I am waiting for Vizini

Indigo is on the ground at the front door of the hovel, slobbering drunk. When the job went wrong his only thought was to go back to the beginning. Well this is the beginning.

The Transformation Times was my first tentative writing project, five years ago when I was separated from Marie. I loved doing it, even though it had a regular audience of five, because it was personal and heart-felt and I had the freedom to write about whatever was on my mind. I could take it different directions, from the personal to the reflective to the whimsical, and it allowed me to develop a voice and work  out the issues of heartbreak and reconciliation.


It became problematical when the marriage reached a crisis, and I abandoned it for a long while. For four years I wrote about Duck football instead. That was safer as a topic, and it had a built-in audience. The Duck Stops Here had a half million visitors last year. It even made a bit of money, made me a published writer, in the sense I was getting paid, and it got me a gig writing a twice-weekly column for Duck Sports Authority, another modest paying job. The two writing projects earned me an extra $300 a month, enough to pay the grocery bill, electric and cable, allowing me to take a part-time job at an off-track betting parlor, one where I was allowed to read and study at my desk between calls. In the last few weeks I've read a text on Western Civilization, a stack of novels, and currently a biography of Walt Whitman.

I keep a clutch of highlighter markers in my book bag, along with a Random House Collegiate Dictionary, a fistful of fine-line black ink pens and a Concise Columbia Encyclopedia. I circle the occasional word I don't know and write its definition in the margins. Between calls I drink two tall cups of green tea a day, meditate for the first half hour, write in my thankfulness journal for the second, a page or two every day. At home I sit in the thinking and reading chair, light a candle sip two cups of Sweet and Spicy Tea and listen to music, a mix of jazz, blues, classical, folk and bluegrass on Pandora.com, with some Neal Young and James Taylor mixed in. I listen with my eyes closed until the tea is gone, two thick oversized mugs of it. And then I dance in my room until I'm drenched in sweat.

I live simply. I'm an odd, eccentric, bookish man, but I go to the gym five times a week and I haven't missed a day of work with illness in four years. I am blessed, because I have everything I need, and I have the deep joy of knowing my journey is just beginning. I've been dating a kind, genuine woman for two years. We've talked about moving in together in July, but I have misgivings about giving up my place. It's my sanctuary. I became a whole person here, rebuilt my life, discovered my joy. It has my print of Gaugin's Arearea, the $20 chair I bought at a garage sale, my good lamp, my sturdy cherry wood desk. It has the bed I bought with my own money where I sleep better than I have anywhere in my life. I feel rich, because I have everything I need. I've learned to live simply and love what I do and what I have.

I feel blessed to live in a country where we can travel freely and pursue our own ends, where a writer is safe to state opinions free of censorship, where books are plentiful and stores are stocked with goods. It may not always be so. On Tuesday I bought a new rice cooker; I make it point to eat most of my meals at home and enjoy simple food--tuna and brown rice with some olive oil, black beans and rice, fresh toast with butter and honey, an apple or an orange at work. I stop at the Albertsons for a baked chicken breast. I don't eat enough vegetables--I don't like to cook. Maybe I should start making smoothies again.

Writing the Duck blog is restrictive. There are only so many ways you can write "the Ducks are great." The other thing is, sports is an area where inevitably men bluster and puff out their chests, shoulder their way into arguments, ridicule, posturing. It becomes tiresome, personal, all the turf-marking and pissing matches. I want to write about things that are more interesting, varied, meaningful. I want to take chances. I want to grow. And I don't want to worry about traffic counts or ad placements for a while. I just want to write, discover the voice and the story, see where the journey takes me.

Recently I read another novel by Paul Coelho, The Witch of Portobello, fascinating and mystical. He's an inspiring writer, deceptively simple, writing in the manner of fable, but subtle and rich in meaning. It was an intriguing book, one that suggested to me that there is a whole another dimension of seeing and feeling and awareness within us, a power of dreams, trusting, believing, of hearing your inner voice. It isn't really superstition or hocus-pocus, but simply a heightened awareness of your own intuition and inner path. I want to learn more. I want to invite wholeness, peace and thankfulness into my life. Already there's a growing calm within me, a centeredness, and it's exhilarating to experience.

It's remarkable to be 59, the age that I officially become in 7 months. I don't think of myself of being that old. I'll see a pretty girl at the gym or pass young people at the store, and I'm certain that in their minds I'm nearly invisible, a relic, a vision from the crypt. I accept their right to think that way. Youth belongs to the young. But my energy and my hope and my vitality isn't old. I realize and embrace that I'm a grandfather. I wouldn't want to be anything else. When I was in my mid-30s I asked my friend Mike Welby, a softball buddy of mine, how does it feel to be 50? His answer was perfect:

"It's better than the alternative."

I feel blessed to be alive and the days and hours are precious. Age defines me among people, and that's understandable, but it doesn't define my heart, my dreams, or my energy.

I can still write, dream and dance, and in these ways I am a young, vibrant man.

It feels good to be at the beginning again. I don't even feel the need to get drunk, although I'd enjoy a good glass of wine.