Was I too harsh in my comments about the muse that abandoned me? At times words gush from my keyboard as water from an open hydrant. The experience having a drought of ideas or productivity gnaws upon my sense of self worth. I hear the admonishments of my parents. To them, laziness was a sin. They believed that the idle mind was the devil’s workshop. I frequently sang that old hymn about seeking salvation, “Work for the night is coming.” At this late age I still attempt to assure myself that it is OK to be non-productive. I reassure myself that even Saint Paul had periods where the things he wanted to do he failed to do. These failings of the Apostle were always fraught with a nagging conscience.
In my previous communication I raised the possibility that I might learn something from not being productive. Many people have expressed some admiration in my apparent ability to accomplish and multi-task. Little did they know about my skills of procrastination. Confronted by demands I would almost always comply. However, I frequently resisted until the last minute. I recall many dexedrine laden nights of cramming for final exams. I even have incorporated the anxiety of those experiences into a recurring dream. In these night visions of my younger life I am scheduled to take a final exam. With some desperation I am unable to find the location of the test. I unsuccessfully attempt to discover where to go. Then I realize that I don’t even know what the course was about. Even the demons of the night refused to give reprieve from the programming of early childhood.
One of the impediments to sharing my thoughts is a demand I place upon myself to say something important or relevant. My son encouraged me to write these blogs because he felt I had much to contribute from the vantage point of my many years. By and large I have enjoyed the experience and feel that sharing whatever wisdom I might have is a contribution. However, I must allow myself to write ideas that are not profound and even stupid or trivial. I’m certain that my readers would allow me to be inane from time to time. I assure them that I would gladly be inane if I could be hilariously funny at the same time. In a more serious vein I must acknowledge that both the profound and the inane are part of my identity. To show only some side fails to portray the real me.
One facet of my thoughts I want to avoid at all costs. I insist upon not being repetitive. Sometimes my children suggest that I need a new script writer. Their comments have validity for some of the jokes I tell. In other things I try not to repeat myself. Repetition is a common practice of many persons in their dotage. Lacking new experiences older persons have only their past to draw upon. They often inflict upon others repeated narrations of the same past memories and exploits. I pray to the literary Gods to help me avoid that trap.