I made a reference the other day to wanting to be a professional writer when I grow up. I said that on purpose, to be funny and ironic, because obviously a 72-year-old man is considered by the outside world to be a certified grownup.
But I’m still the same guy I was when this earthly vessel was 7 years old, that is to say, the same consciousness that inhabited this body in 1960 is still in the house.
It’s the old joke, “Inside every old man is a little kid wondering what happened.”
Some of the dreams have never changed. That little kid wrote songs and drew comics, and made believe he was announcing the news or playing DJ, and later wrote poems and bound them into little books. If you’ve spent five minutes on my blog, you know this is that same guy.
But are we there yet? Am I all of what I imagined I would be?
Nah. That’s why I keep writing about what it’ll be like when I grow up.
The reference librarian walked into her supervisor’s office in a bit of a lather, somewhere in the neighborhood of January 1953.
“Rose, Rose, what should I do?” she said. “This guy at the front desk says he needs to know the temperature paper catches fire for some book he’s writing.”
“What, is he some kind of radical?”
“No, he says it’s some kind of science fiction story about book burners taking over.”
“Weird,” said Rose. “So what’s the problem?”
“I just can’t find it anywhere. I don’t know if anyone’s even ever studied when paper catches fire.”
“Good point. I mean, you put a match to it and ‘woof’!”
“Do you have any ideas where I could look?”
“I suppose physics textbooks, cookbooks …”
“Tried those.”
“Huh,” Rose said. “And he’s not leaving without an answer?”
“He says it’s really important.”
“OK, make something up. Get rid of him.”
“Really?”
“Sure,” Rose said. “Try this. Most ovens don’t go higher than 450, so say 451 degrees. If he asks, tell them you don’t want your cookbook to catch fire by accident, so they limit the controls on the oven. He won’t ask anyway.”
“That almost makes sense,” said the reference librarian. “Are you sure it’s OK to do that?”
“Sure,” Rose said. “Who’s going to know? Chances are he’ll never finish the book or no one will read it anyway.”
Here I am out on the deck in the sun. The thermometer’s hanging around 50 degrees. I weighed in at 250 pounds today, recorded it on my app, and came to the realization that instead of losing weight, I’ve gained 7.5 pounds in six months. And what happened six months ago? I retired! I stopped chasing news stories! I became more of a homebody. I stopped moving. I have become a lump.
Obvious fixes: Start moving again. Maybe not chasing news stories, but chasing something, anything besides TV screens, naps and other sedentary activities.
So here I am writing on the deck.
But it feels so peaceful in the sun.
The leaves are all gone from the big tree behind the house. I can see the water again. That’s the only — maybe not the only — thing I like about the colder, darker months. After the spring equinox, the green will be back, hiding the water again. I will have to take a walk or a drive to see the bay again, but I need to take more walks anyway.
Oh, I can feel the chill today, but the light from the sun gives me warmth. (The Light from the Son Gives Me Warmth.)
A jet races across the sky — I only know it’s there because of the contrails.
I look up, down, left and right to see what I can see and describe. What if the most interesting thing is to my rear? I’ll see it later.
With the leaves gone I can see the new house up the hill, shining in the sun. Everything is sharper in the sun, our local star.
I smell a faint whiff of diesel exhaust, perhaps the odor I dislike most. Oh, perhaps not the most, but perhaps the common everyday odor I most dislike.
Is it the cold, the light, or the outdoor air that lights up my prose and gets the pen racing across the page?
Dejah whimpers at the back door. Maybe it’s time to go inside.
3:45 — 350 words in 17 minutes. Not especially memorable words, but a pace of more than 1,000 words an hour. That’s an interesting statistic for a guy who wants to be a professional writer when he grows up.
