Forty-Two: The Answer to the Meaning of Life
Thank God for God! Because he gives us all second chances at being who he wants us to be. (And third chances, and forth, etc. )
It seems that about every five years or so, I come across some new epiphany that completely shifts my perspective about things in the world, or about who I am, or how I behave or think or... whatever.
I certainly changed a lot from age 5 to age 12. Then again between 13 and 18. Same for 18 to 23, 23 to 28, 28 to 33, 33 to 38, and now again at 42. Each one of these stages in my life is marked by particular bookends of experience, each of landmark porportions (at least for me--in my life). I won't bore you with the details.
But it keeps happening. As if were being honed or groomed or sharpened like a blade. But what the heck for? I don't know. I've never known. When I was young, I never knew what I wanted to be "when I grew up." Maybe that's why it took so long for me to feel like an adult--like my parents were adults--instead of a teenager stuck in a man's body. I had no clear idea why I was on this earth. And to be honest, I still don't.
I will admit that it has always seemed to me that the way of the artist seemed the clearest path, but also the one most fraught with peril. The term "starving artist" exists for a reason. At times, I thought seriously about becoming a musician full time. I've dabbled in painting (which I sucked at) and drawing (a little better, but not much). But when writing came along, (came along! I've been writing creatively since about 1978, though only seriously for about four or five years) it seemed I'd found something that fit. Something that seemed "grown up." Is it? I really couldn't say. Maybe all "artists" are just people who have issues with growing up.
What was the latest bookend to mark yet another stage in my anthropomorphic journey?
Wouldn't you like to know.
It seems that about every five years or so, I come across some new epiphany that completely shifts my perspective about things in the world, or about who I am, or how I behave or think or... whatever.
I certainly changed a lot from age 5 to age 12. Then again between 13 and 18. Same for 18 to 23, 23 to 28, 28 to 33, 33 to 38, and now again at 42. Each one of these stages in my life is marked by particular bookends of experience, each of landmark porportions (at least for me--in my life). I won't bore you with the details.
But it keeps happening. As if were being honed or groomed or sharpened like a blade. But what the heck for? I don't know. I've never known. When I was young, I never knew what I wanted to be "when I grew up." Maybe that's why it took so long for me to feel like an adult--like my parents were adults--instead of a teenager stuck in a man's body. I had no clear idea why I was on this earth. And to be honest, I still don't.
I will admit that it has always seemed to me that the way of the artist seemed the clearest path, but also the one most fraught with peril. The term "starving artist" exists for a reason. At times, I thought seriously about becoming a musician full time. I've dabbled in painting (which I sucked at) and drawing (a little better, but not much). But when writing came along, (came along! I've been writing creatively since about 1978, though only seriously for about four or five years) it seemed I'd found something that fit. Something that seemed "grown up." Is it? I really couldn't say. Maybe all "artists" are just people who have issues with growing up.
What was the latest bookend to mark yet another stage in my anthropomorphic journey?
Wouldn't you like to know.
2 Comments:
You got a dog? (Terrier, no less)
Who is this? J? D?
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