This is all I have. I'm on empty this morning. Every broken bone in my body hurts. I have mud in my brain. Not an ounce of wit. I read that the man who discovered why we can't have eternal life died today. He was in his 90s. Cells wear out. That's what he said. They can only divide and reproduce themselves a limited number of times. He set our upper age limit at 125. Later researchers would discover that the ends of our DNA molecules have protective caps called telomeres that become shorter with each replication. They unravel.
Ain't science grand?
No amount of exercise or special diet will save you. That is what he said. And yet, we are in the time of diets and exercise routines. Everyone, it seems. And Wegovy.
I should be happier, though, that I'm not an astronaut trapped in space with no way home. At least there are two of them. I am stuck here on earth in a capsule on my own.
Can you imagine if they get pissed off at one another, arguing while trapped in space?
There is that, at least.
I tried for a little adventure yesterday. Late. I took a long walk at noon, the absolute wrong time to begin a long walk here in the sultry south. I came back by way of the Boulevard. It was filled with the hoi-polloi. And me, wearing a torn t-shirt, limping slowly, belly heaving. Small children would point and run.
Home, soak, shower, and then. . . .
I went to the cafe. When I walked in, the room was warm. The line at the counter was to the door. I saw the owner standing in the hallway keeping eye on his PhotoBooth, that little golden goose. Last time I saw him, he thought I was the television and movie actor. It was strange. I decided things were too crowded, hot, and weird, so I turned around and went back out the door. But. few feet down the sidewalk toward my car, I heard the owner's voice.
"Were you going to get a tea?"
"Uh. . . maybe."
"Do you want a tea?"
I was guessing that he was going to get it for me so I could skip the line. Maybe he was still thinking I was the actor.
"I was thinking maybe a mimosa, but it is too crowded in there."
"Yea. . . that's why I'm getting out," he snickered.
Small talk ensued, then we both got into our cars and left the scene.
It was early, sunny, a pretty day if you were in the shade and not walking long in the sun. But I could think of nothing else to do, so I turned the car in the direction of my mother's house.
She was on the couch lying down when I got there. She was not feeling well. Telomeres, maybe. She sat up, then we went to sit outside. She picked up a bit, but barely. I talk but I am sure she doesn't hear more than fifty percent of what I say. Maybe less. I pick up a broom and sweep out her garage. I go to the grocery store to get her something. I tell her I will make a seafood stew for Sunday.
Back home. . . the cat. . . the Campari. . . the usual. I make dinner. I watch more Sierra Ferrell. I'm obsessed. There is a seemingly endless supply of live video concerts. You can watch her evolution over the years. I think about the popularity of What's Her Name, the one with the football player. I don't understand it. Rather, I think, I do. Listening to her music is like a Saturday afternoon trip to the mall. That used to be popular, then Covid hit and the malls never really recovered. Now we have What's Her Name.
But, I'm told I am missing something, that I just don't get it. I can only agree. Maybe I'm obtuse.
It is still light outside. I'm antsy but I don't want to go sit at a bar alone.
A Van Morrison concert comes up. Boy, oh boy, he is good. What genre of music is it, though? I don't have a name for it. Ferrell plays all sorts of music, Spanish Gypsy Tango and a whole lotta waltzes. But I don't have the musical vocabulary to describe the music of Van Morrison.
I go to the bedroom to get my guitar, but I have forgotten that I broke a string and have not restrung it. Disappointed. I was ready to be a musical wonder once again.
Maybe I'll get some guitar strings today. I wish I'd learned to play better and to play more instruments. As with most things, though. . . I was lazy. I always thought "natural talent" would see me 90% of the way there. I've always believed I have a "natural talent" for most things. Not pole vaulting, though. I tried that. It scared the shit out of me.
I'm going to make my naturally talented seafood stew today. We will have company for dinner at my mother's. She needs me to drive her to do some financial stuff this coming week. She is going to need me more and more.
She worries about me. So do I. We have that in common. But tonight the stew will be good and there will be wine and crusty bread and we will listen to samba and Brazilian jazz.
So. . . I was too curious. I Googled it. Now I know.
Much of Morrison's music is structured around the conventions of soul music and early rhythm and blues. An equal part of his catalogue consists of lengthy, spiritually inspired musical journeys that show the influence of Celtic tradition, jazz and stream of consciousness narrative.
That's a lot.
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