Doesn’t time fly. I noticed I haven’t written anything on this blog for a year. I think it’s because there are too many blogs, websites, books, magazines, diaries, confessionals. I used to think I had something interesting to say but now I realize it’s been said, or will be said, by someone else. That someone else, wherever they are, really wants to say what’s on their minds and they don’t want somebody like me to beat them to the punch or rephrase after the fact. Like dust after a heavy rain, I feel a saturation, a floodage of written words, — the dust is mud in the eye, and my eyes are tired. My fingers are tired. My brain is tired. And now, pushing 60, a few books and magazines are telling me that it isn’t too late to do the things that I was hoping it was too late for. Because I’m tired. Oh, I can’t be tired now, because I’m not as old as I would have been had I been pushing 60 twenty years ago. No, I have to wait another twenty years for it to be too late to do the things I’m too tired to do now. Does this make sense? Are you tired, reading this?
Can’t “they” just let nature take its course? Just let “us” be? Thirty years ago, I would not be considered a freak for either drinking myself to death or knitting all day. Close to the end, I would have had the freedom to make choices offered to people who were considered old at my age. But no, I can still write that book, take that trip, have a wild affair, learn a foreign language. If I don’t, well, age is not an excuse and the wonderful thing about age ? — it IS an excuse, or used to be, for not doing shit.