From Wrinkles: Quirk-e Collected Writings Volume Four 2009
I am mortal, and I shall go forth into the rest of my life even more aware of my terminal condition. My intent is to forge the most loving and intimate relationship with the idea of, one day, not being on this planet. I give up ignoring it or not taking it seriously. I embrace the duration, intensity, value, and probable crucible that living to an end will mean for me. I don’t have the fire in my belly I used to have, but I do have a profound sense of responsibility to make good use of the further blessings of time my life will be granted.
I have had both strong self-preservation instincts and strong self-destructive behaviors. My youth was especially squandered on romantic fantasies and dead-end relationships. The desert time of a stale marriage and half grown kids was head down one day at a time. There have been times when God/purpose has indeed been dead. Many times I have tried for the comfort of beliefs in an existence after this one; some cumulative meaning of existence. Humans deserve the comfort that entertaining otherworldly postmortem scenarios can provide.
Long lost historic periods and other cultures stretched my idea of what it means to live and die human. If you think about them, it seems like you are giving the people of that time and place another opportunity to make their lives meaningful to a new generation. If I become a grandparent, someday I will feel similar. There are things to be shared and contributed in these coming years that will be a source of satisfaction for me. I’m not concerned about my name being attached to a legacy, but to be participating in society will be nice. To be relevant again would be great; and to be appreciated would be the very best way to remain in this world.
How I have lived during a few, particularly dangerous times in my life defies logic—anyone else’s as well as my own. In the ’70s, I was death-defiantly reckless with substances, but totally paranoid about being poor. I was sexually adventurous, but a wimp with the emotional consequences. I was (and still am) a coward when it comes to many sports or experiences of velocity or vertigo, but I have faced health problems like cancer with confidence. I can drive the L.A. freeway, but get real nervous in the snow here in Canada. Actually, winter scares me. I can speak in front of an audience, but quake standing alone at a party. I was never concerned about childbirth until the first contraction started during three births, nor did I have realistic concerns about child rearing. I coped as things unfolded. When I left my marriage and came out, I was way too excited and optimistic. Not until the shit inevitably hits the fan do I fully wake up.
I have left religions, marriages, careers, cities, and countries because I guess I’m not loyal to institutions. I have tried them, and they disappoint me. Not that I won’t try to infiltrate another one. Society is one damn institution after another, from kindergarten to the nursing home. But if I wind up in the latter, I will probably try to escape that as well.
Being alone has always seemed like cosmic retribution for all my inherent faults, transgressions, and general backsliding. I have huge abandonment issues, but (duh!) I have mostly been the one to leave. I have left because of chronic disappointment. The grass is sure to be greener elsewhere. But now I have vowed to make friends with this business of being alone. It, I feel, is the precursor to a realistic relationship with mortality. No more sugar coating distracting my mind. I want to embrace my authentic earthly life and mortality, the whole enchilada. I will greet each day really appreciating what waking up and and what not waking up mean in the current context of my life, and love that meaning with my whole heart and crazy sense of humor.
Did I mention I’m getting a pirate flag and DNR tattooed on my chest?
