Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Foole For Time
I have thought, for years and quite erroneously, that Time Is My Friend. I listened to wise words during high school, agreed there would never be another time like that in my life, and embarked on a non-stop search for adventure, experience, intensity as the central parts of my daily life.
No regrets there. It was a wise choice. By age 25, I was married, settling into what seemed a steady if uneventful career, and had done more than many do their entire lives. I'd driven cars over 150 miles an hour on the street, once had a motorcycle up to 140. Ridden dirt bikes, put in thousands of hours honing my skills as a surfer. I'd used some powerful psychedelics, gained some strange insights from same. Held a few jobs, done road trips...it had been a fun life so far. I had gained a small following as a gifted writer, had friends and admirers dropping by to debate philosophy, find an answer to some problem, or just to down a few beers and shoot the shit.
Instead of pushing myself to do something truly worthwhile as a writer, I thought "there's time", and kicked back to enjoy life with my new wife, her younger brother who we'd taken in, and a batch of pets including 4 dogs, 2 cats, an aquarium full of fish, and a skunk.
When too much easy living had turned me into a walking dumpling, I started collecting and restoring old iron weightlifting plates, the family bought me a multi-station exercise bench for Christmas, and I started turning into a very short Hulk.
Somewhere during this idyllic life period, I had first broached the subject of my father writing his autobiography. He's not a greatly literate man, certainly not a great speller, and he declined the idea. Even though he's led an eventful, fascinating life, I'd heard the stories forever, and could probably remember and record many of them anyway. There was plenty of time.
A few years later, after surviving the insanities of a divorce I didn't want, and learning to quit being in love with someone I'd never be with again, I managed to stop focusing on myself for a bit. I REALLY wanted to get started on that autobiography.
"Maybe next time you're here," Dad said, "right now I need you to help mow the orange grove. The swamp grass is getting taller than the trees."
Leap ahead a couple of decades. Mom has died of cancer, Dad is living with me, and at last agrees, possibly out of boredom, that maybe he should tell his story. I set up the program for him, make it incredibly simple to start it, write a bit, and close down. He never touches it.
Now, he's just had what may be his second stroke. He's about to turn 73. He may never be able to talk normally again, even to speak complete sentences.
I'm out of time.
But we forget it so damn easily, don't we.
Good luck as you carpe the diem, Arn.
Kevin
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