TheBanyanTree: Reflections in a muddy pond

[Russ Doden]

Dear Tobie,
I have read, and reread your post and see echos of my own 72 years.  Only I
had no procreation - by choice, but still no procreation.  As always I find
insight and wisdom in your words.  It's good to see your words again.

Russ

On Wed, Jul 17, 2019 at 4:52 PM <tobie at shpilchas.net> wrote:

> Wednesday, July 17nd, 2019
>
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> 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
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> A tease:
> "Where are you headed to after this, Mr. Zeno?"
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> And a phony:
> "Can I help?"
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> THS 2017
>
>
>
> Tobie Helene Shapiro
> mailto:tobie at shpilchas.net <mailto:tobie at shpilchas.net>
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