Turning 51 tomorrow. You may now insert tried and true reflections on mortalityin the form of homilies about aging well, the beauty of autumn, a mature perspective on life, and how while one blossom from the tree falls, another blooms, and all that crap. I just read in Patrick O'Brian: "the caution of the elderly, proverbial" or something very like that. I'm not elderly yet, but getting more cautious. It's a desire not to screw up so much as in the past. One cliche I fully embrace, like a grandma kissing a hallmark card from her granddaughter, is "If only I knew then what I know now." This cliche is not however fraught with Hallmark-card-style sentim entality, but is instead redolent of regret, ruefulness, even remorse. If I get into that mood, reflections on my past become one long HOmer-Simpson-going-"DOH!" Man if only I'd known how to speak to editors, record producers (John Hammond Sr for Christ's sake! He wanted to make a record with me and I fucked it up!), if only I'd known to watch myself, to observe myself mindfully, so that I *think* before blurting, why then, two of my former best friends (one quite famous) would still be my friends.
What's that you say? Unattractive whining in a public forum?AN utter waste of time? I'm supposed to say I regret nothing, I did it MYYYYY way? Horseshit. Remorse is the first ingredient for self transformation. It's like an alchemical solvent that softens material otherwise too ossified to be re-shaped. I believe in regret--up to a point. NOt to the point of self destructive wallowing, no. But there's a kind of personal Lent or something at times in life. (read more...)
-John Shirley
“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he ...
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