The most appalling symptom or side-effect or sign of being the age that I am is that I now find wisdom in those commonplace sayings that I previously dismissed as trite and drivelly. One day at a time. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. It’s not getting what you want, it’s wanting what you get. Is it possible that these are truly wise thoughts, or is senility setting in? Should I dress myself in loose pants and fleecy slippers and settle comfortably by the fireplace with a cup of something hot and a vacuous smile on my face? Is it possible that I am drooling on my copy of Modern Maturity magazine? But as I walk the sands of this beach of growing old, I want to hear the mermaids singing. Yet I hear nothing but the rhythmic curse of the waves. If only senility, old age, maturity, modern or otherwise, if only this state brought happiness or at least contentment. But I am not to be so rewarded. “One day at a time!” I shout to myself. “Be here now, goddamnit!” But I am neither here nor now. I am always somewhere else and I am always planning for a better day or pining for the past, singing the old songs. And perhaps the latter action gets in the way of the former, for my plans so rarely come to fruition. The present, the NOW that I am supposed to be here during, remains elusive, slips away into the past, and then I mourn its loss, ignoring the fact that I didn’t enjoy those golden moments when I had possession of them. Why? Why can’t I at least have some sort of consistency within my own feeble brain? I don’t put any credit in astrology, but it is true that I was born under the sign of the twins. Is that the reason for this intracranial warfare? Is it Castor, the mortal twin, who fights constantly for life, who, knowing his fate, cannot resign himself to it and always wants to be somewhere other than HERE, to be sometime other than NOW? “Take it easy,” says brother Pollux from some other cranny of my gray matter. “One day at a time.” “Easy for you to say. You won’t die.” “But that’s just the point. If death will come regardless, best to enjoy what there is of life. Carpe diem.” Now Castor, sulking in his cerebral corner, will freely admit the logic of this. Death will come. If not today, yet it will come. The readiness is all. But there, to mix a metaphor or at least to mix a quote, is the rub. How does one attain readiness? How does one be HERE, be NOW? The natural tendency of matter is to remain still, but the natural tendency of thought is to move. Thought knows nothing of inertia. It will where it will. Beyond the hills, away, cries the empty highway, and so much for one day at a time, so much for the smug Mr. Pollux. There’s the rub in your rubric, Mr. P. I think, therefore I am...unhappy. Unready. This smacks of pessimism. And it’s true that I not only see the half-empty glass, I see the dust motes floating in its contents and the hint of grease on the rim left by whoever drank before me. But is it inevitable? Can I change? Can I at least reconcile my two twins? Set them down together. Pass the peace pipe and look for common ground. Exchange the calamity for the calumet, however anachronistically. I don’t see how that would work. What compelling compromise would such a meeting produce? Part of a day at a time. Be here occasionally. The readiness is some. These half-hearted sentences lack the ring of aphorism as much as the ring of truth. So what does that leave poor brother Castor? As he watches the peace pipe grow cold in his brother’s hands, he sees no reason to stay by the dwindling fire. He rises, brushing the detritus and bits of tobacco from his clothes. He looks around at the paths that branch off from the crossroad, hiding from himself the knowledge that all roads lead to Samarra.
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