Somewhere in the decade of the 90's. I wasn't even as old then as I am now, not nearly, still I had already entered the realm of the elderly, kicking and screaming, I might add, no way going gently. I was still working out at the gym regularly - I've always been a gym rat - so was in decent shape when my pal, Ed Thurman, invited me for a workout at his senior citizens center. I balked, at first, not wanting to go anywhere near the place as if it were plague infested, but Ed was a great guy, so I went. Five minutes into my workout I couldn't stand it any more - all these cadaverous looking "elderly" pumping their bikes and wheezing and gasping - I had to get out of there.
"What's up?", asked Ed
"I gotta get outta here," I answered.
"You sick?"
"Yeah," I answered, "Sick of being surrounded by all these old people."
"I believe," said Ed, indulgently, "That you are suffering from a serious case of denial."
Maybe I was back then, but no longer. I just broke my G-damn foot! On top of a triple coronary bypass and a subdural hematoma, further denial simply won't hold up. I'm proof that life is not an end run around the bruises, that it's about the scars to prove I showed up. The late, legendary, outlaw writer of the sixties, Hunter Thompson, said, "Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, "Wow! What a ride!" Then, of course, there's Dylan Thomas with "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Normally, I'd agree with them, yet rage is not what I want to be feeling when the time finally comes, and I certainly don't want to die totally worn out and thoroughly used up because that would imply I'd gradually but steadily been reduced to nothing while still alive, sort of like the Chinese torture of a thousand cuts. Really, though, I know exactly what he means and suspect we mean the same thing - throw yourself into life and squeeze it dry. I just don't want to slide into home plate like Ty Cobb, cleats up, looking for blood. I'll take the bunt instead. Same game. Different position.
This sophomoric ditty was written by a twenty-one year old playwright in his first play. Sixty years later what has changed? The fight has become more tactical, more pick and choose than rant and repair. The point is to go gently, at ease and still human, not raging and worn out. I'd like to see the world as a painter, hear the world as a musician, breathe in and breathe out, slowly, to listen as if syllables matter because they do. If I'm going to ride, give me a horse with an even gait not a rodeo bronc. The bronc'll sure give me a wild ride - like we used to say back in Montana: rode hard 'n' put up wet - but I won't get to enjoy the scenery.
For the record, most of my bucket list has been banked, however I'd still like to learn how to play the harmonica.
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