I wonder when old starts. Is it a number? Or an attitude? Or maybe it’s just a natural shifting of priorities. Whatever it is, I think I’m old now, and I like it. It’s so damn sensible. For example, it used to be that if I was driving somewhere, my objective was to get to my destination without wasting any time getting there. It was like there was an ongoing scorecard or something. If I would speed up to anticipate a light change, and then scoot through that light on yellow, that was a victory. If I got stopped by that light, it was a defeat.

No more. I only have one objective now when I drive, and that’s to not run into anything. If I decide to slow down or stop when I don’t really need to, that’s always the reason why. (What makes this possible is that I no longer think of time spent waiting for a light to change as being less valuable or less important than time spent with a loved one or playing poker or whatever. Another oldness trait perhaps?)

It’s the same with cooking. I used to be in a hurry to just get it over with. Eating was, in my mind, more often than not, an inconvenience. Now I take my time feeding myself, and my prime objective when working with food is to not draw blood.

And then there’s exercise. My objectives used to be all the usual stuff. Now all I hope for and aim at is to pay enough attention to not injure myself.

If growing old means hurrying less, and risking less, then yes, I am consciously making myself older every day, because I want to acquire more oldness, right away!

The loudest thing right now is the heater that turned off a few minutes ago and is still making lots of little metallic sounds as it cools. It’s an old heater. I take that back. The typing makes many more and louder sounds than the heater. The brightest thing, actually the only bright thing, is the lit stick candle next to me. I’m not at home this morning. Kay and I did a sleep over at a friend’s house last night. We had no intention of being awake at midnight, but as it turned out, we almost were. Before that, the artists in each of us here agreed that as numbers go, 2012 is a better number than 2011, by quite a ways.

We felt that

2012

looks better than

2011

and that

two thousand eleven

doesn’t sound nearly as good as

two thousand twelve

Not that 2011 was a particularly good or bad year, or that 2012 holds any sort of promise. These are numbers. They contribute to the landscape when I see them, they join my thoughtscape when I think of them, and they appear in my soundscape when I type them.

Good morning 2012. I’ll be seeing you around.

Dear universe,

Thank you for having condensed a speck of your matter and energy into the temporary little collection of biomass that I affectionately refer to as “me.”

Thank you for all the other living biomasses too. And the dead ones. Especially the ones I eat.

Thank you for all the hardships and hassles and agonies and injustices and all the other shit you constantly dump on me. Without them, how could I ever appreciate this perfectly pain-free moment that me is experiencing right now as me sips yet another glorious coffee? You’re a clever lot, universe. Me knows your game. Thank you for letting me play it long enough to be able to play it well.

Love,

Tommy