Reality is what you make of it
“Here I am yet again, to continue my struggle against aging.”
I would say that to *****, a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA pool. I’m there both Tuesday and Thursday for my aquacise class, to improve my balance.
I’ve done it for months.
People tell me I walk better, and occasionally I’ve noticed. But I still feel clumsy. —Or should I say “tippy?”
What ***** doesn’t know is my talking to her has my parents and Sunday-Superintendent neighbor spinning in their graves.
***** said hello not long ago, so I got up the nerve to say hello back. “Why would she ever wanna talk to him? He’s scum.” This is mainly my neighbor, who apparently abhorred men. But my parents more-or-less concurred — although mainly it was because I couldn’t worship my hyper-religious father; which convinced them I was rebellious.
Telling a little child that is bad. 70+ years with that albatross over my head.
“I can’t say much,” I’d say; “but ********* tells me yer a whiz-bang manager. Years ago at a boys camp I was too; I called it ‘benevolent dictatorship’ = my rules, but eminently fair. If I made deals, I kept ‘em. No favoritism.
That worked at camp; everyone wanted in my cabin. But it doesn’t work in marriage. I dropped it to make things work.
Now I find myself more an artist and writer. ‘Slinging words’ (writing) is the talent I was blessed with. I’m discovering I wasn’t as disgusting as my parents told me.
Any artistic talent I had with my hands disappeared with my long-ago stroke. But the artistic bent in my head remains. If my name is on it, it’s gonna look good!”
I doubt I’ll say all this to *****; she’s interesting, and I don’t wanna bore her to tears. She also laughs at my jokes, which can be awful. —My wife used to do that.
This blog is titled “reality is what you make of it.” Maybe it should be “reality is what you perceive,” the old philosophical mystery I left behind at college.
I wonder if what ***** perceives is what I perceive. I used to wonder about that with my wife. If, for example, what she perceived as “red” might be “green” to me.
I couldn’t get into her head. We all called it “red,” but what she perceived as red might be different to me.
Around-and-around it went. I finally gave up; life beckoned.
Now with my wife GONE, I find myself rediscovering reality, and it seems to be independent of what I perceive. Everything seems to be surprise-surprise, independent of what I think or expect.
History hurls imponderables at me: “What sense does that make?”
So there’s ***** guarding the pool from her lifeguard stand. It seems normal, but I wonder if she perceives what I perceive.
“Hello *****” equals 14,000 rpm for my buried neighbor.
“If yer a whiz-bang manager, celebrate it. You probably already do.”
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
I would say that to *****, a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA pool. I’m there both Tuesday and Thursday for my aquacise class, to improve my balance.
I’ve done it for months.
People tell me I walk better, and occasionally I’ve noticed. But I still feel clumsy. —Or should I say “tippy?”
What ***** doesn’t know is my talking to her has my parents and Sunday-Superintendent neighbor spinning in their graves.
***** said hello not long ago, so I got up the nerve to say hello back. “Why would she ever wanna talk to him? He’s scum.” This is mainly my neighbor, who apparently abhorred men. But my parents more-or-less concurred — although mainly it was because I couldn’t worship my hyper-religious father; which convinced them I was rebellious.
Telling a little child that is bad. 70+ years with that albatross over my head.
“I can’t say much,” I’d say; “but ********* tells me yer a whiz-bang manager. Years ago at a boys camp I was too; I called it ‘benevolent dictatorship’ = my rules, but eminently fair. If I made deals, I kept ‘em. No favoritism.
That worked at camp; everyone wanted in my cabin. But it doesn’t work in marriage. I dropped it to make things work.
Now I find myself more an artist and writer. ‘Slinging words’ (writing) is the talent I was blessed with. I’m discovering I wasn’t as disgusting as my parents told me.
Any artistic talent I had with my hands disappeared with my long-ago stroke. But the artistic bent in my head remains. If my name is on it, it’s gonna look good!”
I doubt I’ll say all this to *****; she’s interesting, and I don’t wanna bore her to tears. She also laughs at my jokes, which can be awful. —My wife used to do that.
This blog is titled “reality is what you make of it.” Maybe it should be “reality is what you perceive,” the old philosophical mystery I left behind at college.
I wonder if what ***** perceives is what I perceive. I used to wonder about that with my wife. If, for example, what she perceived as “red” might be “green” to me.
I couldn’t get into her head. We all called it “red,” but what she perceived as red might be different to me.
Around-and-around it went. I finally gave up; life beckoned.
Now with my wife GONE, I find myself rediscovering reality, and it seems to be independent of what I perceive. Everything seems to be surprise-surprise, independent of what I think or expect.
History hurls imponderables at me: “What sense does that make?”
So there’s ***** guarding the pool from her lifeguard stand. It seems normal, but I wonder if she perceives what I perceive.
“Hello *****” equals 14,000 rpm for my buried neighbor.
“If yer a whiz-bang manager, celebrate it. You probably already do.”
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
posted by BobbaLew at 1:00 PM
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