When I think about exiting this life, I think about the losses. There are the great ones, like all the people I love and can’t imagine parting from, and the beautiful and terrible world itself. Then there is everything I haven’t experienced: the countries not visited, the books not read, movies not seen; I could go on to an ever-expanding list. How wonderful and amazing that there is far more to do and see and learn than we can encompass in a lifetime. And how sad. I particularly regret the paintings I won’t get to make. I have more unfinished work and collage materials than I could get to in two lifetimes. I like having all that waiting in patient silence for me. I lament that I won’t ever get to feel that it is done. To feel that my work here on this earth has come to an end and I am ready to lay down my brushes. No, I can hear myself screaming: Wait! Wait! Not ready to go! Food I haven’t tasted! Streets I haven’t walked on! Flowering trees that will bloom! Oh, dear, I am going to miss all that?
Time marches on and I continue to grow in the power and knowledge I need in order to paint the vision. I think about how nice it would be to go on like Methuselah. Imagine what paintings I could make after another hundred years or so of experience and learning. I would produce miracles. I take more pleasure in my days now and appreciate my world more and more. Nope, not prepared to give up any of it.
The awful reality is that I will soon have to think of reducing my operation. My memory used to be better, but except for that I am still a fully functioning human being. Yet I am thinking ahead to the curtailed abilities that will perforce present within the next years. It behooves me to accept the truth of diminished capacity and to assume a simpler and reduced workload. How hard it is to accept these facts. And the facts are that I need to stop working to pay the high rent I pay now and to move to a smaller living space and a necessarily smaller studio. Damn, damn.
If there is a life after this one, I am putting in some requests right now. I want to be drop-dead gorgeous, brilliantly intelligent, enormously talented and filthy rich. And to be able to add to that list as the whim takes me. Some superficiality there, you say? Well, that would depend on what I do with those gifts, I say.
The Image above is Multiple Blue ©1993, acrylic on paper mounted on canvas, 48” x 38”.
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my love, you already are all those things you say you want to be next time around ♥
ReplyDeleteThere is no next world, just us and our little worlds. I've got a long list of islands, waterfalls, beaches, mountaintops, cities and towns that I need to visit. I probably won't get far down the list but now I have your drop dead gorgeous essay "About Missing Everything" posted on my bulletin board just above the gas bill. Unlike the Hindu Kush and Iguazu Falls, it will be there in the morning. Thanks too for the exquisite "Multiple Blue."
ReplyDeleteWow. What a nice response. Thank you, Sue. You always boost my morale.
ReplyDeleteJ.
Ah, Gordon. I love your comment. You must know that I am in this business of words and colors for the reward of your praise. And I will kvetch and rant endlessly to inspire more.
ReplyDeleteJ.
Your posting was the purest pleasure after a night of intense suffering at the NCRT production of Othello, one of my favorite Shakespeare plays. Joan, if you get nothing more from knowing me for God's sake heed this warning: do not, under any circumstances let yourself be talked into going to this production. Othello is supposed to be a tragedy (Like Macbeth, R&J and Lear, this shouldn't have happened), not a screaming argument between irritable fishwives. Fully half the play--maybe more-- was SHOUTED at the highest possible volume, often with hand wringing, fake tears and clumsy acrobatics tossed in for good measure. Even the subservient Desdemona ended up bellowing away with the rest of them-- as she was dying. Maybe it wasn't a such a tragedy; Othello did manage to shut the bitch up. Better yet, the play finally ended and we got out to fifth street.
ReplyDeleteI sat on my hands through the standing ovation and went home feeling like somebody needs to stop this train before in careens any further down the track. A letter to the director? A picketing of the theatre? A citizen's arrest for abusing Shakespeare?
Your exquisite essay on the tragedy of aging brought all this to a most satisfying conclusion. It's sad, I know. It would have been so much less so if you had shouted about it.
And here's the dialogue that followed:
ReplyDeleteI enjoy your company, Gordon, but I'm glad I wasn't with you last night. I have seen a couple of local productions in which raised voices were the expression of drama; they were not up to the standards of afternoon soaps. My heartfelt condolences for the blighted evening out.
J.
P.S. I appreciate the stage but have always preferred reading Shakespeare.
Yes, noise doesn't equal drama. Good point.
But shouldn't we discuss this on your blog?
GI
Yes, of course. I'll update my part right now.
J.
P.S. I was responding directly because it seems that my commentors don't know that I have commented on their comments. I guess it would be best to let them take care of themselves.