TheBanyanTree: Reflections in a muddy pond

[tobie at shpilchas.net]

Wednesday, July 17nd, 2019



Just hold on a minute,

	I just turned 72.  This seems strange to me.  It is true that I’ve packed a whole hell of a lot of experience in between my squeezing (or being squeezed) out into the world and now.  Times in my life that once were freshly rotten now are distant and mature.  By that, I don’t mean that the memories are faded or any less vivid.  No.  They are redolent.  There have been just so many events crammed in there on the way to 72.  At various times I remember being thoroughly engrossed with, "How’z this going to turn out?"  It occupied the furrows in my forehead and worried me during the process, tripping me up, making it hard to navigate.  And by now, I know how most of those things turned out.  This is, at least, educational, and I learned my lessons well  —  that is, EXCEPT where hormones were involved.  Talk about tripping me up!

	It’s pretty clear, isn’t it.  The mind works, lessons are learned unless it has to do with love, mating and procreation, even if tangentially.  I’m sure there are plenty of people whose response to that would be, "But without the hormones where love, mating and procreation are concerned, it wouldn’t be much fun!"  And where I go with that is a state of wonder, confusion and intense curiosity  —  not about love, mating and procreation; that’s unambiguous.  I’d have to question these people about their personal definition of fun.

	I do know how to have fun.  I’d just have a very hard time trying to isolate the fun that, evidently for those folks, shines through all that anxiety, humiliation, disappointment, frustration and huge, swollen abscesses of self-doubt, recrimination and self-loathing.  Yes, as I recall, self-loathing figured prominently in the love, mating and procreation arenas I slogged through. 

	What arenas would those be?

	The most common arena was the one where I’m pushed out onto the great stage while the lions are released, sauntering from the opposite direction  —  this, while the crowd in the Coliseum munch their popcorn and look at their score cards.  They’re impatient, nearly disinterested.  This is only one act of dozens.  The professionals go on later, much more engaging, more skilled.  The pros know how to put on a show with sparkle, drama, pizzazz. 
	
	Another arena would be the Barnum’N’Bailey three ring variety.  In this one, I’m under contract as a trapeze artist  —  the high wire without a net variety  —  the skimpy sequined skin- tight one shoulder outfit that itches fearfully.  My contract, however, is a cruel ruse.  My torturous costume, the intense training, the soul throbbing terror (when I swing out there at maximum amplitude and let go, will my partner’s timing be right?  Will he catch me?)  What I don’t know is that I’m actually the clown act.  I was completely fooled.  I was even under the impression that my outfit was meant to be alluring.   Not the case.  What was I thinking when they put that shiny red bulbous nose on me?  Oh!  This was a lesson I would never forget!  But I did.  It’s easy for you to judge.  You can see the big red nose (and hear it, too; it honks), but I’m inside here looking out.  I can’t.  Still, the next time around it would be so unlikely they’d try the same stunt twice.  After all, I’m highly intelligent.  They know I’d figure it out.  They wouldn’t dare!  Oh yes, they would.  They know intelligence has absolutely nothing to do with it.  Besides, they have every reason to be confident.  They even order those noses by the gross in smug anticipation  —  those and the whoopee cushions.  

	A third arena (this one seemed to be a favorite of the trickster god: god of love, mating and procreation, in charge of the hormone cabinet).  This one was a Salem witch trial.  Risk free, simple, really.  I’m there to prove I’m worthy, truly the perfect, "UN-witch".  And it goes like this.  When I say, "Go," they throw me in the vat of water (brackish).  If I float, I’m a witch.  They haul me out and burn me at the stake.  But if I sink, I’m innocent, worthy, an, "UN-witch".  I drown.

	So I could be missing something, but I can’t find the fun in any of those.  And that’s the benefit of hindsight at 72.  As I answered the call and arrived to live these love, mating and procreation arenas, it was always as if it were the first time  — my memory wiped clean.  Or was it my cognitive awareness that was wiped clean?  "Clean," is not the right word, really.  Nothing was wiped clean, though one could argue that the word, "wiped," applies after a fashion.  The memory, the mental faculties, either or both, got slopped and clogged with hormones.  Of course, this is all so easy to observe at 72.  Now that it’s too late, I can assure you I won’t fall for any of that shit again.  And at 72, it’s pretty safe to promise that.


Oh yeah.  There’s more.

Later for you.


Love,

Tobie
























A tease:
"Where are you headed to after this, Mr. Zeno?"

And a phony:
"Can I help?"

THS 2017



Tobie Helene Shapiro
mailto:tobie at shpilchas.net <mailto:tobie at shpilchas.net>