Almost

What does it mean that I feel most alive these days when I am writing? Or rather, what does it mean that I don’t feel alive unless I am writing? I’ve been working on the final chapter of my new book. The chapter addresses issues of immortality, an issue I am consumed by these days. At my next birthday I finish my sixty-first year; I would leave something of myself besides my children, perhaps. Though wouldn’t they be enough as a legacy? Alas, that isn’t what I’ve been writing about, however. And therefore, not enough. If, as I have been thinking, immortality resides in the moment, I want to fill my moments, and writing seems to be the way I most want to do so. The writing engages me always in the present; it helps me think, to occupy the minutes and hours, and lead me to tomorrow. Because I always want to leave the writing at a place where tomorrow it will be easy to begin again.

In the mid-west, people seem to willing to get in the car and travel. Oh, North Dakota, seven hours, no problem. Hey, meet me in Chicago. Its only six hours. I remember reading Allan Shawn’s autobiography--about being agoraphobic. He speaks of his horror in traveling distances in his car when suddenly, panic would overtake him and he would have to turn back and return home. His book is entitled, “Wish I could have been there.” I don’t travel much myself. I suppose I don’t like the temporariness of it, or even the temporality. I like having my feet on the ground, or perhaps serving as the anchoring place for my children.