too early

6:53 a.m. Have to be in early to work for a meeting. Black outside. I can hear the sounds of I-240 more clearly this morning. Because of the rain? Does humidity serve as a sound conducter? If I stare out the window, I can make out vague outlines of things, a car at the curb. I cannot see the tree, only that I cannot see a part of the car. I do not hear rain but the windows were wet when I went to open them. A cool air drifts across my work table, spills down across my legs. Sip coffee.

Today is my elder daughter's thirty-first birthday. Happy Birthday, Cammie. I gave her the Wilde book I had acquired from a friend to give her. Leather bound. Old. I got my Medicare card in the mail yesterday. Making me, I guess, officially, old. Some of us of a certain age were discussing the concept or definition of elderly and decided we were not it. The word is used by some I believe to be softer way of saying 'old.' I think old is more encompassing. The not-so-old, the really old, the very old, I think of the very old as the elderly. Then there's the senior thing. I do feel OK saying 'I'm a senior' at Greenlife or asking for senior tickets at the movie theatre. There is of course the notion that old is only a state of mind. 'You're only as old as you feel."
And what does that really mean. What should almost 65 feel like. How do I know if I'm feeling 65 or 42 or 73? What's the difference? I don't 'feel' significantly different than I did ten, twenty . . . years ago. A few more aches. The hip stays sore for longer periods. The hair is whiter. I don't know that I've lost a whole lot more. I can't see the bald place, but that's been there for a long time. I guess I do tire more quickly while hiking. Spiritually, it doesn't seem much different than it has seemed for years. (Here comes a school bus, it's not the one for my neighbors.) Since, as they say, I cleaned up my act.

Ah, all is visible outside. It is a small pickup truck on the other side of the sycamore tree. The street is still black. I hear the kids gather on Chestnut Street. The tops of the trees are involved is some sultry dance. The sky is a dirty cotton cover over the earth. The truck sounds have gone away, or are masked by other ambient sounds not audible over my tinitus.

We are cutting this short today. In honor of Cammie!! Because I have to leave early for work and want to get on with the work of the novel. #2 in the "Rick Ryder" series. Maybe some of that will wind up here.

Namaste.