Rick's February Tirade
Flesh and Mortality
I write this nugget of inspiration on the eve of my birthday,
plagued as I am with my annual case of laryngitis and congestion of
the sinuses, not to mention the chronic eyestrain that's been my
constant companion for the past 19 years.
My window overlooks what used to be a verdant field of corn and
sunflowers. Now brown as a meat-loaf, the barren midwinter landscape
is undergoing a slow metamorphosis into a housing tract. Three
skeletal homes have already appeared on the scene, oversized and
ostentatious. Corporate housing, I call it. Many more will be rising
this year. The land is being engulfed by suburbia. And wherever that
happens, suburbanites are sure to follow.
On the whole, it is a good day to hibernate.
But I have my column to write, and tomorrow I will attempt to
drag myself to work. There will be no hibernation for this
malfunctioning heap of bones, tissues, internal organs, nerves,
cells, protoplasm, mitochondria, carbon atoms, and other biochemical
flotsam that makes up the unique individual known as Rick Bayan.
When we're well, we tend to think of ourselves as concepts. We're
executives, artists, professionals, cybergeeks. We identify with one
socioeconomic class or another. We're members of a political party,
a church, a generation. We're leaders, followers, or cynics. We like
classical music, or (as the other 98% of the population would have
it) we don't. We're straight, gay, indifferent, or fond of sheep. We
believe in the power of crystals and mantras, or we're incurable
golfers.
Most days find me diligently engaged in the maintenance of my
various self- concepts. Rick Bayan, professional, puts in an
eight-to-ten-hour day writing advertising to help his company gain
market share (and to earn enough money to buy food and toys). Rick
Bayan, author, carries a notebook of ideas for future books that
might finally catapult him to fame or infamy. Rick Bayan, webmaster,
looks in on his site and tries to subdue a flame war. Rick Bayan,
bachelor, attends a party and glances furtively at the ring fingers
of the more attractive women. Rick Bayan, enthusiast of the
classics, reads half a chapter of Thoreau's Walden and nods off.
But illness has a marvelous way of reducing us to our biological
essence. The self-concepts peel away like the layers of an onion.
The tempo of life slows from allegro to adagio. We become aware of
ourselves as mere organisms. And the more astute among us come to a
sobering conclusion: that we're little more than pulsating sacks of
flesh with a tenuous grip on life. It continually amazes me that
similar sacks of flesh have accomplished so much over the centuries.
There were ancient sacks of flesh that invented the wheel and
debated philosophy... medieval sacks of flesh that built cathedrals
and engaged in jousting matches... a sailing sack of flesh that
discovered the New World... a colonial American sack of flesh that
defeated the British and became the familiar face on the dollar
bill... a short French sack of flesh that conquered most of Europe
before meeting its Waterloo... a wild-haired twentieth-century
scientific sack of flesh that changed our perception of the
universe.
Amazing deeds for mere sacks of flesh, you say? I agree. But then
I inevitably add: Every one of those sacks has now disintegrated
into dust. They are defunct. They are former sacks. They are no
longer aware of having been sacks at all. A living dung-beetle today
has more intelligence and wit than the remains of all those glorious
sacks put together.
In practice, this concept of man-as-sack is viable only in the
sick-room. When I return to the daily grind tomorrow, and my boss
expects me to meet half-a-dozen deadlines within two hours, I can't
yell out, "What do you want from me? I'm only a sack of
flesh!" At a meeting filled with self-important pronouncements
from top management, I can't interrupt the proceedings and shout,
"What difference does it make? We're all sacks of flesh, and
we're all going to die!" And yet it's true. We keep pushing
ourselves beyond our biological limits, enduring lethal doses of
stress and boredom day after day, to meet some artificial concept of
who or what we're supposed to be.
I'm an advertising copywriter; therefore I must write advertising
copy. Five days a week. Eight to ten hours a day. Whether or not my
neurotransmitters are transmitting. I say it's too much to expect
from a sack of flesh, especially one that knows its days are
numbered. This sack feels impelled to explore the world, relax on
warm beaches, eat ripe fruit and drink wine, read good books, flirt
with desirable sacks, write an occasional book, and finally settle
down with a loving and sympathetic sack. Then, when I disintegrate
into my native elements, I will at least have enjoyed my brief
fleshly incarnation. I will have been a fulfilled sack.
But most of my fellow-sacks don't seem to mind being pressed
and stressed and pulled and pushed. The ones that will be filling
the new homes currently sprouting outside my window will revel in
their upward mobility, scarcely aware of their sackhood or their
imminent mortality. They still view themselves as concepts:
responsible, productive, forward-looking citizens of the corporate
world. Not for them the dreams of exotic fruits in unexplored lands.
Not for them the rueful regrets about what they might have missed
before they disintegrate.
So here we are, confronted with our own pathetic flimsiness and
transience. Enjoy life while you can. Precisely because it's flimsy
and transient. And if you disagree, I can only answer: What do you
want from me? I'm only a sack of flesh!
