I’m sitting in my car; it’s going to be 106 today.
What is the trajectory?
When does my age intersect with bulbability
I used to think my age an advantage with the declining world;
So we’ll all gang together…
But now I’m seeing, unlike past elders who had to test their life alone,
Now it is confused/conflated with the end of times.
My window is open (it’s going to be 106 here, today; what will it be next year? The year after? I’m 72, if I last till 75, what will it be then? 80? Shall I have my end-of-world drugs ready by then, lest my age outlasts my comfort?)
After the previous to last sentence, a dried leaf flew in my window, resting companionably now against my arm; I shall grow old; whether or not trousers rolled.
Outside two men hold a discussion, a little girl playing with chalk on the sidewalk at their feet; on the radio (to counterbalance the convo outside?)a discussion of race with the producer of a movie on Rodney King: Let it fall, Los Angeles: 1982-1992.
Outside, there is haze; more wild fire? We are burning; we are flooding; we have been discovering the very clay feet of our heroes; maybe end times is no time for heroes. Stand on your own clay feet! Heroes inevitably remind us of our own.
Is there authority?
I am in my car, listening to the radio, desultory typing, resisting entering the coffee house at the shore where it serves those entering / leaving town by water.
What a privilege to sit here, you have no idea, with a soft breeze dancing on my shoulder; what a breeze to sit here, listening to the radio in a car whilst typing on a machine that is so beyond the original edition I banged on, over 50 years ago!
The coffee house has coffee, and lovely views, but no breeze, and people; hard to focus on writing with swirling people energies. Ah, the ferry is just pulling away! And what a privilege the thought that I could board that ferry and, in an hour, be in the city of delights and dreams! (If you ignore the homeless and the desolation in the quarters where they dwell.)
It is now 3:24 p.m.; it is now 107 where I am (in the Bay Area); someone in Spain, close to the Atlantic coast, reported 117; I remember 117 from a brief dip into Baja California in the late ’60s; I cried; that’s all I was capable of: crying.
I just walked outside to see what 107 felt like; it was okay, especially in the shade…for the three minutes I was out there. I don’t have to work out there, unlike the two fellows I saw digging a ditch or some similar work, a few days past. Is it legal to make people work out there in this temperature?
I hear people saying: bad, bad humans! You are not a good boy! Yet, I repeat, is there agency? I mean, we didn’t all gather together and decide to be bad; it takes a lot of chutzpah to take credit for how bad we (meaning the earth and those that dwell within) are; where, exactly, do you throw the spanner in the works? Believe me, if I knew, I would! But, seemingly, we don’t know; we just blindly show up, from moment to moment.
More thoughts, I’m sure, to come.
En tout cas: Who do we think we are, that we can resolve the mystery of existence so as to prolong our life here, because we are so special? Maybe we are special, but that doesn’t mean we escape disintegration; end times; extinction; whatever colorful name you like to give it…. Or that we know when, and how. Sorry youse all who anticipated our earth growing older and wiser under an ever-more-yellowing sol. It will be how it will be, independent of “us” human be-ins. And then again, who knows?
Be at peace: Nothing is under control.