John Simmons: Man With A Pistol, Chicago (1965)

My Aches and Pains
Aging turns out to work differently than I'd imagined. I thought wisdom might visit, but so far, it hasn't. I see my contemporaries generally acting more foolish, which doesn't come as much of a surprise. Disease has ravaged many, and this wasn't unexpected, except I expected some justice to be represented in those it chose. It hasn't. It might be an illusion, but the innocent seem more vulnerable than any reasonable supreme being would have deigned. The cost of aging gets exacted in aches and pains, which ultimately seem inescapable. The meaning of those gets transposed into indicators of well-being. In our youth, well-being was gauged by the absence of aches and pains. Now, I can tell I'm well by their presence. They seem to be there not so much as an alarm or caution, but to reassure me. When my hands ache, they remind me of what I accomplished the day before. I dare not waste my precious remaining time chasing cures for these indicators, for what was once evidence of illness has become the very soul of my wellness. I have become my aches and pains.

——

Weekly Writing Summary

This CHope Story, Intrepid, finds me remembering my family's history through a warped and imperfect lens, like everybody's.

Henry Hitchings: Oregon--Beyond the South Pass (c. 1860)

Dedicated to the memory of The Intrepid Pioneers Who came with the First Wagon Train In 1843 over the Old Oregon Trail And Saved the "Oregon County" To the United States. Erected by Old Oregon Trail Ass'n. July 4, 1923 Dedicated by Warren G. Harding, President of the United States, July 3, 1923
" … we have an uninterrupted history of falling somewhat short of our lofty ideals."
— —

This CHope Story, Pop-Up, finds me coping and hoping in a crude tent of my own conception and construction, feeling self-sufficient while the rest of the world seems to be heading toward Hell. I wish it well.

Attributed to Richard Parkes Bonington: Small Figures and Tent (1823)
" … while the rest of the world gets distracted going to Hell."
— —
This CHope Story finds me forgetting what I'd apparently previously learned. This must be what's referred to as LifelongLearning.

Jack Gould: Untitled (boys and girls learning ballroom dancing) (c. 1950)
" … Lifelong Rediscovery of what I'd apparently already learned before."
——
This CHope Story, BillionHerecy, reassures me by poking at perhaps our most popular misconception. The correlation between intelligence and wealth appears to be non-existent.

Jean Louis Forain: In the Wings (1899) ABOUT THIS ARTWORK: In this backstage view of a Parisian opera house, ballerinas field advances from elegantly dressed male patrons, who approach them in pairs. The stoic dancer in the foreground, chin up and eyes downcast, absorbs the penetrating gaze of one large man while another looms just behind her, so close that his black top hat overlaps with her orange headdress. In 19th-century Paris, male abonnés (season ticket holders) had special access to a back room where they could socialize while watching the ballerinas warm up. Many took advantage of this privilege to sexually exploit the young dancers, who were well aware that their careers depended upon the good favor of this donor class.
"If you're so smart, why aren't you rich?"
——
This CHope Story finds me wandering around in a place I once rightfully called mine. It now belongs to others, only some of them seem deserving. I dutifully chase my EncroachingIrrelevance, understanding that this must be my rightful legacy.

Unknown Artist: Picture (17th century)
"Such always was the way with this world."
——
This CHope Story encapsulates the essence of what I've been trying to create since I started this series back on the Vernal Equinox. Something sustains sanity through extraordinary times. I suspect that something amounts to SmallExtraordinaries.

Francis Seymour Haden: Kensington Gardens, No. I (small plate) (1859)
" … bound as well as determined to drag itself through Hell again."
——
This was a properly curious writing week. I began by looking backward, which has always been one of the better ways to peer forward. I swear that my forebears knew what we would be wrestling against today. Ancestors might always have been Intrepid, as we might unknowingly be today. I created a Pop-Up tent that reminded me of the tents I created in my youth, supposedly preparing myself for what I would face as an adult, should I ever grow up. I admitted to having become a LifeLongLearner, even though I don't especially like to learn. I poked at our Billionaire class, declaiming heresy in the interest of our shared humanity. I concluded this typically curious exposition by admitting to an EncroachingIrrelevance, though I found some tiny salvation in SmallExtraordinaries.

I don’t need to explain why I had no idea a week ago that this would be the story I declaimed in this WeeklyWritingWeek summary. Has it not been like this every blessed week since I started this and every other series before this one? This one's number thirty-two. I'm wondering if I should create number thirty-three. The final few weeks of each of my series have involved similar self-doubt, wondering whether I should create more. Now, it's more than just a habit of making new installments each morning. It seems such an embedded part of my identity that I do not dare NOT continue. There will be no extraordinary leverage, I suspect, from ceasing. The only leverage I can see comes from continuing. I guess that you, dear reader, already know what I'll do come the Summer Solstice. Thank you for following along!

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #CHope , #PureSchmaltz