I find it difficult to concentrate these days. My mind is wandering back to days gone and forgotten now. The bad old days. When life was more interesting. Seat of the pants.
The first writing professional writing assignment I ever had took me to Louisville for a poetry and writing festival put on by Ron Whitehead.
I went to see Jim Carroll reading from The Basketball Diaries. At the reading: Hunter S. Thompson. In the back. Smoking that long, thin cigarette and drinking out of a martini glass.
But I’ve written this story before and the further I get away from it the less the story entertains me. The years have passed. I’ve put together some good stories. I had a good run through.
But I never stopped to ask myself where I was running.
Until now: when I look around at what I’ve put together. And I feel old.
Not in the way that my body has fallen apart or my mind is gone. I’m young, healthy, vibrant. Mostly. Enough so that I get up every day pretty happy with where I’m at in life.
So not in that way.
But my stories. They are old. They stopped. Somewhere they stopped being new.