I look skyward with the risk of remembering a specific line of poetry, one of many bad lines from the infinite acres of horrible verse I wrote in grade school and high school. This line lingers in my mind not on account of its merit but because I just can’t shake it.
Looking skyward out my window a moment ago I recited “Yes, it’s true, we all shall die, watching the sky and wondering why,” these vapid words representing all I remember now from a much longer poem I wrote in the 9th or 10th grade.
Is the statement even true? Evidence suggests and even confirms that the first part is true. We all shall die, yes, that is what we do (wish I could find a Jimmy Breslin quote stating that birth is but the beginning of the dying process).
But watching the sky? Wondering why? “Why do I die? Why, sky, why? Why so high? Why, sky?” The poem may have been influenced by “Seasons in the Sun,” a tear-jerker song popular at the time.
Lifelong drivel like this flows safely through the innards of my head, unexposed to scrutiny, and as long as it remains in that state of solitude I take comfort knowing that human memory has not yet been indexed by the commercial search engines.
I remark publicly on this strand of seemingly embarrassing mental litter because today, as I looked to the sky and remembered those words, I realized for the first time that the words derived from a genuine life experience. Lightly paraphrased, the line owes itself to a certain kid from summer camp, the famed crybaby who bellowed out the immortal words “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!” during a 3-night camping trip that went bad. We were lost, it was hot as hell, and the sun was going down on what should have been our final day in the woods. Everyone was scared but none more than the above-mentioned kid, whose torrent of full-voiced complaints included “MY THROAT IS CLOSING!” and “I CAN’T MAKE IT!” finally climaxing with “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIIIIIIE!” This was a source of sore-gut-inducing giggle fits among the rest of us for the balance of that summer, nay for the balance of our lives.
We were allegedly lost on that trip but over time I came to suspect that the camp counselor who led the hike had exaggerated our plight, for to increase the adventure. I think he knew exactly where we were and when we would get back to the cabin. He may have imagined this to be a character-building scheme, but if so he may not have anticipated such drama.
Most of my routine gestures of life are accompanied by lazy, unscrutinized mental flourishes. Today I happened to trace the source of one, but most times I find myself unclear as to how oft-repeated activities lead my thoughts to places seemingly remote.
Looking Skyward
