Hello, dear reader.  I need you to be in my head sometimes, whoever you are, whether we’ve met or not.  Thanks for being there, because I’m sure you realise, it’s pretty pointless writing to myself.

Mostly I write because I’ve got a dream, a story, an idea – whatever – that needs to come out, but sometimes I write – to you – because I need to think something through, and need your help with it, and your very presence is the help I need.

I don’t know about you – well, aint that almost certainly the truth! – but when I’m thinking, I have loads of thoughts in my head, all jumbled up at the same time, and the only way I can bring any order to them is to write them down, because writing is linear, sequenced and, though possibly confused, supplies a path to walk down which may come to a place, a conclusion.

So, thanks for joining me on this walk. 

Getting Old?

I didn’t think I was old; not really.

66 had a symmetry I concentrated on,

Without any serious implications.

Somehow 60 had been a bit of a triumph;

I’d never thought I’d get that far,

Not the way I have lived,

So I was pretty smug on my 60^th.

50 had come and gone,

Nothing earth-shattering occurring,

And the other 0 birthdays

Were really just a bit of fun.

So, anyway, the being old,

Like for real,

I had managed to avoid,

Deep where it matters,

And then they turned off Big Ben

And I realised that I’d be 70

When they turn it on again in 4 years.

It’s ridiculous, because even as I write

I’m kicking against the truth of it,

Trying to find some way to stop 70

From being old, somehow,

Just oldish, or some such.

I mean, I’m 4 years away from it,

And there are no guarantees.

I want it to happen, don’t get me wrong.

I’m not excited about it, you understand,

But as I sit here, I sure as hell don’t want to miss it!

I believe in life after death in a very personal way,

Built up over all these wonder-full years,

From learning and experience,

And this belief includes

Having time after death,

Time somewhere else,

Doing other things,

And meeting up with folk

And - stuff I can’t get a grip on -

And then we come back – reincarnation.

I’m not a conventional believer, I suppose,

But I see little reason why anybody should be.

We are individuals, leading individual lives.

We make meaning of the here and now,

And the there and later (and before)

In our own ways, based on what makes sense to us,

And perhaps in an infinite universe,

With infinite possibilities,

We create our own universes,

And we’re all right,

In all our different ways.

I don’t know.  I don’t care.

It is as it is.

I suppose to support matters spiritual, or soul-full,

I attend church at the First Unitarian in Dallas,

Which is, if you’re interested, a non-creedal organisation;

Unitarian Universalists believe in a unity, not a Trinity,

And that all souls are universally acceptable

To what ever it is that we do or don’t believe in,

And I’m pretty much stretched / comfortable

With that place, those people,

Probably because I’ve never physically been there

And have no desire to go – and risk my illusions!

They / we / I try to:  Give.  Change lives.  Repeat.

Not a bad aspiration.

I’m only mentioning this because,

The truth is that if I was offered eternal life

Here, as a human being,

I’d give it a pass, because I’m happy with

What the future holds after this life,

Even though I don’t know what it is,

And I’m not ready for it yet …

Perhaps that’s the way a life examined

And enjoyed should be, as Socrates didn’t quite say!

It’s just that getting old, one gets a bit decrepit,

And the body starts to pay you back

For all the stress you visited upon on it,

During those wild and carefree years.

(There’s actually something quietly amusing,

In an ironic sort of way, about that.)

More concerning from my point of view,

Is the fact that the mind can go. 

Dementia scares me shitless, truth be told. 

I’ve always really enjoyed my mind,

It’s a pretty groovy place for me to hang out,

Though I appreciate fully that this

Would not be the case for anybody else!

So, the getting old thing isn’t actually about being older;

It’s about the consequences,

And pay back for past madness.

I want to be in control,

And less and less will I be –

The old cliché of second childhood comes to mind.

Maybe we need that, to learn true humility.

I recognise that when I was younger

I was no more in control than now,

In many ways probably less,

But I could con myself I was.

When one is young there’s an irrational,

But none-the-less real,

Sense of immortality,

And a delightful sense that one is going to

Take the world by its tail

And shake some order into it.

I guess that’s the crux of this getting old thing;

You can no longer con yourself you’re in charge,

And that’s … what?  A bit frightening?  Perhaps.

In some ways, though, it’s exiting,

You know, like when you first fell deeply in love,

And it was wild, passionate and out of your control,

Because your very heart depends on the smile of your lover –

You recall that wild journey?

Well, this is different 

But in some ways the same, I guess,

Since I so love life,

And am on a voyage of discovery;

And if I make 70 I should be humble,

For it is a privilege denied to many –

Actually, in the history of humanity, to most.

I need to see this whole business -

The journey of my soul -

As a part of a continuum. 

Maybe the Venerable Bede had it right;

A sparrow flies from the storm and dark

Into a mead hall, where all is warmth and light,

And then flies out the other end,

Back into the storm and dark.

That time in the Hall is life.

The journey before going into the hall,

And the journey coming out of the hall,

Are other parts of the journey,

The incomprehensible parts,

For which we have no road map,

Or flightpath.

For me, the sparrow would not be

Flying in from the storm and the dark,

But rather from a mystery wrapped in love,

And returned to after the time in the hall.

The sum total of the sparrow’s journey,

Or yours, dearheart, or mine,

Is not something we understand

Whilst we’re in the hall,

Though we ponder and puzzle,

And search for a certainty endlessly.

I’m not sure, of course, one understands fully

When one is not in the hall,

But I think that at least one should

Consider the journey

As an opportunity to learn,

And to grow in both understanding and grace,

Becoming incrementally wiser,

And more grace-full,

If at all possible -

And if one tries, it always is.

Unfortunately it’s not always easy!

One might say, however, 

What, worthwhile, ever is?

So, 70, if it is to be so,

Is part of a continuum,

One that did not start at 0

And will not end at 70, or whenever

My soul flies out from the hall

And into the unfathomable.

It should be regarded as no more extraordinary

Than 1 or 7, or 13, 21, 30, 40 – life begins at … what

A load of crap! – 50, 60, 70, 101, 32.5 … whatever.

Perhaps one should measure time in moments,

Or maybe breaths. 

(So you don’t need to Google it,

Dear reader, I did.  Around 672,768,000

breaths in a lifetime, if you live to be 80.

Hands up who thinks that vast number

Makes breathing look like hard work!) 

Years seem a bit more sensible, if arbitary,

Though one understands the turning planet

Makes it a bit of an obvious choice,

And a bit easier to conjure with than breaths.

Both are meaningless though, aren’t they?

That’s not how life should be measured,

How the milestones on the journey should be counted.

Perhaps, though, it becomes meaningful

If it is measured in events,

Both meaningful and unmeaningful. 

There may be, somewhere in our hippocampus,

A little counter which clocks them up,

An event odometer,

And during REM sleep you sort them

Into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ ... though bad

Can be meaningful too, I suppose.

You know that thing,

That your entire life

Flashes before you as you’re about to croak?

Maybe that’s us, winnowing

The wheat from the chaff,

The sheep from the goats.

(I find this latter expression difficult,

As I prefer the goats to the sheep.)

Though I am obliged to wonder,

As I’ve been about to croak on the odd occasion,

And even been diagnosed as having

Well and truly croaked,

And I have had none of these revelations.

I was, however, well looked after

When things were a bit crock, physically,

And I went somewhere else to get myself

Away from the discomfort,

And some ... thing? body? ...

Gave me love and succour,

Kept me warm, sane and secure,

And everything was okay,

And I knew, with all of me,

That it would be, 

Whatever the eventual outcome.

So, I have lived most of my life

With the two words ‘Carpe’ and ‘diem’

Front and centre,

And indeed nowadays

They are framed in a picture,

Kindly made up for me by a friend,

And are the first things I see in the morning.

I don’t know if the symbolism was conscious

Or unconscious, but each letter is written

Upon a playing card.

Grasp the day, in all its glorious uncertainty,

In a game more sophisticated and fun

Than any game of poker;

The ultimate game, life and death.

Quite literally, Give. Change lives. Repeat!

Maybe that’ll do, dear reader.

Maybe I shouldn’t overthink it.

It’s a moment in the hall,

One I should, and do, grasp daily.

And as that moment is viewed,

It carries within it a section

Of the known within the unknowable whole,

And that section can be viewed as a journey,

With the sparrow’s intial confusion on entering the hall,

And then he starts getting the hang of it,

Flying forwards, taking in the scenery,

Evaluating it and making sense of it,

Until he gets pretty blasé,

And on he cruises,

And the more he see,

The more he realises he doesn’t really understand,

And then he nears the exit point,

The place beyond which he cannot see,

Though he knows there is something there,

And still he continues,

Wondering what’s after the exit;

Reflecting on what was, what is and what may be,

Until at last, filled with the wisdom of uncertainty,

His wings weary from the flight,

He exits the hall to ...

Something not to be feared,

Part of the normal progression of the soul,

Where perhaps he can truly evaluate his journey,

And take what he has learned and place it

Within his learning and yearning spirit,

And then once more take to the wing,

And rejoin the most complicated card game,

There ever was or ever will be,

And his soul may die at birth,

Or live to a hundred,

Whatever the random game serves up,

And he can learn from that what he will.

So be it.  Amen.

Yep, dear reader, that’ll do.

That’s tamed 70.

Thanks for your help.

I hope it has been useful for you, too.

Alien Contact:

He woke, travelling instantaneously from a deep sleep

To high alert, and his eyes clicked open to the dark. 

Total dark.  This did not surprise him.  Nothing did. 

He knew not his name, where he was or why.  All he

Knew was the darkness, the danger, his will to survive;

And then another thing, he felt heavier than before.

He checked calmly what he could learn, running through

His body systems, one by one, completely still whilst

Checking their efficacy.  He studied then his environment.

His body was shackled, holding him immobile on a firm

But yielding surface.  He clicked his tongue loudly, twice. 

He was, he guessed, in a constrained space, not too small,

With no soft furnishing.  Gently he expanded his muscles.

The shackles withdrew, and suddenly light stabbed for

His eyes which he had closed.  Still he did not move.

A door opened, steps approached and nudged him softly.

In an instant he reached out, caught hold of something,

And as he leapt suddenly, heaved upwards, hard, and

Opened his eyes to slits, taking in the grey room, the

Grey door and the grey creature which lay unmoving.

He knew very little, but he knew he had not seen such

As this before.  He studied the imprint upon his brain

As he reached for what could be a weapon, and moved

To the door.  The little grey creature groaned and stood

Slowly.  He stared at it for some moments as it rubbed

The back of its little grey head.  He moved again towards

The door, touched it.  Two figures entered. Pain coursed

Through his body.  He dropped the weapon, and fell.

He woke, travelling instantaneously from deep sleep

To on alert, and his eyes clicked open to the same dark. 

Total dark.  This did not surprise him.  Nothing did. 

He knew not his name, or why he was, but he knew where.

He remembered the room and the little grey creature.

He remembered the soft, curious look in its pained eyes,   

And he knew the darkness, the pain, his will to survive.

He checked calmly what more he could now learn, running 

Through his body systems, one by one, completely still whilst

Checking their efficacy.  He studied again his environment.

His body again shackled, holding him on a firm surface. 

He did not click his tongue, for he knew where he was.  

Imperceptibly, once more, he expanded his muscles.

The shackles withdrew, and suddenly the light stabbed for

His eyes which he had kept closed.  Still he did not move.

A door opened, steps approached and nudged him softly,

Then swiftly withdrew.  He remained as he was.  At a

Second nudge and swift withdrawal he slowly opened

His eyes a slit and studied the now familiar grey creature.

It nodded its grey head and left the grey room through

The grey door.  He lay still for a while, considering.

The light started to flash, changing colour.  After a short

Time he perceived a pattern.  As he lay, observing, the

Patterns became increasingly complex and were joined

With a deep bass, pulsing sound, changing, synchronised

With the lights.  He recognised, too, it was synchronised

To his heart beat.  He lay still, patient, feeling, learning.

Perhaps, he thought, he was synchronising to it.  How odd!

With an effort of will he slowed his heart.  The lights and the 

Sound stumbled momentarily, and then aligned once more. 

He brought his heart rate up.  The lights and pulse stuttered

Less, synchronised more smoothly.  He relaxed and closed

His eyes, feeling just the sounds pulsing through his body.

He knew not who he was, or where he truly was, or why, but

He knew without any doubt what he was, he was a Navigator.

The door opened once again.  He opened his eyes wide

And rose carefully, no threat, staring all the while at that

Which had entered and was staring all the while at him.

He knew it was not as he was.  It was small, grey, squat,

Had odd, rigid limbs and its eyes lay in a flat, almost

Featureless face.  It smelled rank, foul like something

Dredged from a fetid swamp.  He stood thus, studying and

Being studied, quite at ease.  He wondered then at that.

The creature nodded its little grey head and gestured that

He should follow it from the room.  It moved slowly on

Its little grey legs, preceding him down a grey corridor,

Flanked by two armed other such, to another grey door

Where they entered in.  The alien gestured to him to take

A seat, one large enough for his comfort.  Should he? He

Had aliens around him, grey and, though small, menacing.

He sat, finding himself opposite a large, grey screen.  It

Flickered to life, grey images appearing.  Adjusting his

Mind set he saw it showed a craft – he knew it to be his

Craft – lying in a cradle.  There was some damage to be

Seen upon its engine shield.  Meteorite strike?  He knew,

Too, that such a strike had not been foreseen.  Most odd!

Odd, too, to see his craft so grey and dull.  Why all grey?

The screen went blank and the grey creatures present all

Looked to one – their chief? – expectantly.  He reached

Forth and pressed a button.  For a moment there was no

Change.  In the silence he pondered on his position.  It

Mattered – who he was, where he was and why he was.

These grey aliens mattered, as did their intent for him.

It mattered more, he knew, that he return to his ship.

The silence broke with a voice, a grating, mechanical

Voice.  He realised that apart from the pulses, he had

Heard nothing since awakening.  The grey creatures

Moved their mouths but uttered no sounds.  Were they

A civilisation of lip readers?  Telepaths?  His mind then

Tuned to the voice, as he recognised certain words.  The

Little grey creatures slowly turned to him, expectantly. 

He listened with care.  After a short time he adjusted

To the voice.  It informed him he had crashed.  It told him

That the grey creatures had entered his ship, had gone

To the trouble of recognising and downloading all the

Information from his Central Com, had worked on the

Meaning, found a medic program and healed him.

He let the message run though twice, ensuring he had

Understood the meaning.  His companions were dead,

They thought.  The crash had killed them.  They had been

Placed in the sarcophagi the aliens had found within his

Craft.  He remembered, suddenly!  He saw their faces,

Knew their names, ranks, tasks, quirks and humour.

He knew there was one there who he loved!  Why still

So calm?  What had these little creatures done to him?

And he did not know himself.  He knew not his name or

His appearance.  He remained oddly calm and watched as

The grey screen recommenced showing grey images.  He

Watched his companions being carefully lifted by the

Little grey aliens and placed tenderly into their resting

Places.  He observed next the repairs being made to his

Craft and then, little grey men in a little grey operating

Theatre operating on him, by hand!  He stared, horrified.

The screen went blank and the voice creaked into action

Once more.  He had received trauma to his skull.  The

Little grey creatures cleverly surmised that it could be

Possible that his mind would have been scrambled and

His memory might well be disturbed.  They told him

That this was his seventh awakening.  His previous

Times had lead to various most unfortunate incidents!

This time he had responded to the resonances.  What?

The grey screen came to life again and showed more grey

Images of him.  The sequence went from an episode of

Extreme violence on his part to lesser violence.  On each

Of the previous wakings the lights had changed colour –

Perhaps some test? -  but they had had to sedate him, though

He knew not how.  He just dropped.  Though these little grey

Aliens were small, primitive – they’d operated on him using 

Knives in their hands! – they still had the powers for danger.

As the screen went blank once more, he sat, controlling

His breathing and his heart.  He needed to be in the ship.

He remembered the interface he wore.  If he was to know

Himself, he knew somehow that the interface was the only

Way he could fully utilise his mind once more.  He looked

At the little grey aliens and told them of his need.  Their

Little grey, flat faces showed no expression initially.  Why?

There was a delay.  The aliens touched buttons, looked at

Screens, moved their mouths inaudibly and then the voice

Grated into action once more.  It would be as he wished!

Elated he stood and followed the little grey leader, with

His guards flanking him still.  They walked past many grey

Doors, along grey corridors, passed through a grey lock,

Traversed through a short, grey tunnel and entered his craft.

Joyously he noted how his weight dropped – back to its

Normal state, he knew.  He followed the little grey alien

Up to the bridge and flopped immediately into his own

Chair, reaching for his interface.  Their trust was either

Extraordinary or they were very stupid. The alien produced

A small speaker and tinnily the voice came to life once more,

Requesting that he wait until they had all disembarked.

These grey creatures mended him and now set him free!

He waited, impatient for his interface, but still grateful.

Minutes later the green light informed him that the port

Was closed and the light within his craft returned to that

Which he was used to.  He placed the interface upon his head 

And plugged it into the port.  Immediately he was bombarded

With information.  He slowed his breathing and his heart,

And allowed his life to flow back into his mind until he

Knew who he was, what he was, where he was and lastly, why.

Briefly he checked his instruments.  The ship was at its

Optimum.  He called for data from the sarcophagi. All

Present were responding well to medical repair.  As he

Thought of this he shuddered again.  They’d used their

Little grey hands to repair him!  He shrugged, then. He

Lived!  A favour deserved a favour.  Before laying in a

Course for home he erased all previous navigation records.

As the ship rose slowly, before he dialled a wormhole,

He flipped through all the visible spectra until the Central

Com ceased its search.  The little grey creatures weren’t so

Grey, viewed at their correct light frequency.  Just in curiosity, 

He ordered a search through the audio.  They were not lip 

Readers.  He picked up vast amounts of chatter, sounds his 

Hearing could not access unaided.  On their planet they thrived.

He changed the ship’s position, cloaked and spent a while 

Longer studying the civilisation which had saved his life and

Given it back to him.  They were progressing.  They would

Some day be a threat, especially now they had the download of 

His Central Com.  They had managed to leave their planetary 

Surface and set up a base on this extraordinary, solo moon.  

He should report them to a Suppression Fleet.  But he could not.

Thus, dialling up a wormhole he bid farewell to the little grey 

Planet with its exceptional, large grey moon.  He told the Central

Com, one last time, to go gently through those light frequencies, 

Inaccessible to his normal sight, and he admired, with thanks

To the little grey creatures in his heart, its beauty. Casually then, 

Flicking one of his supple tendrils, he dropped the ship into the 

Wormhole, did a final erasure, opened his third eye and relaxed.