the pen moveth…and leaveth in its wake little of note.

long hath been the sleep of mine hand, cold hath been the nib of mine pen, crappy doth sound mine attempt at that which, verily, might hearken to an english of old.

We are, all of us, dying.

What a great way to start a post. But it’s true.

We run. We dither. We fret. We blink idly. We worry the small imperfections in armrests or shirtsleeves. We sleep in; guiltily. We pick and nibble at cuticles, nails, lips, knuckles. We long for…well, for nearly everything but what we actually have at hand. We make calls, set dates, plan, text, list, note, denote, footnote, and repeat by rote the big and the little of our days.
“I’m going to…”,
“I’ve purchased a….”,
“I need some…”,
“I think I’ll…”,
“Can’t we just…”,
“And good morning to…”,
“I’m just…”,
“Surely when I…”,
“Is this really…”,
“I’m all…”,
“Will she…”,
“haven’t you…”,
“Where did…”,
“I know I…”,
“Isn’t that…”,
“I’ll take out a…”,
“I can’t do…”,
“But where will…”,
“I really shouldn’t…”,
“What’s her…”,
“Did I just…”,
“Fuck this stupid…”,
“Just one more…”.

Day.

Just another day.

Is that the saddest sentence ever written? It must be in the top five.
It’s a prisoner’s mantra. Chanted in every cell: cement, cubicle, office, sewer, cab, adolescence, turret, trench, bedroom, cranium, classroom, mill, cockpit, kitchen, assembly line, desk, heart, ward, courtroom, tollbooth, empty pocket, fist, night, matrimony, pew, Fox News, needle, high heels, six pack, old age, family. Those are all cells, all six by sixes with a staccato fluorescent light up high.

What’s happened since last I wrote?

this. that. the other.

I couldn’t really say. I let it slip away. Even after swearing I never would. I did. Because in the moment, the moment doesn’t seem interesting. But when I’m 80 (and will there be one?) I’ll want every one of those minutes back. every mundanity. every casual glance at the extraordinarily ordinary. Every “that can wait till later”. I’ll hunger for it. I’m sure. Because I already do. At night. Deep in it. Now.
Mortality. I’ve never given it much thought. I’ve sensed the abyss of it, glimpses of the brevity of all this.
In star-filled skies, in lonely deserts, in coastal fog, in music, in a book. But now it grips me when my eyes see my eyes in a mirror. When I see a newborn baby. In the backs of my hands. When I follow the slow-current steps of an elderly lady. When I see a beautiful woman. When I walk into a bookstore or library. In a ruined building. When I see a photo of you.
Will I be ok with being old?
Will I make a good “old guy”?
Will I still be curious?
Will I be angry?
Or bitter?
Will old ladies turn me on?
Will I dress in polyester slacks?
Will I tell children to “stay off my fucking lawn!”?
Or will I be sleeping on someone’s lawn?
Will I resent youth?
Will anyone see through my slow gait, my deep wrinkles, my liver spots and my rheumy eyes a flicker of the man I am now?
And is that even worth seeing?

Should get my ass in gear so that the answer’ll be a definitive “yes”?

why? Tell me why.