The quiet hours

Been doing some late night editing -- what else? -- and spent too much time trying to figure out why my html code wasn't working, only to discover, finally, that there was an extra, unwanted space in a file title. The computer is always right. When something doesn't work, it is ALWAYS my fault. A little humbling. Eventually I discover what the problem is but when it takes a while, as here, it can be frustrating, and the longer it takes, the more stupid I feel.

I've been thinking about what happens to this journal when I decide to retire from it. That must happen one day -- either by necessity or by choice. The editing job is not at all traditional. The staff does that sort of thing. My job includes a lot of additional tasks peculiar to online publishing, such as HTML coding. I use software, of course, but nonetheless, a certain literacy in coding is required, and this may make it more difficult than otherwise to find my successor. Of course, I'd want to pass it on to someone already on the staff but I'm not sure anyone has the coding skills necessary. We'll see when it's time.

My ankle has been hurting enough that I popped a couple of pain pills. I avoid taking medicine. Always a last resort with me. The same attitude gives me mixed feelings about all these so-called medical blessings that have been given us. I believe in quality over quantity, and I'm not at all sure our quality of life improves just because we live longer.

Of course, having outlived my closest friends, I wonder why the hell the gods have passed me up. I see nothing in my history of behavior that deserves special treatment. I'm in a constant state of wonder and curiosity, expecting the end at any moment, a disposition that H thinks is morbid. I don't. I think it's realistic and practical. Why spare me? Doesn't make any sense. I'm clearly no paragon of healthy living. I'm enjoying my extended visit -- "life is a nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there" (did Bob Dylan write that?) -- and will take all the years I get, but it still puzzles me that I'm still around. Dick and Ger, for example, my two best buddies, lived healthier lives than I have in some ways. Why did the Big-C single them out? Luck of the draw, I suppose. When something doesn't make sense, it doesn't make sense, period. I've been lucky.

When it is over, there's no reason to grieve. Quite the opposite. I've gotten a longer visit than I expected or deserve. I try to make the best use I can of it.

But when it's time, I don't want any goddamn prolonged misery or any "the cure is worse than the disease" bullshit. I'll do everything I can to avoid that. I'm not interested in rolling the dice for a few more years of anything. I've already had the best possible visit. When the end is in sight, then let's end it. I hate pussy-footing around.

I used to think I'd be working until the end but lately I've realized an actual retirement might be pleasant. That is, forget about my own work and just relax and appreciate the work of others, all that literature and music that has sustained me for so long, just reread and enjoy the oldies but goodies. I don't have time to do much of that when most of my energy goes into my own work. Making a daily hobble to the coffee shop with a book in hand might not be the worst way to spend old age.

Ah, such musings flow through the brain during the quiet hours!