TWINGES OF MORTALITY

I’m walking through a room full of things I’ve collected, or made, or found, or been given, all things I love to look at, and here it comes--that twinge, a freshly minted reminder that I’m mortal. And not just any old garden-variety mortal-- at eighty-two I’m more mortal than ever. Next I endure an unpleasant moment during which it feels like I’m dead already and in mourning for all my lovely stuff, everything I’ve gathered will be all that’s left of me. Nobody will want everything. Some of it will find a home, some of it will be thrown away. I can’t bear to imagine my precious stuff piled up on the curb. Twinges by definition don’t stick around, although they recur with unnerving frequency. An hour later I am staring at what is taking shape in my handful of clay, and again with the twinge. I get it, okay? Mortal.

     But now I’m curious. What other physical manifestations of the abstract are there?   There’s panic and depression, and fear and grief, and then my mind goes blank until I remember desire. Of course, good old desire! Speaking of which, parked next to Woodstock Meats, I watched a young man shoving his shirt down into his jeans, which reminded me of an old boyfriend who was always naked in his jeans, which made me acutely aware of the possibly naked body of this young man, which led me to reminisce, I’m sorry to say, about all things penis. I got a little nostalgic. I experienced a bit of a rush. I wondered about the young man. His girlfriend stood nearby, waiting while he sorted himself out. I tried to study her face to determine whether she was a girl who cared what kind of penis she was dealing with, but concluded you never can tell. Oh, come on. We all care. Just say it.