Redtree Times

The Wisdom Beyond Words– At West End Gallery

I guess I’m just
Somebody who
Has given up
On the me and you
I’m not alone
I’ve met a few
Traveling light like
We used to do

–Leonard Cohen, Traveling Light (2016)

Came into the studio early this morning, as usual. Did my usual chores with Momapotamus and the Boys, my family of studio cats. A bit dicier this morning since Mom underwent massive dental surgery yesterday and is still pretty woozy from the sedation from the operation and the opiates she was given afterwards. She seems to be recovering a bit from it already though my own anxiety from the whole affair might take longer to pass. I always feel like I am somehow betraying their trust when I subject them to such treatments, even when they are badly needed.

We’ll both get over it, I ‘m sure.

After tending to the gang, I flipped on some music and Leonard Cohen immediately came up, a song from his last album in 2016, the year that he died. I found it hard to believe that it has been almost ten years since he died.

It certainly has not felt like a decade. Well, in some ways. In others, it has felt like a century, one where the days are a weeklong, an hour is a day, and a minute is an hour. When you’re waiting for something to end, time is a tormentor.

But for most things, the relativity of events in time seems to compress greatly as I age. Things that I thought occurred just days ago took place two years ago. And some things that I thought took place several years ago happened just a couple of months back.

As I said, time seems to be compressing, like it is confined in a box that continues to shrink. You can’t help but notice the finiteness of time as the walls creep inward.

This whole compression thing is made even maddening by the fact that the days of youth still feel fresh and not that long ago in your mind.

And that youth experienced time in such a different way. It felt infinite, expanding in all directions. There was so much space between time then that waiting for anything seemed interminable. The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas then felt like they were obligated to wear concrete shoes, so slow was their passing.

Now, Christmas comes and I find myself asking how this is even possible and if we even have a Thanksgiving this year. Wasn’t Memorial Day just two weeks ago?

I don’t know that I will ever get used to this time compression. I’m sure it is a common thing that comes with aging. Or dementia. Of the two, I’m hoping that is just aging.

I was going to talk a bit about the painting shown here, The Wisdom Beyond Words. Actually, this whole series from this past year. With this time compression that I mentioned and the health horror show of the past year, it feels like the actual painting of it took place years ago. The work itself feels now and in the moment. It’s a weird dichotomy, having work that feels both distant and near in time. Especially for work that felt then and now as being work from my core.

Being such, this work didn’t get the reception I felt it deserved. Though that may have been that way for a number of reasons, I think it might have been, more than anything, because it was out of its place in time. I think time will come around to it eventually and it will fall in place.

Time will tell. Maybe in my time. Maybe beyond. Maybe never.

For me, sitting here in my disjointed and compressed timeline, it is in its place now.

And that is good with me.

Here’s that Leonard Cohen song I mentioned above. It’s Traveling Light. This video begins with Cohen talking about his aging and ailing self. Though I am not nearly at the same location on my timeline, I chuckled knowingly at his words.

Not get out of here. I don’t have time to waste this morning.