“I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.T.S. Eliot. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
It’s something few of us escape - getting older.
I often don’t think much about aging but today, after making a video version of this classic poem - Warning by Jenny Joseph and running up a mountain - I had a few thoughts.
Jenny Joseph’s poem points out the reality for many people that “getting old” is rescued and redeemed by the fact that once we get there, we can let down our hair, act without a care in the world and really be free. Why? Because we feel the knife at our throat and desperation in a strange way, allows one to throw off one’s shackles and act outside the invisible chains, the constraints of culture, of society.
We all imagine that when we get old, finally, finally, finally we can just let go and not give a damn and just dance and sing and feel as we should.
Alas, for most it is a pipedream. At best an aspiration. Our lives teach us who we are and like the author, once we get there (old and grey, bent and busted) - we continue on in the manner we’ve been trained throughout our life.
There are exception and you’ll notice them. Here in Korea, it is the old men with grey hair. Going grey even in old age is a sign of rebellion, something way outside the social norm. Back home in Canada, I’ve always admired the crotchety old women, who swear, spit and who are constantly giving you a piece of their mind. Paraskeva Clark comes to mind. She features in a fantastic documentary by the National Film Board of Canada - Portrait Of The Artist As An Old Lady.
But even if just an aspiration, it is a good thought. To keep in mind that life is short and once you are considered old and useless, you are too free to really live as you want - without having to please anyone or brownose nor cowtow. It’s how I’m trying my damndest to live and part of why a few years ago I through off some heavy invisible shackles and started overtly, visibly, being the writer I am and wearing purple more often.
Another good aspect of getting old is you kind of give up comparing yourself to anyone else. Why? Well, because you finally and finally forced to accept the fact that the effort to compare yourself to others is ultimately evil, destructive, depressing and useless. YOU ARE UNIQUE. Always have been and always will be.
I think it was Steinbeck who said;
“Now that I’ve given up trying to be perfect, I now can be good.”
I’ll leave it at that - he’s bang on. Be good. Go forth as yourself. Don’t be afraid. Don’t give a flying frock what others think. Be true to thine own self, my Laertes.
Endings
I’m tired.
Truthfully. Sincerely.
I’ve had enough.
I need a finish line.
There should be a place
you can go
like a massage parlor
where you enter, relax
and then don’t come out
(of course, you pay upfront).
Clean, tidy, that’s all she wrote.
I’m not asking for much.
Maybe some nice music,
a glass of wine, a hand to hold
then it’s over
you’re outta here.
There’s too many of us here anyway.
Why does it have to be so difficult
to exit stage left and say “sayonara”?
I don’t want to run in front of a bus
jump off a bridge or
hang alone from a door frame.
I just want to get it done
sanely, safely, soberly
like how you shut off the lights
gracefully, contentedly
after a full day of sun at the beach.
We’re all gonna die
so once you’ve put in
a good number of years
you should be allowed
a coward’s way out.
You’ve earned it.
Dontcha think?
In the meantime
I’m gonna live like
I’m already dead
useless, forgotten, a relic
a faded photograph left
in a dusty unvisited room
waiting, waiting, waiting
until someone can tell me
where my off button is.
