Looking Forward

We were dropping something off at a PR guy's office Monday and there, next to his computer, was an old Remington typewriter and a TV with little subordinate TVs built in that reminded me of those pictures of LBJ in the White House watching multiple screens. Once this was sophisticated office technology. We looked forward to having such things. (Well maybe we would have been pining for an IBM Selectric type ball electric typewriter.) I remember longing to have...an electronic calculator! Yes, I was of the slide rule generation.

At least, back in the day, I was looking forward. I don't find I do that much any more. Not that I live in the past. Not at all. I'm locked firmly in the present.

It's a present where you could be seduced by dreams of one sort or the other, but quickly slide back to the reality of physical decline (yours and other people's) and limited expectations. Being firmly retired (seven years) and barely into my sixties and living as comfortably as we are? Beyond my wildest expectations but not beyond my dreams. I dreamed of fortunes to lavish things on myself and, especially, others---friends and charities.

If only you felt that you were going to stay healthy and wealthy enough to have the imagined gadgets and adventures and didn't feel that there are many things you'll never do or have. The fact that you don't even want some of the things, that's good. But the feeling of limitation isn't always pleasant.

In 2001, after 9/11 I started working on a list of things "I'd never care to do" and things "I one day (still) hope to do or do again." Among the 'nevers?' Ride a motorcycle. Among the "hope to dos?" Travel to every country where women are not subjugated. It seems like a list I ought to work on some more. I'll look forward to that.

You Are Included

There is much talk about how everyone is included in this new era in Washington. The picture is a mural on the side of Cheapo Discs. Like much of today's music, I don't get it except for guitar, banjo, maybe some black player?

People are criticizing Barack's speech but I thought it was fine. He included everyone (well, maybe not GLBT, but a gay bishop prayed somewhere). He gave a shout out to non-believers. (Maybe he will fight faith-based groups getting government funds?) He said, in so many words, "get off your butts at home and don't shoot at us."

I haven't heard one commentator mention non-believers. Interesting.

Remember the Republicans 'big tent?' Was that Bush the First?

Anyway, I like the picture. I am hopeful for the new government. Because you have to hope.

I haven't been too verbose lately. I do have an idea for a Journal of Unintended Consequences piece. In fact, everything seems to be an JUC piece these days although a novel keeps trying to sneak in here.

Also, I strained my back a little stabbing for someone's passing shot at tennis yesterday and cedar fever still has me sniffing a little. We have spent lots of time at home in the condo lately. In a way, I think we are finally settling in here and it's now a comfortable nest where we play with our toys. Today I have to get out and take care of a few things for Dad. I had a couple of meetings at the club today, but one is optional and one sort of optional so I'm skipping them, I think.

I expect things to be back to 'normal', um, never because I don't think I have a normal. One thing, though, I'm glad I'm not president.

Hope

Lots of people are looking for hope these days...including this graffiti artist who thoughtfully put a message going both ways on the hike and bike.

My mental landscape veers between hope and anxiety, bouncing around like the stock market.

So far we don't think our unit is impacted by the massive leak in our building and don't think they will be wielding their sledge hammers in here. (Although they gave us a scare yesterday by sending us an e-mail about removing material from our unit).

It's a cozy little nest, this place is, exactly like we want it with a few exceptions. The shades aren't right yet and there isn't a sub-woofer (although the surround sound is awesome even without it). Many channels we are paying for are 'searching for satellite' a lot of the time. There are still a few pictures to hang and a couple of small pieces of furniture to work out. Nothing cosmic. It's really peaceful and lovely in here.

When you step out the door, however, there is a vaguely industrial smell, fans blowing and wallpaper whipping around some bare studs, baseboards pulled off. When the elevator stops on other floors you hear the roar of fans and see piles of debris. Going in and out of the place feels strange. When you get close to the door there is that roar. I've become obsessive about cleaning my place and reorganizing. Rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.

People wiped out by Ike and other floods, residents of this very building whose units are like the hallway all have far more reason to let the thing called hope fly away. But, as it says in a part of the poem (by Emily Dickinson, of course) not so often quoted:

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've been trying from the beginning to think of this condo as a permanent place, a home for many years. Now I simply see it as a resting place before the next storm.

Sore Must Be the Storm

Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

--Emily Dickinson

This picture was shot the other day on South Congress. At Uncommon Objects, of course. (This blog seems like an advertisement for them at times.)

My life should be a cake walk right now. I have enough money. I have things I enjoy. Tennis, exercise, dining out, reading, writing. I am pretty healthy, it seems. I have things to worry about, sure. The parental units. Moving. The future of ourselves and the planet. But ninety-nine point nine, nine, nine....percent of the people in the world could only wish for my circumstances. (And yours, probably, if you are reading this and will admit it. Although, yeah, I know I am really lucky.)

Still a little dark cloud sneaks in. While I was looking up the Dickinson quote I searched for 'depression' as well as 'hope' and found this anonymous one: "Depression is anger without enthusiasm."

I don't know where this little cloud came from. Was it my attempt to start writing a memoir in my head? (I started thinking a bit too much about what I had done.) Was it a series of little things that go awry and make life less than joyous? (My dad, who for his part maintains hope and good cheer with the best of them says: "There is always something to take the joy out of life.")

This I do know: Writing helps. Just writing down that I felt down makes me feel less so. It makes me feel silly for feeling that way. Makes me give thanks for the blessing of fingers painlessly touch-typing this sentence. It makes me happy to go play a bit of tennis and go about the chores of the day.