I vividly recall, at age 19, standing on the library balcony of my college, overlooking a valley and in the distance the Pacific Ocean, considering that life was not as complicated as people wanted to make it out to be.
Simplicity, like a child’s fairy tale told by a kindly old man, had a clear beginning, middle and end, with all the morality that could fit between those hardcover pages and large, colorful illustrations that almost seemed to have a life of their own.
Now, much older, pulling my fingers free of the million sticky threads that bog down my day, somehow all tied together and affecting all the other threads so that at the end, exhausted, barely able to contain a cohesive thought, as I collapse onto my pillow and allow the darkness to whisk me away, I wonder how the hell it got to be so complicated. I just want a simple life. I just want to be able to start my day, do a few things well and retire at night knowing that things were done and something was achieved.
My to do list grows each day. Each item crossed off breeds two or three more than need to be added. It is not about efficiency or organization; it is about the obsessive need we have to keep on doing more than we did before, as though we were now making up for those indolent teen days lost daydreaming about silly things like being super-powered. Each day has fewer hours and each minute lost seems to bog down the other minutes around it. Why not eat lunch at your desk – better yet save some time by not having to chew your food; drink a liquid lunch, or skip lunch altogether and allow that gurgling stomach to convince you that you have invented the business diet; lose calories while you work, instead of working out, still tired, exhausted and sweaty at the end and grabbing that liquid brew to toast the end of another workday on planet Earth, despite the stress, exhaustion and sticky threads that would boggle even the mind of Spiderman.
Life is a series of blips – those moments when you come to a full stop and ask yourself what the hell you are really achieving. You know those blips, first at thirty, then 35, 40, 45, 50 and so on, usually event oriented like birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, watching your kids go from diapers to automobiles in less than five seconds. And each blip ticks away the credit of your life, those endless years you used to have, until you start noting that icons of your youth have started passing away, and take a look at that girl (or boy for my female readers) who used to be so beautiful when you were in school and now, having been unseen by your eyes for a few decades are simply “My God she looks like she’s ancient” without the reciprocal look in the mirror at how time has stripped you of those same vibrancies that once seemed so commonplace and eternal.
I like to change the counting of the years from age to age independence. Legally I could drink at 21, so really my AI age is 29 years (totals 50 for you math weary souls.) 29 sounds so much better than 50, but more so, at 50, to look at a life expectancy of 80 years leaves 30 years (without qualifying them as “good years”), But at the AI age of 29, that makes me middle aged with a ton of independent years to look forward to.
When I wonder what we have gained and what we have lost, I quickly realize that the stressors of society have convinced us to move faster, work harder, longer, accepting less while we ponder why that is the case. When you watch one of those “Cleaver” type fifties television shows and how the average worker was not running at breakneck speed and yet still represented the backbone of American progress, you get a sense of how perception has shaped the focus of this period of time. We work faster because we have to. We cannot afford to not work faster and harder because with so many people in the world just waiting for our jobs we had better be the fastest hardest working smiling fools so that we can keep our jobs and watch our paycheck dwindle to the high fees for health insurance, car insurance, life insurance, food, utilities, clothing and all the million little things that suck it out one dime at a time. So many sticky little threads that bind us. And they just will not come loose.
I visited that college balcony a few years ago during a trip and found that spot where so many dreams flooded past. The view had not changed much, but the impulse to move on with my day, to find something on my to do list to tackle made it an interesting contemplation of what had really changed. And so I made myself sit down and just stare out into the view that I had spent many an hour looking at. Nothing had really changed at all; just a series of blips that had peppered my memory, snippets of joy and sadness, gain and loss, wisdom and stupidity that all blended into a life well lived and one that I intend to keep on living.
And as long as I stayed there, in that seat, nothing had changed from that earlier time moments before my AI birth and I was, for a moment, thread-free.
MisterWriter