I can gauge the general state of my spirit by how much I am inclined to get mad at myself. Dropping something and observing ‘pig’ being a prime example. But example of what? Some sort of profound disappointment. That I have failed…to be master of everything, it seems. That I have spent so much of my life at the mercy of a body I can’t control. And now that control is waning even further. And I hate it.

What did I think was supposed to happen? Or more precisely, why can’t I be happy with what there is? Acknowledging that what there is almost wasn’t. And now having half a century more…well, it doesn’t get any better. Does it?

Fear seems to be the driving force.

So here’s how to drive that force…away. Drive your car. That was my major objective this morning. Naturally, being retired and purposeless I set off with a sort of mission. The Mission. The district, that is. The Bank of the West near 24th St. The nearby pharmacy. Buying a couple of tomatoes from a street-front market. Exciting stuff like that. But damned if life didn’t throw a spanner in the works. Vis-à-vis memory. Mine waning, of course. No, I bopped out the door with my phone but not with my wallet. No money. No way to buy anything. So I drove home, parked and sort of began again, this time in my own neighborhood. After all, I could accomplish most of what needed doing right around my house. Stay home, I say. Or, as Thomas Wolfe put it, you can’t go home again.

He was right. No sooner had I wandered in the door that I wandered out. This time, to procure cappuccino for my wife and, of course, for me. Retirement.

Meanwhile in Canyon Market, while the barista was having a go at the steam valves, I set off to buy a quart of milk. Which takes me, as it always does, by the daily samples. The tasters are a variation on a theme by dips. Salsas. Cheese dip. And, best of all, the frijoles. The latter, also a dip, resounds particularly well with its accompaniment, a crispy tortilla chip. Both of which are now heading from my mouth. Only to completely fail in their launch trajectory, frijoles now dripping down my T-shirt and even coating the exterior of the passport holder/wallet now routinely dangles about my neck…in the wake of the street robbery that also dangles about my neck. I am now beyond cursing myself with anything such as ‘pig’ or ‘stupid,’ feeling way beyond inept. No, now I am old, very old, and wear my trousers very rolled.

I head home. Jane and I drink the cappuccinos. She heads to work. Me, I head toward…another restart. Jane has helped me change my shirt. Yet there is no changing my attitude, only changing the scene. Which I do now by rolling, once again, out the door. Lunch or a late breakfast or whatever it is. I almost don’t care what I eat. Mostly where. In fact, entirely where. The local taqueria runs to masonite and noise. I opt for a better, smaller, more gemütlich Hispanic setting, the café I now frequent. The people know me. And right now knowing me is a challenge.