Terrible things happen: the people we love most, and those that we especially admire, sicken and die; our highly competent bodies are overwhelmed by an avalanche of painful disabilities and disfigurements (I can no longer play the piano or assemble collages, among many other things).
But it’s possible to cope with these disasters — not with the blaring of trumpets in resurrection, but in the more modest unfolding of loss, longing, and resolution: Tod und Verklärung on a human scale. In this posting, I’ll wander through several examples from my current life, starting with some things I see out of my big window here at Avant.
Loss, longing, and resolution. Unpacked in more detail, as a narrative:
— loss and lamentation
— longing for the lost thing
— resolution: appreciating the value of the lost thing (plus a certain amount of wonder that you once had it)
Writing at my worktable, I look down on the traffic on El Camino Real and on the side road El Camino Way, where bicyclists whiz by. Meanwhile, El Camino Way is bordered by sidewalks where there are joggers and people purposefully walking to shops, jobs, visits with friends. There’s constant movement and people to study — you speculate on their stories and also examine the details of their bodies, especially on the rear views as they move past. Such amazing variety, such a pleasure.
That’s the reward. But born in great pain and a sudden incomprehensible inability to walk, or even stand unsupported. An auto-immune thunderstroke.
What came before. Walking and biking — often covering great distances — were pleasures of my young life. And then, much later, with my man Jacques, walking miles and miles covering huge stretches of Palo Alto together. Jacques even coached me in playing racquetball — flying in the air as sport, my only sport.
What happened. And then it was, devastatingly, all gone, and I couldn’t stand or move without support, couldn’t climb stairs at all, and what I could manage hurt like hell. The days of inexplicable loss, flashes of rage.
Well, the white-hot pain can’t last, but can persist as a drive to snatch back the feelings of a vibrant body capable of performing complex physical routines with grace and style. I want that back!
But eventually even that longing wears down, surfacing only in wish-fulfillment dreams, some quite vivid.
Jacques died 23 years ago, but he occasionally comes to me in dreams, complete with the smell of his body and an intricate touch-map of all of it, so astonishingly different from mine.
Later in 2003, I lost most of the functions in my right arm and hand — a consequence of necrotizing fasciitis, an ugly story I’ve told in other postings on this blog — and then could no longer play the piano (though I had recordings of my performances) or create XXX-rated comic homoerotic collages (though I had the artworks from two exhibitions). Even now those abilities return to me in dreams, where I finish working through the solo piano works of Chopin and complete a gigantic wry-sexy collage on the variety of homomasculinities.
What is left. Two kinds of awareness. First, that the lost things were valuable, ranging from small momentary pleasures — little things that make everyday life congenial — to lifelong commitments to moral purposes. (Meanwhile, of course, I messed up a lot of stuff terribly and behaved very badly on some occasions.)
Second, that it’s amazing, and gratifying, that I ever had these things. They were great gifts. Despite all the rest of it, I have lucked out in life, somehow survived an obstacle course of near-death experiences to make it to old age with my wits still about me, to have done some good, and even to have collected some rewards. An excellent resolution, and there’s still a future for me.
Down in the bike lane. I look down at the bike lane on El Camino Way and see two figures, both on bikes, moving along slowly. What I take to be a father (on his own bike) shepherding his son on a trainer bike. The boy is a picture of earnest determination, punctuated by occasional glances up at his dad for reassurance. Oh, so sweet.
Readers of this blog will understand that here I see my wonderful dad (featured in many postings), who took me as I came, pretty much 100% surprise, and treasured me as I was, taking on the role of solicitous older brother, and gave me a largely happy childhood. The El Camino Way father and son have their own story, of course, but the bond of mutual regard is visible. It’s a good day on the street.
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