detailed cleanup after the trance fades .

I cultivate the exploitation of my enthusiasm, my limitations, my ambitions, my competence. I do not try to outdo the machines. I find little joy in reproducing machine work. I don’t like working off photographs – too much detail, two little focus, and often artificial viewpoint .

Creating as a child. Others have their own ways and their own valuations. We all are expanded by doing something active .

New Amish

It is well known that we establish certain likes or dislikes at definite ages. Boys center on sports attachments around 10 or 11. People tend to enjoy the music of teenage years as long as they live. It is, of course, possible to change, but there can be a lot of resistance .

Cultures too have some of that stickiness. Religions are long-lasting but centered on origins. Nation states have a definite point of origin and tradition. And then we have social cults like the Amish.

As far as I can tell – I’m too lazy to investigate on Google – the Amish basically picked a date around 1880 as “thus far and no further”. Anything invented before that, fine and dandy. After that – just frivolous garbage .

We may laugh at the arbitrariness of the cutoff, seemingly picked at random without much real logic involved. Yet I have found myself doing the same thing. An old “neo Amish” gentleman. The “new stuff” is “stupid and irrelevant” and just makes me crazy. Current music, film, food, fads – I ignore them all. I froze my electronic usage about 10 or 15 years ago. I like older books. And I don’t care – let the wider world go down its own devil’s route .

A complete curmudgeon. I still enjoy complaining with my peers. But I float along in my neo Amish nostalgia, content with the memories in my own life. And all the things that I accept as necessary. From that personal arbitrary cut off point years ago.

Consolations of Continuity

Boethius wrote his enduring classic Consolations of Philosophy after he had been condemned to death by his Roman emperor. A sad story, we think, but with a smug twinge of admiration at his accomplishment at a difficult time.

Like the rest of us, Boethius was mortal. Like the rest of us, condemned to death sooner or later. For us elders, of course, it’s sooner. We may have less time to do anything then Boethius. We may have far less chance of producing anything significant. He was after all in the literate elite of Rome – a tiny fraction of a powerful population. We inhabit a world of 8 billion, all of them equally literate (or illiterate) on social media .

I suspect from all the chatter, few classics will emerge, let alone endure for thousands of years .

So my attempts in the face of fate have been reduced to revisiting my life, producing a stream of continuity – in words and artifacts, memories and conversations and even hidden thoughts. Directed at me. A consolation, if only for an hour, or late at night. Recall of a thread of being, meaningful in spite of its cosmic insignificance .

A philosophy? I guess. At this point, I’m happy to discover and utilize anything that increases my enchantment with existence. A busy pen, a happy mind .

Grandpa’s Keys

In a patriarchal society, Grandpa can be revered or feared, cherished or abandoned. By virtue of years, he has often accumulated property, power, and moral leadership. Arguing with the paterfamilias usually brings trouble.

These days, Grandpa is increasingly elderly. Folks used to die off before their late ’60s. Now they may hang on indefinitely. Their brains can be sharp but more rigid, their various bodily functions less youthful, agility impaired. Desires remain, reflexes deteriorate, judgments are suspect . And technology multiplies their power.

At some point, the car keys that Grandpa has used to drive everywhere all his life must be – sometimes forcibly – taken away. Hopefully before a terrible accident.

That is right, logical, even compassionate. But the old guy resents it. Maybe screams. Maybe sulks. Maybe uses his property and power to punish. There is often no easy or happy way to do so.

There are worse consequences of longer lifespan. Our geriatric leaders are a good example. In many ways, they have come to resemble a decrepit superhero, full of old power, confused and dangerous. Our society however, is unable to restrain his impulsive behavior as he cruises along in the batmobile .

High T

Ponce de Leon is alive and well! The fountain of youth (for men) has finally been discovered! More testosterone will make them young, vigorous, sculpted, sexy and – of course – much happier than they are .

It’s natural! (So is arsenic.) Pay no attention to those doctors behind the screen muttering about side effects. It’s your life! Make it better !

This culture lives on advertising. Usually I enjoy the commercials and realize that most people have been immunized enough by constant exposure to retain a degree of skepticism. Even when I grew up long ago, comic books had full page ads on how Charles Atlas could help you fight off bullies kicking sand in your face .

Ah, but bodybuilding requires work. Curing “low t” is just a matter of taking a pill or enduring injection. Just like drinking from the fountain of youth. Hey, this smiling face promises, and he looks pretty honest .

We have become a culture looking for easy solutions, maybe because we have little time or energy for complex ones. Slogans to fix social problems. Pills for physical issues .

Hope, if not exactly a fountain, springs eternal.

The Good Life

A list of what constitutes a “good life” is almost infinite. Security, health, purpose, achievement and all kinds of immediate desires driven by situation and often stoked by envy. Constructing a comprehensive list would be impossible .

Nor does it help that our mercurial consciousness juggles the proportions all the time. If we are very secure, we may desire adventure. If we have all we could possibly want all the time we may be bored. As we age, the possibilities and strength of desires mutate deeply .

Often in younger days there are immediate massive problems that overwhelm all others. Some are illusions, but they seem real at the time. At times the jumble is so chaotic that our wishes become simple, like just getting a decent meal or a good night’s sleep .

So for an elder to outline “a good life” to anyone else – especially someone less old – is malicious. One thing I think becomes clear wisdom is that conditions vary, and the past is rarely a reliable guide in matters of the soul. Anyway, there are enough puffed up guides out there to satisfy anyone’s curiosity. I wouldn’t trust them -, but then, I’m not you .

I adjust and remember and immerse myself in my own “good life” and wish you luck with yours .

Live Long or Live Well

In our competitive society, there once existed a group of people who firmly believed “he who dies with the most toys wins.” Now that everyone has too many toys, that has mutated into “he who lives longest wins.”

Even in the dim and ancient past, aristocrats and rulers frantically tried to live “forever”. They would eat gold, jade, mercury. Perform rigorous and/or disgusting rites. Indulge in the latest fad – oxygen, radioactivity, fasting, exercise. They wanted to extend their pleasant lives indefinitely, regardless of how that quest might degrade their immediate happiness .

As fairy tales frequently point out, the fly in the ointment was exactly what such an extension would involve. Does anyone really want an eternity as a typical 110-year-old crone, crippled in body, deprived of senses, in constant pain, or barely aware of being human ?

The whole point of having consciousness is to react well in the moment. Perhaps to simply enjoy, perhaps to try for a better future. To fully engage where you exist is itself a kind of eternity _ the only true “reality” we ever experience between memories of the past and visions of the future .

Reasonable attempts to extend living well are commendable. Obsessive focus on distant future possible life extension probably destroys appreciation of actual existence and replaces it with the hollow vision of dreams.

Magic

When I was a boy, “magic” had been confined to church. After world war II, everyone assumed “Yankee ingenuity” could fix anything, often with little more than “string and bailing wire”. Farm boys were all mechanical geniuses, City kids knew how to outfox anybody. All was – or would soon be – knowable and under control .

As examples, we fixed our own flat tires, changed oil. When a TV or radio didn’t function, I’d take vacuum tubes out to test and buy at Radio Shack. Even later, I knew how transistor “gates” worked and could program in binary (zeros and ones) or assembly. TV or newspaper news was limited, trustworthy, opinion confined to editorial pages .

Now? It’s all magic. Even mechanics can’t fix new cars, God himself couldn’t repair a broken circuit board. I have no idea how quantum computers work, nor how AI is programmed. And all sources of “news” are slanted and suspect .

In fact, once again, we inhabit a world of magic as profound and (possibly) as dark as anything in the Middle Ages. We know how to (mostly) talk and provide services for money, shop, consume, and be entertained. A few “experts” know a lot – or claim they know a lot – about increasingly tiny bits of esoterica .

That makes the residual child in me quite uneasy. Without understanding I still believe real control is impossible .

Tranquility

In our fortunate era, one can do many things, play many roles, in fact be different persons over time. We recognize standard stages of life – childhood, adolescence, young adult, middle-aged, senior, elder – and the various career changes one can make. But our very being can also transmute .

Tranquility is not a revered goal of our culture. It’s more important to be upset, to strive, to be unsatisfied with what is and work to change things for the better. For most of those stages of life, being tranquil is dangerously close to being a lazy good for nothing .

But elders _ well, little is expected at this declining energies and thoughts. Attempts by old folks to do great things is at best comical and at worst annoying and tragic. Tranquility fits those who otherwise get in the way of progress .

I confess to buying into this somewhat. Ever since I read Innocents Abroad as a boy, I realized that younger people who accept life however awful it may be are more to be pitied than envied. I hardly ever sought tranquility, preferring even painful activity to doing nothing .

But now? I’m afraid I am still not quite tranquil, although I have slowed, appreciate the moments, and try not to regret all the many things I can no longer do. Such acceptance, I suppose, is close to tranquility. Or laziness, of course.