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Iíll be forty-nine tomorrow. One year before a very scary birthday.
Almost five decades of sapience (still wish I knew why my vocabulary switched toward the Latinate some months back).
How would I sum it up? Long stretches of ignorance punctuated by moments of insight. Reexamining my sexuality has seemed repeated encounters with confident simplicity. Iíd always thought my life full of close self-examination. Self-mockery is an almost secret pleasure.
I donít much regret that, at least in the abstract, the wise and foolish alike have always flattered themselves with their self-understanding.
Humanly enough I have regrets. I wish Iíd read more. More accurately, I wish Iíd read more of what Iím reading now: history, literature. I donít think my life wouldíve been better lived, but a greater storehouse of knowledge and images would seem a good in itself. If my sexuality had revealed its full complexity I wouldnít have necessarily been happier but Iíd have had more options. Maybe more failures, certainly more possibilities.
My successes? Iím not dead yet. A small claim. I took more risks than many: crime, criminals, drugs, I was deadly careless with my health. Plenty have been braver and are also alive.
Being alive will have to do. A cheating answer, isnít it? I own my own used bookshop. While I live not much better than a churchmouse the only person I answer to is myself (and Gordon). And sometimes I find a way to describe my past precisely and honestly. (It doesnít matter that the words will die with the web pages Ė Iíll be gone as well.)
Anyway, my private Doomsday Clock moves forward another notch.