"Wet Dogs, Rhubarb bars, and Relaxing After a Long Day" -- Mikey

“Someone said that God gave us

memory so that we might have roses in December.”

-- J. M. Barrie 1860-1937: Rectorial Address at St. Andrew’s, 3 May 1922

They say a sign of depression is when you cry by yourself. But what if it’s not your fault? Blame it on the bitter winds of winter, or failure of selective memory, or collapse of those denial mechanisms once thought inexhaustible. Perhaps it’s the realization the inexhaustible always ends.

The Nuns preached self-control because there is no other kind. What I didn’t get then, is that the concept of “God’s Will” was code for man’s having none. Being young, and at the self-delusional axis of an egocentric universe, I mistook the focus on self-maintenance as an ideological attempt to indoctrinate me with the myth that my autonomy was a threat. And further, that that threat was a form of power. Come to find out, the one threatened most was always myself. That ubiquitous self-help cliché concerning “being one’s own worst enemy” has its origins in the Biblical injunction to “do unto others.”

I suspect Twain had these things in mind when he scolded us that what we see as man’s most noble and sublime quality, the capacity to choose between right and wrong, good and evil, can also be seen as our “primal curse.” Unlike all other animals we can choose to be cruel, greedy, avaricious, and inhumane. Think about it, in general, wouldn’t you say your dog, cat, or parakeet treats itself better than you do?

The issues here are about autonomy and choice late in the game.

The holidays always bring out the worst in me. In Melville's purview, we’re all fast fish, and loose fish, too. If this is true, when the night draws nigh, is it we that determine when our last run is done. Having recently described myself as having a “last run” in me, does this mean that God sets the drag? Is “control” an obsolete metaphor? Is the dualism of control and submission fatally flawed?

A friend recently told me he was running out of time to keep running away. Sister Patience looked good once -- under that habit of youth -- but as a memory, she doesn’t age well. Patience requires time, and that’s a non-renewable existential resource.

Melville may have been speaking of autonomy versus fate, but his words also apply to the ways we meet our end. I’m happy-sad of late. And why shouldn’t I be when I see myself, and those closest, whither toward late winter.

And so my friend, at the end of our, “long day,“ when the senses fail, and the meaning wavers, we’ll both take comfort in memories of those who love us.

-- Randy