PLENTY OF TIME

I was talking philosophy-psychology with a friend the other day about the gap between perception and reality. He challenged me to write it up and post it on my blog. So yesterday I tried to remember the scope and sequence of our conversation, squeezing it onto a couple of pages. I thought, ‘What the heck!’ and I posted it. Last night I went back to look at it again and was reminded of an old Roadhouse Blues, Mickey Gilley song; ‘The Girls All Get Prettier At Closing Time.’ What looks good in the dark at closing time may be a big disappointment in the morning. Gender wise, I’m sure it’s even more disturbing for lonely, myopic women who submit to that delusion. But it bears repeating; a seemingly good idea can certainly lose its appeal over time, in better light. So I took my blog post down. The idea was good but cumbersome, maybe too many ideas wrapped up in one package. Trying to recreate on the page what streams seamlessly in conversation is harder than it would seem. 

All the while, I’m challenging myself on why I write at all. There is no shortage of good reading material. There are folks who like to read my stuff; they tell me so and I appreciate that. I’ve mentioned, many times, that I write in self defense, a way to process ideas for my own better understanding so that counts. Then there’s my dad. He was not a good communicator; his idea was, the less said the better. He wrote letters when the occasion required but I can’t remember him ever wanting to share his point of view or listen to my story. He was a storyteller. He never thought of himself as a teller but I think it was a way to reflect on other times and people and those little vignettes pleased him. He’s been gone for over 15 years; would have been 105 this spring. In the days before his funeral it occurred to me that he wouldn’t be available to answer questions anymore. He was a rich source of information but the window of opportunity had closed as he left no record. I interviewed both of my parents in 1979 on audio tape for almost an hour. There is a trove of good story there but that was a performance, not a conversation. 

I never wanted to be like him, quite the contrary. Not until my family was grown, I realized how much like him I am, in ways I never imagined and that pleases me now. But he did things that didn’t serve him well, didn’t serve me or my brothers well and I knew at the time I wasn’t going to be like that. He was a great dad and we were happy, just not on the same page. I would like to ask him about growing up with Forrest Cole as a father figure, or was his sister, Ida Cole, the dominant sibling. Who made the decisions after their dad Sam died? I’d want to know more about why he dropped out of high school just a year from graduating. I know he was a year younger than his classmates, small for his age, feeling the need to prove himself every day. That meant fighting anyone who disrespected him, or his family, or his size, or his friends; he had a low flash point and fighting was his first choice in negotiation. I’d want to know more about his job during World War 2; I’d ask lots of things but then, it’s not an option. 

There is a great lie, the great delusion we embrace with optimism and hope; we live day after day with the assumption that there is plenty of time. Buddha speaks to that but when you get past the clever sound bites, we only see the cute, ivory totem on the shelf. The famous hook-line from a not so famous song goes, “Life’s a bitch and then you die.” That was from the musical, ’Threepenny Opera’ in 1928. It has survived as a pessimistic counterpoint to anything hopeful. I think life is a dance, from the first notes until when the band folds up the music and goes home. It makes a difference who you’re with and how you move your feet but when the leader says, “This will be the last dance;” you want it to be special. So I write. 

Never very far removed is the fact that when I could have been in conversation with my folks, there was something more important to do. That’s how it works. So when it doesn't occur to my kids to bend my ear or pick my brain it’s not a judgment about me or my story. It’s about ‘Plenty of time.’ As corny as it sounds, I write in lieu of those unasked questions. I imagine a time when it will occur to them that the old man isn’t available. I’ve taken a lesson from my dad, what not to do. I’ll leave a fairly large body of written work and it will be available. Whether or not it ever gets read doesn’t matter. It will be available. That’s it. ‘Plenty Of Time’ is simply code for, “Something else is more important right now,” and that’s alright. If you live long enough, lucky enough, it sinks in; we are, all of us are trapped in the ‘Right-Now.’ We can not redo the last word across our lips or wake up tomorrow until it becomes the new ‘Now.’ So I’ll revisit this later and see how it reads. As far as I can tell, there is still plenty of time.

.