The fourth enemy

Feeling fatigued. Blood sugar normal. Blood pressure a bit high. Conclusion, dehydration. Once upon a time I didn't have to monitor my body. Didn't have to be constantly aware of the key measurables. I was, what do they call it, oh yes, young. Before the gout. Before the asthma. Before the diabetes. Before the 40 years of unhealthy living began to take it's toll. It was a simple life. Obviously not a life well planned or maintained, but simple nonetheless. Then the 40's came. First glance of the final enemy, old age. The only enemy that will never know defeat.

No Fame Please

Now that I'm writing again I've come up an interesting conflict. I've come to realize that I don't want to be famous. Of course many people who have read my writing would argue that fame isn't something I need to worry about. Writing is my hobby. While I want people to read my works, and give me an honest opinion, I am really just writing for myself.

Some argue that my attitude is a cop-out. Saying that I don't want fame as a way of rationalizing my lack of success. Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm just too much of a coward to take on the responsibility of fame. If I write a book and it's a huge success and I go on all the talk shows, then what? Then I have to write a better book or all those people will say I let them down. I've already learned that if I feel like I have to write something it looses its joy and joyless words interest me not.

Besides, have you ever met a happy famous person? I met one, but that was Paul Newman. Every other person I've met who appeared anywhere on the scale of fame was either an emotional basket case, a total asshole or in some cases both. In my most recent encounter with fame was on the N-Judah streetcar. This guy got on that I recognized from a TV show I recently watched. He strutted down the aisle looking from side-to-side for any sign of recognition. When he got none he frowned and slumped into a seat. His claim to fame? He's a finalist on American Ninja Warrior. Obviously the world should be at his feet.

Carlos Castenada wrote about power, warning to be careful because most people do not wield their power but rather are ruled by their power. Look at Donald Trump. His power has destroyed all that was once human in him.

So without fame how do we measure our success? I have a wonderful family. A funky roof over my head. Dogs to keep my lap warm. Bike rides in the park. What more could I want?

Writing Again

I haven't written in a long time. It's OK. It's not OK. It's both. Circumstances and brain chemistry removed my desire for creation. Floating in a purgatorial funk for many months. I can't call it writer's block because that implies that I was trying to write but couldn't. I wasn't trying to write. I wasn't even upset with myself for not wanting to write. It was OK to not want to write. Perhaps my writing time had passed.

Deep down I knew it wasn't OK. I felt that if I let this go that something within me would die and it could never come back. Life couldn't be the contented void that I saw stretching out before me. Then I went to see my doctor for my annual physical. After the usual pleasantries and standard medical inquiries she started asking me odd questions. I answered the best I could, not knowing where she was leading. Then she asked me outright if I thought I was depressed. I told he no, because I wasn't feeling sad. She pointed out that my answers to her questions pointed to an overwhelming apathy. As someone once said, the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference.

So after two months of medicinal trial-and-error fraught with a staggering array of side-effects, I suddenly find myself not only desiring to write, but actually writing. The words look so beautiful forming themselves on the page. My fingers dance over they keyboard like the embrace of a long lost lover. Better living through chemistry.