The act of
reading books –
of feeling weight,
texture; of
hearing a turning
page; the smell
of paper and
ink; the sight of
black type on
creamy white
paper. Eyes, and
hands, and knees,
and brain, working
together, to
recreate the
physical process
of writing the book.
Thoughts turned to
words on page
turned back
to thought.
But here, on
this kindle, words
flow effortlessly
across the screen
and into my brain.
Have I lost
something
or gained
something?
Writing my
autobiography
lets me rule
a line under
my past and
decide what
to do with
my life as
I approach
three quarters
of a century
I took the road
less followed,
and found
land mines,
trolls, bandits,
potholes, mud
patches, fallen
trees, and then
my car broke
down. Next time
my way is the
highway.
There should be
a term limit set
on how long some
ancient, historical
grievance can be
used to justify
slaughtering
people today.
Perhaps I
could call my
autobiography
“The Old Man
and the C”?
Reading the
life stories of
the famous
achievers of
the past and
present, you
reach a point
where they broke
through, became
recognised,
touched by
genius, ranked
among the
immortals of
literature, or
science, or
film, or art.
But my
breakthrough
moments
were papered
over, muffled,
erased from the
historic
photographs.
So I remain
disappointed
and unknown,
and largely
anonymous.
Do I really
want to spend the
declining years
of my old age
in learning all
there is to know
about collecting
stamps?
At my age
every day
of the year
is an anniversary
of something
or other, but
mostly I no longer
remember of what.
Just as well,
in many cases,
sad loss in others,
but I don’t
get to decide
which will come
back to me
with the sound
of wind in the
chimney, the taste
of a cake, the smell
of wood smoke,
the light of
a full moon,
the touch of silk.
Is every country
now faced with the
prospect of its
own version of the
Spanish Civil War?
When I am gone
no mirror will
ever reflect
my face again.
