This post may go off in a rather unintended direction. Hold on tight. It also made me somewhat uncomfortable in its self-indulgence, but maybe it was what I needed to write tonight. Recently, I started rewatching The Good Place, created by Michael Schur. It’s my kitchen show. I have a computer in the kitchen that I’ll put on while I’m cooking or cleaning. For the record, I love the show. I think it is wonderfully written, and the ensemble works well together. Sometimes, I even dawdle in the kitchen to see a bit more of it. I highly recommend it to everyone. It really should be required viewing before starting life. I really want to write something more about that show, but this is not the night for that.
Tonight, I noticed that Schur had produced another show called A Man on the Inside with many of the same actors from The Good Place. Now, Schur was already well known for The Office and Parks and Rec., but I particularly liked the comedic timing of The Good Place, so I sat down to watch an episode.
The show stars Ted Danson as a retired widower. I won’t give away any spoilers, mostly because I haven’t seen enough to know any, but also just because. I will say that Danson’s character is that of a retired professor. Although I’m not retired nor a widower, the character resonated with me. Though I still work, I am a professor and live alone like the character. My routine is not nearly as clean and precise as his, but tonight, as I prepared several containers of filtered water, I saw the character in myself.
One of the songs in the show was “For a Dancer” by Jackson Browne. A sample of the lyrics goes like this:
I don’t remember losing track of you
You were always dancing in and out of view
I must’ve thought you’d always be around
Again, I’m not a widower, but I thought about all of the life partners or potential life partners who I thought would “always be around” but who I lost track of. The loss isn’t quite the same, but the result is. I am an old professor living alone with my routines. On one level, I am resigned to this life. I’m pretty sure I’m going the last mile alone. However, I am not resigned to not making a difference in this world, nor am I resigning myself to death. Double negatives be damned, I will not go quietly.
I think I’ve been on this path for decades without knowing it. I am hurtling toward something I control in a way that many artists do. I write stories, blogs, novels, songs, plays, and, yes, even academic articles and books. I have been in plays, made a little movie, performed my music in front of live audiences, and recorded those performances to put on the internet and computer hard drives. I have even been a photographer whose photos have appeared in newspapers, and I’ve been a painter. I do all these things, in part, to avoid death.
On some level, I have already achieved immortality. I have books and articles in the libraries, and some of my words have been quoted by others in their books and articles, which may very well be in other libraries and bookshelves around the world. My plays have been produced in two or three countries, and my novels and stories have been purchased by people around the world.
Right now, I am furiously working on my music. I have recorded a few songs, and I’m waiting for them to be mixed and mastered so I can share them with the world as well.
I have lived a spectacular life. Sometimes, when I’m down, I feel like I’ve wasted my life, but when I really think of it, damn, it has been a remarkable life, and I want to share that life one way or another. One of my new favorite Buddhist teachers, Matthew Brensilver, ends most of his dharma talks with the line, “Take what is useful, leave the rest behind.” I have seen a good deal of the world and met some of the most fascinating people. I’ve done most of what a human can do in a single lifetime. I have lived, loved, lost, and lived again. I’ve cheated death and seen sacrifice that kept me alive. I’m going to share that with you. If there is anything there of use, take it; leave the rest behind.
Henry James Morello 