Songwriter/poets see with a keen eye and write about human foibles and vulnerabilities with a great economy of words. Peggy Lee popularized the plaintive song “Is That All There Is?” about a woman who always expected more from life than she found:
. . . And when I was 12 years old, my father took me to the circus,
The greatest show on earth.
There were clowns and elephants and dancing bears
And a beautiful lady in pink tights flew high above our heads.
And as I sat there watching the marvelous spectacle,
I had the feeling that something was missing.
I don’t know what, but when it was over I said to myself,
‘Is that all there is to a circus?’ . . .
Is that all there is?
Is that all there is?
If that’s all there is, my friends,
Then let’s keep dancing.
Let’s break out the booze
And have a ball
If that’s all there is . . .
She fell in love with a wonderful boy, but then he went away. She thought she’d die, but she said to herself, “Is that all there is to love?” We all know discontented people who find their glass half empty rather than half full.
I’m reading about the talented writer, Truman Capote, and his coterie of women who were married to super-rich men. His “swans” had it all: money, social position, beauty, designer clothes, yachts, lovely homes, fancy vacations, parties . . . Capote’s charm and fame led them to divulge their innermost secrets that he later betrayed. He and they all used their wealth, socializing and alcohol to paper over their secret, hidden feelings of inadequacy and not being loved.
As I say repeatedly because we share the human condition, “I am you, and you are me.” I had some responses to last week’s column about the difficulties of adjusting to the changes that come with aging. One of the pleasures of my elder years has been to be reconnected with John, my dear chum from college days who remains a kindred spirit. He expressed my feeling exactly when he wrote that after a life on the go, he is becoming a recluse and likes it. He said, “Still, I at times wrestle with guilt for not doing more, but I do not have the energy I once had. Every once in a while, I’ll read an article about some seniors doing great things, and I think, ‘Tell someone else.’”
Bill found a recent column rather melancholy. Actually, I no longer want to abide to a schedule of meetings, be in charge or control things. Frankly, like John, I recognize that I just don’t have the energy. Regardless of the inevitable losses that come to all of us during what reader Neil calls “the race with Father Time,” I rejoice in the life that I have. Every day during which I’m alive is a very good day.
It isn’t that I’m discontented with my life, but sometimes I have an itch to do something more, within the framework of my physical limitations. As I have said, my body is a rusted-out old pickup truck, but my mind is a red-hot, high-performance Ferrari.
Writing these columns adds more depth to my existence and enriches my inner being. People say, “Do another book.” No, I don’t want to go through that again. Some say, “Write a novel.” Now, I recognize that I have a nice, minor writing talent as an essayist, but I know that I am not a novelist. I do not aspire to become the Grandma Moses of literature! She lived from 1870 to1971, took up painting at age 78 and became a renowned folk artist.
What to do? What to do to satisfy that little itch? Perhaps I shall write the play that I’ve had in mind for several years . . . Or perhaps not . . . wclarke@comcast.net