Speaking sensibly, I should be up and about doing things that need doing. I probably should be organizing the house so I can sell it and maybe move someplace sane … if there is any such place remaining in the world.
I’m not doing any of that. I’m writing blogs, reading blogs, reading the news and The New Yorker … and taking pictures of birds. Discovering that the gray-blue bird is actually a real Bluebird and the reason I didn’t recognize it is that it doesn’t look like the English Bluebird who decorated all my children’s books … and the blue tends to look gray in bright light.
I’m looking at the naked trees and wondering how many weeks before they have leaves and the doors that need replacing. The toilet that needs replacing. The dusting that needs doing. Wondering if I should call the doctor who is supposed to be setting up tests, but doesn’t seem to be doing anything and maybe I don’t care whether the tests are set up or not.
I’m not worried about the future because why bother? Will worrying about it improve it? I’ll vote. I’ll write. I’ll do the best I can. And if that’s not enough, I don’t have more to give. I’ve been doing the best I can for my whole life and while I was doing it, everything I did was getting ready to crumble into junk. And I wasn’t all that sensible then, either.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been particularly sensible. I do what I need to do to survive and then, I write something, read a book, take some pictures. Life will stagger on regardless.
Maybe that is sensible. You think?