Approaching 65
Since I will be turning 65 in 8 days, I thought this poem (not written by me) was interesting:
“At 65″ by Richard Howard
The tragedy, Colette said, is that one
does not age. Everyone else does, of course
(as Marcel was so shocked to discover),
and, upon one’s mask, odd disfigurements
are imposed; but that garrulous presence
we sometimes call the self, sometimes deny
monologue–it is the same as when we stole
the pears, spied on mother in the bath, ran
away from home. What has altered is what
Kant called Categories: the shape of time
changes altogether! Days, weeks, months,
and especially years are reassigned.
Famous for her timing, a Broadway wit
told me her “method”: asked to do something,
anything, she would acquiesce next year —
“I’ll commit suicide, provided it’s
next year.” But after sixty-five, next year
is now. Hours? there are none, only a few
reckless postponements before it is time …
When was it you “last” saw Jimmy — last spring?
last winter? That scribbled arbiter
your calendar reveals — betrays — the date:
over a year ago. Come again? No
time like the present, endlessly deferred.
Which makes a difference: once upon a time
there was only time (… as the day is long)
between the wanting self and what it wants.
Wanting still, you have no dimension where
fulfillment or frustration can occur.
Of course you have, but you must cease waiting
upon it: simply turn around and look back. Like Orpheus, like Mrs. Lot, you
will be petrified — astonished — to learn
memory is endless, life very long,
and you — you are immortal after all.
