83 year old plane vamp

I schooched down the narrow airplane aisle with my bag to seat 18A. "I seem to be over there," I said. The young man in 18C got up. The older woman in 18B was having obvious trouble with the move. "That's alright, just scoot on over to the window seat," I said. "Thank you." As she slid over she managed to sit atop a portion of my seat belt. In my attempting to retrieve it. my hand moved dangerously close to her no fly zone. I hesitated. "I don't want to be accused of being fresh with you," I said. "That's okay," she said, "at my age that would be a pleasure." We burst out laughing.

fluidity and grace

It is 1066 steps from the library to my house (and presumably the same number going the other way though it is a mysterious world). If the length of each step is three feet, though some may be less due to periodic icy conditions, that means 3198 feet, somewhat less than 2/3rds of a mile. It is a pleasant walk with occasional convivial encounter with a humanoid, feathered, and/or furry neighbor. I returned the Swedish author Henning Mankell's "The Troubled Man" which is the swan song of his aging detective, Kurt Wallander and bumped into and gave a lift home to Vaclav Havel's autobiography "Disturbing the Peace" and to Jim Harrison's "Sundog."  I thoroughly enjoy walking. Solvitur ambulando! It is solved by walking around. Or as Jim Harrison writes in his Author's Note to "Sundog" -- "...I shouldn't have been caught standing in the first place. It is an unnatural act. Fluidity and grace are all."

plugged in

O gawd! Here we go again. Now there is this brain suck called pinterest that calls us all to post our pathetic noticings along with the crust of societal cream who can lead us into new noticings causing us to feel in the In while our fattish butts sit on our ergonomic work chairs at home or on the time work clock drawing our salaries while spacing out in hyperspace thus contributing to the downfall of our nation as our land is conquered while we fantasy cruise and even Jesus could come with a blast of trumpet and we would never notice as we are chair wheeled into the hellish heaven we deserve while never coming unplugged but wait this is a good thing for the nursing homes as the boomers age and nursing staff can never mind and sit in their own butt sprung chairs plugged in with great pinterest.

small town geezers

Pickin' & Trimmin' -- bluegrass and the barber shop
 

on the tuba-phonic and the toasty

I have noticed that as I get older, the 32 feet or so of tube that I am moves more in synchrony: when I cough, I fart. The reverse is not true, however. Coughing from the rear does not produce a mouth fart. I regard this as supreme engineering and am grateful.

I am also grateful for body heat. Living in this cold clime at the foot of this (currently) extinct volcano, when I snug between the cool covers at night, I am always pleased by the automatic generation of heat from my body and by soon being toasty warm. I smile and thank my Creator for such a blessing and drift into sleep.

here he comes with that death stuff again

Here I speak of death again. For those who do not wish to hear it, Flee! Flee!

An attitude exists in our culture that one is not to acknowledge death or if one does, to "rage, rage against the dying of the light!" [And of course, in one's own mind, it never happens to oneself (there's truth in that). One is always the one offering condolences to the bereaved and saying over the open coffin: "S/he looks good, doesn't s/he?"]

Death is no enemy. Nor is it a dying of light. Death is an entryway to where we already are.

Contrary to what you might think with my postings on this Geezer blog, I do not sit around mooning about death. Au contraire! I was called to read Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet" (yes, I receive callings and I answer them) yesterday morning in preparing for my Saturday Wu Chi Ku class and opened it to this passage:

"We must accept our existence as far as ever it is possible; everything, even the unheard of, must be possible there. That is fundamentally the only courage which is demanded of us: to be brave in the face of the strangest , most singular and most inexplicable things that can befall us. The fact that human beings have been cowardly in this sense has done endless harm to life; the experiences that are called 'apparitions,' the whole of the so-called 'spirit world,' death, all these things that are so closely related to us, have been so crowded out of life by our daily warding them off, that the senses by which we might apprehend them are stunted."

In focusing on the phenomenon we call death, I am unstunting my senses. In this focusing, I am finding that rather than calling me away from life into some morbid crusty chamber of the soul where I sit with cast down eyes awaiting your removal of my bodily remains, I leap into life with greater joy.

How to explain this other than to say that death is part of who I am and is thus already transcended. Can I not feel a teensy bit of joy at knowing this, deeply knowing this?

potential obituary

Potential Obituary: "Rather than write vast incomprehensible voluminous tomes, he published his thoughts in the ephemera of facebook and blogdom in brief and pithy statements, like fallen leaves to be scattered by the next small breeze."

"fastened to a dying animal"

Carl Jung points out that it is as neurotically unhealthy for us as we age to not confront and engage death as it is for younger folk to not confront and engage life. In younger years we spew our sperm and release our eggs at the physical, social, and psychic levels and nurture our progeny. In later years, we face our dissolution (we are dissolving) and realize as Yeats said that we are "fastened to a dying animal."

In this age of scientific materialism and ratio-nal consciousness, with all that is not picked up by the physical senses viewed as nonexistent hogwash, one is expected to simply be stoic and of reasonably good humor about this. One assumes the yogic position of bending around and kissing one's butt goodbye. And that's that.

I can see the value in that kind of attitude but as I age (73 now) see that yogic stance as an abortive process. Something is being born here, here in these geezer years.

I have always been a phenomenologist, accepting and owning my experience rather than some societal creed, or being swept away by the latest fashion of ratio-emotional logic. My geezer experience is that I feel like an egg in an incubation chamber, like a philosopher's stone in an alchemical furnace.

I find dying to be an amazing process. (Make no mistake about it. If you are over 50, you are dying.) I watch myself dissolve. It is a great adventure, perhaps the greatest of all. I am a seed in the ground of existence/nonexistence, a ground far beyond Wall Street and WalMart, preparing to die as all seeds must in order to be born.

geezer notes while walking around

-- Lord, deliver me from holiness. Let me never fall into the piety of convention.
-- How can you explain to anyone what you are doing?
-- S**t! My friends are either dying or moving out of town. Guess it amounts to the same thing.
-- Warning! Characters I meet downtown are making more sense than "respectable" citizens.

outbound, inbound, and unbound

As soon as something begins to form, it begins to die. Centrifugal.

As soon as form begins inspiriting, it begins to live. Centripetal.

Only the invisible continues to be seen.
Only the intangible continues to touch.
Centrihelical.

geezer bench sip rate

Taking a cup of strong black coffee from Late For The Train to Heritage Square and bench sitting on a coolish windy morning (45 degrees or so), you quickly discern that you must find the exact sipping rate to maintain maximum coffee temperature, as decreased coffee volume due to sipping produces a corresponding increase in rate of coffee cooling. In other words, you are faced with the dilemma (caught between two lemmas) of either sipping faster than you wish or sipping at your normal rate and winding up with half a cup of cold coffee. This is one of the problems we geezers face of which mere mortals have no knowing.

musing on the geezer bench

Idly amusing myself the other day while sitting in Heritage Square in downtown Flagstaff where all us geezers and geeks hang out while others are imprisoned in their work cubicles, I counted eleven major strikes with the hand:

1. heel of hand (upward strike to nose or jaw)
2. first two knuckles of fist (traditional Isshinryu punch)
3. all four knuckles of first joints of fingers (good for loosening another's teeth)
4. index finger supported between thumb & other 3 fingers folded in (good for eyes)
5. thumb knuckle atop fist (side swing into temple or around back into kidney)
6. bottom of fist (downward strike to mid-sagittal suture atop head)
7. chop (excellent for collarbones)
8. back of fist (good nose breaker)
9. thumb tip and finger tips joined for a "peck" strike
10. claps on ears (possible ear drum rupture)
11. spear hand (drive into solar plexus & other assorted areas)

No doubt I am forgetting some. But I had a good time trying them out while sitting on my geezer bench, deep into my guise as a little old white-haired guy sitting in the sun.

L to the 3rd power + D

I no longer feel sadness. Both sadness and its partner anger gone. I am the L triplets: Light, Love, Laughter. The Trio. Of course, they condense and expand according to the level of fatigue. I know fatigue. Fatigue is Death and I am Mister D also. I am Death. An unusual claim. Most everyone wants to be the L triplets. Death is seen as Enemy. No, no. Each of us is Death. You know what Death is? Extreme fatigue. Hahahaha!

The formula of my being is L to the 3rd power + D. I am Death and Light and Love and Laughter. Let me put Mister D in the midst there. Sometimes he feels so all alone. I am Light and Love and Death and Laughter. There. A little better. Light and Love and Extreme Fatigue and Laughter.

Light and Love and Laughter are not of the body. Extreme fatigue is of the body. Death, Mister Extreme Fatigue, is of the body. When the body gives way to total fatigue, there goes Mister Death. Light and Love and Laughter go on their way. So love the Dude up while you have him. He has a hard time. Give him the company of the Light, Love, Laughter you are. He won't be with you long. He has a death to die. You might even miss the Old Coot.

typodude

While waiting for my water to boil so I could pour it into my long time French press friend for the making of coffee, the thought, clothed in appropriate imagery, strode into my mind of my teaching myself to type. How such thoughts are prompted to be born I do not know. Geezer consciousness is strange and unpredictable.

I taught myself to type in the Marine Corps. At Radio Telegraph Operator school, I had already learned Morse Code and was developing my telegraph key "fist" but was getting bored to tears (do Marines cry?), my active mind ranging like the little flashlight on today's computer screen searching for concreteness in vast foggy oblivion.

Aha! In a desk drawer I found an old 1945 olive drab Army manual (Marines were often confiscating Army gear) teaching one to type -- step by step. How proud I was to place my fingers in proper positioning ASDF JKL; on the antiquated (confiscated no doubt somewhere between the halls of Montezuma and the shores of Tripoli) machine requiring 30 to 40 pounds of finger pressure to activate a key. Ha! I was typing!

I did not trade my M1 or my radio and telegraph key for a typewriter when practicing shore landings for deep invasion. "Stay where you are or I will throw my typewriter at you!" I kept up the practice though and am pleased I am not a practitioner of the one finger hunt and peck method.

Wups! My water is boiling over. Time to come back to reality. But wait! Are not all imaginings reality?

the warm hug of the universal

Hmmm . . . This body still prances around pretty well though one of its hooves complains and its joints moan until movement gives them proper lubrication. I can see quite clearly however that when this horse does fall I will take my leap away from it. Like that happy rascal Seung Sahn once said, you don't want to stay centering in your body when it is dead. Hahahaha!

Now lest you think I am becoming too morbid in my thought these days by dwelling on death and dying, I reassure you that I have never been happier. It is just that, as a geezer, one is aware of the imminent approach of The Time of the Leap.

In younger years, one is occupied with thrusting oneself into the world and receiving what the thrusting brings. And rightly so. Bless all the younger ones. I am happy to be done with that. Now the journey is the journey of Return.

So. Back to the body. One of my favorite Zen questions is "Who is it dragging this corpse around?" It prompts in me a large internal smile, maybe even a grin, and sometimes outright laughter. I greatly appreciate my corpse. It is a forming of my soul. It has stood up under everything I leaped it into, has walked wearily and thirstily through barrenness, has drunk the waters of many pools. God bless it.

It seems to have a capability of another 100,000 miles. But one never knows. I continue to learn how to leap before the Leap, how to dive safely into the arms that contain me and have always contained me, into the Warm Hug of the Universal. As the Sufi folk put it, I die before I die. How sweet! How wonderful! Geezerhood brings many treasures.

geezing

There she is. In the nursing home. My mom. Not a bad nursing home. But still a nursing home. She's 91 and frail. None of us kids can take care of her physical needs. A full time staff is needed. She cannot take care of herself.

I mourn her being there. She is too strong to die. She is too weak to have much of a life. "Why won't He take me?" she asks.

She is the old old. We "kids" are the young old (63 to 73). We mourn her passing. Do you understand? Not her death. Her passing.

We also see that is where we are headed. Unless we are "lucky" and go suddenly. Our kids will say: There s/he is. In the nursing home. Not a bad nursing home. But still a nursing home. . .

on my not lifting weights

At this age I'd rather be doing something other than developing a nice looking corpse.

the ice man cometh

As a boy I never heard the word "refrigerator" even from the Yankee voices speaking strange accent over the radio. We had an icebox. Robert the iceman came by with his horse-pulled ice wagon, canvas flap pulled down in back, and looked to see from our front porch sign how many pounds we wanted today. A muscular man, he would chip off the amount, heist it on his padded shoulder with his ice tongs, carry it into the house, and put it in our ice box.

Our "air conditioner" (again a word unheard) was a chunk of chipped off ice (every house had an ice pick) from the block brought by Robert set in a pan. An oscillating electric fan (yes, we had electricity) blew its coolness across the room. It was a blessing when the fan finally turned back one's way.

We boys would follow Robert's ice wagon when we saw it on the street and get little slivers from his ice pick work. He did not seem to mind at all, nor did the horse who walked slowly enough to allow such shenanigans.

Why do these remembrances from long ago pop in my mind when I scarcely remember what happened two days ago? I know the gerontologists have theories based upon social psychological, neurological, and brain function understandings and at one point I would have made much of them. Not now. I simply find these memories to be moments of pleasure -- memories of a time when life seemed much simpler, when a chunk of ice was a marvel that brought people together in many ways.

elder

As one grows older, one can find oneself morphing into the role of elder. Because one has lived longer, one is expected to know something. After all, one has been through "the full catastrophe" as Zorba called it.

This is not a role that one necessarily wants. Those who desire an elder role seem a little suspicious. One begins to be viewed by others in this way, allowing one to make a choice: deny the role or accept it in good grace while not taking it too seriously.

What is an elder? A member of the tribe who has let go of manipulations and schemes for personal advantage, who is open to the Larger Realm of things and entities, who has "been there, done that" and has the scars to prove it, who has learned and continues learning from the open wounding of soul and heart, who has fallen down many times but always gets up, who is not afraid to keep falling in love, who has a strong sense of humor and is liable to erupt in laughter at any moment especially at the human condition, who can listen and keep secrets, . . . The list can go on.

A tidal wave of geezers is headed this way. They say there are 10,000 American folk reaching the age of 65 every day now. Out of all these old farts, a certain percentage are likely to be seen as elders. May they wear the robe well. May we all do so.

We need elder wisdom on this earth this day.

le chat et moi

The cat and I
sit outside
enthralled by no one's plots
unplugged.

geezer scientist

I've got this scientific experiment going on.

Treatment condition: my left forearm healing from a fairly invasive wound from a bike crash. Control condition: my right forearm percolating along as usual.

Methodology: Allow healing energy to rise up from inside the left forearm and surround and bathe the wound with its influence.

Hypothesis: Left forearm will assume its previous percolating along as usual and will become more like the control condition.

Results: So far, so good. What I did not expect were some metaphysical understandings and confirmations that when, upon physical death, I can no longer, nor presumably will want to, send healing energy to this body. It will follow a process of suppuration and decomposition. In other words, it will rot.

Discussion: While the experiment was designed to produce healing in the left forearm and have some measure of its progress, a heightened understanding occurred unexpectedly. A good experiment will produce such surprises. This is the process by which knowledge advances.

The heightened understanding is this: I am an energetic being assuming bodily form. I already knew this. That's why I used the word "heightened." I could as well use the word "deeper." The healing energies I send are me. That may not mean much to the readers of this report but to the experimenter it is of profound significance.

Conclusions: The experimenter will continue sending healing energy to the left forearm while even more completely identifying with (becoming identical to) the healing energy itself.

quest speaker

Everyone is on a quest -- no quest-ion about it. One of the gifts along the way to geezerdom is realizing that one cannot answer people's questions for them. Nor choose the questions others think important to answer. One also discerns the difference between the two groups who have no questions at all. These realizations and discernings relieve much stress and frustration and allow one to be a more detached yet compassionate companion.

the chair of doom

Many years ago I came home to an unpleasant surprise thought by the one who sprung it to be a great wonderfulness – a large black recliner that when sat in made me feel as if I were an insect caught on its back with nothing to do but slowly die, weakening legs waving frantically and uselessly in the air. I hated it, feeling instinctively that it was a mini nursing home, a prelude to enfeebled helplessness. To recline in that leathery black coffin was an acceptance of uselessness and death. I said I did not like it and went for a long walk through the forest with my dogs. Even now at age 73, I have no such sarcophagus. I drape my meat in no chair of doom.

You might say I have an attitude. Fine. But neither do I resonate with Dylan Thomas’s “rage, rage against the dying of the light.” I’m fine with dying. I simply do not want to lie in my coffin before it is time. In fact, I am beginning to understand why some cultures buried their dead sitting up. Erect.

I know that some reading this are already composing imaginary letters (letters? see how ancient I am? no one writes letters anymore) telling me how wonderful and essential their geezer chairs are. Excellent. Enjoy them. But I’m not going there until they chase me down and put me in restraints. Even when I had a foot operation and my leg would bear no weight, I was crawling around the house.

Mobile 2, this is Mobile 1. My GPS coordinates are now . . . .

disposal

Once again I sort through my stuff as if I am dead and I am the one whose task it is to dispose of these non-corpse remains. An onerous task for one left behind. Dull and forbidding at first, yet one that must be done. Accompanying is a hope for unexpected treasure -- a note, a journal entry, a photo. Such sorting must be done meticulously. There is no telling what a scrap of paper might hold. I sigh. Why did he write so much? How can I tell what's junk and what's diamond? Am I saving "his" stuff now so that someone may go through my stuff some day and wonder why I saved this?

I find this alive-me-sorting-through-the-dead-me's-stuff a valuable exercise. Not only do remembrances emerge available for reconciliation and for weaving those threads more fully into the fabric of my being, I also think warmly of those I leave behind and who will have less difficulty sorting through my stuff because it is pre-sorted.

sannyasin

Ephraim, he hath mixed himself among the people; Ephraim is a cake not turned. Strangers have devoured his strength, and he knoweth it not: yea, gray hairs are here and there upon him, yet he knoweth not. (Hosea 7:8-9)

Woe is me! for I am undone. (Isaiah 6:5)

Each of us is a peculiar, a unique genetic structure, a unique soul. When born into this realm called Earth, we are “strangers in a strange land.” We live amongst strangers and we learn their ways. We become acculturated.

We come here with a sense of mission and purpose. We come here to open in our own peculiarity, to blossom as the uniqueness that we are. To do so, we “mix ourselves among the people.” We conform. Then we rebel against our conformity, perhaps not realizing that anticonformity is simply playing the shadow version of the same old game.

We become “a cake not turned” with all its discomfort and pain – burnt on one side and raw on the other. The “world is too much with us.” We feel burnt out and we are raw with unfulfilled expectations. We feel unopened to our fullness, have not fully embodied our mission, our felt sense of purpose. Burnt and raw.

Time has gone by quickly. Now we are elders, geezers, the older ones. When we look back at our lives, as we are especially prone to do at this age, we may feel that we have allowed strangers to devour our lives. Perhaps we have even insisted that they do so.

Thank goodness for this geezer time of knowing. For we are not yet done. With every remaining breath given, we “renew a right spirit within us.” It is the strange land’s turn to deal with us now.  We allow the unique genetic structure that we are, the unique soul that we are, to blossom, to bloom, to express with loving fierceness who we are. This is our chance. This is our opportunity.

This is the time to unmix ourselves from among the people, to reclaim our strength, our vision, to open with the strong sense of individuality we have so rightly earned.

flat-foot floogie with a floy floy

Geezerdom is a coming to terms with the body's transformations. I once was able to jump flatfooted from the floor to the top of a person's desk. Though why I wanted to do that, I do not know. Sheer exuberance, I think. Now I just flatfoot it across the floor. And that's fine with me.

What care I if a 100 year old woman runs(?) marathons and lifts weights? If that is what she wants to do, fine. But don't hold her and other body pushers up as a role model for all geezers and geezelles. That's just another hype from the "boomers" who believe that with the right nutrition, physical exercise, sexual activity, and following some version of the Gospel of Oprah, they will not age like their unenlightened parents and other assorted ancestors.

Sure, I understand the importance of moving around, but moving around at age 73 has a different meaning than it did three decades ago. There is something nice about moving more slowly. One sees a lot more and one is a lot more. One becomes one's context rather than zipping through it on the way to somewhere.

Every age has its way of expressing its exuberance. At an earlier age I felt I could not be contained and continued bursting all perceived bounds. At this age, I feel boundless. I am already "there" so what is the rush to get there? No need to get all exercised.

the quivering of petunias

Sitting under the shade tree in the back patio, engaged in approved geezer behavior, watching the petunias quiver in the gentle breeze. The breeze blows through my mind, conjuring thoughts. Person A sees me this way. Person H sees me that way. Person Z sees me still another way. Which one is me? None of them. I am a legend in their own minds, simply a myth understanding. Why? No me exists, only this rising and falling, this falling and rising.

an aging geezer point of view

Proponents of the theory that social engagement is essential for the well-being of the elderly, and the request and requirement that elders do so, seem to take the view that living in human form is the most desirable of all desirables: life in human form at any cost.

As one ages, one can see that this is not the case. The bravado of I will "not go gentle into that good night," that I will "rage, rage against the dying of the light" is seen as so much middle-aged rant (Dylan Thomas was 37 when he wrote that).

At some point, one wishes to let go. Like a stone skipping across water, one does not want others, no matter how well meaning, putting a drag on one's skip. Social disengagement is essential.

I think we hold onto others for both selfish and misguided reasons. We want them to stay around in bodily form because of the pain that will come when they leave. And because we misguidedly think that bodily form is the highest of all possible forms. Maybe we could use a little disengagement ourselves.

perspective

No longer a scurvy young boy! Thanks, Brad Olson!

unencumbered

One of the positive aspects of being a geezer is that I care even less about what people think of me. This does not mean I am rude. It means I am unencumbered by such baggage. This baggage includes both praise and blame, both adoration and negation. If I am hooked into praise, that donkey will pull my cart. And its donkey twin, sensitivity to negative criticism, is available and ready to take its place. In fact, it is one donkey, not two -- the praise/blame donkey. As a geezer, I need no donkey to pull my cart. Besides, the structure of my cart is falling away. Its sides and bottom are gone. All that's left is one wheel. And that wheel is spinning along just fine, thank you.

the dying animal

"Can you imagine old age? Of course you can't. I didn't. I couldn't. I had no idea what it was like. Not even a false image -- no image. And nobody wants anything else. Nobody wants to face any of this before he has to. How is it all going to turn out? Obtuseness is de rigueur." -- Philip Roth, The Dying Animal

nothing to it

I live more in the immaterial now and less in the material. This is one of the benefits of aging. All the old stuff with which one preoccupied oneself (the incessant desire for the merging of genitalia, the making of a name and identity for oneself, the looking for one's own crowd and sense of belonging, etc.) now assumes much less importance or even of no import at all. One is more open to subtler realms. The immaterial becomes more real than that of hard-core matter. You want to know why older people may seem less here? Because we are not.

Yes, yes. I know. Be fully present. Live in the now-moment. Strike while the iron is hot. And so on. But those sayings have a different meaning to one who is not trying to establish their rooting and grounding as an embodying human, who has that pretty much done, and is opening to the adventure of being undone.

In the first part of life, we look to pull it all together, to make something of ourselves. In the latter part of life, we learn to stop pulling and pushing. We are now learning to make nothing of ourselves.

disengagement

Social engagement has been linked to longevity for quite some time in the sociological and gerontological theory and research literature. Supposedly if one stays engaged in social activities as one ages, one lives longer. The implication is that living longer is a good thing.

As one who is aging, I tend to disagree with that. And not for reasons you might expect. Not because of pain and suffering and loss, etc. As I get older, I see that I have learned about all I can in human form and am engaged in transferring my educational account to other realms ("laying up my treasures in heaven" as the Christians say; "dying before I die" as the Sufi's say). This is as real to me as your getting a good deal at Discount Tire is to you. I see and know what I only suspected before.

I have little interest in social activities these days. As the saying goes: been there, done that. According to the aforementioned body of research, I am doomed and should be withering away to "a rag, a bone, a hank of hair." Yet I am immensely alive, healthy and well. Obviously there is more going on here than just social engagement or the lack thereof.

In more recent research, "leisure activities devoid of social or physical benefits" (reading! they are talking about reading here!) were associated with "improved aging and reduced mortality" but only among men. In another body of gerontological research, conclusions were that "solitary activities have a positive influence on the survival of very old individuals, especially men."

I don't know what is going on with the women. They are a different species. But according to the results for males, since I am an avid reader and am a solitary by nature ("the solitary bird flies highest"), I should live a long long time. Guess I've got more learning to do in human form.

bench treasures

This morning at Heritage Square downtown, a Flagstaff woman was leading little kids, 2 to 5 year olds I would reckon, and their moms and a couple of dads through some delightful shenanigans. Two other geezers and myself were each sitting on our respective benches and watching. After a while I decided to go say hello. Both gents were travel-hardened with packs.

"What's the word for the day?" I asked the first one, sitting reading a well-thumbed Bible. He responded calmly and clearly with perhaps the best elucidation of the Bible and its message I have ever heard. I sat beside him and listened with open heart for some time. I arose to go and thanked him. "What is your name?" I asked. "Moses," he said as we shook hands.

I walked over to the other gent a little distance away. He was a Navajo man, deaf but able to communicate through sign, facial expressions, and brief spoken and written words (we availed ourselves of a pen and paper after a while). He told me of his earlier life, of his visiting Flagstaff as a young boy, of his riding horses and horse-pulled wagons in days gone by, of being in Vietnam in the Army. I told him I had been in the Marines. I asked him his age. He said 59. I told him I am 73 and called him a child. He burst into laughter. We laughed a lot and spoke of many other things. I said goodbye. We shook hands then saluted each other with a smile.

What riches, what treasures are before our very eyes! "For thereby some have entertained angels unawares." (Hebrews 13:2)

the style of old age

"The artist thus graced and cursed with the "style of old age" is not content with the conventional vocabulary provided him by his epoch. For to render the epoch, the whole epoch, he cannot remain within it; he must find a point beyond it." Hermann Broch, The Style of the Mythical Age

Consider that you are word-woven: that you define yourself and thereby the entire world and cosmos by your words. Over the years, you have adopted various words and phrases of self-definition, words to live up to or down to, as the case may be.

As one ages, it is more difficult to remain within the conventional vocabulary. The "style of old age" is to burst out of the old words, to be borne into unrestricted definition. Either that or one must die by chasing and while chasing the same old tale -- the tale provided by one's epoch.

"Old age" is a unique opportunity. One is facing dissolution and death -- two allies not readily fooled. The bromides and platitudes of a younger age either acquire new meaning or are abandoned as worthless. One is born into this world from Somewhere and is about to be borne from this world to Somewhere. It is not time to shit oneself and walk around wearing cognitive Depends.

Beethoven, Bach, Goya, Tolstoy, Goethe, Hokusai are examples of artists who broke through into the "style of old age." Each of us is an artist in our own right. We create through the artistry of our own lives. We have tried various expressions over time, gone through many periods. Now is the time to step out from what we have learned and open to the artistry and style of old age.

It is not so much a matter of learning a new vocabulary but of arranging one's existing vocabulary to form new meaning -- the meaning that comes with a view from here, as we feel ourselves leaving this world and opening and letting go to what is to come. From this calm daring comes the wisdom and the style of old age.

walt

The brother of the mother of my children sent me this story (Thanks, Dick!) which I paraphrase. An older man worked as a Walmart greeter and was well liked among all. He assisted folk who needed it, greeted customers by name as he got to know them, and generally provided an atmosphere enjoyed by both customer and employee. One thing bothered his boss, a younger man quite conscientious in the performance of his supervisory duties. The older man, Walt, was always 15 minutes or more late. No matter what the supervisor said, Walt's lateness never changed. Otherwise his job performance was exemplary. Finally, the boss had enough and called Walt into his office. "Walt, you were in the military, weren't you?" "Yes, I was." "Well, what did they say to you if you were late there?" "They said, Colonel, would you like me to bring you a cup of coffee?"

Older folk walk by us all the time and we perhaps dismiss them with a glance. We never know what richness lives within the shape and form of a geezer ("guiser: one who is not as they appear").

mere aging mass following orders

As a geezer or geezelle, I find that one is often labelled, categorized, put safely away in the other person's mental filing system before one has even opened one's mouth. I learned from Carlos Castaneda and his Don Juan series that one may as well conform to other people's perceptions in these situations. They are already entranced by their own vision of you. No need to disturb them.

I especially enjoy going through airport security as a geezer. Being hard of hearing (despite hearing aids) also helps. My evident confusion about what I am being told brings motherly feminine assistance.

"Stand in front of the machine, dear! No! No! Turn around! Around this way! That's it! No! Don't hand me that! Keep it! Keep it in your hand! Good! Thank you!"

"No, no, honey! Your shoes! Your shoes! Not your shirt!"

I am a mere aging mass following orders as I hear them and am somehow shepherded through by divine and feminine guidance. Once on the other side, I assume my usual identity as G. Breed, Explorer of the Cosmos.

Little do others know of the wild selves lurking within the aging skin of their elders. But the Geezer knows! (Wild maniacal laughter accompanied by deeply throbbing organ music . . .)

benchmarks

Over the years, I have learned the value of sitting still. Life reveals itself more deeply to those motionless and immovable within. Surface froth gives way to deep current. Awareness opens and expands.Which brings me to the topic of benches.

Bench: "The place where the players on a team sit when not participating in a game."

Though my feet are usually in motion, I like to park my posterior from time to time. The metabolic rate of the younger crowd, keeping them more tightly wound and in a moving frenzy, bodes well for us more seasoned veterans of life. Room is usually available on the benches.

I have four favorite benches: two for sitting within the Human Theme Park where I observe the humanimals; two outside the Theme Park where humanimals rarely appear. All four provide peace of soul and greater awareness and understanding.

Bench: "A strong worktable, such as one used in carpentry or in a laboratory."

Sometimes a bench is useful for observing emerging thoughts, collecting them, and writing them down -- kind of a thought harvest. At these times, a good bench is a strong worktable, a laboratory. I wrote several essays while sitting on a bench under large shade trees while waiting for a train outside Santa Fe more than once. A bench is not for fidgety "waiting," but is a place of calm repose. The train, always late, arrived more quickly than desired. I simply moved to a "bench" inside the train.

Bench: "A platform on which animals, especially dogs, are exhibited."

This old dog loves to sit on a bench. Other dogs at times will come up woofing hello. Some plop down and become an exhibition themselves. Interesting dog-to-dog conversations emerge. Other dogs stop sometimes and ask for directions, but most simply sniff and walk on by, going about their doggie business.

Bench: "A seat occupied by a person in an official capacity."

When sitting on a bench downtown, I figure I am officially employed by the Theme Park. My job is to provide local color by dressing in Flagstaff attire (it's all the clothes I've got anyway so does not cost me extra) and being a "local character" (which I already am so does not require any acting ability). I charge the town nothing for this.

Just a geezer on a bench.

library card

Someone said the death of an elder is like a library burning down. The embodying of an immense amount of information is lost. I see these libraries walking around and sitting on benches. I approach and check out their books. I am becoming a library card.

there is a wisdom in this

Was in Jerome, Arizona yesterday with a good buddy. She and I  laughed aloud when we saw this jaunty wisdom. There is a certain fierce independence one must keep in life. In geezerhood it comes out even more.

slow and easy

"Grandma was slow but she was old." I don't know if that saying is still popular, but I used to hear it from time to time in my younger years. I don't think older people are necessarily slower. It is just that many of us have been turned out to pasture and don't have to move quickly.

Another variable in this slow-old juxtaposition is experience. Older folk due to experience know how to do something easily and well so don't get in a dither as might the inexperienced young. "Slow" effortless moving is a result. One does not waste energy taking paths of little or no fruition.

Reminds me of the old story of the young bull talking to the old bull on a hill overlooking a pasture: "Let's run down there and make love to one of those cows." The old bull said: "Let's walk down there and make love with them all."

release

As one of advancing years, I realize ever more deeply that no one can die for me. Nor should they. We each have our own death to die.

We look to heal our bodies, and that is as it should be. I wish the body that I am to fare well, but I find the healing of my soul as more important. What is my soul? It is my core essence that ranges far beyond the body's bounds, that identifies with the life force emerging in this particular form, as this particular manifestation and beyond.

I identify with, become identical to, this life force that arises out of the Great Mystery, that lives as an embodying of the Great Mystery, that drops the body and returns to the further adventures of Great Mystery. In this identification, I have in a sense already "died."

And still there is the dropping of the body, the leaving of this old warhorse that does its job. It will happen as it happens. Meanwhile, I laugh and rejoice in this life under earth's sun.

I love being a geezer. It is the happiest time of my life.

geezer rule 144

I've always been hard on glasses. You know, the kind you wear for seeing. I figure they have to keep up with me, not me them. I had a pair in my back pocket at one time, then sat on them. That was that.

Some months ago, the glasses I wore were so scratched up I put them aside and searched for an earlier prescription pair. They seemed to do the job okay so I put off going to the eye doctor. Then they snapped in two -- unwearable. I rummaged around and found another pair from three prescriptions ago. I have to keep finding my teeny screwdriver to keep fastening the little screw that keeps the right lens from falling out (it fell out twice already) but what the heck, I still don't have to make an eye appointment.

A geezer is resourceful, can make do.

dropping like flies

Friends and mentors are dying off. If I keep living, eventually I will represent a world that no one knows. I think this was less the case when people died younger.

laughter

Geezer jokes abound. One of the ways to deal with so-called losses is to laugh about them. Inability to remember why one came into a room, the obvious pull of gravity on one's flesh, one's changing sex life, the lack of bodily response to muscular commands are all a potential focus of laughter.

A Navajo friend grew up in the high plateaus of the Navajo Nation with no electricity and no light at night other than the stars and moon. Both imagined and real things to be feared roamed in the dark. These monsters needed disempowerment. So every night they would go outside in the dark and laugh. Even a molecule of laughter inside a monster renders it impotent, he said.

So laugh, you geezers, laugh! The monsters of sickness and loss, of grief at the loss of one's friends and companions, of ancient regrets, of fears of the dying process have no power when the heart is radiant with laughter.

Laughter is a solution, a soluble, a solvent. Laughter is solvation.

From my friend Joe Night -- Thanks Joe! I'm still laughing!

This  is dedicated to all of us who are seniors, to  all of you who know seniors, and to all of you  who will become seniors.

 "WHERE is my  SUNDAY paper?!"

The  irate  customer calling the  newspaper office, loudly demanded to know where  her Sunday edition was.

 "Madam",  said the newspaper employee, "today is Saturday.  The Sunday paper is not delivered until  tomorrow, on  SUNDAY".

There  was quite a long pause on the other end of the  phone, followed by a ray of recognition as she  was heard to mutter, ..

 ..."Well,  shit, that explains why no one was at church  either.

the blind leading the deaf

Approached a geezelle downtown, a pleasant looking woman dressed in Flagstaff attire, who doesn't see well if at all and moves around with the aid of a white cane (I had seen her around but never spoken) and said good morning. "Good morning," she said. "A very pleasant day" I said. "- - - - - -," she said. "What?" I asked. "GLAD THAT WIND HAS SLOWED DOWN!" she said pleasantly and loudly, evidently picking up that I am somewhat hard of hearing. I agreed and moved on with a blessing upon her day. How good it is that we take each other's peculiarities and shortcomings into account! Patience with each other is a strong and welcome virtue.

listening mindfully to a mindfulness missionary

My end of the conversation: "Yes ma'am, I understand all that zhit. Live in the present, Be here now. Love your nay-ber. Center and open. I am the universe. Yes ma'am. I got it. And I'm walking around taking photos. What's that? I can be fully present while taking my photos? Yes ma'am. I know. And right now I'm being fully present while listening to you telling me to be fully present. Okay. Take care of yourself. Bye. What's that? Nope. Don't need no hug today. Bye. Blessings to you too."

injury: the jury is in

The old saw has it that "If I'd known I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself." While that is semi-amusing, I doubt its truth.

As I age, I believe more and more that the conscious part of ourselves is like a passenger atop a large bottle rocket composed of our felt, but unconscious, energies of karmic or genetic disposition. We ride this sucker out with choice points along the way that allow for quick steerage. "This way or that way?" "That way!" And off we go hurtling along on our unique and wild voyage, a surging of energies that we are, yet do not fully comprehend.

For example, I chose to spar with a guy who did not know what to do when I leaped into the air with a double jump-kick aimed at his face. I did not know he did not know. Instead of stepping back (the right move), he just stood there. Rather than kicking him in the face, I pulled the kick and dropped down to the thick and too cushiony mats recently installed. My landing foot caught in the mat thickness as my body dropped to the left. Crack! A broken ankle.

As a geezer in my 70's, the ankle bothers me.Yet it helps me know who I am. I am vulnerable. I will do my best to not harm another human. When injured, strong will kicks in and I move through life as if I have no injury. I can laugh at myself. Plus I learned that crutches are an excellent training device for balance and for strengthening of the upper torso.

I am thankful for all my physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual injuries. They have healed fairly well and each taught a valuable lesson.

report from the geezer research world

This study examines the feasibility of providing Internet and electronic mail access to older adults in a retirement community and the extent to which this improves psychosocial well-being. In contrast to members of a comparison group, a trend toward decreased loneliness was observed among participants. In addition, the number of computer-related problems decreased and use of the applications increased throughout the study. Surfing the Net in Later Life: A Review of the Literature and Pilot Study of Computer Use and Quality of Life Journal of Applied Gerontology September 1999 18: 358-378.

Translation: Researchers helped helpless old people create an addiction. Now, like rats pressing bars to get opiates delivered to their brains, the old folk sit around with their computers scrolling facebook. Nursing staff complain the geezers get surly when it's Depends change time and they have to pry their grip from their mouses. The finding that loneliness is decreased is lauded by the researchers but who has time for feeling lonely when you are keeping up with the shenanigans of 482 facebook friends? One's brain is in some kind of hypnagogic state and out of touch with physical reality. One doesn't even know that one is an old fart in deterioration and moving toward death. Hmmm . . . might be better than all those drugs.

change 2

In the post prior to this on change, I waxed indignant. That can be and is part of being a geezer, but it is of little avail.

On a more positive note, I appreciate the transformation of geezerdom. My chakra level continues moving upward (thank goodness I'm past being pulled around by my genitalia!) toward the crown chakra. Mister Jesus said to lay up your treasures in heaven and I figure that is some of what he meant: move on up and reside in the heavenly area beyond the intellect head.

I find myself living more and more in the realm of energy, of spirit, of the Tao, of life flow. Life is slower, easier, yet more vibrant and alive. I talk the language of the trees, the mountain, the birds. Flowers smile and say hello. Life is soul.

I used to teach a class on healing. Since I enjoy acronyms, I made this one up for the class. C.H.A.N.G.E. can be either Continuous Hassle Amidst Newly Generating Energy or Continuous Healing Amidst Newly Generating Energy. I prefer the latter.

change

Went up Cedar, which used to be a 2-laner and is now a by-god 4 lanes so wide a geezer has to run for his life to jaywalk the mother, and saw the steel framing of large buildings emerging on the skyline of McMillan Mesa. More human encroachment. Change!

I don't seem to mind natural change -- the aging of the body, the decomposition of vegetables in the refrigerator death drawer. It's the steady imposition of humans on the scape that troubles me. Developer: devel-loper: devil loper.

I do not believe that humans are the crowning species. We exist only at the mercy of and in right relationship with all other life. We must be careful how we devil lope.

names

I often know people's souls but not their names. I know their inner being, their heart, their personality but the label given them at birth or appended later escapes me. My former tactic was to mentally run through the alphabet in hopes their name would appear if I knew the first letter. Now I just let it go. Our relationship of the moment blooms and prospers -- no name needed. That is all that matters.

Once I forgot my own name. (I consider that a sign of enlightenment, not of dementia.) In a group setting, a person I had not met before said they were so-and-so. I said, "I'm __________ ." I could not remember my label! Probably only a few nanoseconds went by, but my mind was racing to remember and it seemed like forever. I thought of checking my wallet for my i.d., but then something kicked in and I said, "George."

So the next time I smile and look at you with great love, I may not be able to present you with your title. I beg your pardon. I have already pardoned myself.

"back in my day"

One of the tendencies of geezerhood is to "remember when". For instance, some younger person might say "it cost me $82 to fill my car with gas this morning." A true geezer will automatically respond with "I remember when gas was 12 cents a gallon." (Hmmm . . . when did they remove the cent sign from the keyboard?) Or in similar situations, when bread was 18 cents a loaf, a house with lot was $14,000, and a movie was 10 cents.

The younger person, if raised properly (are people "raised" any more?) will listen politely without comment, but inside they are probably thinking: "That was then; this is now." Never mind that when they are Geezers, they'll be saying to the younger folk: "I remember when gas was $4 a gallon" or, more hopefully, "I remember when vehicles were powered by fossil fuel."

They say the mind can be trained like a puppy. I find that to be true. This old dawg keeps training his mind pup to live in the creative splendor of Now. My day is not back there. This day is my day!

geezer

It all started when folk started holding doors open for me and when cars stopped so I could cross the street. I began to realize that these helpful individuals were looking at my external and making assumptions about my internal. Or perhaps they were following their upbringing: respect your elders. In either case I had fallen into a category new to me: geezer.

The word itself came when a man so exasperated with me that he had used every epithet in his damnation vocabulary, paused for a moment sputtering, then came out with his crowning damnation: "You, you, you ... GEEZER!"

I accept the title. It has its roots in "guiser" -- one in disguise, who is not as he appears. I identify with my spirit -- not my carcass. After all, as Seung Sahn used to say, you don't want to keep centering in your body when it is a corpse. (Somehow I find that delightfully funny.)