Will life get ahead of me?

All these times will change
I can’t turn away
Planes are heading home
When old friends are gone

I thought that after I left Austin I’d be able to write about it. The Ruta Maya years. Before Austin began becoming San Francisco in industry and (relative to the local cost-of-living) rent prices.

I followed the rule that one can’t write about a city without leaving it.* That writing hasn’t occurred yet. Partly because I haven’t focused on it the way I need to if I plan to actually produce something someday. The other part being I haven’t pushed it. And I’m too old to believe inspiration will strike – can wait until death for that to happen. It would be nice, though.

Dane, my old Air Force brat friend from Keesler AFB in Biloxi, messaged me on Facebook last night to note how negative I seem to be and check on me. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t planning to “off” myself.

I’m not, for the record.

We’re pushing through. Many things may seem – and many are – extraordinarily disappointing and maddening, but we’ll make it. If nothing else, Misty and I have faced no end of obstacles during our time together. There’s always another hump. I fear the day there isn’t one will be the day after I die. It would be really nice not to be constantly fighting to take another new hill. Could be worse: Could be Sisyphus.

It was nice chatting with Dane. Even if it did make me wonder if I should be happy. If that’s even a possibility.

When it comes to dry wit, I was in the zone.

At one point he asked how I was voting. No matter how much of a privileged angry white male I may be, I still won’t throw my vote to Trump or a third party. But, as I explained to Dane when he asked if I wasn’t curious just how far down we can go, my expectations of her are little different from those I have of Trump. They’ll both take us down. It will just be more slowly under Clinton. And less offensive. But more insidious for that. Neoliberalism will still rule.

Which reminds me of an example of neoliberalism’s effects on personal interactions. Another friend, a fellow former politico, posted on Facebook a note explaining to an unknown-to-me friend why he’s a Democrat. It’s a long post, and some found it very affecting.

At the end, he copyrighted it. Permission was given to repost it on Facebook with attribution.

How deranged is the world when our friends find it necessary to overtly tell us not to steal their shit?

That they fear their work may be used to their friends’ financial advantage?

Your Life: One Big Financial Transaction

That’s neoliberalism for you.

Reminds me: There’s only one thief in the Army. Everyone else is just trying to get their shit back.

We all know I’m a nostalgic.

I enjoy wanders down memory lane. In particular, I like that bittersweet heaviness on my heart.

I sometimes get sad during those inner wanderings, of course. It isn’t a wanderlust that wants to return to those days; I have no doubt that back then I was saying I couldn’t wait to be older. But aging is strange. The mind – or, at least, my small mind – ages far slower than time passes, it seems. I’ve learned more, but I’m, fundamentally, the same person I was at twenty-years old.

For someone who, like me, loves of reminiscing, the Web is truly a gift. We can keep in touch with so many people.

Even with all this technology and connectedness and other libertarian Singularity trash we can’t always stay in touch with all those we wish we could. Time or distance or relationship or life. Sometimes we block people from our lives; others block us. Either can be heartbreaking.

As Misty likes to say, “You’re welcome.” Given our generation, Generation X – that small in number, large in impact generation between the massive Boomers and Millennials – created the Web for all intents and purposes. Trust me: You wouldn’t be surfing around an Internet merely full of white-on-black text. Not to mention the devices used to access it. I’ve been filling up the Web with original content from as far back at 1995 or earlier. So, yes, you’re welcome.

I’ve always liked Douglas Coupland’s description of one’s twenties. He described those years as “nothing but muck and shit and pain and horror.” At least, that’s how I remember it, and I’m not going to look it up because I like that version.

Maybe as we grow older the first three adjectives don’t change but the last one does. We’re rarely horrified by the things we experience and see each day. Maybe it changes to “sorrow.”

*I’m fully aware it’s not a rule. Nor is it true you can only write about a place after you’ve left. I should know: I’ve spent years writing about the places I’ve been. 

[I’ve been slowly, painfully and regretfully (to you) trying to get an entry up on inadequate. This is what you get. Not editing it. Took all day to get this junk out of my system. Let us hope things improve soon.]


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