Life Du Jour
It’s coming up on a year and things at the moment are tentative. Tentative, what a benign word. Fucking scary is a better choice. If I look at the Wells Fargo icon in my bookmarks, my stomach curdles. Things are that “tentative” at the moment,
I could be having iHop this morning and soup kitchen tonight. The ground is moving beneath my feet. Ssshhhaakin’ baby. As Jim Morrison puts it, “the future’s uncertain and the end is always near.”
Panic reigns supreme. At almost 71, I am somewhere no one wants to be. I have one foot on a banana peel and the other in the grave. Every day I have to play for keeps just to keep playing.
I have divested myself of all the accouterments of middle class living. Folks, we are down to it. We’re talkin’ death bed status here.
But let me take a quick inventory: Right now, I am lean, mean, surprisingly muscular and healthier than most horses I know. My insane hunger to not only survive, but thrive, burns through my veins.
My heart races with every key stroke. This is the shit, ain’t it? I live, therefore I am? Once again the windmill I am fond of tilting at, is outlining through the fog.
So who am I without my “stuff?” After spending years of having my flame smothered by indifference and routine, I’m finding my new skin fits pretty good. Clear eyes stare back at me.
With such a dire forecast, a reasonable person would do reasonable things, like try to settle a stalled divorce proceeding in hopes of a quick cash infusion, borrow some money, sell my guitar, or worse, get a j-o-b.
Nope. Not gonna happen. Wouldn’t be prudent. Let’s dispense with all that folly. Every time I think about how long I’m gonna be dead, those ideas go out the window with the bath water.
Nope. I… am… gonna… let…this… happen. Damn the fucking torpedoes. I just cleaned out my SUV so me and my two road warriors, Bailey and Izzy can see the world.
I will get my kicks on Route 666. Call you from there.