AWAY (or, I just don't see it)

[david]

I got plenty of nothing
And nothing's plenty for me
I got no car - got no mule
I got no misery

Folks with plenty of plenty
They've got a lock on the door
Afraid somebody's gonna rob 'em
While they're out making more - what for?

Hayward/Gershwin/Gershwin, 1935

For most of my life, other people have defined, “away” for me. But now that I'm on my own, I can't seem to figure out where “away” is. Before, it always seemed as if there was exactly one “away” for just about everything; now, “away” is a variable and I can't figure out just where “away” is much of the time.

“Put that away,” my mother used to command. Later in life, my wives were usually a bit more diplomatic, saying “Why don't you put that away?”

When I was a child, most of my stuff ended up on the floor – much of it under my bed. I knew hangars were good for taking shirts off of, but I never learned how to put clothes on them. The same applied to drawers and boxes and just about anywhere my mother considered to be “away.”

I was happy to allow others to decide what the right place was for all of the stuff in my life. And I usually left it up to them to put things away. It wasn't a fair system; but it worked for me while I was a child and while I was married.

But after a decade of late-in-life bachelorhood, I've learned – somewhat painfully – that having problems finding “away” is only one of my deficiencies when it comes to the physical world.

I not only have trouble with “away,” but I'm also not too swift when it comes to “here.” I am almost never aware of where I am in the world. Unless I'm in a familiar place, I don't have a clue as to north, south, east or west. When inside buildings, I become oblivious to my physical surroundings and frequently have to ask for help finding the exit.

Worse yet, I rarely take note of objects that come into view. Sometimes, while waiting for a meeting to begin or if totally bored with the subject at hand, I might glance around and notice things like a stuffed rhinoceros head on the opposite wall. But more often I may spend an hour or more in a room and ten minutes later not be able to describe anything about it.

And I also usually can't put the names and faces together of people I may have met. In fact, I rarely remember names OR faces. I can encounter someone I had a morning meeting with and, when running into them later that same day, not even get a sense that they look familiar.

I just don't notice things.

One of my great fears is that I may be called as a witness in an important trial. Under cross examination, I'd have to admit that I probably wouldn't recognize most of my own relatives if they were in the courtroom let alone the defendant who's charged with murder. Oh, a lawyer would have a field day making me look like a complete airhead.

Asked to identify my favorite color, I'm predictably at a loss. If most of my friends didn't have grey hair, I'd be hard pressed to identify the colors. I usually don't know what color shirt I'm wearing without looking.

I don't recall the color of friends' cars, or their houses; I don't even remember how to get to their homes – I use a GPS device now, but formerly relied on maps and written instructions even for places I'd visited several times before, even if I had been there just a few days before.

I take little note and recall even less about the scenery in plays and movies; I'm oblivious to most artwork and to the aesthetic qualities of most things, including furniture, dinnerware, jewelry, and other physical objects.

While I occasionally wonder whether I'm missing out on much of the beauty and wonder of the world, I've recently begun to embrace my differences. It occurs to me that the emotions and other powerful reactions others may experience as the result of visual stimuli are not necessarily deeper or more meaningful than those I sense as I focus more on ideas and logic.

Not being able to read other folks' minds, I can't measure the degree to which they gain inspiration and meaning from their surroundings. It's impossible to compare their quality of life in that regard to my own. And it's possible, I suppose, that I actually get a stronger effect when I do happen to note and focus on the world of things.

So, don't feel sorry for me. I get as much as I want of what some consider to be the finer things in life; and I'm content to spend most of my time in the metaphysical world.

Tangible items can be interesting and nice to look at, but they're most interesting to me as symbols or concepts. And all of my ideas about things are stored – somewhat mysteriously – together in one small container: my head. I don't have to worry about putting ideas away; but I must admit that I do frequently have trouble finding them when I need them.

Lately, I've become more and more inclined, when it comes to putting physical things away, to lean toward a philanthropic and permanent option. I've concluded that, for me, less really is more; so, whenever possible, I choose these days not to put things away, Nowadays, I'm happier when I can give some of my junk ... away.