Passion = Truth? How Jeffrey James Francis Ircink Sees The World? I love when people are passionate about something. That surging of emotion is the one honest measure of what truth is. It's a truthful display of how a person really feels about something or someone at that particular moment. That passion IS truth.

About me...

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Greendale, Wisconsin, United States
Ex-producer of THE REALLY FUNNY HORNY GOAT INTERNATIONAL SHORT FILM FESTIVAL, playwright, actor, singer, outdoorsman, blogger, amateur photog, observer & bitcher, Beach Boys groupie, Brett Favre fanatic, lover of everything Celtic and forever a member in the Tribe of HAIR. Spent most of my life in the Village of Waterford, a small town just outside of the Milwaukee suburbs. After 12 years in North Hollywood, Bel Air and Culver City, Cali, I moved back to Wisconsin in September 2009. No regrets - of moving to LA OR moving back to WI. Have traveled to Belfast, Ireland, Dayton (OH), Manhattan, Seattle, Cedar Rapids, New York, Miami and Sydney, Australia with my plays. Moved back into the Village of Greendale where I was born. Life is good.


Saturday, August 22, 2009

"You can only perceive real beauty in a person as they get older." Anouk Aimee

For 4 days last week I was house sitting for my ex-boss in Westlake Village (affluent town as you head west on the 101) and part of my responsibilities included preparing evening meals (sometimes breakfast) for Bruce's inlaws who are elderly and in need of some assistance. I did this at Christmas for a week. Quite a pleasurable experience. Not counting our own families, I believe we as a society take the elderly for granted. We forget that they were our ages at one time. We forget they had the same needs, wants and opinions as we have. We forget that one day we will be just like them. One day.

Every now and then Bill and his wife would reference the negatives associated with aging - the physical wear and tear, or not remembering things. Quite evident when I took Bill out for a "walk" in his wheelchair (only when he leaves his house). But he doesn't complain. He's appreciative that he can get out and enjoy the nice weather. As I was helping Bill maneuver through the Internet and figure out his ITunes (he IS 86), we listened to some of the music he had downloaded (or maybe someone downloaded it for him - his eyes aren't what they used to be so I was reminding him what tunes he had downloaded), we listened to Andy Williams, Frank Sinatra, Glen Miller and others. Bill's a big fan of James Taylor, don't you know? Listening to those songs - "Moonlight Serenade", "In the Mood" and "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning" - I recalled how much I love them and appreciated what Bill and I have in common. Remember, he and his wife are members of The Greatest Generation. To take them for granted would be a travesty.

Coincidentally, the following story was emailed to me yesterday by my close friend, Lord Michael Brown, a family friend and 6th Baron and Lord of the Barony of Oranmore and Browne.

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in Australia, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. When the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in magazines for mental health. And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.

"Cranky Old Man"

What do you see nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?
A cranky old man, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food and makes no reply.

When you say in a loud voice 'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice the things that you do.
And forever is losing a sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse, you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,

As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of Ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty, my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now I have young of my own.

Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.

A man of Thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,

But my woman is beside me to see I don't mourn.

At Fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my wife is now dead.

I look at the future, I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own.
And I think of the years, and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man and nature is cruel.
It's jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass, a young man still dwells,

And now and again my battered heart swells,
I remember the joys, I remember the pain.

And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years, all too few gone too fast.

And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people, open and see.
Not a cranky old man. Look closer . . . . see - ME!!

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