Slowing Down

I have these moments sometimes when my brain seems to be telling me something on the lines of Scotty's immortal lines in Star Trek: It's the engines. They just canna take it captain. In my case recognition that I can no longer ask of this old frame the kind of things that were once fairly routine. Case in point: at the end of the first couple of days of work this year I found the muscles on the insides of my thighs aching just from the effort of getting around - especially climbing steps. By this time I thought I had got over the initial shock, only to find the same thing today after a weekend away from the heavy action - and this despite remaining fairly active on Saturday and Sunday.

And, of course, things are not likely to get better.

Yet the odd thing is I can't honestly say I find myself terribly upset about this state of affairs. Almost the reverse. I'm coming to regard each day as a kind of raid into some kind of semi-forbidden territory, where surviving successfully is a massive unlikely plus.

Not dark yet but (sort of cheerfully) getting there. (According to Alex Ross's essay on Dylan in Listen To This you could actually pick up a bumper sticker with the Bobster's immortal line on it at Dylan gigs in the late 1990's. Wish I'd been there to do so.)