Journal - Wednesday Morning, Burnaby

Struggling with a sore throat that’s getting better .  Often means I’m working too hard, stressed or cursed.  I’ve been reflecting on personalities.  I’m letting go of past persons. I identified as the poet, writer, dancer, then cyclist , then outdoorsman, canoeist, and finally offshore sailer. Then it was fisherman and big game hunter. And the guy who dressed in gowns and attended functions with the mayor, camp or seriously, the college actor. Always the healer, spiritual seeker.  Then the motorcyclist, the Harley Davidson’s.  An arbitrary achievement, bicycling across Europe, motorcycling across Canada and US to Sturges South Dakota, Dancing on Television and in England, training with the world champion,  provincial champion volleyball and gymnast.  Life guard, rescuer diver, shitty golfer.  Sailing solo in winter across the Pacific through hurricanes then sailing the Hawaiian islands.

Always the imposter syndrome.

Sober now 28 years.  In this time of year when the last divorce and last drink was occasioned. Is it all identification with the aggressor The betrayal, the back stabbing, the lies and then leaving that behind.  Rebuilding a life.  Letting go of things that began before and carried on. Sailing, camping.  Missing dancing, missing university libraries.  Remembering telescopes and microscopes.  All the elders dying alon with friends.  The dogs and cats remembered.

Now I’m thinking of letting go of my Harley, maybe even the Vespa too but the Harley was a personal as well The ship is gone. I’m now the Jeep guy with a motorhome.  I no longer do surgery of deliver babies. I don’t build decks or repair roofs,  I don’t climb masts.

I imagine there’s less testosterone and more estrogen. 

I rmimisce so fondly of the hard cock and listing her up with my hands on her thighs and her back against walls, indoors and out, lowering her on my cock to be impaled and carrying her till orgasms.  Youth and strength.

I struggled to get off the floor.

Think of seeking the 300 winmag short coyote with the zeiss scope I thought to shoot 800 yards though the longest kill I made was at 600 yards and the moose were at most 300 yards.Now I’d only shoot something at a 100 yards because the last deer I shot at that distance took me hours to get back to the road and loaded.

Getting old is not for the young. Takes to much courage wisdom and sorrow.

Blow jobs and bottoms are the sunset of life.  The joke goes that the young wife says to the old guy, ‘let’s go upstairs and make love’ .  His reply is ‘I’ve told you before I can only do one or the other.’

Bits of identity attached to activities and friends,  Going into old areas of work with fresh young faces beaming back reminds me of “What about Schmidt’.  I still have thousands of files

My back hurts. The chronic pain wears. The many injures I laughed off come back to haunt,  Riding down the road with the motorcycle riding me,  Pitchpoling cars down ravines.  Plane crashes and climbing out the sides of the ship and sliding down the twisted wing.  Fight in jails and asylums , wrestling the dangerously insane back to rooms as other come to help. Bring hit by cars and flying off roofs on bicycles that saw their last day at that moment the man ran the red light.  Miracles.  So many NDE’s and gratitude. Thank you Jesus.

A cute pain, the 12 guage pellets hitting thigh, the punches to the face , the falls from trees and twists and then acute pain.  Cute pain.  Not like the ugly pain of chronic pain, waking to experience the nerves screaming as one turns over to climb out of bed. And I once climbed mountains.

Hide weakness. Hide aging.  The invaders raped the women and kill the old men.  My own government is pushing MAID like a new toaster or laundry soap.

I turn it around. Each day reapeat gratitude lists. Am thankful for the day but uncertain about the future. Once I’m moving everything is better Walking the dog outside I come alive.  I’m thankful I’m above the ground.  I believe in life after death but today think it’s my time I’m inspired by the older mentors and now admire my father who did 20 years past this point, a great explorer . I see his signs more and more along the way and know how hard it was for him to carry on.  He did for me.  And I don’t have children . So I’m just carrying on for family friends and service.  I’m blessed.

I laughed in a frock and enjoyed t shirts sandals and short shorts.  I remember the bliss of dancing in the streets. Hippies.  Long hair.  Girls impossibly beautiful with breasts that made Mary Magdalene blush. I was always with the best of men and best of women though there’s always a Judas,  Authorities and Romans and Phillistiens and parasites.  They’re such a minority.  The wise avoid them and carry on, I’m working on forgiving,  I’m letting go.  

Surrendering to destiny, old age, limits of the script.  I have been blessed. Thank you Jesus