Here I am in These titles mean nothing.

It’s almost 2 am. Gracie got me up. I hadn’t been in bed long. I’d stayed up.. doing what? Last night I played a bunch of old country music videos on the computer with the understanding that I was still using up last month’s band width. Was I? Who the fuck knows. When I done with them I listened to the middle of an audio version of LeCarre’s The Spy Who Came in From the Cold. That was his breakthrough hit book, the one that made enough money that he could give up the real life spy business. It was later made into a movie with Richard Burton and Claire Bloom. The movie’s not available for free, but I watched a couple clips of it on youtube.

I recently got Bloom’s book, Leaving a Doll’s House on interlibrary loan. The book was mainly famous for what she said about her relationship/marriage to Philip Roth. It was a minor Spare in which she outlined the misery she endured at the hands etc. of the great American novelist. He considered it bad manners, and I suppose it was.

Part of the fascination of her life is that she had a long affair with Richard Burton in her youth. She was one of the lovers prior to Elizabeth Taylor that he wouldn’t leave his wife for. She’s not very kind to him either. Or to Liz. In between Burton and Roth she married actor Rod Steiger, with whom she had her only child, a daughter who has some fame as an .... gotcha!.... opera singer.

I marvel at the idea that of those three men - Yul Brynner was a bed post notch as well - she had a child with Steiger. Oh well, such is life. It rarely turns out the way we want it to. Especially at approximately 2 am on a sleepless night.

========

I wish I wrote here more. I admire those people who write every day. I used to. I did it when I was busier. I suppose I had more to write about when there was more going on in my life. But I’m not sure that’s an excuse. I always write … something… somewhere… to some purpose… to ???? what purpose?… I have no idea.

I am old. After 75, it’s pretty much impossible to pretend you’re young. In certain ways I MIGHT be young, but I really doubt it. I used to think 78 was the ideal age at which to die. Old enough but not too old. I suppose it still is. It’s just that it’s getting so close. Somewhere between 18 and 30 months… is my math right? God there’s something else to worry about. I suppose the odds are I will live longer than that. Do I want to? Well not
really.

============

Hey, I have an idea for a novel.
Take me and my son. Who will take care of me when I’m too old. Who will take care of him? Why don’t we import a refugee woman?
Maybe that’s more of a movie.
Help me cast it.