Jane is in a giddy or happy mood today as she is finishing off packing last minute items before we move next week. We will load her van with the necessaries of a vital trip — cpu, monitor, printer, essential files, cameras, lighting fixtures taken down only to be put up again, the GPS, “Trixie,” my meds and a sling brief case in which resides my next book in rough draft, “Working Through the Holocaust.” We don’t have much furniture but only critical pieces and art work and boxes of Jane’s books, for I am beginning to realize more and more as I dwell deeper in love with her that she is extremely intelligent and very good natured. I am fortunate to have found her late in life. She complements the jagged sides of me with softer clouds of her nature for she is a rarity, a kind individual.
I just finished taking lab tests to check for cholesterol and whether or not my hyperlycemia has evolved into diabetes — it has not and I have 128 for a cholesterol count which is terrific. So, I have escaped the guillotine once more. Medically I am sound but I do have to watch my diet and exercise, so what else is new at 68? Am I 68? Where was I? I live each day as if it were my last without screaming or shouting or thumping upon the floor. I have thought that living one’s life with vigilance and attention does not mean that Pluto veers off course. I just have the intent to enjoy doing whatever humdrum things that come my way. On the horizon is a new edition of the Tetralogy and a new book of short stories which may very well be the best I have done. I continue to write for in writing I determine who I am as I chanel and canalize my interior selves into a stirring and roiling Mississippi. I am feeling joyous about curbing my enthusiasm which is a Jewish characteristic, I feel. I “Larry David” my existence. I engage existence in dialogue and question, for I have been so conditioned. Only last night as I examined the lint of the day within my mind I realized that I speak to myself in the same tones I do when I verbalize. But it is more than that. I wondered, perhaps you do, what is that voice that goes over things in mind, that perseverates, that feels outrage, or mutters curses. What a curious phenomenon to talk to one self in dialogue, in association, choosing, opting, making choices, deciding, reflecting, musing and self-muttering. This ability we all have, some exercising it more or less than others, is something to behold — or feel — or experience, is it not, reader? We talk internally to ourselves. Is there a creature on this planet who operates in such a way other than homo sapiens? We may never know. And can we, or I, take this process and make it go further, improve upon it, or grasp it better so that it evolves into other ways of thingking or consciousness. While in bed last night I conversed with myself and the whole operation of it was quite splendid. I will observe and attend to it more and report back to you at a later time. Don’t dismiss it as naivete or a cliche, for there is not a human being alive who has seen his heart or brain and yet we know these organs run for us? We are in many instances controlled organically so that consciousness may exist yet we have no control over so many things in our lives? And what should we learn from that?
The mist is clearing as I write. The moving transition to Nevada is being organized by Jane and I down to Jane’s working on graph paper to locate what furniture goes into what room. It helps. The paint job is done yet unseen, the carpeting will be laid Monday and we will have to wait until mid-week to actually see all this, counting upon strangers to make our home pleasant. Appliances come later in the week, Cox cable, and the whole rigarmarole of making entry into a new adventure. We are ordering things, at least I am, on the internet –a fireplace screen, a standing bedroom mirror — to placate my anxiety and to give me comfort. I have always had a rich man’s taste and a poor man’s pockets, but that can lead to creative choosing, working delay to one’s end and the magnificence of immediate gratification. If I had to choose between barbecuing, going to a football game, riding a Harley or deep sea fishing, I would choose to buy a print, an oil, a book, an antique or a fine piece of jewelry for Jane. I’ve always been attracted to art since I was mesmerized in art classes while in college, learning the differences between Doric, Corinthian and Ionic columns. The Greeks said it first and said it best. When you look at a Doric capital you see the weight of the whole universe resting peacefully on that thrust of marble in eternal repose. No Ford Ranger for me. I have been smittened.
Give me the most precious thing of all — time, give me writing utensils — I adore fountain pens, give me time to think and reflect, give me Krishnamurti and Existential philosophy, give me art, or a beautiful hand made rug, give me a great movie, give me Conrad, Freud, and especially Kazantzakis, and I will not ask for much more in this world, other than bagels, bialies, a Charlotte Russe, Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews, a sleek Duncan Yo Yo, a Raleigh 3-speed English racer, circa 1953, a good mitt, good packing snow, an American Flyer sled, any Lionel trains from the 50s, cold seltzer from a glass decanter, and an old-fashioned soda jerked cherry lime rickey (real limes, please).
Passively and aggressively as my nature is, I have flowed between both shores in my response to life. I dwell within and act out aggressively when that is disturbed. It is my nature and when I talk to myself late at night I examine it and all that I can observe, given the limited powers of my mind and the very idiosyncrasies of my existence. When I fantasize, I know that I would rather pass by an epiphany on the next street corner if I could enter a store and come to a philosophic understanding of my life, for meaning has always played a significant part in my existence. Call it a neurosis or characterological if you will, but meaning made me detest teaching and all that dreadful conditioning; it made me an enemy of all authority except that self-imposed upon one’s own self. Meaning gave me struggle and ardor and intent and ambition and all the qualities of the search; meaning gave me discontent which I rather cherish, for a contented person is a slob. And with that, I part.
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