As Country Joe put it so eloquently in my youth, I feel like I’m fixin’ to die.

He was referring largely to the Vietnam war, and I am referring to nothing much except the prospect of old age and an increasing orthopedic pain level and general angst and anxiety. None of this is particularly logical. But it’s interesting. Because it’s real, and it’s happening, and it’s now.

Is this a common occurrence, something that accompanies the latter stage of life? I just don’t know. The sensible course would be to be thankful for every day, live to the fullest and fuck the rest. Honestly, I am not opposed to this. But something in me goes elsewhere. And I really can’t explain it. Except that COVID-19 has a lot to do with the phenomenon. But not everything. The presence of a pandemic, a very nasty virus eating away at normalcy, tends to put a certain coloration on reality. It’s coming for you, this thing. But which thing? The grim reaper which is coming for all of us? Or his viral emissary? And does it matter?

Hard to say what to do about all of this except express. Get stuff out in the open and shake my head in disbelief at the stupidity of fellow humans. The response to COVID-19 is, in some quarters, downright medieval. Very interesting, though. Clearly there is something unsatisfying about science. And why? Too much work could be one explanation. Or in this economically and socially divided nation, too closely associated with the elites. The social order famously collapsed during the Middle Ages. Perhaps this is happening again. Doesn’t matter. I won’t be around to comment either way.

I would certainly like to. Imagine missing history. Which I managed to do quite thoroughly during my university years. Never mind. Now I’m living it. As long as I’m living. Which is hardly an impressive discovery. Meanwhile, we find meaning where we find it. I sat down to another online version of Rosh Hashanah. Happy new year, by the way. And in the middle of the Zoom celebration I rolled down the hill to my café, Cup. There Sam and I discoursed on the neighborhood supply chain. We have one bakery in Glen Park. The baked goods are of high quality and sold in the local market, the cheese shop, but not at Cup. Apparently, the owner is rather difficult to work with. I didn’t want to get too involved in the details, yet I couldn’t resist. What else am I going to do?

Get involved in climate change, that’s one answer. See friends, that’s another. I still have quite a few about, although many do not live in San Francisco but in the surrounding region. Now I don’t drive. I grow old, but I keep writing. Do I miss driving? I suppose. For whom the bridge tolls is no longer me. Meanwhile, I await the voice of editorial doom. Any day now I expect to get my manuscript back from its current evaluation. I may soon look back on these careless, unstructured days as being some sort of golden era.