It is Friday already, and a warming weekend is in the offing. My lament every single Friday is where did the week go
It is odd how the perception of time changes with age. Time flits by in increasing tempo when you get older. It is not at all like that agonizing æon when I was fourteen wanting to be sixteen so I could drive. I want to snatch old Cronus’ hourglass from his hand and flip it back a decade or to so that I can catch up with me.
Ambition has died in me, and is replaced by a stoic resignation. The house is as improved as it is ever going to be. The yard? Well, maybe electrify the carport and put some posy containers along the front walkway this year, but the big plantings will await another owner. There will be no swimming pool, nor will the huge dog run get irrigation and new sod. Snookums gets new teeth this year, so that depletes the discretionary spending. And that is just fine with me. I just want to write and grow moss.
And I have wrestled my ambition to become a novelist down to the mat for a three count. An essayist is all I will ever be. But that aint so bad. I guess. Essay on!
Soon it will be time to drive to the shul, to sweep, vacuum, scrub and change batteries, then return home to a neatly laid Shabbat table for the beginning of Shabbat at sundown. New Moon follows New Moon, there is evening, and there is morning. The seasons flicker by like an old peep show being cranked too fast.
But life cares little for an old mans opinion, and breezily goes on, with him, or without him.