Friday, October 24, 2008
Pictures of everyman. Or: Forty and f*cked.
The shock to a man from about the age of forty...
The sudden realization that you've been kicked off the bus of normal life, and from here on it's going to be hitchhiking, and catch as you can, you can't go home again, the past seems one hell of a lot more attractive than the future and and you wish the hell you were eighteen again and knew what you knew then.
You, who had sampled life and enjoyed some if its pleasures--are going to die. It's not an abstract.
Well, well, well.
Hoo Dat Callin".
Well, there are palliatives.
You are still young enough, attractive enough, maybe even talented enough to still function in what's left of your profession. You can be a randy prof, the writer of good books; perhaps a financier.
And so you go off half- cocked (sometimes literally) on all those projects, madly off in all directions;but forty is the deadline decade; if you hadn't made it by now, and even if you had made it, now you're the fool who will have to start over again, and after those starts, again and again; fucking -up all over again, till you get to where the hell you are supposed to go. And that takes decades.
Queen: Death on two legs
You might have no idea how good life and love will ultimately get-- that it is really going to get rosy at the end; but then you can't push time and right now at forty, it's you and in the situation.
So you go through the small gains in your professional life, pick up he glamorous girlfriend, who builds up your ego to monstrous proportions; the mystique of writer makes you attractive to women, they all want to be in you books--you strain your brains out through the eye of your pathetic little ding-a-ling and life for a while gives you this terrific bang.
But by 44 it seem more like a Roman candle.
Strange dreams as you lie next to your lover, with those dear little veins in the inside or her knees. She is young, beautiful and she knows you love her...but something is wrong!
Your former wife trying to get the driveway paved, stronger now for having Dumped the Hunk, but she is scared now, for should the Hunk return he may yet rub her nose into it.
You dumped me, what I at least,in my spoilage had perceived in my own head to be beautiful me, for that bespectlacled spectacle sitting in my living room patting my dog?
Sweetie, with all you women's lib magazine propaganda, you believed it all and now you're in the house blowing a little dope.
Ah small matter. In any other society we would be stoned as adulterers. We are white, crazy and forty-one.
It takes money to have a mid-life crisis, oodles and oodles of it. And you and the former wife both need it.
She makes out your income tax, signs your name to it, poackets your old paycheques and collects the rebate. You, as he dog-in-the manger son, go to your family. It takes money to be the partier, the raconteur, the rat with women, for there is the intimaion that it's really all downhill from here, and you might as well have a good time.
You also know that you can die of a mid-life crisis, and you might not be the only guy to spend $40,000 and end up having AIDS.
That you, bunky, in the syph ward, your poor pecker just about falling off? Well, that's what she wished for the last time she saw you.
You got the ball rolling and got trapped undeneath it. Lizzie Borden adultery. And the Bible was right, and the sins of the fathers.....
And it doesn't stop until the threescore and ten.
And then, when you get to where you were supposed to go, when it's time for you yourself to go--you migh finally larn somethin'.