There are things I am compelled to do. One of them is to write. One of them is to absorb all the input around me, like a less shiny Johnny 5. One is to learn more about the people who I admire and am inspired by. While some of these compulsions can be time consuming, they are still relatively easy to keep doing, and cause mostly manageable stress.
But there’s another one, that’s a bit harder, and makes me just a touch edgy. Though on rare occasions, it’s as simple as taking a slow breath. That compulsion is to ask myself questions, and wonder how others like me would answer.
Let me first clarify; others like me. Some of this might be rather arrogant sounding, but hopefully my true intent comes across. Think of it like Simon telling the Firefly crew about how vastly he intelligent he is, to make sure they knew just how smart River is, when he volunteers that she makes him look like a drooling idiot. I’m trying to establish my question targets here.
As I’ve said in a previous blog, my sister and I are very alike in some ways, and we are able to communicate in a way that leaves some people genuinely stunned. I won’t say those people aren’t as smart as we are, they just aren’t as articulate or quick as we can get, especially bouncing off each other. Yet, despite how similar my sister and I are, one little fact makes us worlds apart sometimes. That’s my passions and compulsions. She doesn’t really get those, and therefore she doesn’t understand how mine work.
My sister isn’t one of the people the current question, the one milling around in my mind, is intended for.
I’m watching some podcasts tonight, of John Cleese. And I found myself experiencing a rather surprising reaction. I found myself, being intensely grateful, that his faculties are still in order (or at least as in order as they ever were). And while that last sentence sounds a little glib, it’s actually a quite literal comment. We are talking about a deep sigh, the kind you feel in your ribs, kind of relief. It only took a few moments to register, why I was so calmed by this simple errant thought.
I saw George Carlin, live, a couple of years ago. My sister, Steph and I went. I remember, thinking that night, that I didn’t think he’d be with us much longer. It wasn’t his age, or the slight crouch to his back, or how white his hair was. It just felt like, a part of George was slipping away. Now this was early in the particular tour, and I am aware of how comedians at George’s level work. They build the material in the tour, and it’s only completely together in time for the next TV special. But even with that knowledge, the spark and quick shifting wit just didn’t feel as present. It was like the shine was finally coming off the new coin. And it broke my heart. A small piece of me wonders, did it break his too? Did he, perhaps, finally leave us, due to a broken heart?
George is the kind of man I would’ve loved to ask my question of. The incomparable Mr. Cleese is someone I would enjoy having an hour long conversation with, dissecting every nuance of my question. There are many others. Writers, actors, directors… people for whom the written word drives their existence; these are the people I want to ponder these thoughts with. So what, you might be just spitting to get answered already, is the question?
How much do you dread, that your mind might one day leave you? How does it hurt inside, when you imagine that a time could come, when you will simply not be as sharp anymore? How dreadful do you think it will be, to feel yourself dulling with age and/or infirmity?
I realize that’s more than one question, but I think you understand the scope of the thought. I, in my obsessive compulsive way, come back occasionally to these thoughts. I try to avoid them. I’ll even duck into a shop and hide out, if I see them coming down the road. But they always manage to find me eventually, generally when I’m too tired to carefully scout all pedestrian traffic.
To lose my mind, my rhythm, my ability to pull thoughts and words from nothing, to lose the things that drive and compel me; that is the most unfathomable black hole I can conceive of. It’s a pit that promises nothing but despair and a sedimentary existence, which I am not sure that I could bear.
Somehow, I think asking others how these thoughts feel on their own shoulders, might lessen the burden on my own. But then again, perhaps I’ll learn that I’m giving them more weight than they deserve. I don’t think there’s a good way to find out. I mean, it’s not as if James Lipton is ever going to add it to his final questionnaire. I don’t think it’s dark and ominous enough for a HBO to let me produce a documentary. And I would Tweet it to John, but I really think it would lose its rhythm in 140 characters.
Oh, well
*sigh*
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