Eaton Hamilton

the problem with being trans is cis people. The problem with being queer is straight people. The problem with being disabled is abled people. The problem with being Black is white people. In other words, prejudice.

Tag: aging

September is too busy

C’est moi, today, Sept 26 2022

The hair turns grey. The face gets wrinkled. But I can say with some assurance that it’s better than the alternative, lol. I love getting older. (It’s not my birthday, actually. That’s past. But I’m 68, and concussed. I’d rather *not* be Hilary Mantel, thanks, dead at 70 [with thanks to her for her literary output]). I really love life now and celebrate something about it every day, and usually many more things than just one. The dazzle of the stars tonight around here. The dog peeing just because she got a treat. The five minute break in the yard swing. Overall, I just like the me of me so much better than ever before, with all the judgemental ninnies crowding my space gone, and how I move through the world (largely an abstract idea, since I’m so disabled and my car died [of course it did, because everything around here is breaking: two weed eaters, the fireplace, the dishwasher, the satellite, summer]). I don’t know why aging has such a bad rep. Oh yeah, the extreme poverty of it. The lessening of already-dodgy status. Oh yeah, and the death of it. The finality of not being able to live backwards. (What a gift that would be, keeping all we’ve learned intact. We’d be very with it infants!)

My life now (except for poverty and the continuing burdens of bad health)? Chef’s kiss. Oh yeah.

Have possible weeks, folks, and I’ll try to too. Admire you all for getting through this life, when I know Canada in particular is thrusting the opposite at you every damned day. Cheers!

Diane Seuss: I Don’t Want to Die

photo: Jane Eaton Hamilton

Best essay on aging in the lit game I’ve read in forever. Highly recommend.

I Don’t Want to Die

“Back when I was wise I had a whole diatribe to lay out about writing toward an ending. It had crocuses in it, and snowdrops. Being from rural Michigan I know the names of flowers. My diatribe was also a bit bitchy about the state of contemporary American poetry. The marketing angle. The crowdsourcing. The hairdos and eyebrows. The celebrity. The social media posts by young poets saying, “Fuck Keats. Fuck Shakespeare.” One more round of make it new. How tedious that essay would have been. How mean-spirited. Witchy. Not a cool, green, voluminous witch, but a dried-up hag of a witch who doesn’t want to be replaced. Who fears a mass grave. Not just filled with bodies but with poems judged passé by the young. This is no country for old (wo)men (Yeats, me).”

 

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