In all the years I have written this blog nobody has ever asked me what a Ringcircus is, they just assume that Big and Ring go together. Language is ambiguous though, and you can’t take the words coming out of someone’s mouth as proof of comprehension. It’s kind of like that first psychedlic experience where the letters of your own name unravel in your mouth until they make no sense to you and therefore you make no sense to you and therefore you question the very essence of who you is, until thankfully you realize that the you having these thoughts must be who you are and therefore everything will probably be fine, unless you look in the mirror. *disclaimer (or so I have heard.)
I’m reading the biography of David Foster Wallace, Every Love Story is a Ghost Story, and let me tell you (the real you) that being friends with that guy was no picnic. At least I understand why Infinite Jest just sort of quietly whimpered out at the end. That was the whole point, to have no climax. It wasn’t anticlimactic, it was aclimactic, and supposedly there is a difference to be appreciated there.
So 23 was a really good year for me, 1993, with a discman and a Nissan Sentra a young man could rule the world. Priorities were simple and clear- more fun, less work, don’t think about the future. I still stand by that strategy, although it wanes in popularity.
93 turned into 94 and every step took me further away from the shadow of Mt. Teewinot in the darkening light with a new pair of bootlaces the closest thing to health insurance, and the indulgent weight of a Sheaf stout reassuring against your lumbar, the snap of a twig so loud you cringe when it cracks against the silence. Oh easy times.
“Do you ever wish you were young again?” My wife asked me I suppose in response to the effortless calisthenics of watching babies do yoga. “No honey, no way! Never do I want to be so wide-eyed and stupid again, so sure of myself when I clearly don’t know enough to close my mouth in the rain when looking up.” Young again? Ridiculous! Honey we are young, and getting younger every day. here we sit in the sweet spot of old enough to know better, too young to care. In charge of our path, comfortable in our own skin, and a dependable friend on which to lean. No my darling, I do not want to be young again.
But I lie, and she knows it, and we keep that secret together.