ME AND BOBBY McGEE

Pen and ink sketch of my wife and McGee

          It's been quite awhile since I've written anything in my blog, so, with little or nothing on my mind, let's see where this goes. It's like sitting in front of an easel with a big blank canvas while the brushes and paints wait impatiently. As I check out the texture of the canvas, squeeze some colours onto a palette, then lift a brush, visions like dreams begin to formulate within the imaginative corners of my thoughts.  

          I'm alone, only a puppy for company, which is lying curled up asleep in the kitchen. His name is Bobby McGee but we just call him McGee. We share the same room, eat and sleep together; he in his bed and me in mine. Although he's great company, the quietness that abounds is absorbed like a sponge and emphasizes the ringing in my ears - not what one would call a perk for becoming old - seems like everything is going south and it's a very slippery slope. Because of the life I led during my younger years, especially my racetrack years which were similar to a carny, some of my friends actually taking bets on how long it would take before being killed on my motorcycle, plus hanging with dangerous people, I'm somewhat surprised that I'm sitting here. One summer, during my early 20's, 5 friends were killed; one of them my best friend. Luckily for me, not the young girl working at Burger King he'd picked up, he missed a turn, most likely in a drunken haze, crashed his car and was decapitated; the girl remaining in a veggie state for the remainder of her life. Could easily have been me because we spent a lot of nights drinking, carousing and carrying on idiotically, bottles of beer our best friends. It's amazing how fragile our lives really are and how much we take for granted strutting around like silver-back gorillas pounding our chests as if we're so tough and indestructible. I imagine like a lot of men, we all had our close calls and they like me, wonder how they survived and got old. 

          My wife is away for 2 weeks and the first two days felt that way but I'm becoming used to being on my own. The way I am now, if I were able, I'd get away from me. I used to be a fun guy, physically active even (wink, wink) until cancer struck. This time last year, just before the second operation, I was hobbling about on a cane concentrating on not falling down and now, even though I'm still about a quarter of the man I used to be, I can actually run if you can call it that - I imagine I look pretty funny, but hey, I've come a long way. 

        The problem with being this age, the future is short and becoming shorter, certainly a lot less time than the past. I find it's easy to start feeling sorry for myself and depression is like a peeping-tom trying to find its way in through any available crack. When it begins to impulsively and tenaciously shove its toe in the doorway, I quickly turn my thoughts in some other direction, actually any direction than down - who needs a downer? A sense of humour helps but not always - I may be laughing on the outside but my eyes can't disguise my true feelings. The mind may be clever at hiding its emotions but the soul has a way of reaching out, escaping its bounds.

          The puppy woke up and I can see by the way that he's looking at me, it's time for his evening poopoo-peepee walk and playtime out in the snow. Time to go...cheers, eh!