Is this like something you have to be?
Or automatically become?
And why are there these special, all-cringeworthy words for getting older?
Why aren’t I the same person, granted in somewhat different form?
More bouts with that chronic illness that periodically take me off to OtherLand. You know, the one where you don’t live. Least not if you take life for granted. Your physical life, your mind. Which my illness blows all to hell. The body produces some killer chemicals, trying to keep it all in check. Whereas you, you lucky dogs, you just piss it out.
Naw, not during this whole time that I haven’t posted here. What that’s about is … I don’t know what that’s about, except I think it’s lousy to walk away from a blog without a word, which is what it looked like.I am of two minds about this whole blogging thing anymore. As is any writer worth her salt. The Of Two Minds thing. Like wouldn’t it be cozy to…be a different person. One of those women with heaps of followers. On the other hand—no. not on the other hand; this is the way it is. Writing, being a writer, the stance the voice takes, that isn’t something you choose, but something that grabs hold of you and says what it will. You as curious to see what comes out them little fingertips as the next person; it’s all news to you, and— probably said this before—ever so much better, so more authoritative and interesting, than the plain person you.
I think this is interesting. I think this is a hell of a way to live – and for a while there, I didn’t want to live, didn’t particularly care. One of the things I don’t give a damn about anymore—and the list grows longer by the day—is Insight. Least not the kind that pepper the web like mouse droppings: that which passes for thought.
So I see by the web, by the blogs, that I am supposed to be entirely different at this stage. Cute. Diminished. You know those grey sausage curls? Never going to happen. …Creeping ever closer to the Dark Precipice. But you know what? This whole enfeeblement thing—there’s age, but while I don’t look the same—and dear god, I looked so skinny-gorgeous at forty-five, remaining so for a a good twenty years—it really is the inside of things that counts. I am such a believer in the interior. The unseen. The not yet born. You start typing or wielding that paintbrush or whatever it is you do … and that enormous pulsating cloud of humankind’s thoughts and dreams—where is Jung when you need him—the whole point is to be able to participate in that. Like little zaps of light, it comes through you, while you, with your human body, you give it a kind of life.
I see I’ve said nothing about becoming, feeling older. Hey, you couldn’t stand too much Zo all at once.