Colonie Art League (CAL) in upstate New York consisted mainly of people who were in their sixties, and above. While a few had been career-artists since their adult life, a few others had taken up painting/sketching as a parallel pursuit for decades. There were also some, who, having engaged in it as a post-retirement activity, firmly battled on, armed with, "it's never too late to learn", kind of attitude. The League, however, univocally welcomed one and all: the beginners, professionals and amateurs.
I remember the buzz of excitement when Martha, one of the CAL members, brought in a thick manual on retirement homes to our weekly get-together. Pages after pages were devoted to detailed reports, providing crucial information, such as monthly rent, facilities provided, and minimum waiting period. The write ups were accompanied by attractive coloured photographs of the premises and its surrounding. The buzz gave way to a lot of oohs and aahs, jotting down of notes, forwarding of emails, etc...etc...
The pro-activeness of the capitalist model, has succeeded in endowing its followers with a mindset which accepts the assembly line regularity of life and plans accordingly. While this is commendable, it also reflects the quasi macabre edge of such a disposition, brought about by a sense of unrealistic and repetitious certainty, defying the very principles of Life.
Most of these over-priced complexes prey on an individual's combined package of pension and social security, and try hard to make hay while the sun shines. However, not all Americans are blessed with a financial security which would allow them an entry into one of these retirement havens, mentioned in the manual. So, naturally, they have to seek other, cheaper alternatives.
The apartment building, where I spent a few years of my life, happened to be one such option. It was not only centrally located, but also enjoyed the proximity to the bus-line. The biggest and the most coveted mall of the area, was just a stone throw away, and so was the supermarket. Last, but not the least, even Trader Joe's, the only one for hundreds of miles, was at a walking distance. So, for those silver streakers, who could not afford to live in poche and expensive complexes, this one was the next best possible choice. Besides housing a gym, a boule court, a park, and a swimming pool, it also offered yoga classes and special courses on aqua aerobics. Even 'meals on wheels' were supplied on request. When the German grocery chain Aldi opened a store in the vicinity, it was prompt to provide an online service, through which groceries could be delivered to your doorstep.
Yet, despite all the conveniences available to the seniors of the community, one could sense their longing for companionship, as they lounged in the common seating area, waiting for a little 'hello' from no one in particular, an escaped smile, an inadvertent lingering of the co-inhabitants. Always eager to indulge in a conversation, be it about the weather, or about the ongoing sale at Macy's, or about the greatness of America, they spent hours in the lobby, staring at the framed floral paintings, set against the pink walls.
On summer afternoons, they could be seen by the window of their tidy apartments, vacant eyes, waiting... For whom? Unfortunately, some of them had themselves forgotten the answer to that question. But, not our eighty-year-old neighbour Lenny. Every Saturday, he would get ready in his finest suit and, with a child's enthusiasm, look forward to his son drive him to Schenectady plane museum. The son never came.
The following two free verses are dedicated to the Lennys of the world, and are an attempt at capturing the lives of the aging population, caught between two universes.
1.
My words
1.
My words
search for their own meaning
as they come tumbling down
and slide into the receiver.
There is so little
to be really said,
Yet a need to emerge from
the diurnal silence
of these four walls,
to make a connection
with someone
as they come tumbling down
and slide into the receiver.
There is so little
to be really said,
Yet a need to emerge from
the diurnal silence
of these four walls,
to make a connection
with someone
on the other side
of the window...
before the incessant chirping
of the birds
of the window...
before the incessant chirping
of the birds
begins to make sense.
2.
Where I live
There are narrow corridors
Running endlessly,
With little red doors
On either side,
Behind which lonely people sit
On huge couches
And watch television
at full volume.
There are narrow corridors
Running endlessly,
With little red doors
On either side,
Behind which lonely people sit
On huge couches
And watch television
at full volume.
Where I live
There are lamps
Severed in half
Affixed to the wall,
Looking stuck like
There are lamps
Severed in half
Affixed to the wall,
Looking stuck like
the old men and women
Who live behind these closed doors
Hoping that someone will call
That someone would take them
grocery shopping.
Who live behind these closed doors
Hoping that someone will call
That someone would take them
grocery shopping.
Where I live
You can hear the highway groan
As the cars zoom by
And you can see fragments of sky,
Clouds, trees and an occasional
Flock of birds
Enliven the shiny vitreous surfaces
of closed windows.
You can hear the highway groan
As the cars zoom by
And you can see fragments of sky,
Clouds, trees and an occasional
Flock of birds
Enliven the shiny vitreous surfaces
of closed windows.
Where I live
There is the eerie echo
Of unspoken silence
And wasted words
And vast spaces of isolation,
Sqeezed twixt
narrow hallways.
There is the eerie echo
Of unspoken silence
And wasted words
And vast spaces of isolation,
Sqeezed twixt
narrow hallways.
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