The thing is, I'll turn fifty-two next month, so I've been having to deal with the sudden realization that my life is almost half over. It's caused me to wonder things like:
When a man sees a woman he finds attractive, there is this internal impulse. Some kind of fundamental drive. Who knows where it comes from? But it transcends sexuality, for it comes up whether he's admiring his own wife, his daughter, his neice, or a friend's wife or daughter. It is a thing that arises out of the beautiful "femaleness," or perhaps the perfect femininity of the woman or girl. As a man, he sees this and admires it. He is momentarily captivated by it.
The man thinks to himself, "I want to hold her."
The stinging chill of the night air cut through my alpaca wind breaker like a Frenchman on a mo-ped in rush hour traffic as I reached for another fag. The distant, muted cacophony of the surf beyond the jetty, the pungent fragrance of the tailings of yesterday's catch, and the oddly diffuse brilliance of a full moon peering down through a meandering marine layer all conspired to set the mood—a doleful, introspective kind of mood.
There I was, standing at the reception desk at the doctor's office. I was locked up. Stumped. I couldn't answer her simple question.
What is it about indecisiveness that I hate so much?
It's not that it uses up time (though the older I get, the less patience I have). No, I think it's because of the complications it adds to life. There are two basic types of indecision that drive me crazy, and they both center around stuff that just doesn't matter that much. The two scenarios can be exemplified as follows:
It was never a question, for myself, whether I would one day
be what, and whom, I wanted to be.
The fact had always stood,
with opportunities in abundance.
But there that day the questions seemed to proliferate.
What next to do that I hadn't already tried?
—or that wasn't so similar as to quench
any hope of satisfaction in my quest.
And, "Quest for exactly what?" I could no longer answer.
Had I ever known? Or was I now just tired of the empty humor.
Life and Death:
Mutually exclusive, yet
You can't have life without death, for all must die.
You can't have death without life, for,
Death of whom but he who had lived?
Is life just the path to death?
—a means to an end;
—ceaseless striving that leads us to the peace of the grave?
Shall we not then welcome death as
the only solution to life's dilemmas?
Thus the mind may reason, but my spirit says, "No!"
For me to passively accede to death,
"What is truth?" said Pilate, as he turned his back on Jesus. Of course he meant it to be a sarcastic hypothetical question. I believe he had no idea of its prophetic implications.
I was enjoying life and all it has to offer; sort of.
Opportunities in abundance, good times indeed; mostly.
Looking to the future, eager to grow; usually.
Worried, though, about missing something important;
What was this thing that held me back?
Why could I not fully enjoy what my friends enjoyed?
What was this piece of seriousness that muted the humor?
What is this sobriety that looms over simple frivolity,
threatening, dominating, overpowering, overcoming.
Then Jesus glanced my way.