Tis not too late to seek a newer world

In which our Hero sends himself in a bottle to his message

Dear John,

Mind if I call you John, you dumb-ass arrogant *naive* little pup? I figure we can be formal, you and I, while I call you out on the carpet. A little decorum to cover a multitude of sins.

A longer time ago than the now I’m calling you out in, you decided to be done with milestones. Milestones don’t matter, because there’s nothing technically different between 26 and 65. Aging brings perquisites from childhood, the right to cross the street by yourself, to see PG movies, to drink, to vote, to rent a car all by your lonesome self in about every jurisdiction.

But you weren’t a total moron, because you at least saw that other people were reacting to the milestones anyway. You noticed friends and media stressing about 30s and 40s, so at least you accounted for the possibility of that. And then 30 hit, and look at you, you’re so fucking proud of how fucking clever you are. You outsmarted the crisis, and in 10 years, you’ll just do it again, and the 40s won’t be a challenge at all.

Fuck you. You had all the pieces but you didn’t get the big picture. And you missed fucking big, and started concocting the four century plan. Okay, actually that part is still genius, but the rest of it is such a staggering and *obvious* crock that I have no idea how you missed it, and I’m pissed that you were so unable to prepare me for this.

Because here’s the deal, my brother ab tem. You turned thirty and reveled in the sameness of it. You were hale and hearty and vital and 30 was much like 29 which was much like 28.

And 39’s been much like 38’s been much like 37. Except what you never stopped to notice was that it isn’t so much that things are the same, it’s that like making a copy of a copy, the degradation isn’t so bad as long as you aren’t comparing things to the original.

Things are different, here, and now, in ways that 29 never brought. And not all of it is internal either. I mean, sure, I’m not the specimen of fitness that I was a decade ago. I can still push my body harder than most folks I know, but I remember being the guy who napped a few hours every other day while working his thesis, and I… well… Maybe I could still do that, but I don’t see myself wanting to.

God, do you remember when we were ten years old? We’d walk out into the snowy school yard and play. And boots were wimpy, because we came up with this idea of the “All terrain running shoe” which was just a regular running shoe that you didn’t acknowledge winter in. And we’d walk through puddles, unhurried, and stand in the ice and snow and winter, with cold, wet feet, and *play.*

I was thinking of that, and looking at a puddle of ice today and I didn’t laugh nostalgic. No, I thought, what a fucking moron, because it’s miserable to be frozen and cold and wet, and what was wrong with that kid to enjoy it.

That’s that change thing. Here’s another.

At the beginning of this year, I held our newest baby nephew for a time. He was beautiful. At least, I think so. Because I’ll tell you something that I couldn’t write then. I couldn’t see him. I mean, I could see his head, and his face and all, but inside my arm, he was too close for me to focus on the fine details of his skin. All these moments the last few months when you’ve suddenly been wondering if your eyes are tired, because you couldn’t make out something or other, well, now you know. Yeah, some of it may be fatigue, and some of it may be the damage and wear to the fit of the glasses, and yeah, the next set are *definitely* going to have full frames for structural strength… But your eyes have changed, brother self. In ten years, your smug little 30-year-old self is going to have to give serious consideration to whether or not you need to ask to be fitted for bifocals.

Your eyes are changing, your body is changing. In a decade you’re going to wake up early so you can start you birthday at the doctor’s office because the weird random injury didn’t just heal without effort. Enjoy the splint for the next two weeks. It’s a barrel of laughs, especially when you forget and whack the rawest edge of your finger into the gear stock.

Hey, not all of it is internal, like I said. You also get to face the fragility of the world around you. Because despite the sunshine and lollipops of your life thus far, 30-self, you’re now looking at endings. Your mother is going to scare the crap out of you, and your father is going to need your strength as opposed to it just being additional redundant help.

You’re going to plan a trip to visit your grandmother, and you’re going to think about the fact that this trip, or maybe the next, or maybe the one after that is going to be the last one. There’s only so many visits left and then you lose her. And she loves you, boy. She loves you more than you have ever understood, and you’re just starting to appreciate what that means, no matter how much you thought you did.

Your life is not going to be what you expected it to be, and certainly not what you hoped for it to be. That’s not a complaint, mind, because you’ve done very well by any objective standard. But you’ve got some mistakes left in you and I can’t talk you out of the ones I know about. Wish so much I could.

And that’s forty, boy. You’re half right, it’s just a number. It’s just a day, out of a year, out of a life. But you’re learning to be afraid. You’ve never thought you were immortal, but you’ve never felt your knees creak as you climb stairs or your back fight you as you try to straighten and stand. Part of it you can address by getting back to a fitness regimen, but part of it…

So here’s that word again, here’s the difference between you and me: Fear. The world is just a little more delicate. The people in it are just a little bit more miraculous. And you are going to have a little bit more understanding of that fragility, and that fear, from the world around you and from worn gears and rust of your own damn frame.

But I’ll also tell you this. We’re not done, you and I. Not by a long shot. Some where out there is a collapsing wavefront of possibilities that ten years hence will be us, and whatever humility you’ve left so much space for me to learn is going to serve him well. (Though you’re a fucker too, brother-future. for making me work out the next decade’s worth of shit for myself)

I’ll also tell you this. Awareness of fragility improves some things. Like the miracles of life and good food and good friends.

And Tennyson. Tennyson gets better, my old. (Then again, I guess I’m your old)

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

That’s truth, my self-gone-past. We still suck at yielding. You know I’m not one to pay much mind to these kinds of moments, but before it’s entirely past, Happy 30th birthday, boy, from a decade downtime.

Signed, yourself,

<img src=”http://www.technogoo.com/urk/test3.php&#8221; alt=”–Serin” border=0>