The Gero-Punk Project

I just realized. It’s that time again. Actually, it is well past that time again! But as I always like to sing: Better late than never; no time like the present; sooner rather than later; life is short, act now!

What time is it? It is time for a Gero-Punk public service announcement!

But first, let me say a few words to those of you residing both far away and close by who have recently come around to see what we are up to here at the Gero-Punk Project: Hey there, welcome, and thank you for your curiosity and interest!

In the past couple of weeks we’ve gathered new readers from the Dominican Republic, India, Belarus, Austria, Finland and China!  (As soon as I get my hands on new supply of gold stars, I’ll add you to my map of the world!) Also, a special hello to my one-and-only steadfast reader in France. (See you in a few weeks, Isobel!)

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Perhaps you are feeling a bit confused about what this “gero-punk thing” is. Perhaps you need to know a bit more about what’s what before you’ll feel willing to venture further.

That’s understandable. How about I say more?

The Gero-Punk Project provides a venue for telling and sharing stories about our travels through the life-course. Together we create a space for trying out alternative ways of experiencing and writing about time/space/place, about age and aging, and about the complexities of being human beings, creatures who are aware of the passage of time and how life has its way with us.

We take seriously the idea that we are time-travelers: a particular age, all ages, and no age at all. We give voice to our flummoxing, fascinating, mundane and profound, odd and perhaps transgressive thoughts, feelings, and experiences related to this grand and strange adventure of being and becoming human in and through and outside of time.

We legitimize confusion, uncertainty, and vulnerability, states of no-sense. As well, we harness our inner authority, our sovereignty, our growing expertise about our own inside experiences and our curiosity about the inside experiences of others.

We ask questions such as:

Where does age reside?

What does it feel like to be the embodied creatures we are right now in this present moment? (And what might it feel like to be a differently embodied creature?)

What assumptions are we holding about what a particular age should be like, or look like, and where did these assumptions come from? (And are we served well by these assumptions or do we want to blow them up and create something new?)

How might our confusions, mishaps and missteps as we muddle through this life be sources of learning and wisdom, for ourselves and, by sharing them, for others?

(And for those of us who are formally engaged in the work of gerontology) We ask to what extent do we see our aging experiences reflected in the official Gerontological theory and research? And to what extent are our aging experiences and our capacities to support others with their aging experiences informed by Gerontological theory and research? What are the connections and disconnections? What is missing and what might we add? What new questions might we ask?

As well, we ask: What capacities for self-care and intentional aging do we want to develop so that we can live vibrant and purposeful lives, no matter what challenges we might face as we continue our travels through the life-course?

Also this: What are the ways in which we might be of service to others, to the larger community, and to the world that allow us to enact our deepest longings and commitments, help us grow in all directions as human beings as we continue to ripen?

And perhaps most important of all, we ask: If we had play-dates with our 8-year-old selves, what would we do? If we invited our future older selves over for a glass of wine or a cup of tea, what would we talk about?

Will you play with us?

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Speaking of world-wide gero-punking:

Any of you planning to attend the Generations United Global Intergenerational Conference in Portland, Oregon, June 12-14 2019? I’ll be there presenting and networking.  I’d love to meet you! We can rabble-rouse together.

And a reminder to those of you residing in or around the Portland, Oregon metro area: we have a Gero-Punk Salon coming up soon, on Sunday, June 9th. Here’s more information.

Thanks again. Be well! Stay-tuned.

Often lately I find myself dwelling with one of my most favorite poems: A Note, by Wislawa Szymborska.

As I’m walking with Happy-dog, more slowly than I’d ever imagined it was possible to walk without toppling over (though, in actual fact, Happy often does topple over), I’ll practice the first few lines of the poem:

Life is the only way

to get covered in leaves,

catch your breath on the sand,

rise on wings;

to be a dog,

or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain

from everything it’s not…

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I’ve been wrestling with what comes next in my writing about “old presidents,” which isn’t about old presidents at all, but about the third wish I might ask of my very old, socialist, Muslim fairy god-person the next time I see them.

I can feel it in my mitochondria that there’s much more to explore around the question of whether a person can be “too old” to serve in a particular role, that maybe – probably – that’s not even a very good or helpful question to ask, that there might be better questions to ask that open up more space and help us think more critically about what it even means to say “too old,” or “too” whatever. And we might want to ask why we tend to ask such limiting questions when we could instead be asking other more expansive questions.

I’ve proliferated a bunch of juicy questions.  But the narrative around the juicy questions I’m still trying to surface; it feels unruly and lacking in lucidity. The space in my mind where I’ve been working my way through the complexities of this topic is a little dark box. I keep trying to make the space inside the box larger and brighter, but instead I keep running into and ricocheting off the box’s boundaries, only to find myself cornered or in a dizzy heap.

So, yesterday I decided to send out a little S.O.S. to one of my comrades, who also happens to be quite different from me in many ways, as it is almost always helpful to think together with others especially when I’m in a state of confusion.   In a brief email I told them about the little dark box I am stuck in and asked if they might help me make the box larger and brighter. Maybe could they even bust me out of the box?

They responded to my plea with the news that they are a total mess because their dear dog had died that very day. They promised to get back to me soon.

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The end of the poem reminds me:

…and to keep on not knowing something important.

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This is Happy’s time of the year, spring, when his wanderlust intensifies.

I remember vividly past springtime catastrophes. He’d hurl himself through half-open windows or remove boards from the backyard fence in order to free himself so he could roam the neighborhood.  I’d get a call from my old friend Fred, usually when I’d be on my way to a class or a meeting (or, worse, once when I was on my way to collect my mother from the hospital!): “Awwww, that damn dog of yours is wading down there in the stream! Do you want me to try to get him?”

I could also regale you with tales of Happy’s run-ins with various skunks passing through the neighborhood whom he’d manage to corner in our backyard. The timing was always bad, not that there’s ever a good time to get skunked. Or how about the many squirrels he’d give chase to, forcing them to scramble up the fence, playfully barking and dancing below them?

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Spring is still Happy’s time of year, but now his wanderlust takes him only as far as to the end of the block or out to the back stoop. As Simeon remarked, “When the weather is sunny, he surely likes to lay out there and smell the day.”

Three weeks ago, he could still take a slow amble through part of the park. Now, he doesn’t even have the stamina most days to even enter the park. Traveling the few short blocks to and from the entrance to the park takes a lot of time and energy, but he loves his walks.  He lives for his walks.

He no longer chases squirrels. In fact, he doesn’t even notice when a squirrel walks right in front of him.  I’m hoping he’ll also not notice a skunk, should one traipse through the backyard on a warm spring night.

He sleeps a lot, even more now as he recovers from his most recent health crisis. At first, I didn’t think that anything new or remarkable was happening, I thought he was having another one of his strange transient episodes of wobbliness. But his wobbliness intensified into swaying and whirling. His unfocused eyes spun like tops. He stopped eating. Simeon took him straightaway to the doctor, who diagnosed him with “old dog disease,” a disorder of the vestibular system of unknown etiology.

At least once a day I press my forehead to his forehead.  When I give him his morning pill, I kiss his nose afterwards.

Sometimes, he’ll give my ankle a careful kiss in return.

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Life is the only way

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Greetings to you!  Those of you who are local or close to the Portland, Oregon metropolitan area, please accept this invitation to participate in a Gero-Punk Salon!

When: Sunday, June 9, 1:00 to 3:00 p.m.

Where: Multnomah County Library Sellwood-Moreland Branch. 

What’s up?: I’m offering this gathering as an opportunity to discuss our take-aways from the book at the center of our first collective reading.

But don’t fret: Anyone is welcome at the salon, whether or not you’ve read the book, whether or not you like the book, whether or not you are a cisgender woman.  In the spirit of the Gero-Punk Project, I invite anyone to participate who wants to dive deeply into the many ways in which gender identity shapes our travels through the life-course and our experiences of old age. (My fundamental desire is to generate more questions and a deeper understanding.) All human creatures are welcome.

Questions?: I’d be so grateful to see you and learn with you. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to contact me at: littlecoracle@gmail.com