See now, there's this ever-growing concern of mine, nestled just behind memory maintenance in an effort to stave off the slightest chance of age-related senility and preserve general longevity... and a healthy few paces ahead of such selfless interests like world peace, animal cruelty prevention, and the resurrection of pop music. Whether my issue has anything to do with a birthday milestone is a point I dare not bring up anymore for fear of further criticism towards my unhealthy obsession with age.
Not dying, mind you. Just age. You're not planning on dying, are you?
This isn't a crisis. This is a wake-up call. Did I really make it to this point in my life without ever having worried about what I was doing? Or going to do? The Alfred E. Neuman in me has been dismissing responsibilities for years based solely on the fact that what people refer to as worrying about what I'm going to do should always really truly have been referred to as understanding what I was going to do.
Ah, yes. That's it. There. You've found your path, have you? Well bravo. Took you long enough, dinnit?
Where did I have my epiphany? Where did the subway lights in my head flicker and cool? Somewhere north on I-5 between truck stops and switchbacks, miles from named offramps, but just south of glassy-surfaced lakes and grey-haired art communes. It was right around here.
I'm not moving to southern Oregon. I've seen two coasts of this country, spent a significant amount of time in Europe, and know damn well that I'll grow old and die in the same city where I first opened my eyes. That's not laziness, fear, or house-arrest either, mind you. That's love.
But anyway... pipe down with the hometown bit already. Like we haven't heard that nonsense enough already. What are you doing? Say it out loud so it sticks.
Say it... say? You look a little like Douglas Adams, especially around the eyes. And you're one to talk, aren't you? Animal conservation is a noble pursuit, but was that what you were made to do? Did you really at some point understand that was your purpose in life? Washington Irving dreamed a nation into being, a nation I've never seen. Jorge Luis Borges dreamed a man into being, a man inspired by circular flames. I've been daydreaming my own life into being while under the spell of commute traffic or a particularly hot cup of coffee fifty yards from the Pacific Ocean. The kind of hot where you lift it to your lips for the first sip that never happens. It just warms your mouth and you put it back, and the thinking cools it down slowly, by half-degrees.
That's the prologue. Actors, take your places. Curtain in five, four... You guys are the only ones who really need to see this anyway.
Yeah? Really? See what? The hell're you doing anyway?
I don't know. Or... I'm not telling. Not yet.
Not dying, mind you. Just age. You're not planning on dying, are you?
This isn't a crisis. This is a wake-up call. Did I really make it to this point in my life without ever having worried about what I was doing? Or going to do? The Alfred E. Neuman in me has been dismissing responsibilities for years based solely on the fact that what people refer to as worrying about what I'm going to do should always really truly have been referred to as understanding what I was going to do.
Ah, yes. That's it. There. You've found your path, have you? Well bravo. Took you long enough, dinnit?
Where did I have my epiphany? Where did the subway lights in my head flicker and cool? Somewhere north on I-5 between truck stops and switchbacks, miles from named offramps, but just south of glassy-surfaced lakes and grey-haired art communes. It was right around here.
I'm not moving to southern Oregon. I've seen two coasts of this country, spent a significant amount of time in Europe, and know damn well that I'll grow old and die in the same city where I first opened my eyes. That's not laziness, fear, or house-arrest either, mind you. That's love.
But anyway... pipe down with the hometown bit already. Like we haven't heard that nonsense enough already. What are you doing? Say it out loud so it sticks.
Say it... say? You look a little like Douglas Adams, especially around the eyes. And you're one to talk, aren't you? Animal conservation is a noble pursuit, but was that what you were made to do? Did you really at some point understand that was your purpose in life? Washington Irving dreamed a nation into being, a nation I've never seen. Jorge Luis Borges dreamed a man into being, a man inspired by circular flames. I've been daydreaming my own life into being while under the spell of commute traffic or a particularly hot cup of coffee fifty yards from the Pacific Ocean. The kind of hot where you lift it to your lips for the first sip that never happens. It just warms your mouth and you put it back, and the thinking cools it down slowly, by half-degrees.
That's the prologue. Actors, take your places. Curtain in five, four... You guys are the only ones who really need to see this anyway.
Yeah? Really? See what? The hell're you doing anyway?
I don't know. Or... I'm not telling. Not yet.
VIEW 14 of 14 COMMENTS
parisambrosia:
hey there buddy! How's teaching going? I 
being a teacher. It's really rewarding and I feel so good every day. So what's new with you? By reading your journal it seems like we are on the same page about thinking about the age/life crisis. It's Time that we are fighting. Hope all is well!
being a teacher. It's really rewarding and I feel so good every day. So what's new with you? By reading your journal it seems like we are on the same page about thinking about the age/life crisis. It's Time that we are fighting. Hope all is well!
parisambrosia:
Funny......it seems to me that I do ALL of my serious thinking when I am driving somewhere far. It's my only time that I have all to myself it seems these days.