More Old Age Stuff

                Getting On In Years

People who say that getting old is all in the mind

don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.

My mind – meaning intellectual capability,

curiosity, imagination, creativity, and so on –

is as strong and vibrant as ever,

if not more so.

Getting old, for me at least, is all in the body.

My knees hurt more on chilly mornings, for one thing,

my thighs ache after climbing small hills,

and although I’ve always felt uncomfortable

with being normal,

my research on the internet reassures me

that my disturbed sleep patterns –

insomnia, I’ve learnt, is something different,

but most of us call it that anyway –

and my body’s erratic thermal regulation,

which means that I have to be constantly

adding and shedding clothing layers,

are normal signs of ageing.

I’ve also noticed, but haven’t researched,

that my hair, which has grown lighter in colour,

though still not white or grey,

has begun to grow much more slowly,

and that my beard and nails

have begun to grow incredibly fast.

Denying these and other physical changes, to me at least,

would be an example of a mind that’s old.

I’ve always tried my best to be intellectually honest,

and I don’t intend to change that now.

              Two to One

As the GP took my blood pressure

and listened to my thumper,

I compared how young my mind felt

with how old my body felt.

Then I turned my head to the right

and saw a small mirror on the wall.

The reflection of my countenance

filled the glass,

and I reflected upon my appearance.

That sealed it –

it was two to one

in favour of old.

             Being A Grumpy Old Weirdo

I realise that I occupy a niche market,

socially,

and that as a person I don’t appeal,

for one reason or another,

often under the heading of being

different, or weird,

to most other people in general.

Still, I do try to be nice, respectful, and nonaggressive,

but despite this some people

have actively disliked me,

two examples being my children’s grandmothers.

Both of them.

Sometimes this has in some ways been incomprehensible to me;

at other times and in other ways,

well, yeah, okay.

It’s easier now that I’m officially old.

Being a grumpy old fart,

irascible, cantankerous, and eccentric,

is a generally acceptable role.

          Hair and Teeth

When I was about thirty-five

I made a sentimental journey

to visit old friends in Los Angeles

and, amongst others,

caught up with Alfredo,

a truly lovely person,

who was then about fifty.

He told me that his age made no difference to him

because he still had all of his hair and teeth.

As I compose this I’m fifteen years older

than he was then.

I still have most of my hair

and all but two of my teeth,

but that means precious little

to me.

             Cataracts: Feb 2014

It’s strange and interesting,

but also increasingly inconvenient,

this business of slowly going blind.

I now need to wear glasses when watching TV,

something I’d never had to do before,

and the smaller screen graphics

have become too blurry to read,

especially if I watch from more than a metre or two away.

I frequently have to sit up close

to the computer monitor

to see what’s going on.

I was unable to make out clearly the features of a woman

just a few metres away at the bus stop

because she was a bit to my left.

I’m blinder in my left eye.

I have to get down on my knees and put on my glasses

to see if a bottom-shelf price marker at the Pak’n Save

is $6.98 or $8.89.

I can no longer read the fine print on labels,

no matter how I adjust my glasses

or change the labels’ distance from my eyes

(this means that I didn’t know the alcohol percentage

of the cheap Indian whisky I bought).

       Codgerhood

On a day with no orders,

no work, no meaning,

fussing pointlessly

with my word collection,

it occurred to me

that I really had become

a dotty old codger.

       Civilisation and Age

As my understanding

of the corruption

endemic in human civilisation

has increased,

the ability of our species

to harm itself and others

has also increased.

It now seems to me

that sooner or later, therefore,

a whole world of metaphoric shit

is going to start flying

from that metaphoric fan

and that things even here

in inconsequential Hamilton

are likely to become too ugly to contemplate.

I feel sad for my daughters,

but selfishly think

that it’s a good thing for me

that I’m old.

   The Spectre of the Misery Industry

I’m getting to an age

at which I’ve come to fear

ending up in a rest home:

crappy food,

high costs,

underpaid and overworked hired carers

who don’t really care

about those depending on them,

at least as individual people,

and who quickly become inured to their suffering,

and neglectful of their needs.

The up side to all this

is that it provides big bucks

for the plutocrats who own these places

so they can buy

loads of shit that they don’t need

and that doesn’t make them happy –

the only thing that can make them at least feel happy

being the thrill that they get

by fucking over less-powerful people.

              Continuously Me

I don’t climb stairs two at a time any more,

and sometimes I feel more comfortable

grabbing the banister with two hands,

but inside my head, y’know,

I’m still just me,

just as I’ve always been.

I can no longer walk more than a few dozen metres

without experiencing severe back pain

unless I take some analgesic

a few hours in advance,

but inside my head, y’know,

I’m still just me,

just as I’ve always been.

The cataract blinding my left eye

makes the faces of people even just across the street blurry,

but inside my head, y’know,

I’m still just me,

just as I’ve always been.

My body temperature takes at least an hour to stabilise

after I walk to the supermarket and back,

even on pleasantly cool mornings,

but inside my head, y’know,

I’m still just me,

just as I’ve always been.

I can no longer enjoy large, balanced meals,

and feel full after eating a single sandwich,

but inside my head, y’know,

I’m still just me,

just as I’ve always been.

I no longer produce copious amounts of semen

almost continuously,

but inside my head, y’know,

I’m still just me,

just as I’ve always been.