An intelligent sexagenarian

(#193)

Therefore, in the morning, one should draw the curtains, raise the blinds, open the windows, and look at the sky. If the morning drowsiness doesn't allow for deep reflection, at least check if it's going to rain and put on some appropriate clothes to face the day and life.

It's true: I turned 60 and I'm a sexagenarian. People kindly tell me I look great, in good health, and young-looking. I know I don't look decrepit, but I'm not interested in being young, strong, and handsome for the rest of my life. I appreciate the kind words, but in truth, I don't have those ambitions. Someone asked me what it's like to be 60, and others challenged me to talk about it, like a good film buff introducing a movie they're going to see. It's impossible to speak off the cuff; the subject is serious and deserves in-depth reflection.

Perhaps due to the positioning of the planets at the time of my birth, astrologers say, I like to be focused on the future, I hate always thinking about the past, and it irritates me when someone says that things were better in the old days. To paraphrase a well-known humorist, my situation wasn't very good in the old days. Although I had a bed and clean clothes, 60 years ago I was unemployed and wet my diapers. Therefore, my "old days" aren't a great life reference.

The other day something mishap happened to me that made me think about a couple of things. It turned out I got up later than planned, got ready to leave, ate in a hurry, didn't even raise the window blinds, and went out into the street in sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt. When I stepped outside, it was raining and cold. Since I was running late, I went anyway and caught a downpour and a cold that would make COVID jealous.

Nothing like a cold and a downpour to make us think about life. It reminded me of those weekend interviews, hastily conducted with a handful of quick questions posed to public figures. One of the obligatory questions is always "who are the most significant figures in your life?" Faced with such a question, it's fitting to mention names like Churchill, Leonardo Da Vinci, Barack Obama, or King Afonso Henriques.

If I were famous, I wouldn't hesitate to answer that the great figures of reference in my life are not historical figures.

I would say that the greatest inspirations in my life come above all from three entities: Escherichia coli, Chico Xavier, and airplanes.

Escherichia coli is a bacterium that lives in our intestines, measuring 2 microns in length, meaning that in one millimeter we can fit 500 bacteria in a single file. Technically, this bacterium lives in feces, yet it goes about its business, absorbing everything around it, namely the nutrients it needs to build its own body, growing calmly and serenely in the warmth of our future feces. Under good conditions, every 20 minutes, in a gesture of profound humility, Coli, as it is known among its friends, divides in two, in a gesture that has the beautiful name of binary fission. Where there was one bacterium, there are now two, to the point that, after a few hours, a pleasant colony can form, where it is imagined that the Coli caress each other as they grow. Besides being humble, they are generous and produce good doses of vitamin K, very useful to any animal that has them inside it. Because they have a relatively simple genetic code, the Koreans managed to convince these bacteria to produce gasoline by altering their DNA, in a curious biotechnological maneuver. What better example could there be for life?

Then there was Chico. He was a rhesus monkey who lived in a cage in the António Borges Garden in the northern part of the city where I was born. With his black face, small but sharp eyes, and grey fur, visiting Chico was the icing on the cake for anyone visiting the mysterious António Borges Garden. Mysterious because it had winding paths, caves in the stone, a cistern that threatened with the echo of the empty spaces, in addition to lush vegetation brought from all over the world by the aristocrats of São Miguel in the 19th century.

Incidentally, I met 3 or 4 rhesus monkeys, brought from the colonies, or rather, from the overseas provinces, and they were pets of some people in the city. Strangely, they were all called Chico, much to the offense of those whose given name was Francisco.

Chico from the António Borges Garden alternated between a distant gaze, contemplating the infinite and reflecting on the secrets of life's essence, and a deep, meticulous attention to everything around him, absorbing every gesture of the onlookers who, like me, followed his every move. He would peel the peanuts that fell into his hands with his small, agile fingers or anxiously unwrap the candy wrapper, discovering a colorful and sweet treat. It was said that sometimes, upon unwrapping a candy wrapper, he would discover a stone inside. Enraged, he would accurately throw the stone at the joker who had tried to deceive him. Eventually, they found Chico a companion, whom everyone called Chica. It is said that this is where the old joke originated: was the relationship between Chico and Chica one of love or of interest? It must have been love because, apparently, they didn't seem very interested in each other. If that was the case, love bore fruit and a little monkey was eventually born, who, obviously, was named Chiquinho. When there were no peanuts or sweets, it was heartwarming to see the three of them sitting, grooming each other and nibbling on the supposed fleas, as if it were a good snack.

Therefore, these two figures shaped my way of being in life, and it's worth remembering that now that I'm entering the sixty-something club.

First and foremost, we must be extremely attentive to everything around us, just as Chico did. Every gesture, every event, every piece of information is precious so that we don't lose our way.

Secondly, it is necessary to absorb what surrounds us, be it the right nutrients, small and large pieces of information, or the most diverse knowledge, always knowing how to reject the stones that come disguised as sweets.

Thirdly, we need to process and articulate all of this—nutrients and knowledge—in order to integrate them within ourselves, enabling our bodies to manage their daily lives, but also ensuring that our minds and emotions remain balanced.

But there is a surprising lesson that Coli teaches us. Living in excrement and taking advantage of its surroundings, we realize two things: even in the midst of what someone has rejected, it is possible to make something useful. Second, what we might consider "excrement" is nothing more than a transitional phase, a passage to another phase of reusing feces, which will allow the fertilization of fields and the development of plants that will provide food, shade, and some oxygen. Even flies find excrement to be the ideal place to lay their offspring.

Then there's the illusion of leaving a legacy. I particularly like the image of bacteria seemingly losing their identity, giving rise to another future through the duplication of their DNA—a legacy left to those who come after, in new generations.

The image that stuck in my mind was of bacteria growing at a good pace, rubbing against each other in occasional caresses with their colony mates, a kind of social gesture of great importance to our mental and emotional health. It's what monkeys do when they groom each other, because more than a gesture of bodily hygiene, it's a moment of conviviality and the establishment of bonds between members of a community.

But the great lesson Chico taught me is that from time to time he would escape from his cage. When the gardeners were desperate, Chico, with the audacity that is typical of these creatures, would return to his cage as if he had never left. Therefore, we must know how to leave the cages in which we are born, even if many people always end up returning, not because they accept confinement, but rather as a gesture of complete freedom.

Paying attention to our surroundings, absorbing what seems useful to us, and knowing how to integrate what is around us into ourselves, is a primary principle that any intelligent sixty-year-old should uphold.

Knowing how to interact with others, whether in a typical bacterial swarm or in small and large gatherings, rebalancing our emotions and enriching our experiences, will be another great principle.

But it is the airplane that can take us to one of the most profound discoveries.

For many, the airplane represents the eternal dream of flying. Nothing could be further from the truth.

It all began with a Greek named Icarus, who, when nobody knew what aluminum was, decided to build a pair of wings out of wax and many feathers. Being ambitious, he wanted to fly higher and higher, getting too close to the sun. The result: the wings melted and Icarus crashed to the ground, becoming the first victim of a civil aviation accident. Next came Bartolomeu de Gusmão's barcarole, the balloon that so inspired Jules Verne, the dirigible that caught fire in Paris, and finally the canvas and wood airplanes that were gradually being built in aluminum, titanium, and carbon fiber.

The airplane is a typical example of the constant desire for modernity and innovation, on an exponential path towards flying ever higher, at greater speeds, with ever more passengers. With the Concorde, we reached speeds of 2000 km/h, almost twice the speed of sound. It's fair to say that when we hear the Concorde, it's actually already far away.

It was a plane that flew higher, 18,000 meters, faster, but consumed much more fuel, and each trip was extremely expensive. And does that really matter?

Following the accident on July 25, 2000, questions began to arise about whether this device was truly safe.

Ultimately, what is the point of flying in such a modern and technologically advanced way?

Given the awareness of global warming, we question whether it makes sense for a machine like the Boeing 787 to consume 4 tons of fuel per hour. If it's for crossing the Atlantic, what choice do we have? But if it's for traveling from Paris to Berlin, it makes more sense to go by train.

Looking at websites that track the thousands of flights happening around the world every hour, we realize that all those people aren't inside airplanes to fly, but rather to "get from one place to another." In other words, the essence of the mechanical bird isn't to give us wings to fly, but to allow us to move around, whether to escape the cage, to carry out our profession, or to better observe the world around us.

The question that the intelligent sexagenarian asks is "what is the essence of life?" To be young and beautiful forever? To eat and drink until you drop? Sex to excess?

The soaking I got serves as a starting point: what is essential in humankind, and the reason why Homo sapiens has managed to survive anywhere on the planet, is the particularity of, looking around like Chico, absorbing everything like a bacterium, being able to quickly anticipate what might fall on them. Therefore, in the morning, one must draw the curtains, raise the blinds, open the windows and look at the sky. If the morning drowsiness doesn't allow for much reflection, at least check if it's going to rain and put on appropriate clothes to face the day and life.

Anticipating and adapting are good principles for any intelligent sixty-year-old to follow.

And whenever possible, escape the cage, preferably in good company.

​September 29, 2020

© Eduardo Rui Alves