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—really, more of a defect, an inherited genetic defect—blows all to hell. The body produces a killer chemical, it builds up in those lacking the enzyme that would keep it in check. Whereas you, you lucky dogs, you just piss it out.
Naw, not this whole time I haven’t blogged. 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 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’re as curious to see what comes out them little fingertips as the next person; it’s all news to you, and—I prolly said this before— also ever so much better, more authoritative and interesting, than the plain person.
I think this is interesting. I think this is a hell of a way to live—and for a while there, I did’t want to know how I lived, didn’t particular 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. Creeping that much closer to the Dark Precipice, but you know what? This whole enfeeblement thing—there’s age, but while I don’t look the same—god, I was gorgeous at forty-eight—it 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 bright light, it comes through you, while you with your human body, you give it a kind of life.
I’ve said nothing about becoming/feeling older. Hey, you couldn’t stand too much Zo all at once.
{ fin }
As they say in golf, release the clubhead.
Thank you. What does that mean?
Ah, but I can stand more of Zo than I’ve gotten lately, which is not to bitch, but just to say that you’ve been missed and I’m delighted with this entry. I want the rest of it, please.
Have you been off peering into those too-earnest, healthier-than-thou elder blogs that gall us with their grace? Those things will make you sick. I would far rather read “something that grabs hold of you and says what it will.”
I want more Zo too.
And more posts with Fuck in the title.
You’re easy, aren’t you.
Seconded on the Fuck titles.
What is it with you sickies.
did you read Jonathan Franzen’s takedown of Edith Wharton in the New Yorker because she was homely and rich? Can you imagine someone tearing down Leo Tolstoy for those reasons?