Seeing the Future is Depressing

When you are older, say, late 40s, you will become tired of life, and this is why: you know what will happen.  Not at the end, which you do know, but that's not why you're tired.  You're tired of life because you know that getting out of bed means your socks, your slippers, your robe, the bathroom, stretch, cat litter, cat feeding, breakfast, and so on throughout your day.  You're tired because if you go out, you know what will happen.  You know what it's like.  You know your reaction.  You know when you'll be tired.  You know when you'll be sore, when you'll be angry, when you'll be filled with regret.  You also know what others will do and how they will react.

You are tired of life because you see the days stretching forward and you see the lines of repetition, even the supposedly special events.  Your naive excitement flakes away with repeated experience.  You know there is no secret cave or an amazing person or hidden knowledge or adventure around the corner.  They have all disappointed in the past.  Even the exciting events are predictable.  The forest isn't endless.  There is no cache of money.

Your experience has made you see the future and seeing the future is disappointment because the future is the past is the present is the repetition of it all.  It is why some people in "mid-life crises" will try to change their lives drastically: buy a flashy car, find a new spouse, experience a psychotic fugue.  As anyone will tell you, it won't work.  You know the car needs to be washed and the price of gas is going up.  The new spouse is the same as the old spouse.  The psychotic fugue will end and there will be paperwork.

Dementia could fix this.

You're Never too Old to Get Started

The only way to go anywhere is to get started.  Too bad starting is the hardest part.

I figure, if I'm lucky, I have 27 more years.  My grandmother died when she was 97, and I'm 70, so...math.  I always thought that 70 sounded really, really old.  Until my parents turned 70, and then it was too young.  Then 80 was too young.  90, no matter how you slice it, is pretty good, though, and 97 is great.  100 sounds like being greedy.  Twenty-seven years.  Seventy years old.

The other phrase that's been kicking around in my head has been that you're never too old.  God, I hope that's true.

Outliving Old Friends

An old woman creaked onto the bus and lowered herself carefully into the first row.  Halle sat a few rows back and wondered what it would be like when her first friend died of old age.  Unless, her mind wandered towards the idea, she would be the first.  She made herself long-lived and killed off her friend Nora at the age of 89, which she felt was pretty good.  You can't complain if you manage to hit 89.  Halle imagined herself mourning each of her friends, wearing black to their funerals, and being patted for her losses as everyone she knew dropped away into time.

What have you done to make a difference in someone's life in the past three days?

As we grow older, it becomes harder to feel the mystery and wonder we had as children.  It is not, however, a result of having grown out of the need for desire for mystery and wonder; it is, rather, that adults have far more practical experience.  Practical experience answers questions, and it also implants fear, worry, jealousy, and other negative emotions.  Adults become so wrapped up in the day-to-day that they push out mystery and wonder.

Many people believe that children have some special ability to appreciate mystery and feel wonder, but that is untrue.  Children simply have no bills to pay, no work life to balance, comparatively weak social pressures, and little imagination when it comes to "things that can go wrong and leave us homeless and hungry".  Adults have the exact same ability they always had, but their mystery is "How will I make it through the end of the month?" and their wonder is "I wonder if that spot is cancer?"

What adults need to do is to cultivate the mystery and wonder they once felt and use it to live a more exciting inner life.  One way we are helping to instill this kind of mystery and wonder in random adults is through The Tiny Art Project.

The Tiny Art Project is where we create tiny pieces of art, any medium, and putting it into tiny frames (2" or smaller.)  These tiny frames can be pinned or stuck in unlikely public places where adults can see the art, appreciate the beauty, wonder how it was made, and marvel in the mystery of how it got there and why anyone would do such a thing.

If you had amnesia and were granted only one thing to write down from your memory, what would you write?

I'm not positive my grandmother knew who I was, but she always smiled and patted my hands just like she used to, so I don't think it mattered.  My mother didn't like to visit the nursing home.  She had a phobia about any hospital-like place combined with an acute sense of smell, so Mom was always dancing on her toes, edging towards the exit whenever we visited.  Gram was always nice.  Always friendly.  Always.  Except in my mother's tales of her childhood.  I wondered if that's the way it always went: time mellows all.

Gram was in the hallway, lined up against the wall with three other old people in their wheelchairs, too.  At least, in the wheelchairs of the moment.  Nothing is permanent in a nursing home.  Nobody owns anything exclusively.  The clothing you came with finds it way to other people, and you appear dressed in a sweater you never saw before, but, of course, in this ward, it didn't matter.  Nobody remembered.  Not only wheelchairs and clothing, but glasses and even teeth traveled.  Nothing, especially memory, was permanent.

I knelt by Gram's chair to be at eye level and let her know I was there.  I knew we wouldn't stay long as Mom already had her hand over her nose.  The other old people in the chairs made noises and looked in our general direction.  "Hi, Gram, it's June."

Gram turned her dark brown eyes, ringed with the blue of age, and smiled, her front tooth missing.  That was new.  Gram's hands were still strong and, even now, warmer than mine.  "So cold!"  Maybe not even remembering I was her granddaughter, Gram still chafed my hands in hers to warm them.

"You look good, Gram," I smiled.  She did.  They'd given her a haircut that she'd never chosen, but that suited her.  Nobody in a nursing home got the perm or color they used to get.

Gram looked down at my arms across the afghan in her lap and said, "You're so white!"

"Yeah, I know," I said.  "It runs in the family."

348

Hospitals made June sad, but old people going into hospitals made her sadder.  Not the ones being brought in for medical attention, but rather the old people going in to visit.  June slowed as she walked to her routine mammogram appointment in the imaging center of the hospital to avoid getting too close to an old man entering with a bouquet of flowers.  His life flashed before June's eyes, and she saw him visiting his wife who would never leave her room alive.  The old man patting her hand for the last time.  Kissing her forehead.  Going home and never seeing his love again in this world.  June clutched her purse to her chest and started to run.

307

It was the day after he died that I went for the first time by myself to a live concert.  I had never heard of the bands, nor had I ever gone to a club like this.  I wasn't even sure what kind of music it would be, I just went.  The only assurance I had was that it would be loud and crowded, which was perfect for forgetting.

I didn't remember dressing for it, but I still have the t-shirt, crunchy with sweat and spilled beer and a splash of blood, not mine.  I should have felt out of place, being one of the only females, and the only one not in the band who was over forty.  The guy at the door asked if I was looking for somebody.  It was nice he was willing to let me in to find my kids, but I have no kids.  "No.  Just one admission, please."  I must have had some look on my face because he didn't say any more, but his eyes lingered.  The floor was sticky and it smelled like spilled beer and piss even before people started spilling and pissing.  When the first band took the stage, I fought my way into the middle and jumped with the crowd, letting the driving bass and thumping drums and screaming vocals take me.  That first night, the day after he died, I screamed and cried in the crowd, pushing and shoving against the bodies of the young.

301

My grandmother told me they used to laugh at people in Asian countries for wearing surgical masks in public.  I asked why, and she explained about the newness of an ever-changing and ever-more-potent flu season and about the recognition of carbon pollution, but what I meant was why did they laugh?  Later, when I got to think about it, I guess it was because only people in Asian countries wore them.  I never really thought about it much, since only uncivilized people don't wear masks.

I was always Grandma Briella's favorite because I would unplug just for her.  I feel guilty about it now because sometimes I didn't; I only said I unplugged, but I never thought she'd notice.  Thinking back, I'm sure she noticed.  Grandma Briella noticed a lot, even when she didn't always call me by the right name.

283

The candlelight softened his weather-worn features and deep wrinkles until they were only suggestions.  Shadows still haunted his deep-set eyes.  "I am old enough to be your father," he whispered, his knobby, long-fingered hands curling into fists on the table.

"But you're not, Tam."  Cara moved her own hands, not particularly young, but made so in comparison to his own, towards his.  Tam stiffened and made to pull away, but hesitated.  Cara reached further, and he let her lay her hand upon his.  Tam's fist tightened and she felt him quiver in his seat.  The other patrons of the inn's tavern forgotten, Tam let her unfold his hand.

276

The phone was getting hot against James' ear and he kept glancing at the clock.  This phone call to his mother was supposed to be short.  A quick question, a clear answer, and off to shopping, but these conversations were never short.  James closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.

"I'm trying to convince your father to sell this place."

James' eyes flicked open.  "What?  Why?  I..."

"What would happen if one or both of us had to go to a nursing home?'

"Nursing home?  You..."

"They make you spend all your money and then the put you on Medicaid.  It would all disappear.  They'd take it all.  Plus, it's so much work for your father.  Ever since he had The Incident, he hasn't been quite right."

"What do you mean?  Is Dad..."

"He forgets things.  Your grandmother, God bless her, was showing symptoms of dementia for years; symptoms I didn't recognize at the time, but they were there."

James rubbed his forehead.  "Are you saying that Dad has demen..."

"He asked me what temperature to set the thermostat for bed, and he knows that."

"Well, that's not..."

"Whenever I mention selling, all I get is silence, anyway.  I'll keep working on him."

268

Georgina missed the part of her life where she had been good-looking.  Granted, it hadn't been for long, but she didn't realize it until a decade past; that was the way it went with her.  Realizations came suddenly and far too late.  At least, she thought at her reflection, they came eventually.  She patted her graying hair, which was also thinning and thickening at the same time, before another realization: it didn't matter.  Georgina felt that realization release a weight which dropped to the floor with a clunk.  It didn't matter.  She was light-headed with relief.  A narrow tunnel she had been traveling down that ended in darkness now opened up into a rotunda with exits on all sides pointing to sunlight.  It didn't matter.  Hair, face, skin, shape, color, clothes, breakfast, likes, dislikes, opinions: none of it mattered.  Better late than never, she thought, leaving her house and pointedly not taking her phone or brushing her hair.

251

Today is the day that my grandmother died.  She was 97 and was born in 1917.  We all knew it was coming, but, still.

It makes me sad I didn't get to see her one last time.  That the last time I saw her was the one last time, though it was a good visit.  Gram patted my hand and looked at my arm and said, "You are so white."  I said, "Thanks, Gram.  It runs in the family, you know."  I'm not sure she knew who I was, but Gram was always friendly and happy.  Always happy.  Always smiling.  Gram didn't always live a smooth life, but she still came out happy.  I try to remember that when I hear myself whining or getting ready to be snippy.

I love you, Gram.

248

Script pitch: Love story about a shy man who suddenly finds himself reaching old age without a companion.

Lead role: Gene Wilder

Opening: An older man (mid-70s) sits alone in his rather large, neat, beach-front cottage home in Connecticut.  We see him go about his morning, making himself tea, doing the puzzle in the paper, and painting in his home studio.  We finally see him looking in his calendar.  Forthcoming are a few doctor's appointments and one art opening that looks important.  The man looks rather disappointed that he doesn't have a more full social calendar.  He makes a decision and grabs his "little black book".  The entries are old, and many are crossed off with notes like "married", "moved to California", and "deceased".

191

It was like time traveling, helping her grandmother into a fresh shirt; an out of body experience, watching her future self get groomed for the day, helpless to lift her own arms.  Glenna brushed her grandmother's hair and pictured the thin, grey tangles as her own.  This is what my nose will look like.  These are the spots that will form on my hands.  These are the wrinkles that I am already beginning to see on my face.

185

Celia worked for minimum wage in a relatively new nursing home, serving and clearing meals.  It was tiring, on-your-feet work, but more than that, it tired her brain.  She didn't like thinking about death, and it hung about the place like cobwebs on forgotten boxes in the corner of an attic.  Celia thought she didn't like death, but, in truth, she didn't like the ruin of the body and the draining of the mind.  It made her remember her own grandmother, which always made her sad.  Every day she wondered why she ever went in to the place, and every day was another day still there until weeks and months had passed.

She found the residents simultaneously frightening, pitiful, and unbearably strong.  They stayed alive in bodies she would have abandoned long ago.  They lived on without hope, which Celia thought would have killed her in itself.  Perhaps she had it wrong, though, and a knock on a dinner table hinted at her misconceptions.

181

I know what I will look like when I am old.  My eyes have acquired time travel, and I can see it.  I can see the skin, thinning and wrinkling into a thousand tiny creases on my face, my arms, my legs, my belly.  I can see my bones protruding, knuckles swelling, muscles weakening.  My skin is discolored with age spots, nicks and scars, and is blue with veins and bruises.  My shoulders roll forward and I will move stiffly and sit, one arm stiff, one hip raised.  I see my friends and family deteriorating faster and faster.  Buildings age before my eyes even faster than the humans.  I see other things, too.  Things I don't understand and that don't seem to concern me.  I know these are the things I will shake my gray head at, careful not to turn too far.  The eyes of my mind see through future time, too, and I can see how it will turn back to the memories of my past.  I know which experiences I will recount over and over.  I know what I will regret and what I will cherish.  Time travel is heavy.  It weighs on a body.  My eyes get a far-away look that has nothing to do with vagueness of sight or cataracts.  It is time travel.

174

Halfway in to my first year of being forty.  My knee and shoulder have developed a random ache.  A portion of my vision in my left eye is obscured by a dark dot that skitters around like a bug on the water.  My upper back gets a kink in it unless I set my pillow carefully before I go to sleep.  When I push on my skin, I can see what it will look like when I'm ninety.  I have an age spot; no, wait, I have two age spots.  Wispy hairs circle my face and stick up from my part.  My joints have always been knobby, though.  I still sit on the floor.  I still sleep too long.  I still do stupid things, but not quite as often.  I recognize wisdom, even if I don't always have it.

158

"Cranberry Hills!" cried Grandpa, startling us all at the breakfast table.  "That's where I left it!"  Grandpa went back to eating, but Mom was to embarrassed to enjoy any more of her cereal.  I wasn't nearly so sensitive; to me, this is the way Grandpa always was.  He thought about things left undone and when he finally remembered, it bubbled up and out.  Saying things out loud has a way of making them more permanent; I understood this.  I did it myself, but I could usually control the outburst if I wasn't alone.

"What did you leave, Grandpa?"  Mom glared at me with the look that said, Don't encourage him, but I really wanted to know.  After all, whether Mom acknowledged it or not, Grandpa was the most interesting member of our family.

148

Fern had her hands draped with heavy plastic grocery bags, but she was determined to burn extra calories this year.  A car was slowing to a stop for her in the crosswalk, and Fern saw it was Patty at the wheel.  Their eyes grabbed and stuck for just a moment before Patty dragged hers away and suddenly stepped on the gas.  Fern was forced to pull up short, her can-filled bags swinging and smile disappearing.

146

Clara had lost her Great Aunt Maggie.  To be fair, it was not only Clara who had lost the old woman, but her entire family.  It was Clara, however, who felt the most guilt.

"How does nobody know where Aunt Maggie is?" Clara asked her father, whose mother's sister Maggie was.  Her father promised he'd ask the family, but no word came back.  Clara suspected that the family didn't mourn the loss; the old woman could have been nicely described as "irritable" and "weird".

The best anyone could do was Clara's mother who remembered something about a nursing home in the area of Genesee Street and Butler Avenue.  Clara looked up a dozen various key words online and found a handful of possibilities.  Was Great Aunt Maggie even still alive?  The family, outside of Clara, agreed the ninety-something year old woman was probably dead, but contradicting that was the absence of a body in her grave.  Where was Great Aunt Maggie?