I’m 47 years old. Two days ago, you sent me an email, which I did not answer. I didn’t answer it, in part, because I am 47 years old.
I appreciated your email. You are a person, who has written an email, and I am a person, who should reply to that email. However, your email arrived on Wednesday afternoon, and just as I opened it, my 16-year-old son came in. He wanted to describe to me an app he is in the process of developing. Then he showed me a funny article someone had sent him, and I showed him a funny article someone had sent me, and then I explained that I had work to do, that I needed, in fact, to respond to your email, and also to write 3,000 words in the next 36 hours. “I’ve only written 300,” I said.
I can’t think. Every day finds me standing in one room or another, asking any human or animal within the range of my voice important existential questions: Why am I here? What was I thinking? Why am I holding this spoon? Usually I do manage to sort that out (someone once told me that if you go back through the doorway you just came through, it helps you remember what you came for, and it absolutely works although I do […]