101-10 Young Tim
Young Tim
101 Enterprises
101-10
Jim Belaire
$1.25
Young Tim
101 Enterprises
101-10
Jim Belaire
$1.25
Prologue
* * *
Don’t be too moral, you may
cheat yourself out of much life.
…Thoreau
* * *
Twenty-eight is not a bad year. It depends on how you look at it. The social climbers are all curled up in their father-in-law’s lap, ready to lick up all that good milk that they married rich young things to get at anyway.
Hustlers in L.A. and New York are worrying about their fast disappearing youth. Young resident surgeons are starting to yearn for the sweet smell of success and begin to court socialite gals to assure their growing reputations.
And young preachers cast envious eyes at the other fellow’s pulpit. Fledgling professors pile up articles to assure their tenure. Family men enroll their first-born in school and take out larger insurance policies for college educations. It’s a time to pause and rechart your course.
It’s a year of biography. At twenty-eight, Boswell wrote his London Journal. Gide was living out his Immoralist. Thomas Mann thought through his Buddenbrooks.
Perhaps it’s a biological reaction to the passage of time. Something crystallizes in the cells and an enzyme named ‘create’ oozes forth to invade the capillaries. Maybe it’s a time of mourning for lost youth. The halcyon days are over. All that follows, no matter how joyous, has the bitter-sweet taste of something already tainted.
Twenty-eight is a good year for suicide, although probably a waste effort. After all, if you make it that far, you might as well see what what thirty holds in store.
It’s a great year for getting the shakes and to think you’re dying from cancer or to have a touch of glaucoma and talk yourself into going blind. It’s comforting to believe that you are all washed up, but to not really believe it down d deep inside you. You can hit the bottle and say your liver has been gone for years. You can count gray hairs with a knowing air and look at your mottled tongue.
You play the drowning man and relive your life not in a few seconds, but for months on end. Your tongue savors tastes as if for the last time. Childhood smells force themselves on your consciousness after eons of forgetfulness.
Just a walk through the woods or an old baseball mitt brings on olfactory nirvana.
It’s a wonderful world, but one which you could take leave of without too much remorse.
The great sin is to take yourself too seriously.
Summer stars and winter frosts bring their own peculiar odor and tickle the brain. Images swim in and out of focus. Memories float by.
The mind turns and sends you on an oft-repeated journey. Sleep is the moment of dreams and dreams tell us all.
But for some, sleep is difficult.
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