I will be turning 84 this August! I use the exclamation point because I can’t believe that number. How can that be?
In my mind I still live in my 50s or 30s or teens, or even far younger than that. It’s unreal. How can a person be 84-effing-years-old, and still live in his mind so far in the past?
My older sister still calls me Billy, a name from childhood and one I ditched when I came to California 44 years ago.
And now this very same mind finds itself living as an 84-year-old geezer who had a thing called a stroke (kind of an odd word), a triple-bypass heart operation in 2012, and a slew of various ailments along the way. It seems practically every week some new debilitating disease or life-killing ailment will pop up and do me in, given that death seems to run in the family.
Can this dude of damaged goods be the real me?
It’s not that I don’t feel 84. Hell, I feel 104 on some not infrequent days, and that’s only a physical description, to say nothing about my mental, cognizant or emotional life. A whole other ball game.
Speaking of which, I remember vividly playing full tilt racket-ball for years, believing I was pretty hot stuff at it, feeling invincible. I became a father at age 40 and dealt with all the trials and tribulations that entails. In my 50s I went to grad school and snagged a degree in Psychology, all the while earning my keep as a roofing contractor and filling my head with Buddhist-based practices and other such heady ideals. In addition, I took up writing, produced a newsletter about local politics and issues of the day, and then wrote two novels.
I bring up this litany of activities and self-descriptions because I still live in these separate beings from time to time, and still find myself worrying about life and what will happen next, and I still don’t feel prepared for any of it.
So, what gives with this aging process, when it was expected that I’d have it all handled by now? When is that mythic surety ever going to kick in and I can just relax in the knowledge that I’ve got it all handled? You know, a certain self-confidence that I’ll now be able to deal with whatever comes my way.
But in truth, the only thing that comes up for me is that I’m still the same old schmuck I’ve always been and will be until I drop. I’m not looking for pity or even understanding. I guess what I’m seeking is some sort of confirmation that we all live in our past selves despite all the personas we’ve taken on, and we’ll just have to realize that’s the real condition-of-conditions and accept it for what it is and it ain’t ever going to change.
The only thing I’ve been able to ascertain about the aging process is that one becomes more easily annoyed by practically . . . everything, from the computer age of passwords and apps to gonzoid politics and social issues, and people who use the phrase, “just let me play devil’s advocate.”
Enough complaints.
So, once again I’m faced with the age-old question: How am I supposed to live, and who is this “I” that keeps talking to me, anyway?
He’s a fascinating, talented, fellow who I’m happy to call my friend and will leave this world a better place!
And at 88 I can so relate to your “memoir”!! Thanks, Will!
EXACTLY
After reading your last piece in the S V Sun, I felt I wanted to get to know you. So I googled you and there you were, but still, no picture of you. Wish I could have found one because it can say so much about a person… But your words ring so true, they say exactly what I think and say! Its a great feeling to know that I’m not alone, that you are just as baffled as I am and traveling together. My world is brighter, thank you.
What are the titles of your novels? Please keep writing.