Dear Body
It is perhaps time for us to talk — you know, about the elephant in the room. Yes, about aging. You see, I have been thinking… thinking about the many times that I have encouraged you to stop complaining about aches and pains, tiredness, physical stress, colds, flu etc. I was always whispering sweet nothings into your ears and causing your vision to be clouded when I wanted you to feel guilty about procrastination and laziness. Yes, you were lazy when you always found excuses for not being the over-achiever that you were always meant to be. As we know, we can never be good enough — neither in our own eyes not in the perceptions of others.
I was only trying to help. But the truth is that I too have occasionally been prone to doubt and depression; and lately to dementia and memory loss. It is not your fault, my Brother. The Body and the Mind are incredible machines which can normally withstand quite a bit of misuse and overuse. But all the maintenance regimes and repair interventions become eventually powerless to the inevitability of Aging. We all have expiration dates.
I have not always been a good listener; and you can be rather stubborn as well. When I ignore and work against you long enough you simply go on strike, or “have an accident”. Of course, those feuds can go on for many years, and thus create physical and mental weaknesses that reduce our operational capabilities over time.
Well, we know all of this, Brother. Berating ourselves for previous bad communication and sometimes sketchy cooperation is pointless now that we are old.
Can’t we agree to accept ourselves as we are, and approach this new phase of Life with dignity and as the supportive couple we were always meant to be?
Love ya Dude!
A BEAUTIFUL THING.
the mind is quite a
beautiful thing – until
one begins to lose it.
THE HOMECOMING.
Two machines work in tandem to
transport the newcomer to his
destination: the Incoming Arrivals
terminal, some 60-feet away.
One is called Body: a
miraculous mechanism of impulses
and veiny cylinders which pumps
sparks of inertia into otherwise
lifeless organs and limbs.
Another has assumed the name Escalator:
a complex simple machine, whose
sleek metal and plastic components
derive their electricity from a
brain unaffected by emotion and the
undependable workings of the spleen.
Together, these two brains scheme
to smuggle Body from plane to
terminal without arousing its
potential security risk:
the emotional system.
Body’s eye-apparatus fixates
upon the fourth wall,
noting neither destination
nor landscape in-between.
Brain sends Body impressions
of Elevator and simultaneously
commands to “search and find.”
Spleen sleeps, sufficiently
blinded by Eyes (and too
sophisticated to implement the
long-since devolved functions
of Ears and Nose).
Vessels pump … gears spin;
and Eyes notes a multitude of
peer-bodies assuming similar
movements; a signal is sent to
Brain, with press releases to
Body: “Everyone is doing it.
Ergo, it must be right!”
Body moves toward Escalator
with gusto; and Spleen awakens
abruptly when Escalator
chuckles “gotcha!!!”
But the hopelessness is not
fully understood until Spleen
realizes that Body is alone
in the stream of fast-walking
zombies, guided by Eyes’ robotic
gaze … and overhears the one-way
laughter of Escalator, who
neither sputters nor flinches.
Poetry by Adam Donaldson Powell.
Adam, age 70.
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