I feel old, really old…and I suppose I am. More importantly, ennui remains upon me. It is not that I am suicidal, it is that I simply see little good on the horizon, which, given my age, becomes increasingly closer.
It is the 20s and 30s Paris ennui that affects me. I look at my writing and find it without a single glistening facet these days. Poetry seems now to elude me. Once it flowed freely, in both classic and free form.
It was perhaps triggered by an instruction from my physician to purchase a blood pressure monitor, as that component of my body is sky high, for the first time in my life. Or, perhaps the continuing burden of my ex-wife.
There are continuing bright spots, however. My sons, of course, and my puppy.
The news has an impact; not much brightness there. And, for me, more importantly, the manner in which it's delivered by so called "journalists" (we didn't have "journalists" in my day, we had "reporters," and certainly no colleges teaching that trade).
I look at my local papers and see virtually no news judgment; yet the New York Times remains a pleasure. Of course, there's little to watch in terms of electronic delivery.
Another bright spot is the iPad my sons gave me for my birthday. It's easier to read my my Kindle and, far more useful, though 90 percent of my work on these electronic typewriters is at my desk.
It is a cold day here today, in terms of weather…and I wonder if life will become colder before it becomes warmer.