Colors

I recently, within the last few years, have

turned old. I like to put it that way; “turned

old”, because it reminds me of milk that’s

turned or day old bread, a natural organic

process….nothing to be ashamed about.

I knew I was turning because getting drunk

was no longer fun. I didn’t mind the bumps

and bruises that would appear in mornings

that I didn’t remember where they came from.

While I was still drinking, I still thought I was

invincible. Only the increased awareness that

comes with sobriety led me to understand 

that I was in the “old” ballpark. It was a new 

chapter in my life: the “old” chapter, the last 

one. Since I’m a young old person, I’m still 

exploring the territory.

I’m sure getting old will get old after a while.

I’m still exploring the advantages: having a 

good excuse for clumsiness, not remembering

names, speaking inappropriately, (although,

I always kinda did that) etcetera.

But, I’m determined to not go quietly. I wear 

bright colors; rainbow socks for example, 

beads and rings, partly so vehicles can see 

me, partly for effect. I wear patchouli and 

sandalwood since only dogs like the smell

of an old person because they are starting to

smell like food. Also, the colors are a warning

the way blue ringed octopi and tropical toads

warn other animals. Talk to me and I might 

blow your mind, or, even make you laugh…

at least, piss you off. 

Old Buddhists have a  job to do. We must be 

available, like  breadsticks, in case someone 

has a hankering to talk to one. You don’t 

always want to eat breadsticks, but they’re 

nice to have around. We Buddhists are always 

open to serendipity and auspicious coincidence.

At least, that’s what I’m saying now.

I’m writing a lot about old age now, as I wrote 

a lot about love and passion, when I was young.

Obsession with anything is equally delusional,

but, being young, hormones were a good excuse.

And, other young people were equally obsessed,

so, there was an audience. Young people don’t

want to hear about old age. Old people want to

deny and ignore it. So, F’em all, that’s what I got,

and I’m going with it. Better, to my mind, than 

just listening to elders list the present causes of

their near future demise. It’s quite humorous to 

me, actually, to watch bits of me fall off or fail, like

an old jalopy….Superman my ass.

“I am a verb”, as Fuller said; a process, not a 

“thing” that exists eternally, or, really, actually,

from a Buddhist perspective. Watch a time lapse

of a person from baby to oldster. We think we are

the same person throughout our lives, but, if 

we’re honest with ourselves, we see we’re not. If

we haven’t spent time in our lives to look into the

phenomenon of existence, the default perspective

is believing we exist, eternally somehow, 

particularly when our existence is threatened. In

extremis, we call on God, or any of His names, to

save us, like clinging to a rope as we’re falling.

So, aside from the inconvenience, it’s joyful to feel

old and it’s attendant accommodations after 
having sussed out life and realizing it’s like going
to a comedy club for a few laughs, and then,
having to go home.

P.S.

“I grow old…I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind” Do I dare to eat a  

peach?”

That’s T.S. Eliot’s lament about growing old and

feeling like a failure. The fact that he wrote those

lines means that he wasn’t. But, Prufrock, the

subject of the poem, shows what most of us are

up against. “The unexamined life is not worth 

living.” supposedly said by Socrates. Good point.