WE CALL IT AGING

 4 of 100

To carry on the codger conversation of yesterday, my whine of the day is groceries. Specifically, why are not baggers routinely given even a cursory lesson in bagging groceries. Common sense is the main principle to be considered. The nice fellow who was ostensibly trying to help me chose to put wet and heavy and things in a paper bag when I had a canvas shopping bag equally convenient. I had to ask him to rebag things, which he was willing to do, but he still managed to botch that. See, this shows how old I am. And also crotchety and likely to remain so.

I seem to have sleeping sickness. I turned out the lights around midnight, falling asleep, readily enough, to Cocaine and Rhinestones. I woke up at 11:25. There were telephone calls and texts, but I have amazing dreams in the morning as I am sleeping most deeply then. And it feels so good, particularly on a grey rainy day without Sol's inspiration to move. 

Not much got accomplished today, but I did get Janet out for a walk, notwithstanding the cool temperatures. I did some reading and a couple of smaller chores, but I need to stay on the progress-making path. Getting my reading mojo back is one of the larger goals of the year. Looking for those small victories.

Meanwhile, Big Bang Theory's laugh track echoes through the house.

"Beneath the surface, the progressive sixties hid all manner of unpleasantness: sexism, reaction, racism, and factionalism. It wasn't surprising, really. The idea that drugs, sex and music could transform the world was always a pretty naive dream. As the counter-culture's effect on the mainstream grew, its own values and aesthetics decayed. The political setbacks of the coming years grabbed the headlines while the dilution of ideals happened more quietly, but nonetheless vividly for those who noticed."

— Joe Boyd, White Bicycles: Making Music in the 1960s, Serpent's Tail, London, 2006

Yep. And just look how all of that peace and love turned out.

IMPERFECT

The gradual wearing away leaves us alive

but unintelligible. We call it aging or growing up,

ruined by love, broken and marooned by sex.

Seeing a resemblance to the three-speed Raleighs

that are the best bikes of their kind ever made,

but the factory’s closed and the ones that turn up

at the Goodwill are so rusty I decide against them,

continuing to desire and grieve. Time runs out

for the objects of my longing. We are out of focus

and we are fresh. Like the eroding wonderful kore

which more and more looks like something natural.

My boyfriend asks why I am laughing (as if I had

done something unfitting) and I have to explain

that I am happy to be painting the river

and dipping my brush in it at the same time.

— Linda Gregg, The Sacraments of Desire, Graywolf Press, St. Paul, MN, 1995