Books

Human Condition

By

Hard not to wake at least somewhat cheerful


when you can listen to Angela Hewitt playing Couperin


in the morning and the dogwood's blooming


and you have a lover--not a perfect one,


mind you, but it's hardly a world meant


for perfection anyway--and, yes, back pain


of course, high cholesterol, very little socked away


for retirement, but so what? Aphrodisia will


always find its little nooks and crannies, flesh


grows timid and begins to sag with gravity's


insistence, and there are creams, now, for


everything and, for the truly vain, surgery.


For others, like the beautiful actress killed


just this week in a freak skiing accident, there's


simply a haphazard life expectancy, not something


we will know about definitively until it happens,


and then, wherever it finds us, must celebrate


as well. From the missionary position, all


may be sweetness and light for awhile, but


then, all such nonsense aside, the conviviality


of the everyday eventually triumphs, no matter


what happens to AIG and Lehman. Birds


are all asong in the fir outside, a mass of


foreclosures puckers forth from all sides.


Brethren of the mid-range, be with me tonight--


dreams will come again, the good and the bad


of them, and the short sale of the afterlife


will surely garner less than the balance owed,


but leave us free and clear to progress with


the future. Grief, whenever it touches us,


should do so lightly, as should joy. Look


out the window: trees and sky, birdsong and


the wild graffiti of the everyday, just this life


and the next one--all out there for the asking,


much like the garbage, waiting to be taken away.

By Michael Blumenthal

Loading Related Articles...

More articles tagged as

Article Tools
SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS

You must be a subscriber to post comments. Subscribe today.