The Vision & Voice in my Head
Dead at 65, 6 years short of the average life expectancy of a Filipino male.
As I looked down at Rick in his casket, I tried to mute the chatter from his classmates huddled at the benches behind, while I preoccupied myself with the chatter in my own head. The flowers and Rick’s casket in front would soon become the backdrop for what was bound to happen later: a class picture, with Rick lying in state. I was familiar with many of Rick’s classmates present; a few hadn’t changed significantly, but some looked spent even for their age. Gravity in our age group is a curse, I said to myself, something that may benefit from intervention. One of these classmates would no longer likely be around in the next class picture, I whispered to myself. Terrible that I had such morbid thoughts while watching them smile at the smartphones handed to a non-classmate photographer, the photos to be shared in Facebook and Instagram perhaps after some generous photo editing. Welcome to the Age of Transitions! Another journey ended, another chapter closed, another beginning to be started. I sat there motionless as Rick’s friends took turns talking about memories of their common past. But my mind was somewhere else, listening to a voice telling me that there’s no past nor future to think about, only the present.
News of death dissolves in and out of my mind as losing friends and acquaintances at the fringes of advancing age happens with unsettling frequency. As I sat there watching the various life-forms in front of Rick’s casket at the far end, the movie in my mind began to whirl. For the last few years, it would play sporadically, making my adult children worry about those blank stares and alarming moments of ‘not being present’ at the dinner table. The movie plays vividly in vignettes when news of death of someone I know reaches me – unexpectedly without warning of a prior illness, as a welcome relief to pain and suffering, or at the end of a long and well-lived life. It pulls me out of my body and puts me in a trance.
The movie that spins in my head is quite simple: it is a chase after something visible but inaccessible. And it has the necessary conflicts and complexities to make that chase a time-bound challenge. I produce the movie, write the script, direct and act in it. I also do the musical score, which varies depending on how the conflicts are resolved, or when the screenplay becomes more complex as more characters make their appearances. It is actually a movie in search of a happy ending, which is increasingly tough to frame as time goes by.
What is a happy ending? Is it the same as dying happy?
We are born, we go through infancy, adolescence and adulthood, we make something of ourselves, earn a living, build a family, earn respect and recognition, grow old, get sick and then die. We all want to reach old age. Or perhaps not all of us. There are humans that are perennially on the verge of being born, unable to savor life on their own, and there are those who reach old age without leaving adolescence. People die – some at a very young age, others at the peak of their careers, others when they’re shrunken and disconnected. Some die suddenly; others have to suffer through pain and despondency; some are better off dead than being in a perpetual state of dying, draining the life out of those who take care of them. At the metaphysical level, miserable people die before their deaths; the great ones linger on longer after they die. Hopefully later than sooner, our turn will come. Some of us actually learn to look forward to it.
Our friends and loved ones will mourn us, a temporary distraction that may last a few days to a few weeks, and then life moves on. It is healthy to accept that we will be forgotten. Fool ourselves not that we will be remembered, unless of course we reincarnate as a virus that latches on to and mutates in the DNA of people whose lives we’ve touch during our lifetime. Our individual identities may disappear, but our narratives will surface in their movies, digitally embedded in Netflix 5.0 of the future generation, when knowledge, information, and even entertainment are experienced through quantum physics. (I am in awe that my search for meaning creatively transcends the limits of mortality while in a trance at a dead friend’s wake!)
On closer look, my movie seeks redemption; it subscribes to truth, fairness, and justice coming together in a quest for serenity. I know I can end the movie now and I must, but the conflicts are not easy to resolve, nor the complexities, to untangle; sometimes, it is as if the movie acquires a life of its own, allowing the conflicts that remain unresolved to run their own course, no longer controlled by the scriptwriter, the director, or the producer! So sitting there at the wake of yet another friend, I asked myself: What if death comes before I can have that happy ending?
Am I good-to-go? Now?
This obsession with time, specifically the lack of it, continues to preoccupy me long after I celebrated my 60th birthday 7 years ago, the age that I had decided to be the time to let go, to let things be, to be free! I declared to myself and to friends that turning 60 had to mean something more profound than legitimizing the indulgences and follies of senior citizenship. The start of my 7th decade was to be the time to reconnect with, and give back to, the bigger world outside – beyond work and the perks it provides, deep into the substance of things where meaning hides. The years of career growth, building a name for myself, learning great things from amazing people, gaining wonderful friends, acquiring and using influence, building my estate, bringing up my children well, enjoying positions of respect and leadership are all that I am now. Well, probably not all. My children’s education – their upbringing, intelligence, and maturity – already assure them of a good start in life; my wife has a respectable career and can take care of herself; my siblings have families and lives of their own. Material wealth has neither been a deprivation nor a desire; the drive to join the rat race ended years ago when I realized that there was more joy pursuing simpler things than to satisfy other people’s standards.
Now I am about to turn 67 and I am still here, lucky in so many ways that success can be defined, so how can I even fret about this! And yet in the many moments when I’m by myself, everything becomes even clearer: I ache for that simple life! A life unencumbered by the demands of tradition, rituals, work, and exacting relationships; a life with and for the senses, of fascination and wonder, elegance of language and behavior, creativity and new ideas, music and laughter, warmth and compassion, timelessness and connectedness. I know that I can do a lot of other things for many more people; spend money on things that matter, and perhaps make a bigger difference in another (uncharted) territory. But I also need to stop worrying about things that I have no control over, non-deliverables that I should stop feeling guilty about, mediocrity of people who are best forgotten. It has been 7 years since I acquired senior citizenship, but the resolve that I had then to get myself out of self-created traps has not been met. Dreary moving pictures in my mind continue to haunt me, depriving me of the joy of being untangled, free, and being in the present.
How do I put my mind to rest?
Sequences of disengagement from a comfortable but complex life fade-in and fade-out, interposed with images of being disconnected and disenfranchised. I am at the center, lost in thought, floating above fear and hesitancy, determined to simplify, and at some point decidedly rewired for a whole new world outside a safe, predictable, but otherwise boring life. The movie is already running too long, with chases going in various directions. Incoherence is setting in, there now is a need to edit. I must zero in on that one chase that creates meaning, wing it, and then have enough time to experience it for real. (As it turns out, I am the movie editor as well!)
Editing one’s life in the 7th decade provides a pleasurable rush. Depending on one’s level of tolerance to unfinished business, it can also be one big panic attack. There are movies that fade gently with the music, there are some that end abruptly with a jolt. There are no set standards in how a movie should be written, edited, directed, scored and acted in; so many elements are beyond our control even if we are the movie producer. We have responsibilities and commitments; they stay with us for as long as we care. Even when we don’t. Sometimes they enslave us. Letting go is never easy, but it is the best way – the only way, perhaps – to acquire, hold on to, and benefit from that one element that is essential to one’s search for meaning: The present time.
How my movie ends, if it ends, only time can tell. The moving pictures in my aging mind can be reformatted into a Netflix series or shelved for irrelevance.
It was getting dark; I left the wake quietly, after looking at Rick for one last time. He is gone forever, but to Stella, his siblings, and to us, his friends and colleagues, he is going to stay a while longer. He was a good man, a very decent human being who loved and laughed a lot. Whatever movie he had in his mind during his lifetime ended well long before he died, when he decided to cut down on his surgical practice, finally marry Stella at 55, move out from their condo in Pasig to a smaller house in the suburbs where he would cook special dinners for both of them, and they had all the space to walk and play with their dogs. Unresolved conflicts, if there were any, were just but embellishments that didn’t diminish an otherwise solid life.
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