It’s been a busy week. I’ve been trying to discover the
secret of life and the origins of the universe, solving for quadratic
equations, and contemplating the Theory of Relativity. I’ve observed Fat Tuesday, Pudgy
Wednesday, Tubby Thursday, Flabby Friday, and Corpulent Saturday in an effort
to purify my consciousness, plump my hippocampus and find the meaning of life.
Not as easy as it sounds. As a member emeritus of the Boomer Generation, this is our
constant quest for enlightenment.
Personally, I think it would be easier to sign on for Odysseus’ voyage
to Ithaca than to become enlightened. I just want to take a nap. Trying to manage all the stress coming
at us inhibits the flow of our life force, shifts our energy from vital organs,
and makes us REEEAAALLLYYY irritable.
However, just recently my accountant said I am “radically diversified. “
That’s a positive. (I think he was referring to my finances.)
But I am training to be calm. I am embracing my inner crabby as a means to cosmic wisdom.
It’s easy to become emotionally eviscerated. That’s life. The other night I saw “Les Miserables” for the fourth time
in a year. Good ole Victor
Hugo. He says in his book, “Nobody
knows like a woman how to say things that are both sweet and profound. Sweetness and depth, this is all of
woman; this is Heaven.” WhatEVVVEER. I
set aside my book of social graces after the performance, and drove home entombed
in a veil of tears and mucus and emitting decidedly UNheavenly guttural
articulations. From now on, I’m
only going to watch brainless comedies, like presidential debates or the
Oscars, those models of banality, whose main components comprise a checklist
for depravity. Sporting facial orifices that are clammy and sodden is not the stuff
of fascinating womanhood.
Of course, changing the clock ahead and becoming
sleep-deprived by the omission of one hour of rest each night is not exactly
triage for ill temper.
I have a cartoon on my nightstand that
keeps me focused on what is essential.
It says, “Life is simple.
You’re born. You have
birthdays. You shrink.” So far, I’m right on track.
At the moment, I’m involved in the planning of our class
reunion. I hope the event is as
fun as the meetings. We gather
regularly to upload memories and reminisce. Someone will recall an incident that is flash-blinding and
leaves after-imaging of an event that had lain dormant for years. I guess time puts a halo on a lot of
things, but our memories are who we are.
The past comes again to the present. Reunions, gatherings, are crucial to our identity,
individually and collectively.
It’s how we measure our progress through life.
And all of us working on this committee are going through
the stages simultaneously: We were
born. We have birthdays. We have shrunk. The fire within is
often obscured by the waddlesome flab without. Being part of this informal
clump makes for good fellowship. We
still have teeth in the sockets, if not the bite force of years gone by. So far, there is no evidence of reduced
autonomy in any of us…maybe a little automatic inertia.
However, my darling daughters, in order to preserve their
places in my will, announced that the PBR (Professional Bull Riders) is coming
to Salt Lake, and they purchased tickets for the tribe. I am THRILLED! In an instant, all their past crimes
and misdemeanors were forgiven.
These girls realize the glorious “divine bovine” is my
passion, and making the arrangements to attend will be forever engraved in the
Great Ledger of their recorded decisions.
Mick E. Mouse and Asteroid are animal athlete
superstars. But Bushwhacker is on
a par with the stallions that pull Zeus’ chariot. This 2,000 pound parcel of hostility is dark, defiant, and
belligerent. He snorts and bellows
menacing oaths reminiscent of a mother under stress, and can render cowboys
perfectly stupid and acutely angled when he unceremoniously dumps them at a
dizzying trajectory into the dirt, little pieces of wreckage, long before 8
seconds have ticked off the timer.
Bushwhacker owns the universe. He is arrestingly handsome. This bull’s eyes are enormous and
brown and rimmed in long
lashes. His horns are precisioned
brackets and crown his head like a laurel wreath for the Olympian god he
is.
Unlike his more infamous predecessor, Bodacious, Bushwhacker
has no inclination to kill. Oh,
no. He simply wants to eject a
presumptuous cowboy from off his haunches, inflict some gratuitous bodily harm,
(mangle, dent, wrench limbs from hinges, tear off lips, rip out tongues, and
other vocal apparatus, etc.) and slowly swagger out of the arena with
characteristic majestic disdain, irksome in his hubris.
AND I CAAANNN’TTT WAY-ATE!!!
Bushwhacker is the perfect experience for the person, who,
in fevered delirium, wants to experience it all. How exhilarating.
And we have tickets on the third row, where the seats are up close and
personal…if a little odd smelling.
Maybe that’s what life is all about. In spite of the despair, the stress,
the difficulty, there is beauty and lovely memories…and odd moments when you
have the illusion that you’re in control of what is happening around you. Maybe
the theory of relativity is, ultimately, about relationships – that Victor Hugo
was right when he said, “ To love another person is to see the face of
God.” Perhaps life can be even more adventurous and
triumphant than 8 seconds on a bull named Bushwhacker. That’s what we aim for. That’s the bull’s eye.
Something to think about – and clasp to one’s bosom.
