As of yet-Untitled

Light,
Early and late
Combs out the trees.

Something, not fate,
Turns the keys,
And your state

Finds its freedom.
Now, to relate,
Creates.

(The metaphor 

Of metaphor's 

just bait.)

A little more
Uncomplicate,
Then wait.

Preserve what
Believes last,
And tell plain.

The Truth's
In the Space,
Not the frame.

From the Haunts of my Yout

The end of a street on the point where we live

 My parents are getting older. Going home to see them has taken on a deep poignancy I had not expected.

 At their age, the property is a bit much for them, but they love being there.

Before turning into the driveway

This backstop was once covered with white climbing roses. People who came over to play tennis would complain they couldn't see the ball.

It is not easy being 82, even if you look this good at 82.

Mom

My Mom has such light aqua-grey-blue eyes they hardly show up in photos. And while the flesh changes the eyes do not, exact same eyes as when I was young.

And if it's not easy being 82, it is even harder being 99.

Dad

Yet here is my Dad, out back, shucking the corn, and below, resting.

Dad and Mom

How they manage, I don't know. But they do. They both have a a stubborn tenaciousness that amazes me, --and I'm not exactly untenacious.

The home they have created has always been comfortable and unpretensous. It's formed my taste more than I can say.

In the pic below I am taking my own picture against my favorite 60's wallpaper--which just happens to be in the first floor bathroom.

Me

57 is a lot easier that 82 or 99, but this shows me that I still have enough vanity to know I need to do something about my teeth.

My other favorite wallpaper is in the back house, or what has always been called the barn, though why I do not know. When my parents were younger they would rent it out.

I think this is Schumacher. It's huge feathers, quills really, all scribbling away. I love the way Mom even had it put on the ceiling.

The main room has a cathedral ceiling. Most of the furniture and fabrics are in shades of brown and black. There are lost of animal motifs; somehow, am not sure how, the leopard print does not look tacky. My only gripe as a kid was that my shell and sea glass collection ended up in a case behind the game table.


As a kid it was a fun place to hang out in. A bunch of us could be out there and not have to worry about being too loud or wild.

When this all does become too much for my parents, this place, where so much of my consciousness was formed, will go away; just as, with time, my parents will. Funny, sad, and infinitely sweet, how precious the minute particulars of the ephemeral become.

An Unexpected Liberation

I love magazines, have my whole life -- glossy pictures, jazzy text, and all those tips and topics perfectly pitched to the attention impaired. It makes for an easy world to live in, a fun world to relax in.

Still, as an over-50 female, I have noticed that in magazineland (except for "More,") there are hardly any topics addressed to me. I mean, who decided that the two popular topics for woman over 50 are: "Yes, You Still Have That Sex Drive!" and "Do the Work to Reinvent Yourself!"?

Now, my response to the first topic is that if that were true, it wouldn't even be a topic. For instance, do you open the N.Y.T. and see the headline, "New Study Confirms --16 Year Old Boys Have Sex Drive!"?

Is it possible that sex drive articles for the post-menopausal female may not be exactly what these articles purport to be? Ya think?  What is usually stated is that the myth of lowered sex drive can be fought. Fought? If it is a myth, why do I need to make the effort? But the articles skip that point to continue--Yes, any woman of mettle and spirit, with time on her hands and sufficient funds can engage in the good fight. She can keep the terrifying demon of nonsexiness (Boo! Hiss!) at bay. All it takes is a head-spinning combination of creams, medications, meditations and interventions. All it takes is more intention, work and vanity than drives LeBron James. All it takes is the ability to catch reality by the throat and strangle to it falls dead at your feet.

But me, I like reality.

That's right, I like having a lower sex drive. It's O.K.

It is as if I were 13 again, and 13 before that fateful day in the 8th grade restroom. Do you remember 13? I do, I was smart at 13. A bit gawky from having grown 4 inches in the last year, but highly sensible. Those years right before puberty are the years when you are as smart as most adults but lack their crazy ways.

It's when you're the responsible one who corrals your drunk parents through the airport at 2 A.M so that you can get to bed before one of them passes out. It's when you wonder why your older sister is gulping hysterically in the bathroom for what sounds like utterly trivial reasons. It's when you notice that your tits are growing and hope they don't get too big cause then you couldn't use your arms as well to climb trees or throw a ball.

It's a great age. And so is post-50.

So why doesn't anybody write about it?  You're hard-headed as an adult who is not being jerked around by inner forces beyond conscious control. I do not know about you, but I have done some seriously silly things in my time. I have felt the pull of inexplicable temptation towards men that might be described as moronic, hostile and/or vain. And all this cause their hair fell, well, you know, just that right way across that wild profile or their upper lip reminded me of Dad's. And all this even with the perfectly imperfect husband whom other woman envied me for. A muted down sex drive, one that sounds a hushed melody versus immutable cacophony, means something good. It means I can finally get on with my life.

Because less sex drive does not mean less life. I do not know why our society makes that mistake. What I've got now is more appetite for life and love and beauty and happiness. What it means for me is less distraction and more self-trust and self-like. What it means is freedom of choice.

Because it's not as if I have no sex drive. If I concentrate and consciously try, I feel that inner tickle. But I have to will it. It is not spontaneous, leaping up in impossible situations in response to difficult or inappropriate people.

This is something to celebrate. And wonderfully, it means I do not even need to reinvent myself because I am reinvented. My reinvention is just a question of finding out what this reinvention means.

I realize that this is not true of all woman. Each one of us is a different hormonal soup. But just as there are articles celebrating a continuing sex drive, I want to see articles celebrating a lessened sex drive because sex is an aspect of life. It is not life itself.

So here's to life and freedom, to being 12 again but with all the knowledge and wisdom of 45 more years added on. The world out there now looks so fresh, brave and new, and not because it has changed, but because I have.

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2012 Kay Wisniewski