Wind Surfing along pavement highways

I’ve been doing better, but this bug has got me under its thumb to a degree, just with the sinus.  Must be the season this year, because I’m not usually an allergy sufferer.

I’ve picked up on a few old projects.  Spent the evening chatting with a good friend in D.C. who made the point that I don’t like to finish things.  I told him that I simply don’t like things once they cease to be challenging.  It, however, gave me a moment of pause and there are several loose ends I need to clean up.

In part, keeping my writing to myself, as I have been, is part of my secretive side.  I like things compartmentalized and tucked away from sight.  Thousands of things, millions of things.  I was the child who wanted to hold the lightning bugs in his hand and keep them just so I could see.

When you have nothing, you make treasures of memories and relationships.  I’ve come a long way from where I started life, but the habits are long-established.  I like to replay things in my head, and in some degree, wound myself with their poignancy.  I sometimes play things in my head in the quiet moments, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve made it less of a habit.

I can’t change what has come and gone, and more importantly, I can’t hold onto ghosts.  My father.  My numerous failed relationships.  The ONE relationship by which I judged all of the others.  My sister.  My friends.  Those strangers I could never figure out.  My mother.

I have a motorcycle, did you know?  I’ve been spending time getting reacquainted with it.  I find, that when you hit 80, with thighs gripping a fatbob, most of those ghosts can’t hold on.