The Lightning Room with Marcelina Vizcarra

Welcome back to the Lightning Room, where DeWitt Brinson & Simon Jacobs take turns asking PANK authors extremely difficult questions about their work. Today, Simon talks with Marcelina Vizcarra, whose story “The Oldest Living American” appeared in our February, 2013 issue. The secret of immortality, below.

 1. “The Oldest Living American” explores, among other things, our glorification/souvenirification (which is not a word) of objects or people recovered or still present from our collective past. Why do we suppose we do this?

That’s a good question. I think these relics give us a vicarious participation in our past. Maybe if we connect to something outside of our timelines, we extend them. That’s the optimistic aspect. But there’s also a darker theme in our efforts to distinguish ourselves, a sense of ownership that I’m guilty of, to appropriate all manners of objects and people from the cabinets of history. In that respect, Harvey is a sort of living Wunderkammer that can be picked through, and his panoramic experiences can be appraised against market trends. Lately, I’ve come to view our collective past as yet another store for the modern consumer, yet another way to define ourselves by what we purchase.

2. This story presents a number of perspectives of the same, very old man; in so doing, you manage to bring up a host of issues surrounding what we do with our old; what inspired you to write this story, and to use this multi-perspective approach?

Some of my first jobs were taking care of elderly neighbors, and then the institutionalized, so these characters tend to volunteer often in my writing. I’m especially fascinated by the artificial stasis imposed upon them during their slide into dependence, along with its accompanying indignities—perhaps the most offensive being the assumption of muted emotions, or worse, naïvete. I suspect that the fear of this marginalized future is what funds our society’s contradictory stances—disdain for old age but celebration of longevity. Harvey embodies both, so I put his death under public scrutiny, harkening back to the old coroner’s juries.

3. One of the most haunting lines in this story goes: “I don’t think people understand the strain of caring for someone who might live forever. It sounds ridiculous now, but before he died, we didn’t know how long he might live. In the moment, there’s no perspective.” Can you talk a little about the dynamics of this feeling, holding on for an indefinite amount of time?

I think it’s a dangerous element in any relationship. I’m a fan of clocks because they create constant endings, constant deadlines, to release us from our obligations, no matter how trifling or monumental. Remove the clock, as in Harvey’s case, and the effort loses value. I’d call that feeling ‘anticipation rot’. Anticipation is one of the most, if not the most, important drivers of human behavior, and nothing breeds apathy faster than the loss of it. I think when people are faced with this boredom, they’ll prefer any other emotion, even anger, spite, jealousy, to make them feel worthwhile as they pass the time.

4. Here’s a tough one: given the context of a story like this one, what do you think is the cut-off for us taking care of each other as we keep getting old?

That is a tough one. I grew up watching my family take care of the elders, who happen to be relatively long-lived. One aunt, in particular, reached 104 with her wit, charm, and physical abilities intact. We should all be so lucky. But the reality, obviously, is usually fraught with emotional landmines and occasional power struggles. Many families, and of course, society at large, provide lifelong care for those with a range of developmental or physical disabilities, and then there are people born very early who require robust medical interventions to survive. I guess my point is that modern technology has allowed us to venture into the hinterlands of mortality, and this landscape, like any other, will present its own natural obstacles. Maybe the horizon will keep receding and receding until one day we reach the coast and find we’ve run out of road.

5. If we’re talking about living forever, I know you hear all of these idealistic “I would live forever” kinds of deals, I am young spiritually, etc., but no one seems to consider, as this story does, what happens, physically, as the body ages and breaks down, whether someone is healthy to begin with or not. What would you say about this tendency? (This has been a “would you live forever?” question.)

I do think most people, me included, only want to live forever on their terms. But the reality of perpetual aging without imbibing gallons from the fountain of youth seems to be a dreary prospect at best and absurd at worst. Even if it were somehow possible for us to remain suspended in middle age forever, I think the results would be catastrophic. Refer to my answer to the third question. But maybe I’m being too cynical.

6. In your bio, you mention that you’re pursuing a nursing degree. How do you think nursing has influenced your writing, your understanding of the dash between dates on the tombstone?

I’ve become more interested in the health and pathology of my characters, their diets, their self-assessments, their self-destructions. I’m surprised by the fragility of people and the resiliency of the person. But what I find most amazing is that, at the cellular level, we’re seeded with all the conflict and complexity of the exterior world—competition and cooperation, manufacturing, pollution, government, creativity, sabotage, altruism, war, trade, poverty, possibility—as if each body is a society unto itself. And no two are the same.

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Simon Jacobs curates the Safety Pin Review, a wearable medium for work of fewer than 30 words. He may be found at simonajacobs.blogspot.com.