Draw the Line
― George Orwell
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Dear Kate,
We are older than George Orwell.
The words above were his last in diary 6 months before his death in 1950. He narrowly missed the chance to test his own claim. He was 46. (OK, not exactly narrowly: he missed by a whole 8%. I know you like number a-counting.)
I try to imagine being in the body of someone who looks forward to the next superhero movie, the next movie franchise installment, as a ritual to affirm life perpetuating. What does he see in his own future as he "lifts his eyes" to see again for the umpteenth time the wielding of lightsabers, or bodies in tights smashing things and purportedly saving the world?
You know how it is, every May being the kickoff of the summer blockbuster season, rudely interrupted in the last two, coming back all the more fiercely this time around. People just need to go, like it's a designated pee break and you better not skip it and regret when the bus is moving again. You need the relief just like everyone else, to receive the same salvation with the rest of humankind.
I try too to image being a sports fan on an annual pilgrimage of playoff Mecca. Or people looking forward to and posting about their next new eatery experience, extending life one appetite at a time. Carrot on a stick: the point being not the carrot, but the stick, the connection we try to establish between our being and our yearning, a line emerging yet rarely clearly visible, never fully affirmed to prove our suspicion.
If I enjoyed superhero movie when I was 10, and then again in my 20s, and continue to with intensity not dying in my 30s, 40s, and 50s, what does it say about me? Or more like, what am I saying to myself about my Self? Do I lift my eyes and see in my 80s, right up to the 6 months before I die, that I would still line up religiously for the same popcorn grease?
"Most fatal diseases had their own specific odor, but none was as specific as old age." Diaper smell I hope not.
Yours, Alex
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