I'm worried, you see, about what my day to day life is going to look like over these next twenty years. I'm guessing I've got another twenty years unless something unpleasant comes up, another twenty years of taking responsibility for my financial and spiritual well being. The male family history makes life after 77 seem problematic so my concern is for keeping a sense of spirituality intact, keeping my interest and wonder alive. For now, my days seem to work. I'm suspicious saying this, of course, the old bullshitter emerging, that I'm kidding myself, just bringing up the subject sounds suspect, but I still feel it's a good idea when I get up in the morning and although my job has become stale and I need to do something about that, I want to keep the good to get up feeling going for as long as I can. I'm lonely now and then, of course, Sunday nights sometimes as I'm drifting off to sleep, but only some Sunday nights. Otherwise things remain interesting.

Now, another ten years of what I'm doing now, ten or twenty years of my current routines, how long are they going to hold up? Nothing stands still. How many old farts do you know who got careless and left their brains on a bus one night when they were younger, never missing a beat? Brain dead and cranky? Good reason to kick the tires and check the oil now and again, ponder this business of holding onto the interests I have now and try to encourage some new ones just in case. How do I do that?

Odd sort of thinking. Not something I did when I was younger. At some point I realized I was going to be an old uncle character who never married. Curious, the column I wrote in college was called Uncle Robert. Maybe I knew even then. What images do you have of old uncles who never married? Eccentric is about as good as they get, often alcoholic, kinda interesting until they get older and turn into curmudgeons. Cranky old curmudgeons. Half an odd couple. An old guy with a cat. I can handle that, but I if I go the curmudgeon route, I'd like to have a halfway decent time of it. There was always a certain thought over the years that one day I would find a partner. Nothing too cosmic here, you understand, just, you know, one day, a partner when I'd come to terms with life and existence. I don't think that's going to happen. Routines, you know. You just get out of the habit.

I meet someone every now and again whom I find interesting and attractive, but it's been a while since the last and it wouldn't surprise me if there weren't going to be others. Routines again. You get out of practice. You compromise and settle for a photograph. You've heard women say that all of the good ones are taken? They're right. I'm honest, trustworthy and brave (although I procrastinate) and I watch the parade without lifting a finger. Routine. Habit. Maybe there was a Ms. Right once, but she probably got tired of waiting and married a nice copy writer from Darien, Connecticut. Or she walked into a bus. Or the corner on which we were to meet was under construction that morning and we detoured without greeting. It becomes ingrained. Routine. Habit. Except for the bus.

So I'm sitting here keeping an eye on the life, reminding myself how interesting this living business is with our without my endorsement, how amazing it is just to get out of bed, the very concept of bed (which I must repair before this long weekend is over), sleeping, getting up, stars in the sky (oh my), birds in the trees (oh gee), kitty cats in the kitchen yowling for breakfast (oh shit) how amazing these things really are in the first place. These and black and white photography.