J. B. B. Wellington:
The Broken Saucer (c. 1880/90, printed April 1890)

" … not even duct tape holds anything together forever."

I have attained an age where much of what surrounds me seems Broken. I suspect that this acknowledgement accompanies aging, since in my more innocent youth, I seemed surrounded by more operational than Broken stuff. My stove-top espresso maker's handle was missing this morning. It had broken off a few weeks ago when the house cleaner accidentally knocked it off the countertop. I'd fixed it with some superglue, and that held until a few days ago, when it let go. I learned that I'd have to find some high-temperature glue to more permanently fix it, so I placed that need into my ever-burgeoning pending queue. I'll get around to finding that when I finally get around to finding that, assuming I ever remember to. In the meantime, I discovered that two pot holders held just so suffice as a fix until something more permanent manifests.

Much of my existence seems to be suspended in just that state: Pending Something More Permanent. Permanence has always been a popular delusion. If age imparts anything, it brings the growing understanding that nothing turns out to be permanent. Everything's transitory. We glimpse completion between creation and dissolution, a moving spectacle, however permanent it might seem at any moment. Reality is, indeed, entropy with little in between. Each respite is at best a temporary rest. If there's never any rest for the wicked, the blessed manage little better. The only permanence gets embodied in change. The only change seems destined for different. One climbs to the top of a mountain to slide down the other side.

This condition cannot quite qualify as a problem. It has no solution other than accepting how it always was. Those intent upon changing the world had best acknowledge that this world has never stopped changing. It was on its way somewhere else when it lingered here and will be on its way to somewhere else, probably unintended, before the dust settles. Changing the world seems like little challenge. The impossible would entail trying to keep this world from changing. Hold it still if you dare and see if that gets you anywhere more interesting.

I am secretly proud of all my little adaptations, my pot holders compensating for missing handles. Some seem clever, and others seem embarrassing, but each serves as evidence that I have been present and noticing. I do not live a hillbilly existence with derelict cars and farm machinery decorating my front yard, but I some days feel burdened by the sheer volume of Broken things in my life. Some days, I dream of a different world, one where age rewards by mending what was once broken. I imagine myself tottering around the place with a roll of duct tape, finally getting around to resolving every last open item on my life's to-do list. I know for certain that this will never happen. Whenever it's threatened in the past, some fresh catastrophe has distracted me from my mission, prolonging ultimate completion to something more closely resembling the infinite.

Life must be at root infinite because it seems to spawn infinities, whatever it touches. What was finished falls apart, producing a future in the process. We create progress through just this infinite regress, always falling further behind lest we lose our premise for engaging. Life seems a process focused upon staying behind. Heaven help us if we should ever actually make progress, for it could produce nothing but a temporary illusion certain to fall apart. Those who hold grudges about these disillusions miss a greater point. We were apparently supposed to feel disappointed, as it serves as a renewing motivation to slap on some duct tape and move forward, hopefully fixing things; fixing things hopefully. Begrudgement only discloses denial. Acceptance learns that not even duct tape holds anything together forever.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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