Friday afternoon, summertime, South Minneapolis: I roll through the Uptown Art Fair with Ev and friends Mike and Madelyn, washed by sharply defined yet humid and diffuse aromas, afternoon sun, heat on the pavement and deep fat frying, warmish raita’s and gyros, and beer spilled on the ground from sloshed glasses hurriedly handed from vendor to sweating hands craving cool beads of plastic cup condensation and pilsner’s tang on the tongue, mixed into a delicious existence of peace and anxiety, sensuous caresses of warm breezes, and that very ALS-specific needling feeling as sweat struggles into every pore and burns eyes and skin.
And the boulevard along 29th Street, lockstep in marching canvas booths exhibiting goods beautiful and boorish, white tents from Colorado and Indiana and Illinois and Arkansas and Wisconsin and yes–even Minnesota, shaded by elms struggling to define a new purpose in their own dis ease, reaching heights above the buildings and drooping low to offer shade, some marked by orange, others by green toward a future certain only in the minds of arborists and tree cutters, the street roiling like a sand hill of ants after a rain pushing more and more out and up and over to clear a path for the rest of us, ears rushed by winds of a persistent human drone, words understood at the primal level of language unspoken yet recognized; our senses assailed, our memories struggling to bank this day for the Minnesotan winter to come or the friendships that time and distance would sunder, each of us carrying the dis ease of temporal knowledge, deep cellular realization within, pressing us to hold this moment forever, even while physically drawn to the next booth and the next, moving downhill ever so slightly urged on by the persistent push of the earth’s curvature.
It is supposed to rain tonight, a severe storm sweeping cooler air—heralding the long autumn ahead but today, high summer.
Where do summer afternoons go? As meaning and legacy and immortality push through the discipline of yesterday’s moments, I struggle to hold the energy in reserve for the time when it will be necessary just to get through the storms of the seasons to come. It costs every energy nickel I possess to take it in, yet I want to live the moment over and over and over, to close my eyes and hold this sun and shade and humanity close for the time when we wear winter’s armor with eyes peeking through woolen slits carefully making us impregnable to the arrows of slicing bitter cold and their accompanying human disengagement.
Friday afternoon, summertime, South Minneapolis: I embrace the moment’s immortality not as some scholastic construct of religious fantasy only held by God’s insiders; but real mystical immortality, discernable spirituality marked by spilled beer, falafel sandwiches and lemonade in quart-sized glasses, earrings of pearl and sterling, light wood inlayed by dark oak or white maple or red cherry, paintings inspiring the collective unconscious of smoky jazz halls and singers with gravel in their voices loving the microphone and moving us to shameless memory imagined by ears but realized in sight. I want this breeze to play over my body without desiccation or heat or the knowledge that all things come to fruition and once born, quickly fall away to leave earth for the next generation to experience its own shortcomings. It is a relay to eternity, and this day says to me, “You know that it is true. Your place is neither before nor after but now in this moment.” ALS sharpens the focus, and immortality always intrudes.
Last night, from a Caring Bridge site, came the anguished (he called it shameless) plea of a father desperate to capture the woman he loved into some narratively formed keepsake beyond her way too short life on this earth, mementos passing for the still alive and conscious presence in the life of a two year old son who would only know the stories second-hand of the remarkable human being his mother was. I want to comfort him, to help him see that even if no story was written, if no one responded to his pleas for more and more about his passed lover, wife, partner, muse, and yes—the source of the most pain he has ever experienced, her immortality is assured, and his son will be the witness.
Immortality always intrudes. I am lucky. I am not the father of young ones. A witness of my own immortality resides in the perfections and imperfections of my sons, in the unconscious way that I see myself in their outreached hands to reconnect with their true loves as I hope they remember that I have reached out to mine.
Dis ease has taught me not to confuse immortality with consciousness. Conscious knowledge of your influence is just an ego moment falsely played on strings of an out of tune violin. Consciousness isn’t immortality. Immortality exists whether you are conscious or not. It is in the vocal qualities, the gestures, the slightest turn to the left or right, the walk, the look, the nod, all secret codes of the most profound and lived gifts others have given. None of us is as singular a person as we would like to believe, responsible only for our own successes and failures. Yes, people work hard, overcoming obstacles beyond them, accomplishing the impossible in great things and remarkable ways. But these accomplishments are not singular in time and space. They are a part of the immortal narrative of humans—there was a before, there is a now, and there will be a future—a narrative of immortality’s jet-stream carrying the influences of those before us and those yet to come. Consciousness is fraught with the dangers of ego need. Unconsciousness is frightening. Immortality comes through in the kindly acts and malicious deeds we inflict, impose on others, but also in the sunny presence of a humid 90 degree day.
I have been too concerned with my own immortality of late, too cognizant of legacy, too conscious of the cult of me. On Friday afternoon, summertime, South Minneapolis: I roll through the Uptown Art Fair with Ev and Mike and Madelyn, washed by the goodness of their love and the presence of a knowledge that this indeed is our purpose—to inhale the overwhelming beauty of life. I am happy and tired and a little sun-burned, and well aware of the immortal presence of my partner and best friend, my friends and loved ones, and my own dis ease puppet master playing me for the song that I am. It is a tension too good not to breathe in all its beauty. This day, I have not confused what I leave with what I did. I have not mistaken false gratification for hopeful connection. Today, I understand what it is to be immortal, conscious or not.
But mostly, mostly I have spent my nickels wisely.