Some Perspective About My Past in 1971

 It's Friday morning on what used to be a typical weekday.  55 years ago I would have been showing up in the ninth grade at Nova in Davie as the weather outside was transitioning to a stench of chronic Everglades fire smog.  Lobo's debut hit Me and You and a Dog Named Boo was getting its radio overplay...soon I would tire of hearing it.  I was fourteen and a half, thoroughly tired of having to go to school for  a year. After school I temporarily stood up to a bully leaving the bus one afternoon and go t a little beat down in a fist fight)The esxperience taught me what contemptible ghouls the unwelcome onlookers were who were staring at me in a circle.  The next morning I received some sympathy from busstop classmates for what I went through, and that creep Arnone laid off me, never to be a friend. Later that summer during the early 10th grade I would return to school more serious in my studies.  On prime time sitcom television, some new series like All in the Family and Mary Tyler Moore were starting their runs...my family became good fans.That fall "my" Miami Dolphins, coached by Don Shula, were good enough to make it to the Super Bowl...which they convincingly lost to Dallas. Overall, I was not a happy camper and tended to slip into daydreaming for much of my high school class time.  At home, my father would overdose me with talk of his dog racing betting strategies and philosophies. Still, I appreciated his efforts at weightlifting to the point of getting good at the bench press, pull-up, and standing press (I could lift up my own weight from the ground).   Growing up during this period was a confirmation of me not having an easy life. In my home neighborhood, my neighbors were raucous and out of control, loudly playing music deep into the night.  

Support Groups, Fight Club and Grief

When I was nine, I was going to a brand-new public school: Nova Blanche Forman Elementary School, known then more commonly and simply as Nova Elementary.  Over time I made a few friends out there in Davie, cowboy country in south Florida.  One day a few of us got together and informally established our own fight club, transforming into a sport and ritual an activity usually reserved for bullies and angry kids.  Surprisingly, it lasted longer than you might think, although with my ribs poking through my chest...making me look like a concentration camp survivor...I quickly got tired of the good-natured blows that naturally would come my way.  So I totally got the meaning behind the concept of an adult fight club, presented with such force in that 1999 same-titled movie. My son Will revealed, though, that this movie went down into a rabbit hole of plot twists and deeper meaning, so one evening I began to watch it...from the beginning.  Presented in the first person, the narrator...played by Edward Norton...is suffering from extreme insomnia stemming from his depression about his mundane, boring life.  He hits upon the strategy of participating in support groups to cure his insomnia, even though he usually doesn't have any connection with the groups' themes.  So my exposure to support groups, along with the way they go around in a circle during discussion time with the members spilling their hearts out, began in full earnest with this movie.  Earlier this evening I attended a "grief care" support group presented at a local church...Melissa suggested it.  I'm not sure what I see myself getting from it, but there I am, within this group.  We're committed to anonymity about the people in it as well as the specific stories told. Had I still been working and not retired like I did, I'd have the perfect excuse for avoiding it...I just DON'T LIKE support groups.  Earlier I mentioned that Will was the one who told me about the movie Fight Club: his recent passing is the core reason behind this support group having me "in" it.  Like the protagonist Jake Epping in Stephen King's wonderful novel 11/22/63, I am not a crying man by nature...although the tears are often simmering just under the surface.  I just never thought of life as being endless: it's mortal, with our life spans on Earth bracketed between the year of our birth and that of our deaths.  This mortal physical body that goes by the name William "Bill" "Billy" Irwin belongs to the life span begun in 1956, and the end year has yet to reveal itself.  I am dead to the year 1856, and most likely won't extend to the year 2200 as well (unless Putin's dubious immortality vaccine comes to the rescue).  I'm also dead to wherever my body isn't...I'm looking out the window and my life isn't there: it's here, seated at this keyboard writing this.  The HERE AND NOW, in essence, defines me in a subjective sense and cannot be quantified by physical science in any objective manner. My eventual experience of dying will, of necessity, be conceptually very different from what others experience about my death from their viewpoints.  It's a great quandary, this gulf between subjective awareness and objective observation, and since time marches on without regard to how I feel about anything, I might as well relax and entertain a sense of inner peace about it all, tedious support group or not.  Either I'll survive others or they'll survive me...