It’s winter here, albeit a mercifully mild winter so far. I put on a jacket yesterday, then walked out of the house—right out the front door—without realizing that I’d left a pot of soup simmering on the stove. My girlfriend noticed the simmering soup. She shut it off and told me about it when I returned. My response was this: “Really? I did that?” I was surprised, of course, and embarrassed. And I was stubbornly skeptical, too. Even though I knew she was telling me the truth. My brain is soft and cloudy now. What parts were damaged, and what parts still work, is ambiguous—and will…
Moving is exhausting, especially when you’re older, as I am now. You have more tangible things to carry as you age—more crap, more junk, more history—and more intangible things, too. I’m in the habit of getting rid of things now, instead of moving them. “Junking” is an exhilarating, soul-cleansing exercise. I put something in the dumpster and I think, That’s gone from my life now. Gone forever! Why the hell did I carry that around for all those years? What a damn fool I am! But, like a soldier who loses a limb in battle, even when I throw things out or sell…
