It was a Saturday morning and this is what really happened. I promised myself to exercise restraint over excessive blogging. You know; to be reasonable. To take time to shower, clean the house, buy groceries, eat fruit. Go for a walk. You know how it is. Even the industrial quantities of Lavaza coffee, Lindt chocolate and Brown Brother’s Crouching Riesling can only last for so long. Too embarrassed to mention Marlboro. And too old to care.
But this is what happened. Francis Lai’s ‘Love Story’ was on, as it mostly is. Pre-spring sunshine rushed through my windows like an over excited puppy. Going to have a peek only … not touching the Lantern, only the Reader to see what fellows are writing about. Honest. Here comes my good friend, (can I call you that?); Julie with her ‘Do You Own Your Writerdom’ question … and all hell broke loose. Below is what I wrote to that. It is self-explanatory.
Youth is a cruel time. For years I did not realize I only felt alive when I wrote. Because I thought my quest was for bigger things and wider worlds. Those worlds took my ‘tool kit’ away. Language. And showed me what it means to live when not alive. Then I labored for years to assembly a new one. And now here we are; at the exactly the same spot we set off from. Only the ‘tool kit’ is somewhat shabbier and I am old. Too old to care about the bigger things and the wider worlds … but not too old to care about being alive. Just for once. That is all.
P.S. If there is anybody to ask, I would tell them I am a writer … what else is there to say? Besides, I am too old to care. Old age is as kind as youth is cruel!
Then I looked up from my screen and the photo is what I saw. This also is a self-explanatory. Kaleidoscope over my ‘toolkit’.
Now, where is that memoir I have been writing for all those years … and is there any Riesling left?
P.S. The old age is what you enter once your wounds become numerous … not when you hit the certain number.