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Journal Entry
By Cary Jones
November 22, 2000
Here I am hovering between past, present, and a future I can't even
begin to picture. You apparently live right up till you die, but how to
do that is the challenge. Nancy Boskoff asked me to curate a show for
the Olympics, which is one year away. I heard myself telling her, very
matter-of-fact, that I would hate to have to drop it in the middle, and
I had no idea if I would be here to finish it. Almost as if I were awaiting
a job promotion which would take me to a new city. No emotion, just fact.
"I am so sorry, but I will be tied up just then."
Yet, on the other hand, do I just sit here waiting, not really living?
These past three years have held me suspended. I am a paperweight, fragile
and colorful, but full of a heaviness. I sit on the desk of the busy,
the engaged, the worried, the intent, the self-conscience, the loved.
I sit and watch all go by me. I am not a part of them. I have been a ghost
these years, having a dreadful knowledge. This will not last. This worn-out
yet beautiful life will not last. I miss living in the illusions of "I
am important," "My work matters," "I'll be here to
finish something," " We can do that next year." The really
odd part is knowing about my demise, yet living so long. Nancy Telos,
the chaplain from hospice, told me that I am living so long because I
love Ben so much. It is really the only explanation. Certainly, the medical
guys are all stumped.
So here I sit on a cold, gray November afternoon. My stomach and legs
are swollen from a lymph system gone awry. The world is busy at work.
Can I use this time to tell my story or to tell other's stories? The time
is still a gift to me. I still clearly remember what it is like to work
40 hours a week. Each day rolls up into itself, a few moments of self
are snatched at lunch and maybe after dinner. But by then you are too
tired. It's easier to sit down and read, or escape into the magic world
of movies or TV. No reflection.
I am not a scholar and I haven't spent a lot of time analyzing my life.
I have always enjoyed doing, making. Always more interested in other's
stories without much thought of my own. But now is a good time to look
at it. I want to find out what I'm thinking - I know what I'm feeling.
I've been reading Richard Rodriguez and he writes, "That he knows, like his father, like Mexico, that life will break your heart." I know that now. But I don't think that is all of it. It doesn't take in the many, small graces that, like little old women stitching away at your heart, heal the sorrow if only for a moment.
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