Growing Old...

June 18, 1999
(last edited on April 7, 2006)

Growing Old in a World Where the Illusions are for the Young
(a tribute to Londo Mollari)

He sat there, in the faded blue-and-white striped couch, with his hands atop his jeans—somewhat scraggly at the cuffs. He wore his navy blue button-up tee-shirt, which, although somewhat stiff, fit him well. His just-slightly-too-long beard complimented his hair, which just barely needed to be cut. His eyes traveled around the room, taking in his surroundings; his mind would paint those surroundings to fit his mood. He noted the off-white paint, no longer white due to smoke, normal wear, and myriad other factors. He noted the other furniture in the room, noting especially how none of it matched. He noted his favorite chair; the most comfortable, it was also the biggest eyesore. He noted the pile of green bags containing at least a week’s worth of papers he had never bothered opening. He noted the pile of mail he had never bothered reading. He noted the checks he hadn’t deposited, reminding him of other pending—perhaps looming—financial matters that he had let go. He noted the general disorderliness of his surroundings, and as he did so, he paused to wipe his eyes clear. He did this so that he could continue his gazing, for as he sat there, on the couch, he was crying.

He was carelessly ignorant of the tears making their path down his cheeks; he didn’t need to pay them mind, as he had no tissues to begin with. He was mindful only of the Wildness—the inhuman base of humanity that inspires all humans to occupy themselves, lest they hear its unnaturally honest wail. He listened to the Wildness that others strived never to hear, the Wildness that overtakes one’s thought and replaces it only with knowledge of survival. He listened to the Wildness that drags one before nature, strips one naked, and roasts one with derogatory honesty, forcing one to see that, underneath the expensive suit and the sporty car and the cushy bank account and the fair-thee-well friends and the meaningless flings, at the very base, that person is a wild, screaming, dangerous, frightened, savage child-creature. The Wildness insists with unadulterated gall the truth that survival is the struggle, life is the game, meaning is the rationalization, and the goals are fleeting.

The Wildness cried out to him, raging with all its might the message that he was but one piece in a huge game of money and quality; of those who profit off of the work of the masses, of those who make a living off of their own work, and of those who are so despondent that they are consumed by the Wildness as they rummage through the streets. The Wildness sings in those persons, for they lack the entry fee to play the preoccupation game.

And tonight, he listened to the Wildness. It wasn’t because he wanted to, nor because he had some existential breakthrough that caused him to seek out the Wildness.

The Wildness sought him. And it screamed, wailed, begged so loudly that he could hear nothing else.

Ring... ring...! The telephone chimed twice, but he made no effort to answer it. He made no effort to even hear it. With a vague distracted awareness, he noted the clicking of the answering machine. He heard the voice instructing the caller to leave a message, though the voice seemed alien, foreign to him. He heard the pause, heard the female voice asking him to pick up if he was home. He heard the female voice say she would stop by in case he would be back soon. He noted that the female voice was oddly familiar. Moments later, he no longer remembered having heard the female voice. He wiped several tears from his cheek.

He heard a fumbling at his doorknob. He knew not who was on the other side, nor did he care. Should it be someone to distract him, should it be someone who intended malice; the difference scarcely mattered. Either would provide him with solace from the Wildness.

He did not see who entered. After two prompts, he realized he was being addressed. Upon feeling an arm drape around him, he was able to hear the third prompt. It was the female voice.

“What’s wrong?”

He did not respond. He simply put his hands together, leaned forward, and gazed at his shoes.

“What’s wrong, dear?” asked the female voice. He began to recognize the female voice as being the same as the one he heard on his machine. He began to note the familiarity of the voice. He had yet to recognize the identity of the speaker, but he knew enough to realize that he was not her dear. This caused him to laugh. His laugh was dry.

The laugh frightened the female speaker; even he could tell that. She followed his gaze to his shoes.

“Why are you wearing your dress shoes?” she asked, noting how they did not fit with the rest of his outfit.

He merely continued his non-responsive gaze. Part of him wanted to respond, but the Wildness sapped out any sense of urgency regarding the future; the only urgency was the now. Always the immediate moment was the focus of the Wildness.

“What is it, please?!” the female speaker implored again, this time almost begging for any sort of response. “Please! Don’t do this to me. Talk to me, please!”

A smile began to play across his lips. He knew this alarmed the female speaker, but he also knew that the purpose of the smile—to belie his upcoming response—would be a welcome one. He was contemplating speaking to the female speaker. Surely she would welcome that.

“Tell me a story,” he said at long last. His voice was even, completely balanced.

“What? About what?” she asked. He answered her with an answerless gaze.

Sensing the awkwardness of the moment, the female speaker decided to grant his request. “Alright... today was interesting. I went to work... read this book... handled these errands... thought about such-and-such... talked to so-and-so... saw my boyfriend... ate something for dinner...”

He listened with a detached sense of awe at the workings of human speech as she told him about her day. With the brutal honesty of the Wildness still controlling him, he listened only to the parts that were about him.

Upon reflection, he realized he was listening to a little bit more than that. He was also listening with equal—perhaps greater—intensity to the parts that he wished were about him. But the Wildness forced the knowledge upon him that wishing would not make it so.

Finally, the female speaker ran out of details. Finally, she implored him again to tell her what was wrong. Silence befell the room. Then, after a long period of nothing, he spoke.

“My shoes... are too tight.”

“What?” she asked softly, knowing more would be coming.

“The last thing my grandfather ever said to me. One day, I was visiting at his home. I knew he was ill, and that his time was growing short. I happened to walk past his bedroom, when I heard a noise from within. I went inside, to find a completely darkened room. On the bed he sat—a regal man, accomplished, with a splendid history behind him. And there he was. Crying.

“I asked him, ‘What is the matter?’ ‘My shoes are too tight,’ he said. ‘But it does not matter, because I have forgotten how to dance.’

“I never understood what that meant until just now.

“I have sat here all day, trying to think of what meaning there is to life. Finally, out of frustration, I tried to tackle the ‘simpler’ question of just what life is. Ultimately, the only answer I have been able to come up with is, ‘Life is a joke.’”

Her horrified reaction did not escape his notice, and so he elaborated. “Do not worry—I do not mean that in any suicidal sort of way. I only mean that life is funny.”

“Yeah—yeah, and it takes a strong person to see all of the funny little things that happen,” she replied. “Unless you can see the humor in those little things, a person would be depressed.”

“That is very true,” he responded, “but that is not what I mean. I mean, the very premise of life is funny. We strive to occupy our minds and bodies with things to do and trinkets to obsess over—and why do we do this? We do it so that we will be preoccupied, so that we will not realize the meaninglessness. And then, with ultimate irony, we realize that we have become so preoccupied that we can’t see the meaning anymore. Then we struggle to un-occupy ourselves.

“We have the people who can afford the luxury of feeling sorry for themselves. We have the people whose only luxury is the blissful unconsciousness that comes after another day of managing to stay alive at the behest of those who agree that, while some spare change won’t kill them, it might save someone else from the Wildness for a few moments. In any event, they both run from the consumption of the Wildness. The only difference is the closeness of its hideous maw.”

“What is this wildness? What’s wrong, really?”

“Wrong? It’s the way it is. How can the way it is be wrong? What’s right, then, answer me that? No... that’s why I think the Zen philosophers have it right. A lot of us read their writings and think, ‘That’s so true! That’s so right!’ I’m convinced that the kind of people who say that are the kind of people who don’t understand Zen, because if they did, they’d understand that the Zen philosophers are making fun of the rest of us. That’s what they do. And they do it so masterfully that, not only do we not realize they’re making fun of us, but we actually take what they say and repeat it ourselves.”

His female companion chuckled. But when she did so, his mood once again darkened.

“What is wrong, you ask? My heart. It is empty. I wish to fill it, but I’m afraid I cannot remember how. Perhaps I am merely forgetting how to open it up, so that it might be filled. Or perhaps I am forgetting how to allow it open, so that it might seek its own fulfillment.”

“I don’t know if I understand,” she answered honestly.

Without tears, he stood up. He even managed a sincere smile. “No. No, and I hope you never do.

“What is wrong, you ask? Let me answer more simply. My shoes are too tight. And I have forgotten how to dance.”