last time i wrote, i feel i slipped into it. maybe not. i haven't re-read it. basically, i hope i said, books make us human. and oddly enough, the readers of them are the winners. alas, i seem hardly able to finish a volume, browsing, browsing, browsing. am i looking for the answer to my existence, why i only get one time at bat? hey, come on give me another chance! the echo of so many stories, so many poems.
since language what i'm passing to the next generation, if i could just invent the perfect word, not yet known, the perfect phrase not yet written. our's is the age of artifice. or we're the generation waiting in the lost and found. unfortunately, only going viral on the internet would prove i've made my mark.
i remember a lecture on science. the professor drew an amazing mathematical formula on the board and pointing to the very bottom, said, 'you'll be lucky to add one number, one letter, to the history of the subject." alas, i thought, i can't even figure out my income tax, and i've basically no income. that's why they invented the zero, for me.
no, i don't really feel that bad about myself, and after i vanish i won't feel a thing, all ambition truly vanitas. on the other hand, i'd like to be cheerful. trying taking more prozac didn't work. i became unsteady on my feet, tumbled down the steps of the back deck and rammed my head into a tree. that did drive a bit of sense into me. i cut back on the anti-depressant. too bad, because it let me laugh more easily, speaking to people i didn't even know.
what i've noticed: as folks grow older, they tend to project their own decay on the world. i think i finally succeeded in making pictures of this, i called them nostalgia. ah, if memories were enough, we'd all have some embalmed.
nostalgia: http://www.pbase.com/wwp/nostalgia
