Getting Old Sucks

It has been an exhausting couple of weeks, returning to work in my now dark den of an office with the natural light extinguished, helping Imogen adjust to middle school, and keeping James on track with his out-patient therapy. I am the last to go to bed in the evenings. 

The other night, the apartment was cool and dark--both Imogen and James were sleeping under blankets while I took a quick hot shower before bed.  I felt my way into our bedroom with the light off, looking for underwear in the vague space of my closet, when James asked in a very clear voice, "What are you doing?" 

It startled and then, scared me. James sounded as if he was sitting up, wide awake in bed. I had put him to bed at least two hours earlier. I told him, "I thought you were asleep" but he did not respond. Instead, he said, "I am playing a game," speaking to me as if we had been sitting in a lighted room for some time, having a conversation.  I immediately recognized from the character of his voice that he was, in fact, asleep.  James has a history of sleep walking. 

When we were younger, James would open his eyes hours after dropping off into a sound sleep, seemingly awake, but actually, he would be in the middle of a dream state. He would appear fully conscious and hold his body in a natural way.  It was a disturbing version of James, though--he is not awake and his personality is slightly altered. While sleep walking, he has a tendency to be emphatic in his speech, direct with his emotions, and demonstrates very little patience for my attempts to figure out what the hell he's doing at 3:00 a.m. trying to hang art on the wall with his invisible hammer.  I once woke to him pulling my arms and yelling at me to hold on--apparently, I was being sucked down into a whirlpool.

If I am awakened and realize that he is sleepwalking, I calmly say, "Jim, lie down and go to sleep."  He will move, zombie-like, and return to bed, returning instantly to regular sleep with his eyes shut.

I was curious to see how his post-operative brain would function in this altered state.  What an opportunity!  I asked James, keeping my voice even and calm, "What sort of game are you playing?"  He explained, "I am playing a role."  "What kind of role."  He was quiet for a moment and then said, "I am playing the role of a Christian Man."  I tried not to laugh.  I asked, "What does a Christian Man do?"  James quickly responded, "He marries a woman."  I was feeling slightly creepy about our conversation--I could not see him. My eyes had not adjusted to the lack of light in the room. I told him, "Go to sleep, you are dreaming" and I heard him slide back down into bed. He was breathing evenly in seconds. When I regaled him about our dialogue the next day, he had no memory of it at all.

James has curious notions about things lately. He was convinced last week during the heat wave that I was a sadist.  I had turned on the water to give him a shower and he said, "Do not spray me with ice-cold water."  He looked seriously frightened.  I laughed, "What the hell, Jim, why would I do that?"  He said, "Because you think it's unreasonable to take a warm shower on such a hot day and you want to teach me a lesson."  Normally, I would think this was a form of his perverse humor and of course, we ended up making a joke of it, but it started from a legitimate belief that I wanted to punish him and would relish in the suffering thus inflicted. 

There is a truth in the expression of his fears--although it is opaque. What is it that he believes must be  communicated to me, exactly. I find it slightly ironic that he has conjured this persona of me as a sadist after all the love and care I have given him for the past six months. 

Funny guy.

We have been watching film biographies of artists. It is very satisfying.  We watched a documentary about Joseph Beuys that was inspiring and then, rather heartbreaking.  Beuys was one of the founders of the Green Party in Germany--he really believed in it--and in the end, they dismissed him--to go and play in the corner with his fat.  That line kills me.  If Beuys only did the 7000 oaks piece--that would be enough--and he did so much more.  I have been thinking about him this past week, walking with his shaman fur-lined coat, students surrounding him.  I want to keep that image of him in my mind--not the photographs of him with the crushed expression on his face. I want to think of him as sculpture.

Leon Golub had a show that included the lion painting at Ronald Feldman, years ago, while he was still living and our apartment was a few blocks away from the gallery.  I recall laughing out loud when I saw it--it was the opening and he was in the room.  It became a favorite for me, along with James Ensor's drawing, "Self Portrait in 1960." 

I thought both works summed up old age in a succinct way. I think we should approach death with slightly more humor.  I have been contemplating my mortality these days. 

I better get in more sessions of spraying James with ice-cold water before I lose the opportunity to live up to my potential as a sadist.  He might just become a true christian, find another woman to marry, and win his game.