It's all good.
Soon my property will be SOLD. Or not. The idea stirs so many emotions in me I can hardly begin to enumerate them; rootless with a profit; terrified of homelessness; free to simply be a boy and his dog; agile enough to hang with the young; once again unencumbered, and solvent with capability to ______ with the rest of my life. What's the next 5 year plan?
When I left Sacramento I proclaimed to another idiot that "a man can do anything in 5 years if he's capable and smart." The other idiot looked at me like 5 years was a century. He was unaccomplished and younger than I. Looking back 5 years is a blur, but looking ahead it's practically limitless. When I think of the last 27 months and how my world has changed, I wonder how many more lives I have in me? And where will I find the worlds on which to live them?
Of course I could never return to the city or California, because I have passionately declared them either flooded or a desert in the future, so for investment purposes they would be out. I would only return for love, because love overwhelms reason and is always a good investment. See? So point made.
In 5 years I could have a doctorate and be teaching university classes. At the very least earn a masters and be totally immersed in the world of academia. I could do a thesis on comparable similarities between the Han Chinese and the Native Americans tribes along the Pacific Northwest. I could ______. Fueling my desire, that is the question: what still burns hot enough to fire the engines? Nothing, really.
It's sad.
My youth is gone and I realize it could have been better spent. My children are grown and I realize I could have been a better father. My looks are gone and I realize I was flattering myself anyway. I have squandered a small fortune, and would have lost more, but for luck and economic circumstances. And I have a world of choices from which to choose and no passion for anything. Sad.
Grandchildren are the answer. Grandchildren are a second chance. Grandchildren are a great investment. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren are all the future I need, all the love I desire.
Until then, it might be time to learn to sail. I know where there is a dry-docked trimaran as big as the one in Waterworld. Time to ask a price and assimilate a crew. Sail to Italy. Right after I build a new compound in the city in the valley where the two rivers meet.
Showing posts with label Middle age. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Middle age. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Cross Eyed Fish
This last week I was in that large California city in the valley where the rivers meet, and it was hot. And the City; fast and furious with busy people, crowded, young and amped on testosterone, impersonal and hard, began to feel uncomfortable and dangerous to me. I felt old and slow and disoriented. I visit my friends and they seem old and tired and unsure of their footing. There are those that aren't disoriented though; they realize their world, and time, and life's opportunities approaching. These are the twenty-five year olds I know.
Those my own age I tell,"Get up and go!" At our age we're the ones that have less to risk. How long do the mortal live?
I feel good. I am on an adventure. Life is exciting, challenging, rewarding, and fun. Well... it isn't desperate anyway. Life is wonderful, every miserable moment. It is good living another adventure at fifty. It has to be; I'm here and the best course to stay appears the one I'm on. Additionally, the longer I live as I do the more comfortable my life becomes. Only affirmed more and more by the city's decreasing attractiveness as I become acclimated to the rural life.
Here, in the mountains, on a still day, Time stands still. Almost always Time crawls and life is elongated here, but when the forest is entirely still, time doesn't move at all. The world looks two dimensional, as if one is standing in a picture. Time to learn how to plane jump.
If the answers are in-between the parameters, then humans must be looking at the world wrong. Not in a philosophical manner, but in their actual vision.
Juggling supposedly increases Brain Mass three percent. Probably due to forcing the mind to focus on ones peripheral vision and reacting. I think looking at the world cross eyed to force one's mind to see, and mentally respond to one's entire peripheral vision might be the next evolutionary step. Like driving down the road with one eye on the rear view mirror and the other on the road, digesting both pictures and responding; building brain mass.
Be careful though... with everything to live for, watch your 'road'.
Next time I see you though, if you're looking cross-eyed and seeing everything, like a fish with eyes on different sides of it's head... well, I'll know that you know a good idea when you hear it.
Those my own age I tell,"Get up and go!" At our age we're the ones that have less to risk. How long do the mortal live?
I feel good. I am on an adventure. Life is exciting, challenging, rewarding, and fun. Well... it isn't desperate anyway. Life is wonderful, every miserable moment. It is good living another adventure at fifty. It has to be; I'm here and the best course to stay appears the one I'm on. Additionally, the longer I live as I do the more comfortable my life becomes. Only affirmed more and more by the city's decreasing attractiveness as I become acclimated to the rural life.
Here, in the mountains, on a still day, Time stands still. Almost always Time crawls and life is elongated here, but when the forest is entirely still, time doesn't move at all. The world looks two dimensional, as if one is standing in a picture. Time to learn how to plane jump.
If the answers are in-between the parameters, then humans must be looking at the world wrong. Not in a philosophical manner, but in their actual vision.
Juggling supposedly increases Brain Mass three percent. Probably due to forcing the mind to focus on ones peripheral vision and reacting. I think looking at the world cross eyed to force one's mind to see, and mentally respond to one's entire peripheral vision might be the next evolutionary step. Like driving down the road with one eye on the rear view mirror and the other on the road, digesting both pictures and responding; building brain mass.
Be careful though... with everything to live for, watch your 'road'.
Next time I see you though, if you're looking cross-eyed and seeing everything, like a fish with eyes on different sides of it's head... well, I'll know that you know a good idea when you hear it.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Black in America
I've been watching ‘Black in America’ and now I know... that being a misplaced Smokey mountain Hillbilly, raised in California without a father in the home, almost makes me Black. I like to grab my crotch and tell people I'm part black, but that's a joke of course… I'm part Donkey.
Of course I'm really watching ‘Black in America’ because, ‘How ya' going to know?’
Nobody looks at me like I'm black. They look at me like I'm ugly. All you handsome, pretty people might not know what I'm talking about, but ya' know… when you pull up next to that hot girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and even if she ain't good looking, she got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on, so she thinks she is.... and anyway, inevitably I'll pull up and I'll be looking to see who is in the car next to me.... and whoosh, that girl will damn near break her neck twisting it around to look the other way. I want to jump out and yell, ‘Hey! I wasn't even looking' for a girl with her hair washed’.
But anyway, they always turn their head. Which is like looking at you like you’re ugly. If they don't turn their head, they ain't pretty enough for me. Good thing too. Ya' know, the male ego can make anything reality.
Reminds me of the joke:
I go out. I try to meet women. The first line is always different ‘Hi, how are you. You look nice.” Ya' know, something like that. But the second line is always the same, “Hey Bitch! I’m talking to you!”
People look at me like I'm poor too, sometimes. That just means I'm fooling the one's not paying attention the other part of the time. And of course, in the dice game of what really counts, and blessings you can't sell, I am as rich as my ignorance allows me to be. Which takes me back to being looked at like you're poor...ya' know, if you wear blue plaid shorts and the blue doesn't match the blue in the flowered Hawaiian shirt you're wearing, and your green safarii hat doesn't match your grey cross training shoes, people look at you like your poor. Like you ain't got a clue. Like you’re too poor to know about white teeth and vaginal odor, and wouldn't know how to appreciate a girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on. Too poor my ass, I'd pay to appreciate it.
I get other looks sometimes. The ‘whoa, you’re too loud’ look is common. I'd be exhausted if I concentrated on whispering all the time.
I get the ‘oh, he’s bald’ look a lot too. Ya' know when you're meeting that hot girl for the first time, and she's got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and you smile at her, and she's watching your every move. You can feel her radar on you, and then... you take your hat off.... it’s like the power went off. Your blip disappeared. It's like your face became twice as long and everything else became half its appropriate size.
Sometimes, I get that perplexed look, too. Ya’ know, like, I was talking to this attractive woman at this party that my friend was invited to and, I knew she was looking for a man because she was there… and her hair was washed and she had that shiny lipstick on. And I hadn't had a shower for three days so I was manly. Also I hadn't taken my hat off... all that said I figured that I was in the running. So I just told her, “I'll give ya' a try-out.” She said, “huh?” I said, “Well honey, I can't guarantee you'll make the team, but I'll give ya' a try-out.” She looked confused walking away.
Then you meet a woman who, for whatever dysfunctional reasons of her own, likes you, falls in love with you. And you don't know how to act.... back to being ‘Black in America.’ Lack of a good ‘male role model’ in any young man's life is a serious problem, regardless of his race.
It is an inherited problem too. My sons inherited a father who didn't know how to act sometimes. I just knew how I wanted them to act. What I knew from experience, Tom Sawyer and the Hobbit. Make sense?
And I misspelled safari above because Hawaii has two eyes and so do fish. I didn't say this was going to be easy. You figure it out because I'm working on a new campaign to bring bald, ugly, crude, old men back into mainstream American life where we can be treated handsomely. See, I'm going to call it ‘Bald in America’ and I want Soledad O'Brien to do the interview because I think I could be comfortable with her.... she seems so understanding, and I'm always getting a look...
Of course I'm really watching ‘Black in America’ because, ‘How ya' going to know?’
Nobody looks at me like I'm black. They look at me like I'm ugly. All you handsome, pretty people might not know what I'm talking about, but ya' know… when you pull up next to that hot girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and even if she ain't good looking, she got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on, so she thinks she is.... and anyway, inevitably I'll pull up and I'll be looking to see who is in the car next to me.... and whoosh, that girl will damn near break her neck twisting it around to look the other way. I want to jump out and yell, ‘Hey! I wasn't even looking' for a girl with her hair washed’.
But anyway, they always turn their head. Which is like looking at you like you’re ugly. If they don't turn their head, they ain't pretty enough for me. Good thing too. Ya' know, the male ego can make anything reality.
Reminds me of the joke:
I go out. I try to meet women. The first line is always different ‘Hi, how are you. You look nice.” Ya' know, something like that. But the second line is always the same, “Hey Bitch! I’m talking to you!”
People look at me like I'm poor too, sometimes. That just means I'm fooling the one's not paying attention the other part of the time. And of course, in the dice game of what really counts, and blessings you can't sell, I am as rich as my ignorance allows me to be. Which takes me back to being looked at like you're poor...ya' know, if you wear blue plaid shorts and the blue doesn't match the blue in the flowered Hawaiian shirt you're wearing, and your green safarii hat doesn't match your grey cross training shoes, people look at you like your poor. Like you ain't got a clue. Like you’re too poor to know about white teeth and vaginal odor, and wouldn't know how to appreciate a girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on. Too poor my ass, I'd pay to appreciate it.
I get other looks sometimes. The ‘whoa, you’re too loud’ look is common. I'd be exhausted if I concentrated on whispering all the time.
I get the ‘oh, he’s bald’ look a lot too. Ya' know when you're meeting that hot girl for the first time, and she's got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and you smile at her, and she's watching your every move. You can feel her radar on you, and then... you take your hat off.... it’s like the power went off. Your blip disappeared. It's like your face became twice as long and everything else became half its appropriate size.
Sometimes, I get that perplexed look, too. Ya’ know, like, I was talking to this attractive woman at this party that my friend was invited to and, I knew she was looking for a man because she was there… and her hair was washed and she had that shiny lipstick on. And I hadn't had a shower for three days so I was manly. Also I hadn't taken my hat off... all that said I figured that I was in the running. So I just told her, “I'll give ya' a try-out.” She said, “huh?” I said, “Well honey, I can't guarantee you'll make the team, but I'll give ya' a try-out.” She looked confused walking away.
Then you meet a woman who, for whatever dysfunctional reasons of her own, likes you, falls in love with you. And you don't know how to act.... back to being ‘Black in America.’ Lack of a good ‘male role model’ in any young man's life is a serious problem, regardless of his race.
It is an inherited problem too. My sons inherited a father who didn't know how to act sometimes. I just knew how I wanted them to act. What I knew from experience, Tom Sawyer and the Hobbit. Make sense?
And I misspelled safari above because Hawaii has two eyes and so do fish. I didn't say this was going to be easy. You figure it out because I'm working on a new campaign to bring bald, ugly, crude, old men back into mainstream American life where we can be treated handsomely. See, I'm going to call it ‘Bald in America’ and I want Soledad O'Brien to do the interview because I think I could be comfortable with her.... she seems so understanding, and I'm always getting a look...
Friday, May 9, 2008
The Problem with Mortality
The problem of mortality has been bothering me quite a bit lately. I think it has to do with too much time to think. Life and space; those two things that bother me when I think about them. Space because it's infinite. Life because it's finite. I don't like the idea of life being over. What about all those tomorrows I'll never know? What about all those promises on tomorrow? I don't like the idea of space never ending. It seems to me at a certain point space should turn to solid. When I think about it, space and death should switch characteristics. Life should go on forever (true believers believe it does). Space should have some boundaries. Nope, end of the line, got to tunnel from here. Shake it up a little.
A man shouldn't have to wind down to mortality. At twenty I figured I had 80+ of Life left, but at 51 I KNOW that I have used at least almost half my Life. If I knew I could only live till I was sixty,... Oh, but even figuring to live to 105... every day another step toward the inevitable. Live every day like it's your last. Every day the odds of another decreases a little. Finite. But if life and space could switch characteristics, at fifty one you'd know you were half way to solid, and could look forward to a new world of tunneling.
All of this contemplation has led me to a new conclusion though. Given the choice of being the soul survivor of a dead world and spending the rest of my life alone, but having it all, or perishing with the rest of mankind at once in a meteor cloud or some other catastrophe, I would prefer to die with the masses in the calamity, rather than of loneliness. It has just occurred to me where I want to be buried, too. I don't. I want to be taken to the edge of the atmoshere and fired into space like a human cannonball. Then, even if life has ended, the road will go on forever.
A man shouldn't have to wind down to mortality. At twenty I figured I had 80+ of Life left, but at 51 I KNOW that I have used at least almost half my Life. If I knew I could only live till I was sixty,... Oh, but even figuring to live to 105... every day another step toward the inevitable. Live every day like it's your last. Every day the odds of another decreases a little. Finite. But if life and space could switch characteristics, at fifty one you'd know you were half way to solid, and could look forward to a new world of tunneling.
All of this contemplation has led me to a new conclusion though. Given the choice of being the soul survivor of a dead world and spending the rest of my life alone, but having it all, or perishing with the rest of mankind at once in a meteor cloud or some other catastrophe, I would prefer to die with the masses in the calamity, rather than of loneliness. It has just occurred to me where I want to be buried, too. I don't. I want to be taken to the edge of the atmoshere and fired into space like a human cannonball. Then, even if life has ended, the road will go on forever.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Day Before Payday
It's the day before payday. I had left over meatloaf for breakfast. My first cup of coffee had milk and sugar in it; all the creamer is gone, now the milk is too. I'm out of bread and eggs, Pepsi, bagels, cheese, and chocolate milk also. From this point the list becomes infinite, suffice to say, payday will arrive none too soon.
Life is so wonderful. Living in thirty day cycles within five year goals isn't so great, but every day an inch. I feel like the goal-less worm. It will happen and I will get there. Don't ask where, if you think about our ultimate destination, inching towards it is much too fast. Just another five years, ten or fifteen times will do, maybe. I was looking for one hundred and five but the closer I get, the better one hundred and fifty looks. I need more time to get things right. If 'only the good die young', isn't that like a war-cry for misbehaving? Do only the wicked get old, or only after avoiding dying young do they repent and become good old people?
Is John McBush really a war-monger? Does Hillary Clinton realize that her idea and description of dodging bullets in Bosnia is an insult to service people who have served under-fire? Does Hillary Clinton know? Hillary will never know what it is like to be a black man in a society and culture controlled by rich white people. Hillary will never know what it is to be a poor, bald man without a Harvard education, living in a shack, in a society and culture controlled by rich white people. Barack Obama will never know what it's like to be from Arkansas either, or a woman; or married to Bill. Hell, I can never know a lot of things that being me inherently prohibits. I can only imagine what being married to me would be like.
Sounds to me like black churches lay a double whammy on their followers; the only way to heaven is through the Son (inclusive/exclusive), and you better stay strong with God to fight white supremacy. That means coming to Church to get your lessons in divisiveness. What we really need is a 9/11 in space with an alien Al Qaeda that is bright-green and has three arms. That would give everybody a common enemy. Earthling or not! I'm glad I got this out today, cos tomorrow I'll have money and no time for this bullshit.
Life is so wonderful. Living in thirty day cycles within five year goals isn't so great, but every day an inch. I feel like the goal-less worm. It will happen and I will get there. Don't ask where, if you think about our ultimate destination, inching towards it is much too fast. Just another five years, ten or fifteen times will do, maybe. I was looking for one hundred and five but the closer I get, the better one hundred and fifty looks. I need more time to get things right. If 'only the good die young', isn't that like a war-cry for misbehaving? Do only the wicked get old, or only after avoiding dying young do they repent and become good old people?
Is John McBush really a war-monger? Does Hillary Clinton realize that her idea and description of dodging bullets in Bosnia is an insult to service people who have served under-fire? Does Hillary Clinton know? Hillary will never know what it is like to be a black man in a society and culture controlled by rich white people. Hillary will never know what it is to be a poor, bald man without a Harvard education, living in a shack, in a society and culture controlled by rich white people. Barack Obama will never know what it's like to be from Arkansas either, or a woman; or married to Bill. Hell, I can never know a lot of things that being me inherently prohibits. I can only imagine what being married to me would be like.
Sounds to me like black churches lay a double whammy on their followers; the only way to heaven is through the Son (inclusive/exclusive), and you better stay strong with God to fight white supremacy. That means coming to Church to get your lessons in divisiveness. What we really need is a 9/11 in space with an alien Al Qaeda that is bright-green and has three arms. That would give everybody a common enemy. Earthling or not! I'm glad I got this out today, cos tomorrow I'll have money and no time for this bullshit.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Wisdom
Fifteen years ago I was 36 years old. You boys were 10 and 12. Now you are young men. The last fifteen years in your lives were the beginning. Looking back there are so many benchmarks, so many changes. Time is indexed and in retrospect those will be the years that passed slowest. So hang onto your hats, young men, because the train picks up speed from this point and it doesn't slow down for awhile. When you look back it turns to a blur. If you add any king of substance abuse, it disappears completely. Remember that, and this; Every moment killed in boredom, drunkenness and/or drug abuse... when you're on the 'other side of the mountain' you'll want it back. That is a pseudo apology for not always being my best, not being compassionate or attentive enough at times, and giving too many of the precious moments away. The precious moments being the ones when you were boys. That I feel so guilty about.
I'm older now. And you boys are men. You both rarely have time for me. I guess you reap what you sow, but it seems to me I gave more then this. I wouldn't have tried at all if I would have known that for all my efforts I'd be shown no gratitude or love. I guess what I'm trying to say is: Although I tried to be young and one of the boys when you were growing up, as you reached manhood, I was forced to grow up too. My investments were paying no dividends. Another failed marriage, no love or respect from my sons, sold the family home, and I limped out of town depressed, heartbroken, and confused. Not to mention fifty years old and a net worth of $34,000. I had to grow up. I was terrified I had over extended my refusal to grow up AND didn't have the resources to make up for my recklessness.
I live a quiet life alone now. I go days in the southern Oregon mountains without speaking to other people. There is no bathroom, or kitchen. No excitement. Nothing artificial. Just reflection, remorse, understanding of the past, looking to the future, and hopefully wisdom applied. I am forced to be serious and responsible. I love you boys despite yourselves, so why can't I be loved, despite myself? I take no credit for your accomplishments but don't I get a cut of love for being there and trying? Don't all of you carry some of me with you every day?
I love you boys.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Getting Older
I don't mind aging. That's why I live out here in southern Oregon. I don't miss the glamor of the city. At one point in life I was good looking enough to disguise my hillbilly true self, but paint wears to the metal and the framework is evident. I didn't want to play the game all the time.
Underneath my handsome face and cool demeanor, after you dug through layers of hardened, tough, sculpted muscle, and compassionate gentle understanding, The roots were North Carolina Blueridge mountain. I am Grandpa's white, underachieving, little red-headed stepchild, who was just happy to be there.
I was innocent. I was the only kid in school whom looked like Opie on Andy of Mayberry, And my Grandpappy was from North Carolina! I walked around the halls of Joseph Bonnheim elementary singing Beach Boy songs. I had a Beatles haircut. My complexion was peaches and cream. I really don't know how I missed the movies with such a strong foundation.
If one grows up without 'fashion', any old clothes is enough. My understanding of clothes was simply what I learned from my small environment. And, of course seeing photos of 'tribe-women' from cultures that did not cover the upper half of the woman's body seemed strange to me just as it does children today. They realize there is a social taboo, and giggle. The 'tribe-woman' doesn't realize the taboo, obviously her attitude on covering the upper half of her torso is different. She probably thinks 'why bother'? Just like I did toward more sophisticated western fashion. Practicality was more important to her (I would guess) just like it was to me.
Covered properly, ready to go! I wasn't aware that plaid pants and checkered shirts didn't go together. When the latest haircut style was a crew-cut with an inch or two of hair left in front, greased back for the little greasy puff look, I let my puff hang. Ironically, it's the style today. Shaved head with bangs hanging in your eyes, or the cut right after the Mohawk with the different colored spikes. I wish that I could say that I was way ahead of my time.Keeping up with the style was difficult for me.
Growing old has no style; you're just old. I remember at seventeen, in pursuit of the perfect look, after an imperfect haircut, I shaved my head. It was1973 and 'shoulder length or longer' was the tune of the day. It didn't catch on then, but fifteen years later everybody was shaving their heads; about the time I got out of the army, but by then I wanted to grow my hair long.
At about thirty, with a naturally occurring bald head, two toddlers and an estranged wife, released by the green machine and allowed to wear whatever I wanted, I desired the glamorous life. But I just couldn't afford it. I wanted to stay young and handsome forever. I wanted enough money to attract the really fine babes, stir the best Gumbo, own the best props, but I didn't hit the lotto. And I sure as hell wasn't going to kill myself to stylishly keep up with the 'seduction of being cool' (although I had a running try for a while).
In my forties I became associated with people who truly 'worry' about the right car, clothes, haircut. They have money and pursue the 'better life'. They won't watch themselves grow old in the mirror. And see the surgeon, the cosmetics counter, the lip-o-suction machine. They'll add lip and lose hip, build breasts and bleach the rest.
At 50 something, I know now that the money is better spent up in these southern Oregon mountains finding true value for time and money... in a functioning toilet, or shower plumbing.
Getting old is fine with me. The alternative is impossible. I will never be "young" again, if youth is defined by years. That which is truly important will be all the sweeter to enjoy as an old man, when I have a better idea of what the qualifications.
Now, at my young age, I feel like the Tribes-woman: I ain't gonna worry about what doesn't occur to me. I'm naturally cool. Next time I see you I'll show you my tits and we can really relax!
Happy Thanksgiving to One and All.
Underneath my handsome face and cool demeanor, after you dug through layers of hardened, tough, sculpted muscle, and compassionate gentle understanding, The roots were North Carolina Blueridge mountain. I am Grandpa's white, underachieving, little red-headed stepchild, who was just happy to be there.
I was innocent. I was the only kid in school whom looked like Opie on Andy of Mayberry, And my Grandpappy was from North Carolina! I walked around the halls of Joseph Bonnheim elementary singing Beach Boy songs. I had a Beatles haircut. My complexion was peaches and cream. I really don't know how I missed the movies with such a strong foundation.
If one grows up without 'fashion', any old clothes is enough. My understanding of clothes was simply what I learned from my small environment. And, of course seeing photos of 'tribe-women' from cultures that did not cover the upper half of the woman's body seemed strange to me just as it does children today. They realize there is a social taboo, and giggle. The 'tribe-woman' doesn't realize the taboo, obviously her attitude on covering the upper half of her torso is different. She probably thinks 'why bother'? Just like I did toward more sophisticated western fashion. Practicality was more important to her (I would guess) just like it was to me.
Covered properly, ready to go! I wasn't aware that plaid pants and checkered shirts didn't go together. When the latest haircut style was a crew-cut with an inch or two of hair left in front, greased back for the little greasy puff look, I let my puff hang. Ironically, it's the style today. Shaved head with bangs hanging in your eyes, or the cut right after the Mohawk with the different colored spikes. I wish that I could say that I was way ahead of my time.Keeping up with the style was difficult for me.
Growing old has no style; you're just old. I remember at seventeen, in pursuit of the perfect look, after an imperfect haircut, I shaved my head. It was1973 and 'shoulder length or longer' was the tune of the day. It didn't catch on then, but fifteen years later everybody was shaving their heads; about the time I got out of the army, but by then I wanted to grow my hair long.
At about thirty, with a naturally occurring bald head, two toddlers and an estranged wife, released by the green machine and allowed to wear whatever I wanted, I desired the glamorous life. But I just couldn't afford it. I wanted to stay young and handsome forever. I wanted enough money to attract the really fine babes, stir the best Gumbo, own the best props, but I didn't hit the lotto. And I sure as hell wasn't going to kill myself to stylishly keep up with the 'seduction of being cool' (although I had a running try for a while).
In my forties I became associated with people who truly 'worry' about the right car, clothes, haircut. They have money and pursue the 'better life'. They won't watch themselves grow old in the mirror. And see the surgeon, the cosmetics counter, the lip-o-suction machine. They'll add lip and lose hip, build breasts and bleach the rest.
At 50 something, I know now that the money is better spent up in these southern Oregon mountains finding true value for time and money... in a functioning toilet, or shower plumbing.
Getting old is fine with me. The alternative is impossible. I will never be "young" again, if youth is defined by years. That which is truly important will be all the sweeter to enjoy as an old man, when I have a better idea of what the qualifications.
Now, at my young age, I feel like the Tribes-woman: I ain't gonna worry about what doesn't occur to me. I'm naturally cool. Next time I see you I'll show you my tits and we can really relax!
Happy Thanksgiving to One and All.
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