Thoughts on Thirty-Four

“Now there’s a way and I know that I have to go away. I know I have to go.” -Cat Stevens

Upon this steady approach of age 34, I’ve been noting that this age is the same distance from 18 as it is from 50. While one’s age is an arbitrary, trite bit of information, there is, for me, some significance in considering myself a man halfway between an 18-year old man & a 50-year old man.

Recalling 18, I was ambitious & unrealistic in visions of my future: “In ten years I’ll be married with 2 kids while owning my own pizza place.” I would not go to college, citing supercilious convictions that, in hindsight, were born of insecurity & fear of inferiority. I was boisterous, reckless, & spontaneous in public; afraid, uncertain, & introspective in private. Today, I don’t think these afflictions are banished. I do think that I’ve devised more efficient methods in grappling with them.

Many issues remain constant. For instance, I still have an unbridled curiosity for the world, this big blue balloon, creepy-crawly with a prolific, wasteful, & irreverent vermin dubbed humanity. I still think I’m being punished for not believing in God, the Unseen. And I wonder what this punitive entity has in store for me. Also, an unsatisfied fascination with exotic people & places lurks patiently, yet urgently, on unkempt street corners of my subconscious. I still cherish the people that I know.

I had a conversation a while back in which we considered what advice 33-year old Paul would give 13-year old Paul. We decided that 13-year old Paul should have kept his grades up, participated in organized sports, & not settled down with one girlfriend. The consideration then turned to the advice 53-year old Paul would give 33-year old Paul. This, while standing at the threshold at hand–a detachment from someone with whom I’ve spent a third of my life & the emergence of an opportunity to sail to the aforementioned exotic people & their places–becomes a consideration of much more gravity. A smiling, grizzled, & content 53-year old Paul bends ever slightly forward & whispers, “Go”.

There’s also the unknowable advice 2-year old Paul has to offer. I’m thinking of the old photograph of me laying on the sidewalk. I’m wearing a t-shirt and a diaper, my favorite blanket beside me. By the wind of my sweet breath or gentle nudge of tiny pink fingertips, I would spend time altering the paths of ants, ladybugs, or whatever fortunate creature would happen upon me. I remember wondering, in however manner a toddler wonders, without words, only ideas, if these interactions would have lasting impact on those creatures & the communities from which they came. I wanted & still want those interactions to have had a lasting, exponential impact.

There must be some significance in remembering the unadulterated virtues of you as a babe. These must be the virtuous intentions of human aligned with soul. All the emotional & psychological crust that plagues us as we age encumbers the vision of our soul’s purpose. Life becomes a heavy cart, a straight jacket, both burdensome & habitual. Amid real snippets of slaughter in India, a black guard trampled under consumer-frenzied hooves, & the obsession with recession, my only reaction is to detach from my cart’s cargo, unshackle this jacket’s straps, & go sensitively attuned with the stone tablet of my soul.

At 34, I think I may be less susceptible to the trappings of love, money, & convention. These themes & their cohorts will be tossed aside, lightening the load. Hopefully, I’ll be 100 and still grinning & grizzled, or speculatively luring a ladybug onto a fallen leaf, or hopefully, just like today, pondering the simultaneous simplicity & complexity of this life & sharing the thoughts with you.

The Limits of Quality Italian Leather

September 9, 2007

The leather satchel my grandma gave me when I graduated from KU–a classy, functional gift; typically grandma–has been pushed to its threads ends. Stuffed with run-on sentences; Urban vernacular that defies the laws of standard American English; a new Apple laptop; and a copy of Time magazine containing an article about how our country’s schools are failing our brightest students; the black leather satchel my grandma gave me is bursting at the seams and worn at the corners.

The leather’s still soft and the faint smell of store bought leather lingers faintly. There are wrinkles now, though, the way soft leather does. It’s a classy, timeless satchel that will adapt to its purpose, value, use, and abuse. My grandma wouldn’t buy one that wouldn’t withstand. She wouldn’t have it.

I woke up at 9 a.m. on Sunday and arrived at the coffee shop by 10. My purpose was to drink a cup of coffee and relieve some of the stress that I’ve been placing on the leather satchel my grandma gave me. I corrected some papers with a red pen. (Some say, “don’t use red ink to correct papers, because the color has a disquieting effect on kids.” I say, if they don’t get that a color of one’s ink is arbitrary, then they aren’t qualified to do the assignment anyway.) I punched their grades into the computer’s grading system. Then, I stacked the papers that I saw no purpose in grading because the kids don’t remember doing that assignment and I don’t remember teaching it. Those I’ll throw away. Now, the leather satchel is organized, still brimming, but orderly. The contents are clear.

Nearly everything–and think about the mathematical value of “nearly everything”–has its limits. The leather satchel that my grandma gave me can withstand extreme conditions, yet still has its limits. Like a balloon, I fill the leather satchel out of its zone of comfort. I’ve found the time and good will to relieve some of that pressure. The satchel now has the memory of those limits and the elasticity to withstand again.

Something I Do at Work

The practice has been more frequent this school year.  The dismissal bell rings, I open the door to release the diverse group of 9th-graders, bidding them cordial parting graces–”get your grades up”, “don’t lose your book”, “eat your vegetables”, smiles, & dap.  I spend the next six minutes greeting other current & former students & passing faculty members, checking my watch, & shouting updates in 30-second intervals.  (My watch is nearly always synchronized with the bell.)

The bell to initiate my planning period rings &, like a burglar of precious time, my eyes sweep the clear hallway, I lock the door, & escape into my empty room.  Pushing a desk into the obscure corner of my classroom, I shed this persona I’ve devised to work here.  I don’t remember exactly whom it was that wrote of the persona in the way that I’ve come to understand–it may have been Gary Zukav in “Seat of the Soul”.  Anyway, this definition suggested that our soul is layered & multifaceted with many personae.  We outfit our soul to survive & flourish in different sectors of our temporal self.  For instance, I have a persona that will be comfortable at a pool hall at 1:30 on Saturday night.  That persona would not suit Mr. Rich at 7:00 on Wednesday morning, when my comfort is not as important as who I need to be for these kids.  So, I’ve outfitted a very different persona to meet the demands of this job.  It used to bug the hell outta me that I would behave differently in different social settings.  Understanding the persona, however, has helped me to understand that, just like animals adapting to different environments, I’m an intelligent creature surviving in different social climates.  It’s okay.

So, I’ll sit here in the corner, half the lights off.  Often I’ll hear the loose rattle of the aged door; someone has come a-callin’ & found the room seemingly empty, virtually empty.  This persona is thin lately.  I must admit that my best foot isn’t always forward when it comes to the practical, collegial demands of this job.  Then, I must redeem myself in admitting that I rarely, if ever, shed this persona in front of my students.  To many, I am their only rock, their ambassador, their safety, their reassurance that the world isn’t entirely against them.  It’s the most important part of my job &, though of late I’ve had to dig deep for resources, I always have skin enough to be there for them.

And, with that, I’ve squandered my planning period.

It’s so quiet.

“But as it is, I am simply conscious, an animal in pajamas.” -Billy Collins

When I was a kid, Summer was my favorite season with tall rattling cottonwoods and the bite of chlorine fumes and my neighbor and her friends who were always three years older than me. There’s a collage of images: praying mantis in a pickle jar, foxhole by the railroad tracks, stolen cigarettes and porno mags. I’d hold my bare forearm next to my father’s all dirty and sweaty to see who’s darker. Before dusk, the tightly permed moms walk the block as the concrete cools. I’d monitor the goings-on of Scott Ave. from the hush of our thick Oak tree. Knowing all. Running things, I felt. I really did.

The blisters subside & Autumn is my favorite season. There’s a practical magic to, every year, trees’ leaves patiently waiting for that only moment of red, orange, and yellow. And there are uncountable leaves. Though, I’d like to pick One when it grows. I’d like to know it & the limbs from which it hangs. I’d like to greet it regularly throughout the year. Most of all, I’d be there when it makes its silent, insignificant detachment, descent.

I wanted to tell you, though, that I’m waiting for my moment. There is a moment in Winter that I’ve grown to love, I dare say, most. (I’ve tired of attaching value to the invaluable. There was a girl in college who glared at me after I ranted haphazardly about the treatment of sweatshop laborers. She spat, “It’s an economic necessity.” My response didn’t come to me until after class when she wasn’t there. It goes, “Well, Princess, I come from the hopeless & obsolete opinion where Economics is not a necessity.” And I still do. But I digress.) There is a moment in Winter when there’s no wind. There are clouds & there’s the moon; both are essential, complimentary. There’s an unmolested layer of snow, but it’s done falling. It’s after Midnight. Bundled, cigarette orange, and breath alive, you’ll hear the low-pitched squelch of snow crushed beneath heavy tires in the distance, a telling juxtaposition of the ensuing hush. A dead quiet–the good dead, the resting dead, the detached dead–encapsulates me. The moon in all her sly, delicate madness will waltz through a gap in the clouds. Silver, blue, black, white, like a reflection in chrome. It’s so quiet that I deny the possibility that other living souls dwell on that plane in that moment.