I am not sufficiently arrogant to be happy

I was feeling a little depressed last night. All right, a lot depressed. And, of course, me being me, I then became depressed about the fact that I was depressed. A really ripping chap of stout build and firm mind would (you see) be able to overcome it. I should, by sheer force of will, make myself chipper regardless of my circumstances. By God, it's the American way.

Then…I got to thinking about it. What exactly is my situation at the moment? Well, my mother died a month ago after two long years in a succession of nursing facilities and hospitals. My father grows ever more frail. My wife is putting up with me (no easy task). My kid is in the middle of finals. My career continues its unconventional trajectory (i.e., upward, but by way of a swamp). And the world as a whole resolutely refuses to rotate in the direction I would prefer.

So…

Given all that, what right do I have to be a cheery little ray of gawdamn sunshine?


*

Actually, just as I finished typing that, I realized there is something serious in it. We are taught from the cradle that the optimum condition of life is to be happy, to be cheerful and bright. It is good for us, and pleasant for others.

Yet, everyone around me is not in a good place at the moment. My father is grieving, though (the boy from a former generation) he refuses to admit it, or speak of it. Martha, too, is dealing with her feelings, and with mine. And, besides, she wrestles with some of her own demons (she adjusts, not always easily, to being retired). My son is well, but he hurries to complete all his work for the semester, and it is a lot of work.

And I…well, I have all my own problems.

If I were to deny all that, to be chippy in spite of it, then I would be denying their pain, as well as my own. I would have to somehow not feel the sadness, concern, and sympathy which is normal and humane to feel in such conditions. I would have to be in other words, a sociopath.

There is something frightening in that thought. It suggests, you see, that to be Polyanna one must be not quite human.

And, maybe, rather terrible.

The Rhythm Of Melancholy

I have begun to realize there is a kind of generational rhythm to melancholy. It has a predictable pattern.

To explain: a close friend of mine, a man almost exactly my own age, just lost his father…this after his mother passed on only a short time ago. As you know, my mother too recently passed away. In fact, virtually everyone I know who is also of my generation is in a similar situation. We all of us watch as our parents age, become frail, die…

Which is why I suspect that every generation has a certain cadence to its emotional life. We share with the majority of our peers common stages of our lives. We know together the extreme emotions of childhood, the extraordinary unease of adolescence, the confusion of the twenties, the triumphs and defeats that come after that.

When you are my age, and I'm 57, you share with your peers that moment in your life when you suddenly realize that they…your parents …won't be there forever. Or, are not there now.

And, no matter how good or bad your relationship was with them (and in my case it was very good), there is something unimaginably disturbing in that.  For you know that what seemed a fixed point in the universe, its pivot, does not exist any longer. It is wholly gone, forever.

You realize that now you have no choice but to attempt to be a pivot yourself.

Though, in some ways, that is the more dreadful, for you know that…in time…your children will discover in their turn just how unsteady a center you really are.

ragged claws

Still mildly depressed today. Partly because of the incident in the coffee shop, which shook me more than I knew. (She was so fantastically self-important. So certain of her own superiority. Why is that so many of the most aggressive bullies one meets these days are women? Is this what Feminism really envisioned?)

But also because I'm in the midst one of those regrettable periods we have in life when you wonder if any of your acts has significance. If anything you do will be accounted as an accomplishment. If both your good, and evil, and (the majority part of our souls) the mostly-in-between will be interred with your bones. It is that moment when you suspect that you are not even Mr. Prufrock's ragged claws. Rather, you are the sand at the rank bottom of the depths.

It is a mood that, happily, does not last long. If it did, none of us would live beyond thirty. Doubtless I'll be all smiles by morning.

accomplishments

Still working on the book. A while back, I even told my parents about it. I even sent them a couple of chapters to read. They liked them. Or at least said they did.

It was not easy for me to reveal my work to my mom and dad. It is very unlike me. I never show anyone my material, or talk about it, until after it is finished.

But, this time, I didn't do that. This time, I emailed it to them. I suppose it was because they are getting on in years, and a part of me desperately wants them to know that I'm not just fooling around…that I'm really writing something that might be important…that I might, finally, get published. And not just by technical magazines. But published by real publishers that someone other than a few engineers and public relations people might read.

I want to make them proud of me, at last, while they're still here.

There's something sick in that. They already ARE proud of me. Or, so they've told me, anyway.

But, I simply cannot believe them. I cannot believe I deserve their pride. Or anyone's. Least of all my own. My accomplishments seem too few. My failures too many.

As I say, it is sick. Neurotic. But, come, confess, you have felt the same way now and then. We all have.

It is what we feel the moment we realize that aspiration remains as boundless as ever, but life…our own or that of others…is finite.

Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker