I remember so many old days. My days as an artist, though I made only 26 photographs; as a poet, the words no all but gone; and the days I read Kierkegaard, Sartre, de Beauvoir. Now it’s Michael Connolly and Larry Block, et al of that genre.
I’m told that 67 isn’t that old, but damn, it feels it. I would have thought that with age I’d better resolve anxieties, but I let klonopin handle that now, or scotch.
My kids are well grown and though we’re in touch regularly via phone and email, I’ve not seen them for a while. I’m on my third wife and would probably leave her were it not such a logistical nightmare to do so. It’s not that I don’t love her, though I’m not certain what “love” is, it’d simply be more peaceful without her around.
I’m not a recluse or so-called loner, but I suppose I’ve reached an age where I crave a greater degree of solitude. I would never truly live in “solitude,” as there’s always my guitar and banjo around to pick and a television that plows shows deemed mindless by many, but are quite acceptable as a diversion to me.
“South of the Border” was just a one stop eatery when I first passed through Dillon, SC when I was 18 or so; “The Big Texan” similarly so. The Gaslight was a coffee house where one could grab a stool and play music or read poetry, then pass the hat and the Night Owl was open all night, as was Reggio. The old White Horse hadn’t been inundated with college students, nor was McSorley’s. Now I can barely get something more than a glass of colored water that passes for drink at a local saloon.
A fifth floor walkup on West 4th Street was more than sufficient, as were the gallon jugs of red wine, which now gives me a headache before it puts me to sleep.
The fellow with knife on a subway who wanted my watch, a Timex I was happy to give him. I wonder what happed to that guy.
Of course, I wonder of Maggie and, as I think we all do, what might have been. However, I suspect it would been a marvelous nightmare.
I am growing old and have no sense of a new adventure.
