I remember one day close to the end of the Old Man's life. We sat in the coffee shop, mired in smoke and conversation. After a bit, we decided to walk down to the shore. On the way, just outside the shop, at the edge of the boardwalk, he tripped and fell. He wasn't hurt to severely, but the Old Man had taken quite a tumble. It was strange to see him this way--the fall revealed how his body had become fragile, his strength had left him, and now he lay in the sand almost helpless. "You okay?" "Yes, goddamn', let me breathe for a minute." I gave him some room, eventually helped him up and we made our way down to the shore. It was striking how the esoteric, intellectual, slippery Old Man had gone from so intimidating, so transcendent to brittle and weak so quickly.
We sat on the shore for a bit, just listening to the pounding waves. There was a bit of awkwardness between us, something I had never felt before. I knew he could feel what I saw. He could feel that I saw through him to his humanness. He knew he had gone from a demi-god, to a delicate old man in a matter of seconds.
What came next solidified in my mind everything I thought about him. He didn't defend himself. He didn't act proud. No, he did none of that. He didn't talk about how he used to be a strong, robust young man, or how he had fished for days on end, battled large fish, or anything of the sort. No, instead, his words were filled with a vulnerability, an honesty, a humanness--weakness--which made him all the more transcendent to me:
"You know son, to be human--to sit here like this day after day--is to be embarrassed." "What?" I asked eloquently. "You see," he went on, "you can't tell me where you came from. You can't tell me why or how you were thrown into this world. You can't account for you. But, you can ask about you. You can't tell me where you are going. You can't tell me why you should go there. But, you can think about it--project it--anticipate it. You appeared here, but you can' stay here. You exist--before your choice--but someday you won't exist, and that is beyond your choice too. Yes, it seems the most personal things about you are things you don't know about and can't account for. And, even beyond that, you can fall down and it hurts. You are here in body and your body is you. You can't escape it, and even if you did there would be no more you. That body of yours--you--does things you don't want it to. It not only grows, develops and decays. It does more than that. It longs, desirs, tries, wants. It is attracted to others--other bodies--other 'mes'--and can't stop, can't explain, can't resolve. It opens itself to them--is hurt, is vulnerable, is devastated. In turn, it devastates, hurts, and exploits vulnerability. You are embodied and you not only can't escape it, but you wouldn't know what to do if you did."
I shook my head to signal that I was lost.
"You see son, to be human is to deal with this embarrassment every day. It is to walk around knowing you don't know where you came from, why you did, or what to do about it. It is to seek, strive, and aim to find a home for this body--you--in a place that doesn't seem to have one. To be human is to open that body to others looking for home and trying with them. It is visceral. It is embarrassing. It is, at most times, excruciating. But, it is human. I'm old. I'm embarrassed. But sitting here, watching this damn ocean, I don't know how to escape it and if I did, I wouldn't know what to do--because I wouldn't be me."
I loved that Old Man. I decided that right there and then. I'd never tell him. I'd never reveal that to him. I pretended not to understand and not to care. But, at that point, I was glad to listen and glad to try to be human (as if I had a choice).
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