Invisible

 

A couple of weeks back I was with a friend and we commented that we seldom, if ever, got the second look anymore. The second look, should it need to be defined, is exactly that: the look given after the first passing glance; the look—more often than not from the opposite sex—that seeks more information without overtly asking for it. It is sometimes surreptitious, no more than a glance, and other times honest and enquiring, a bold stare like the one I got in an elevator a few years ago when a middle-aged woman asked me if I was moving into the building, then said, “Too bad,” when I said I wasn’t.

The disappearance of the second look is a subtle change in a man’s—and a woman’s—life for it implies that we have moved from the arena where gender matters to the one where it does not. We have become largely faceless, and people begin to call us “sir” and “ma’am.” The attractiveness and sexual energy we relied upon to make contact with our opposites is just about gone, and the smiles we might garner are the same as those a cute and well-behaved toddler might get.

When does this happen? And do we cause it by somehow giving up our claim to life, or does it simply occur in spite of our best efforts?

Some days ago I heard a not-at-all-pleasant woman in her mid-60s bemoan the fact that she lacks a boyfriend and I wondered if the sourness of her disposition chased men away, or was it the lack of men that caused her unhappiness? Or had she simply become invisible, another divorced dyed-haired matron with a Barbara Bush hairdo, back problems and a collection of Trader Joe shopping bags?

I see old men in felts hats wearing their pants halfway up their chests and find it impossible to believe they ever got a first look, never mind a second one. But they must have, otherwise many of us would not be here. Often they’re walking alone, widowers or divorcees perhaps, carrying their solitude like heavy knapsacks. They read the local paper without interest, linger endlessly over a cup of coffee, and return to the same franchise breakfast place two or three times a day.  There is one man I have seen nearly every day for a year, and though I made some efforts to speak with him on more than one occasion, his loneliness is so physically intense that words don’t get through. He stands in front of the Post Office hours on end, smoking one cigarette after another. His skin is parchment-like and dry as a stick, He politely opens the door for women as if this small act might render him visible again, but he ignores men, looks through us as if we are not there. I often wonder if he’s waiting for a letter, for word from somewhere not here that will allow him to relink his life to those of others.

 

 

Floaters

I have a new companion, a black spot slightly larger than a pinhead that bounces around in the vision of my left eye. Sometimes it is accompanied by a crescent that flashes at the very edge of my peripheral vision.  The spot, which I have wittily dubbed Spot, is an eye floater, and it seems to drift aimlessly around, particularly when I’m looking at my computer screen. My research tells me that while annoying, my new buddy is a very common occurrence and not a cause for alarm.

These things typically appear when tiny pieces of the eye's gel-like vitreous come loose within the inner back portion of the eye. Another sign of aging: When we are born and throughout our youth, the vitreous has a gel-like consistency. But as we age, the vitreous begins to dissolve and liquefy to create a watery center. The result is that some still-solid gel particles occasionally will travel around in the more liquid center of the vitreous. Hence, floaters. Actually, I can't see these tiny bits of debris floating loose within my eye; I see their shadows, cast on my retina as light passes through my eye.

The flashes may be cause for concern, but I’m not going to take the time to worry about them now. My understanding of the phenomena is that ordinarily, light entering my eye stimulates the retina. This produces an electrical impulse, which the optic nerve transmits to the brain. The brain then interprets this impulse as light or some type of image. If the retina is mechanically stimulated (physically touched), a similar electrical impulse is sent to the brain. This impulse is then interpreted as a "flicker" of light.

When the retina is torn or detached from the back of the eye, it’s common to see a flash or flicker of light. Depending on the extent of the tear or detachment, these flashes of light might be short-lived or continue indefinitely until the retina is repaired. The technical name is photopsia, and it may also occur after a blow to the head. Then, it’s called "seeing stars." This happened to me only once, back when I practiced martial arts with a degree of fanaticism and my sensei, using an ultra-secret Zen Japanese fighting technique, launched me in a graceful arc across the room. I landed on my head.  The stars I saw were very pretty and multicolored but even I had good enough sense to realize this was not something you might want to repeat too often.

I find interesting both the aging process and the attendant small and large changes our bodies undergo. Floaters, flashes, alternating blood pressure, the small holes we develop in our random and near-term memory. It is fascinating to me how little we know of our own bodies’ and minds’ basic functions.  We are not furnished an operator’s manual at birth; we take care of ourselves in mostly haphazard fashion, and even the experts will admit that our knowledge base of what can go wrong is woefully inadequate.  We may know what an illness or disease is, and have a basic knowledge of its effects upon flesh and bones, but we don’t know how to cure. We can medicate, offer palliative advice, and treat symptoms without touching upon the core problem. We know how to cut and remove and have built massive industries to deal with pain, discomfort and, eventually, death, but an insider’s understanding of what really is going on continues to elude us. We have managed to lengthen life and eradicate many woes--chickenpox comes to mind--without a complete understanding of how we react to stress, pollution and other environmental factors. We seek to treat life without knowing how life came about, and there, perhaps, is the crux of the matter. Is it really possible to cure without knowing origins?

My floaters have been particularly active this morning though I’ve not had any flashes of light. In the grand scheme of things, they’re pretty small potatoes, adequately explainable and non-life-threatening.  Today my area is under a fairly rare tornado watch. Now that’s interesting.

 

 

WTF Part 1

Three or four times a day I stop moving, stand stock still and ask, “What happened?” It’s not a metaphorical question but a real expression of wonder. “What happened?” How did I end up living in the suburbs of Washington DC in a post-Korean War bungalow that originally sold for $22,000? How did I end up by myself in the United States of America after spending the first few years of my life quite contentedly in Paris, France?  How is it that none of the plans worked out as they were supposed to and that the immediate future, if not bleak, appears at best unpromising?

I’m not the only one asking questions. Many friends I’ve surveyed whose ages range from very early 40s to mid-60s seem to be struggling with this existential angst. The stuff that has happened in one brief lifetime is staggering, almost too much too handle for a lot of folks in my age range. I grew up without computers, with a single corded phone in the kitchen, with daily shopping for foodstuff. The apartment where I lived in Paris had no television or refrigerator. There was a small icebox that was replenished daily by a delivery from the iceman and there were times when we were hungry and ate soup made from yesterday’s bread.

When I first came to the US, my parents bought a house in nearby Maryland. There was no air conditioning; fans barely stirred the air in summer and in winter a central oil burning furnace tried to keep away the chill. Gasoline cost thirty-five cents a gallon and my first car was a 1953 Buick Roadmaster, a monster of an automobile with a giant visor over the windshield. The tiny refrigerator my mother was so proud of had two aluminum ice trays with levers to crack the ice and one of the bigger household sin was using the ice and not refilling the trays.

I’ve had the amazingly good fortune of living here. I’ve written books, had songs recorded, and played my music on stage. I’ve written for some of the nation’s best newspapers and magazines, interviewed a host of luminaries that have included Margaret Meade, Lou Reed and Jesse Owens. I’ve been almost killed three times, and am waging my second bout against cancer. I’ve been married and divorced twice and now live by myself with a cat in a house I will soon have to sell. What happened?

The career, not too meticulously planned, involved leaving a well-paying but increasingly stultifying job with a UN organization, and picking up my writing where I’d left it a few years before.  I’d published three books to pretty good reviews and anticipated little difficulties writing more. I was wrong. The proposals I sent out to my agent were met with less than enthusiastic response. The market had changed, and we were on the edge of the on-line publication phenomena. No one, it seemed, was particularly interested in the fiction I had to offer. Nor was there a great demand for an Addiction for Dummies book I was sure would find a home.  Other projects began with great excitement and either did not have the necessary legs or simply stagnated.

When the recession hit in 2008 I was caught unaware. Not the most brilliant businessmen--I have come to terms with the fact that my knowledge of finances rests on buying high and selling low--I had too many properties whose values dropped like stones into a bottomless pond. No one wanted to buy my lovely wooded lots in Southern Virginia, or the land I owned on the Chesapeake Bay, or the assisted-living apartment originally purchased as a hedge against inflation.  And still no books sales.

I went back to school, got a degree to become a substance abuse counselor, and spent an unpaid year as an intern in a rehab specializing in medical personnel who’d misused controlled substances. Five years later I was working in a methadone clinic. Mostly, I sat behind a sheet of bulletproof glass, handling soiled dollar bills passed through a thin slot, and buzzing methadone users into a nurse’s office. There was minimal counseling; this was first and foremost a money-making venture, and make money it did.  A dose of methadone bought wholesesale and in bulk costs approximately twenty-eight cents and sells for five dollars. There was little effort to free the clients of their methadone dependency. Some people had been coming to one clinic or another for more than a dozen year and had no desire to change habits. I met strippers, war heroes, roofers, prostitutes, housewives and bikers. I got severely depressed and, a year later, I was burned out and eventually fired.

Still no book sales.   What happened? Or, more succinctly, WTF?