8. “His acts being seven ages.” So far.
How does one end an autobiography? One doesn’t. It ends itself when the narrative reaches the now. no summation or denouement is possible because, unlike a trial or a play, a set of reflections in chronological order about a life so far does not justify anything about it. The just posted seven illustrated monologues are not turning points, but previously unobserved momenta between them, made real by observation.
But they don’t really only define a single observer in return. They can be applied retro-biographically to anyone of a demographic that was raised in the ’60s in one suburb and retired to another half a century later. That generation possesses roughly equal desires to rebel against and conform within their idealized vision of their parents’ establishment, bound to both the subconscious and the social; each “Boomer” was a potential a Marxist agitator and Freudian neurotic in a single bag of skin.
The cleverest of them opted for the subconscious, they let their Id run their lives and those not in jail are doing well. The less street-wise—those who never rebelled, whose super-egos control their lives—were and still are still herded from one spectacle to the next. That leaves the over-thinkers who belonging to neither sub-group are bound to neither or both the social and the subconscious. Being neither bourgeois nor bohemian we became would-be rebels not always without a cause.
One could go on and describe the cover art and book tour, which would be cleverly recursive and oh-so post modern, but we are beyond that now, aren’t we? So “…Now Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Programming”