Old Folks

The 100th or so reunion of my elementary school class of "aught-7" or whatever is to be held this fall. I talked to a friend I hadn't spoken to since then, and it was a thrill. He asked me whether I knew anything about the whereabouts or disposition of certain members of the rare and disappearing species that constituted our class, but I said I did not.

So time goes on as it does these days, 2010. Not a montage of pages of the calendar falling, or newspaper headlines spinning into view, but more often pictures of beasts of uncontrol and lack of good taste swirl into view, all the nonentities that make up the days of our days: Tiger Woods, Tea Baggers, Bankers, and the like.

So the ancient number who purports to be my school chum sends and email gently laughing at old folks' loss of memory. This is not something I find amusing. I have found spring chicks in their late 30's making jokes about their own "senior moments", and I frown at them, usually observing that they'd remember things if, indeed, there was anything worth remembering in their vapid lives.

So I email back, something like "Ha-ha. Never heard that one before. Super." Nothing controversial.

Then two weeks later, he emails me, saying - say - do I know anything about the whereabouts and disposition of certain members of the rare and disappearing species...

So I tell him we chatted about it. And making old folks jokes is very dangerous and bad juju. And knock it off. It is part of a conspiracy to marginalize a segment of the populace. Ixnay.

At this point, I have lost track of my point in this post, but I have thoughtfully strewn markers about the desk in front of me, so I easily pick up the thread. Most of us have been designed to be creative innovators, not warehouses of memory's knick-knacks. Some of us would pay a pretty penny just...to forget! Alas!

The picture above is my "dream" house, where the functions are spread out in front of me;  a place where I shall not forget, where there are not quite so many "slips" between the "dock" and the "ship"...or "loose lips sink ships" or whatever. Personally, I have left the bedroom full of intent only to arrive at the kitchen feeling at sixes and sevens, and that feeling of lost volition has left me wondering exactly what kind of "cuppa" I was heading for, and what - in the name of all that's holy - is "java" anyway?

pix: http://acheerydisposition.blogspot.com/