At age fifteen, I ran from one apartment house to another dodging superintendents while distributing leaflets against the Taft-Hartley Bill and campaigning for the Progressive Party in the 1948 election. A year later I stood tall at the Paul Robeson concert in Peekskill, N.Y.
In the 60's I was out there in front of defense plants in silent vigils or at demonstrations protesting the Vietnam war and the draft. Before that the issue was fair housing.
These days, I just talk the talk.
For over fifty years as a pharmacist, I was on my feet all day, sometimes eating lunch on the run. I rarely sat down, performing miracle healings eight hours a day. (Hold down the applause).
The problem with being 92 is that my architecture and entrails are also 92, beyond their shelf-life and out of warranty. Back at my 88th birthday I felt like I was 60 years into my 20s, racing around as caregiver for Peggy. Then, halfway to 89, just after Peggy died my ambulation hit the wall. People don't stroll much in L.A. anyway. One might get arrested for vagrancy.
Up until about a
year ago, I walked about ten blocks every day. Janice, my daughter dear, saw to it. She didn’t
take any of my guff. I didn’t know I had any guff. In fact, I don’t even know
what guff is except that I had it now and then, in resistance.
When I say ten
blocks, I mean five blocks and back and with my walker. In effect, I was
rolling; I could barely keep up with myself when the incline was downhill. I
might even have passed Sisyphus.
We took the same
route every day, so I became acquainted with the sidewalk. It is a
topographical adventure negotiating the reptilian roots and fissures. Levels
change every few steps as if I am walking on the roof of an underground
civilization bulging here and caving in there.
My next move was to
a park where the path was level. It is a passing parade with kids climbing
trees, elbow by elbow. There goes a frisbee into the mouth of an Irish setter. I
greet joggers and dog-walkers but pass unnoticed to most whose world is in
their mobile phone. I'm also passed by women of color pushing strollers with
white skin babies. Ball games and picnics are my distractions along with
deep whiffs of pine needles and freshly mowed grass.
That was then.
Nowadays my arthritic ankle and knee along with some autoimmune disorder and
balance issues makes walking more challenging.
At this point I
pause, leave my keyboard and head for my favorite park to test myself. I walk
the equivalent of about three blocks keeping pace with the snails. I can hear
my several joints screaming as I put weight on them. It is bone on bone without
any cushion from cartilage. I can still make some poetic leaps and jump to conclusions but, I suppose, that doesn't count.
Metaphorically, walking the walk stands in opposition to talking the talk. Action vs. lip-service. However, when I’m not grimacing, the two are complementary and each can be transformational. My imagination gets ignited as I mosey along. Poems get born. Walking can be an interrogation into shuttered regions. Any day now I may come up with the meaning of life. Until then I’ll keep meandering through the thickets and dunes of my inscape.
