The big 48. Last year I remember relaying my distaste for the age of 47. It is an ugly number, certainly, but it follows that 48 is ugly plus one.
I feel better this year than I did last, less sedentary. There is that, I suppose. I rode my bike underneath dark cloud cover to Kenwood and back yesterday, then to the gym. I would do the same today, but the clouds have surrendered their weight. I awoke to the sound of rain several hours before I abandoned the bed.
I explained to the boy last night that soon he would start to need to sleep exclusively in his own bed. He didn't seem to care for this idea very much. He and I are great buddies and he does not yet understand the need for independence, either his or mine. I'm supposed to help him develop the stuff, but my version of independence is not always the good kind. Mine is sometimes the version that just mumbles, Get the fuck away from me.
I should perhaps develop the more well-mannered version. The one that says, Please, please... leave me alone. Not to the boy, of course. I mean that I feel this way about most of the others.
I sat at the local pub yesterday and had a few beers. I can be a social guy and the pub offers the closest approximation to socializing there is around here, at least during the daytime when one can enjoy casual discussion, or none. I had taken a few days off from work and did not adequately itinerate to make better use of my time, which left me doing much of nothing for 4 days. I suppose this was fine, though idle hands are the devil's sex doll.
Speaking of carbon-fiber sex dolls, I wish that it was not raining on the likely day that I'll get my new bike. The front tire and brakes of my Kona sat out in the rain last night. I covered it, but not well enough. Soon I will be forced to decide which bike gets to stay in for the night. I'll make them jealous of one another, as if they are both hopefuls sent in from farming country, seeking the comforting stability of an arranged marriage, pandering to my casual whims and needs, desiring the security of my loving largesse.
I, now their Patron, their New Father. Daddy-Q.
I wonder at what age it becomes too late to be a cult leader. I want a campful of people wandering around, doe-eyed and smiling unnaturally, all calling me "Fatherland..." or some other creepy and almost non-sensical name. Is there a cutoff for that sort of thing. I hope it's 48.
It seems that every one of my interests (photography and cycling) in midlife have a cultish air about them. Cycling more than photography, but they both are made up exclusively of dedicated initiates after a point. I do fear becoming involved in group riding on the weekends. Everywhere you go around here you see these demented packs of riders that have tried to color coordinate their lycra and ride in a semblance of order. I've been told that it's a real carnival of egos, those little clusters of riders vying for position, led by some little weekend-friendly fascist.
I suppose that I should wait until I have my own experience before I am relaying the opinions of others. Gaining experience of a thing sometimes too heavily taints the opinions that I prefer to hold concerning it. As a little joke, I used to review books before I would read them. I'd jot down a paragraph on what I believed that I could expect from it in advance of any reading. I have a notebook around here with little book reviews written without knowledge of the works in question. I should pull out some of those old notebooks, the ones that document through scribbled piecemeal the scattered NY years.
Today, I should do that today....
Part of the reason that I took time off from work is that I needed to take a step back, to try to grasp some perspective on where I am and where I want to be. I feel far too frazzled in my daily life and my attention is spread too thin. I am trying to regain a sense of focus. It is not easy. Once you have allowed your attention to be distributed among competing communication channels it is very difficult to shut some of them off for the purpose of focus. Somewhere along the way I sought mainly a quantitative life, measuring success in numbers achieved. My sense of the qualitative was understandably diminished. I have committed to allowing myself more chance at focus.
One way that I'm going to accomplish this is by not fixing the broken screen on my iPhone. I have this little developing detestation for devices. I let things fall apart to try and convince myself that I do not need them. I am hoping that it might save me, this latest escape from escapism.
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