In just one day last week I was inspected and boosted, good to go then, for the time being, for a year in the case of my car, which continues to hang in there, as my late stepfather, who had seen it all and was stoical to the end, used to say.
Soon, I’ll be implanted as well, with a device whose purpose is to determine what condition my condition is in. As best I’ve been able to describe it, “It’s a monthly occurrence, tingling sensations, not a good feeling, a feeling of malaise, in fact, though momentary, full-body whooshes that come and go for 12 hours or so. . . . Do I get dizzy? No, I don’t, it’s strange, happens every month, usually around the third week.”
No one seems to know what’s going on, and I was content to let the matter remain mysterious until I wasn’t and told them that I’d had a change of heart and that they could go ahead and put the loop recorder in.
Inspected, boosted, and implanted, there’s an optimistic ring to that, especially as a new year begins with spring.
Do the flowers that return still bring joy? Someone is asked that in something I’ve been reading lately, though I can’t for the moment pinpoint it. And I would say yes, yes, that the returning flowers do bring joy. I still do find life engaging, I remain curious, I still mean to plant a tree, I still hope we can prune the worst instincts from ourselves, and that, somehow, our spirits, weighed down by infamous and venal behavior, will flourish, and that, in the long run, we’ll evolve with everything else, though it certainly doesn’t feel as if we’re evolving now. Indeed, we’re barely hanging in there.
Yet the returning flowers do bring joy.