I took an internet quiz today called “What literary character are you?”. I got Jay Gatsby, but I doth protest. Show me the pop psychology that connects my answers to that obsessive egotist. Yeah, I like the era. And yes, I adore the fashions. But I’m teaching Gatsby right now, for the like, seventy-millionth time, and the most interesting thing about that book is how gorgeous the language is, used to describe the most boring and despicable people.
I took another internet quiz just now, because, no poems. It was called something along the lines of “How Well Do You Know Teens”. It turns out I know them a bunch. I got a 95% on that internet quiz. I totally got an A in Adolescence. That’s armchair legit.
A friend of mine and I were talking about dementia today. I forget why. Heh heh. No, really, I forget why. But we came up with some realizations about life and aging that I think could be a poem. Thinking about our friend Len tonight.
It seems, from what we can tell, that the end comes after the worst versions of our selves. Wisdom turns to plaque, up there where the words lose. We reason it out. Given that we are blessed to survive until gray or white age, given that we are granted that fate and wisdom, how do we choose the end when it comes? The most reasonable and unreasoned solution is the paradox. The honest longest life is the one you would choose to end, if it started to sit heavy on the ones who lent care, sit like a bundle of wood always on the shoulders of the children you bore up, under circumstance that could get heavy. Is it more honest to tape, video, record on your phone your desire to choose the end? What then, if you wait too long and suspect the voices? Might write a letter, to say, when I become the most selfish version of myself, when I become demanding and unreasonable, when the lucid moments only include details of hunger, then is the I need to see the letter, the video, the documentation of me when I can hear it, my real desire to end this narration before it hurts someone. The questions, how do the demented know they are hearing the truth? Write yourself a letter. Include a code. If you no longer know the code, the it is time to get one. Muskrat. Time to lend yourself over to the moss and trees now. Time to go.
Wow. That got dark fast. But it was just based on a conversation I had with a friend today. Happy Thursdays, poemers.