“I
don't so much fear death as I do wasting life.” Oliver Sacks said
that almost, not quite, ten years ago, in October 2009 to his partner
Bill Hayes. Admittedly when he said that he was at a more advanced
age than I, already in his seventies, but it made me instantly think
upon reading it: why don't I feel the same way?
I
don't fear death and I don't fear wasting life. Looking back at over
three and half decades of it, I see I've done a lot of that –
wasted life; I didn't mind then, and I don't mind now. Upon
reflection. What would be the use now in regretting what's been done?
Death
is a subject matter for another time, but which I'll sum up by
saying: I don't fear my own but others', their decline and final
departure, and the after. Maybe then, I share Sacks' opinion...? if
that's what he meant, more in relation to himself: his own parting.
And
indeed some pages on, and after I'd written the above, (on p.124 of
Insomniac City: New
York, Oliver Sacks, and Me,
the paperback edition, in case you want to find the exact paragraph)
he does comment on picturing his own death that he's “not troubled
in the least- not serene, but...as
if it is the right thing at the right time.
And so it will be.” I share that certainty though I'm younger and
aren't as yet dealing with the frailties of the mind or body since
who can tell how many years are allotted to us. Seeing those changes
in others however can be painful, and difficult to acknowledge and
accept. Time is so transient when it concerns those you love.
And
I said I wasn't going to talk of endings!
But
do I think when I, if I, reach a more senior status I'll think: what
a waste! It's possible. There are many things I could have been and
done; I realise that even now, and yet that's my biggest problem
because I'm not great with choice, weighing something up against
another. It always becomes about what I stand to lose rather than
what I stand to gain. And in those types of scenarios I'll always
select: no change. It could be a job, it could be love, it could be
the idea of moving home. It doesn't matter, because when your mind,
even for a short time, feels it's not your own, then sameness
appeals, and usually wins. Or in my case that's how it goes.
How
boring! Is it though? I like what I like. I like 'wasting' time
reading, thinking, observing, questioning. Yes, it's a singular life
and a luxury. An impractical, and some would say, a 'no fun' one. But
for me it's akin to breathing. Take it away or stifle it, over and
above what I was willing to compromise, and I'm not really sure who
or what I am. I go around in more of a daze, if that's possible. My
mind running at a speed that I can't keep up with and all of it a
jumble and concerned with tasks I don't really care about. There's no
gaps for the real me, to just be, or to enjoy those leisurely
pursuits in the same manner as before. I can't sustain a life like
that. And yet life, if you engage with it: people and work, often
requires it of you.
Oh,
what a waste! Yep, it is. Now I really consider it. It's a selfish
way of living and yet I'm not uncaring, the opposite in fact, though
I don't always know how to show it and I'm not too keen on intimacy,
but you know, living, I've not really cracked it. You could opine
Oliver Sacks didn't until his later years, that he hadn't really
lived until he fell in love or opened up to more 'normal' experiences
associated with the everyday. Perhaps that will happen to me....?
like him at a late stage with somebody junior so that it will
surprise me and I'll find I'll go with it. Age can do that to one.
The grains of sand that make up your personal time are fewer; you
catch what you can, hold in your hand and taste of it.
At
least I like to think I'd do that, if say I lived another thirty,
forty-odd years and suddenly had new experiences presenting
themselves to me. Yet as I write this I think: But you don't have the
same temperament of Sacks! You're not sunny or positive like him.
No,
I lean towards melancholy, yet we share the habit of random
pronouncements (his are recorded by Billy in 'Notes from a Journal')
which seem to come from nowhere, as if plucked out of thin air,
although of course to the speaker, they're not; they're perfectly
logical.
Still,
I'm hopeful...not much, but a little, that if I attain his age I'll
be as wise and won't (as I do now) want to steal all time for myself
and reserve none for new or late comers.
Picture credit: Broadway Desert, a P R Francis original
All posts published this year were penned during the last.
