#43

My mind has been scattered in a dozen directions this week. Lot’s of things to think about to stress over. I’m aging, not only numerically, but physically. You know it’s true. I appreciate the well-intentioned truth suppressing, but we all know what the mirror and the medicine cabinet plainly state. Over time, the lines and aerodynamics slowly change. We can secure the sheet metal and wax the paint, but there is more to wind play than tight fenders. One can bore out the cylinders, and cheat the cubic inches, but there is more to horsepower than displacement, and we all know it.
Perhaps the best we can hope for at this point is to have bits of ourselves used in the building of a new muscle car, the construction of a more efficient, reliable, powerful, state-of-the-art wind-interacter. That’s why I’m a teacher, I guess. One of the most rewarding things in life is to have someone recognize some value and ask if they can use some of your parts to help pimp their ride.

And so we impart.

So I’m spending this morning sitting here writing at Rising High Bread Co. on Main Street because the Subterranean Cafe is closed. That's apt, I guess, because with a little leaven, perhaps I can. Who knows? I can certainly think of hokey things to say just when I ought to be serious. For example:
Someday I’ll fly, someday I’ll soar, ‘cause I’m younger than my body gives me credit for. Perhaps bigger too.
Anyway, hokey as you might think this song is, it certainly speaks to my thoughts on such a day as today.



So, there it is.