Mortality

Mortality is a fucker, isn't it? I've recently (well, not so recently . . . a few months now) started the project of converting all my family photographs to digital. The inventory starts somewhere in the late 1930s and ends somewhere around 2008, once everyone in my immediate family made the conversion to digital. We still print a few select photos, but considering they were digital first, that's a moot point.

The process is tedious and time-consuming. I know, what isn't time-consuming? Everything chews away time, some just more noticeably than others. This is one of those. That's not saying it isn't fun. These are pictures I've seen a million times, but between sorting them into a timeline (instead of by categories like birthdays, weddings, etc.) and then scanning them individually, one by one (or two or three, depending on how many I can fit in the scanner at once), I'm seeing things I've never noticed before. Like my uncle giving the middle finger to the camera at my first birthday party, for instance. These are the important details I've missed for 27 years. The most exciting thing about all of this is finding things in the pictures that I'd either completely forgotten about (old stuffed animals, pieces of furniture) or things that I'd remembered but couldn't really place in my mind (my dad's old guitar, the layout of a room, etc.). It's stimulating and fun.

But there has been a lasting impression I never would have expected when starting project. I find myself mulling over my own mortality (and everyone else's) quite frequently.

I've always been intrigued by the thought of something physical in nature being around longer than someone has been or will be alive. The hallway where you took your first steps. The stoop where you had your first kiss. The patch of concrete where you stood in your graduation gown when your parents stole a quick snapshot of you. Chances are, these things have all been around longer than we've been alive, and will probably be around long after we're gone, waiting for someone else to make a memory.

Admiring pictures of people that are close to you (living or gone) is a surreal feeling when you think about it. Looking at a photograph of my mother at my age now is a trip. Looking at photographs of my father (who died when I was five) at my age now is even more mind-bending, and that feeling is compounded when I look at pictures of the two of us when I was my daughter's age. I remember my father as a man. A grown man. I have pictures (not many) of him as a younger man and a child, but they aren't as real to me because I never saw him that way. I remember him towering over me, fathering me (to an extent), and doing adult things. To think that I'm older now than some of my memories of him is amazing and scary. And four years and some change from now, which is an incredibly small amount of time, I will be older than my father ever lived to be (if, of course, I make it that far).

As I said before, mortality is a fucker. You plan for a future that isn't guaranteed (not by a long shot), yet you can't live for today completely because you'll have a hard time surviving tomorrow. There is always a limerick or haiku about life and living it, but it's all bullshit in the end. Some truisms exist but it really is as simple as: shit happens, go with the flow, be thankful for right now, and do the best you can.

 

The Habits Of A Human

I've lived my entire life cursing structure and habit. Working the same hours and days. The schedule of school. How long I get to sleep before I am obligated to be somewhere for something. Despising it. Anyone that is close to me can attest to that. For a few days, weeks, and even months (rarely) I can live with it. Once I get beyond my tipping point, it's all over. It's like this innate inability to exist on a regular schedule handed out to me. I regress into a child, taking temper tantrums and screaming, "I don't wanna do it!" in my own head (and sometimes out loud). Most of the time, I do reside in my own head. No one really wants to hear me complain about something so frivolous, as important and as detrimental as it might be to me. And I get it. If you're not born feeling this way, someone is going to look at you and roll their eyes. After all, they probably have much bigger tasks to deal with. Nothing is relative to the person who's got it much worse, most of the time. That's understandable.

I get some of my best thinking done in the shower, which is fairly odd because I don't like standing in any one place for a significant amount of time. I get antsy and want to keep moving. But I find it very easy to concentrate in the shower. I imagine it could be the hot water (I practically boil myself) or the rhythmic sound of the water hitting the cast iron tub. I'm not quite sure.

Two nights ago, as I was scrubbing away the day's dirt and sins, I found myself disinterested in thinking about future books and art projects (which is what I consistently think about) and pondering why I am so mentally empowered while naked in a steamy room. Normally I'm anything but mentally empowered while naked and in a steamy room. I digress.

I started to think about my routine. I like to shower at night. I like climbing into a clean bed and knowing that I can sleep in a little longer in the morning because I'm ready to throw clothes on and start my day (side note: I've had many debates over showering in the evening vs. showering in the morning. I don't care what your opinion is, because mine is right. Unless you rub the cat's ass all over your face while you sleep, there is nothing that a morning face wash can't absolve). Perhaps it goes back to my hatred of schedules (and my love of sleep), but I love to manipulate my own terms around someone else's as much as possible without actually disregarding theirs completely.

Then my thinking went a little deeper. I went back about a month and milled over a few-days-long anxiety attack that hit me like a ton of bricks in the middle of March. Even though it was much worse at night for the length of the attack, getting into bed was the most comforting part of it all. The feelings of panic and anxiety nearly melted away strictly because I’d pulled up the blankets, took out a book or put on a TV show, and settled in. At first I thought it was because I was truly relaxing. But in reality, I'd been relaxing all day. I took it easy during that time, making sure I wasn't too manic and making things worse, which I have a very, very easy time doing.

Weeks went by and I didn't really give it much thought. The only thing that really struck me was that feeling of true complacency when getting into my bed had never actually faded. Even with the anxiety long gone, that overwhelming feeling of comfort (and not just because of the pillow-top) stayed and was more prevalent than ever. Now, here I was standing in the shower, and it hit me all at once. I loved the routine. The habit. The structure. Getting out of the shower, brushing my teeth (sometimes in the shower . . . very underrated experience) putting on pajamas, checking the days work on the computer (writing, web work, statistics, sales, etc.), feeding the cats (which I routinely forget to do – thanks Lyss for making sure they don't die and/or rip our bedroom door off its hinges while we sleep), spraying cologne on the door so the asshole cats don't rip the door off its hinges, shutting the blinds (probably should do that before taking the towel off and putting on clothes), and jumping in bed.

It hasn't always been this way. I used to be a night owl (granted, this still happens at 1 or 2am), but things have changed, albeit slightly. Yet, when it's different, and my routine changes or disappears entirely, there is another one waiting for me. Whether its how I make my morning oatmeal, the rituals I practice before I start my car and drive to [insert place here], what I do before sitting down to work (actually at work or at this art thing I pretend to call work), it's all a routine.

Note: this all occurred to me in about 30 seconds while washing my neck and nipples. Quite a time to have an epiphany of sorts. It goes to show how we believe the mundane things are insignificant, but just how important they tend to be – if only for sanity.

For you, Lyss.

Moral of this ramble? A big, stereotypical "enjoy everything" message. Embrace all of your favorite schticks. From the big, shit-eating-grin-feeling of reaching into the cabinet, grabbing a pint glass, cracking open the bottle, pouring, admiring, and sipping the first mouthful of your nightly beer, to the relief of seeing your favorite show has DVR'd correctly and that there is, in fact, a new episode of How I Met Your Mother this week.