growing_old.jpgThe barely mine beloved teen-aged self, even with his super-power of Optimism, could never have predicted me.

My character is psychotically optimistic. That spring of optimism might not unwind for a while. The tension of optimism seemed an accurately positioned catapult to a positive future, to teen me.

Five years old boys will argue with older brother in the doctors office about how they are not culpable for the childishly ignorant actions of their self of last week. That self was outgrown and the moult was long ago discarded.  They have matured since olden times.  The sixty-something in the waiting chair won’t notice the seconds hand move. He is Q, outside of the impotent little changes little people invest in.

I’m a normal example of common neurosis. And like anyone, I get old. You can get irascible, for comfort. Hate works, and is recommended broadly.  You get a niche from which to extend out, with comments, opinions, and feelings.  A critic is a person who chose the security of knowing that his home is where he left it.  A conservative critic knows that his Universe supports his security, and people should follow up with bolstering security.

Getting old is a statement.

I’m not telling you values.  You choose that. (No, I lie. I try to hint so as to invoke direction.  A compass in a forest is better than a forest in a compass.)

I’m eating karma; my possibilities are limited by plastic neural networks.

I wished better for my 41 year old self. But time gave twists my 17 year old self had no way to guess – good twists. Twists that make him a bit romantic and well intentioned.  As if what he knew would create what he would be.