I have rendered myself sweetly reasonable. I sat down thinking I had something to write, either about today or the things that have been going through my mind this week about the future, about what I’d like life to look like. But there’s really nothing there right now.
I think perhaps I should stop buying books and just go get a library card down the street. Maybe they have some Bakunin at the Montrose library. At the moment I’d really like to just crawl in bed, but it’s a bit early yet, and the dogs would likely object. I may do it anyway.
I still fantasize about a small house by a river in sight of the mountains with books everywhere and a small garden and an orchard. At times those dreams seem more like a way to punish myself, but that’s more a problem of attitude than anything else. I’m half a bubble off level, baby. If I live long enough, there will be something on the other end of all this. I’m still unclear about what life looks like without dad and the farm and my mother over on French Street. I called a realtor today to put the house over east of the Front Range on the market, as I don’t see myself living over there or renting it out either one; it’s too much like west Texas, for one thing.
Everything is screwed down so hard and tight at the moment that I’ve lost interest in whimsy and imagination most of the time. I’m not bitter. I’m just not the emo kid I was in my thirties anymore. I’m not unhappy about that. I’m interested in a few things, and that’s enough. I’m curious every day about something or another. I’m reading again in fits and spurts. In the last month or so i’ve read “The Last War Trail” about the Utes of this area, “Notes from Underground”, and Hamsun’s “Hunger”, and now I’m reading Bookchin’s history of the Spanish Anarchists from 1868 to 1936 – all good reads. I could dream about gardening again, but there’s not much point in it at the moment. It would just bum me out the way seeing a dog on the street used to bum me out when I had no dog of my own.
I don’t think about drinking or getting high and haven’t for some time. It’s just not part of the picture, so there’s no euphoric recall or feeling of missing out to ponder. I suppose I should be happy about that, and I guess I am, but it’s really just something that doesn’t cross my mind lately. It cost me everything dear, but I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. I’ve been stripped of a great many illusions and attachments over the last three years, at first slowly and then in a very precipitous fashion. It’s been jarring, and I was gutted for a while from the change if nothing else, but I feel lighter in every sense as well.
I’ve been looking forward to being old for quite some time, and I’ve finally become what I dreaded and it feels welcome.
okay, so I just bought three more books on amazon, including Kropotkin and Bakunin. I’m not upset about that. I do what I want.