The anxiety and physiological tension that's engendered by constant connection to the internet makes so many experiences and life modalities unavailable. So many good, even divine things can only happen in a state of relaxation, openness, and receptivity. I'm sitting by the bay in a lawn chair.
I was running sprints in the grass and now I have a glass of Fernet, and I have a nicotine mint in my lip. I'm reading a Chekhov biography. The day is kind of cold and overcast, but I don't mind.
There are birds singing, and there's a boat in the distance. The bay is metronomic. The Chekhov biography is not well written, but well researched. I enjoy coming across the contextualized interpolations of Chekhov's letters and stories.
The book’s about young Chekhov, Chekhov in the 1880s. I'm closer in age to dead Chekhov than young Chekhov. He died at 42 or 43. I'm 35. Mozart was dead at 35. Shelley was dead. I think Byron died at 36. Schubert was dead. Shakespeare only had a few more years of productive life. He would basically retire in his 40s.
Yet it's so relative.
Tolstoy was just settling down into married life and really just beginning his prime as a writer. Wallace Stevens was preparing his first collection. Whitman was putting finishing touches on Song of Myself.
Mid-30s are Rorschach years. Depending on how you look at them, they could be young or old, depending on how you've lived. Depending on the velocity and trajectory of your life, they could be young or old. I feel neither young nor old.