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.