I used to think that when I was 80 I'd have time to read or re-read all the books I never had time for. I did that after I graduated from university, took the time to read the books not on the courses but recommended or intriguing. I had a list. Well, I have another list now, longer than it was, and I'm still adding to it. But I seem to be busier than I expected, also more tired. And I'm still trying to catch up with current publications as well as with my own thinking, ongoing. Because I am still thinking, oddly enough. The inner dialogue never stops and it runs counterpoint to whatever my current focus is. People seem to think I've retired. Not. Though not as public as I was, I am sill writing (it's marketing that's harder). You know that classic gaffe that interviewers are reported to ask older people, like me: who did you used to be? The thing is, I still am. Where did the time go?

It's been a couple of days since I wrote ( not that anyone missed me except me). I had my eyeballs scraped, not exactly the correct medical term, but where once I saw but through a glass, darkly, now I can see my face and oh my, the clarity of the wrinkles is dazzling. Now I now in part what I have been missing: I can read the computer screen without BIG PRINT and I can read my notes without an extra magnifying glass. This improvement is going to improve my speed and eliminate (some of) my typos, if not the quality of my writing. So where was I? More important, where was the world when I left off? As before, halfway between then and now. SOW, I'm reading a recently published book about pataphysics, "A Useless Guide", written by a man and most of, if not quite all of, his references, examples add sources are male. None of them gets it. Neither did Alfred Jarry, the adolescent founder of the science. I could write a lot, now that I can see what I'm saying, but I'd like to wait and see if anyone out there likes me.