When he was a younger man, he had one hope for old age - that things would be settled. That he could face infirmity with a peaceful mind. Now that he was old, it was assumed that he had all the attributes of an old man. Wisdom and peace tempered by aches and pains - anger and desperation. All things that come with a long knowledge of the world. Now his dreams came folded and spindled in fits and spurts - full of gaps.
When we become old men, we seek our youth; things that are lost to us. We dream of our childhood - forgetting the pain of little boys.
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The telling of tales seems to be a favorite pastime of men, finding entertainment in them when their brief existence allows. Men pass from this earth quickly and, as a result, find little interest in anything but their immediate needs and wants; their curiosity bound to those things they can see, touch or feel. Storytelling sometimes provides an escape from those limitations, evoking fantasies of faraway places, damsels in distress, magical and absurd creatures, fierce fiends, and noble heroes.
Since the human occupation, I have experienced a few storytellers: aged men around campfires, women telling old fables to small children as they tuck them into bed, men garbed in black on sleepy Sunday mornings, and such. They tend to be full of vigor and passion, bellowing tales of mixed truth, exaggerations and outright lies. It seems that these creatures possess something they call imagination, a capability that escapes me. Those lies seem to be born from this imagination. I see little merit in it but they seem to place great value upon it and use it to a variety of ends. I think most are in love with the idea of being a writer but not the writing itself. It is a hard thing to love. We love the attention, the possible acclaim, and certainly the idea of being paid. I suppose that is why there is such bad writing today.
To produce a work of substance, you have to be a storyteller; you have to love the words and the pictures they paint. Everything else must be of little consequence. Unfortunately, getting published often depends on who you are, your tribe, your conformity to the mold cast by those who profit. If you begin your story with the idea of making money, you’ve lost. If you write solely for profit, well, let’s just say there are easier ways to make a living. We fired our guns and decided it was best to wait for the others to get there ‘fore we started trampling through them woods. When they showed up, we figured a few of us would stay on the road and keep an eye out in case we flushed anybody out of there and the rest of us scattered across them heavy woods and thickets. We was about two hundred yards into the trees when the creek curved back toward us.
We could see where the horses came through and saw some tracks of people walking- appeared like they was walking in front of them horses. We looked down that creek bank and there they were. A man and a woman – stripped naked, laying in the shallow water of that creek. They was abused and their bodies was in such a state that it ain’t fittin to describe ‘em to a woman. ,I’m still on speaking terms with the young man I once was. We’ve always nodded in passing but as the years advance, our conversations have become more frequent. They have become clearer and more concise even though at times they end in little more than nods and grunts of agreement or dissension – he with downturned mouth and mild disappointment and me, myself with a gleam of distant satisfaction that he can’t yet understand.
It’s my job to let the dog out at inopportune times– at five thirty in the morning, seconds after I sit down in a chair or for a second time, late at night, after I crawl into bed. Despite that, I tell him he’s a good boy and in his own way, he tells me I’m a good boy and we get along splendidly. If I’m particularly froggy, I tell him he’s the best dog I’ve ever had. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve said that to other dogs before but he doesn’t know that and seems to appreciate it so much that I don’t see the harm.
All my inadequacies that are so obvious to others don’t seem to bother him, or the fact that I occasionally lie to him. He is a good dog as far as I know, but I don’t know what he does when I’m not around. I suspect that he has a few disgusting habits, and if I had to guess, I would estimate that he would be a raging sexual predator if given the opportunity. People like to say that there are no bad dogs - only bad owners. Of course, now it’s no longer politically correct to present yourself as an owner, except when it comes to vet bills and local legal authorities. We must now refer to ourselves as pet parents. But I didn’t sign on to be a parent again. There is no coming of age, no level of maturity at which you send the dog off to make his own way in this world. There are no adoption papers, no birth certificate that lists me as the father. He just showed up as a starving young pup on my doorstep; a waif, if you will. Anyway, the idea that there are no bad dogs seems to be common. Some folks like to carry this idea over to people – that there are no bad people in the world. There are those that believe that people are just doing bad things because of bad parents or in the minds of a few - a bad god. I struggle with the whole thing. How can there be bad parents but not bad people or a bad god who wouldn’t delight in creating such creatures? Some folks need people to be bad so they can talk about them and feel better about their own badness that’s not quite as bad as the badness of the folks they talk about. And some folks need good people that do bad so they can justify their own badness without feeling bad. People are confounding. Dogs not so much. Bruce Cameron said: “You can usually tell a man is good if he has a dog that loves him.” Mark Twain had his own strong feelings about dogs: “Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.” I always watched to see if she was happy. The more I tried to make her happy, the more respect she lost for me. I told myself - if she was happy, I was happy. It wasn't true but I kept at it till we were both miserable. The only thing I learned from it; you can't make somebody happy if they don't know how to do such a thing.
When you're trying to lose weight, that bathroom scale becomes the most important device in your house, more important than the coffee maker, the refrigerator, the microwave and even the cellphone. It holds your self-esteem within its coiled springs and you try to find ways to softly lie to it.
I have discovered that there is no such thing as being too naked when you get on the bathroom scales. Each morning before I step on those scales, I strip off every stitch of clothing. I take off my glasses and make sure that I've been to the bathroom before the process begins. I’d take off my wedding band but weight gain in my fingers now make that impossible. On bad days, I trim my toenails and my fingernails and dig the lint out of my belly button. The struggle continues. Long ago, I laid aside the idea that life was supposed to be fair but I do carry a certain bitterness when I see that some people can eat anything they want and never gain weight throughout their lifetime. I have said it once before and I will say it again, losing weight should be like losing your virginity, once you lose it you should never get it back. There is a comfort in old things; things with wear and shine from use. A sort of permanence that escapes the tools and toys of the modern world. What is more reassuring than a ragged King James Bible held together by tape, faith and an old person’s hands? There is no such charm to be found in today's gadgets and culture - all designed for immediate obsolescence.
When I visit an antique store, flea market or old homestead, I look for what is broken; a tool with a cracked handle patched with tightly wound wire or metal plate, a chipped plate or cup, furniture with excessive wear and flaws produced by time and use. These things have a story to tell or at least one I can imagine. A few years back, I purchased a dough trough from an antique dealer in south Mississippi. It was rough, made of soft wood and unsealed, showing wear with cracks and gouges. It was not well formed by a craftsman; purely utilitarian in design. True or not, the story behind it led me to hand over a few dollars and carry it home. The dealer said, "That's not the type of dough trough that you would find in a plantation home. Those would be made of oak or walnut and of better form. This trough came from a slave kitchen where the cook would make bread for the field hands." My imagination took hold, and visions of an old woman filled my mind: a woman with gnarled fingers from too many years in the fields, now too old for such work, kneading dough, stirring a pot, swatting flies and children who come too close before wiping the sweat from her brow with her apron. There may be no truth in any of it but I’m ok with that. I miss the old things...... I find myself using a Kindle more often these days. It serves a purpose and provides convenience. But there is no character in a Kindle; no dog-eared pages, no hurried handwritten notes in the margins, no folded pages of favorite passages; all the things that say that this book, this tool, belongs to someone with passion, practiced skill and their own story to tell. Our modern world is full of lies. Not that lies were not prevalent throughout human history, but it’s different now. We are bombarded with them in every aspect of our lives and we comfortably accept them. Not just lies of men with overturned lives who have done wrong and seek to escape the consequences or those who seek to do wrong with the best of intentions but lies of every degree, small and grand. Lies that fill every crevasse of modern existence, some with little intent or purpose interposed amongst the grandest of deceptions filling our airways.
The reality is that we love to be lied to. We seek lies like treasure. They give us comfort, telling us we are successful, beautiful, and noble creatures, but only if we buy a product, donate our money, follow a cause, or vote their vote. The politician, the actor, lie to us. We know they lie to us. They know that we know that they lie to us, yet we stand to applaud and cheer, seeking their approval and attention. The lies we tell others hold no comparison to the lies we tell ourselves. That is the one truth that spurs this world of lies. We lie to ourselves, constantly and with impunity …. about diet and health, integrity and intent. Truth is uncomfortable, creating conflict and separation and exposing our character. Truth is a messy affair. You can’t blame people for preferring lies. |
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May 2024
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