.Friday, March 22, 2002

stairs in downtown home (there is an elevator!)

"I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top."
John Keats (1795-1821)

Work. I try to accomplish something. Others are doing so. I'm proud of them. I soldier on, reading, thinking, even advising. But I fear that I'm not all that useful.

I eat some nachos for lunch because I'm too lazy to leave the building.

There's nothing that will make me feel like a physical wreck like a few sets of friendly tennis. It's cool, even cold out. I don't won't to go. But I signed up and I'll feel bad if I don't.

The night is perfect. Cool, no wind, just fine. It is the kind of tennis I would have prayed for in my younger days. I try to appreciate it, but I don't really. There are lots of women there who have been playing during the day, having lessons. Young families. People who love tennis and get to play. They aren't all that much better than me but they are better and they have a life of leisure. At one stage I would have thought belonging to this club was a dream come true. Beautiful courts, nice people, beautiful pro shop. But now I'm too old and slow and sour to enjoy it. Isn't that the way?

We only play 24 games, not 32 like last time and then we gather inside to eat Mexican food and drink margaritas and watch the Longhorn Men's Basketball team lose.

I go home. FFP is in his chair. "They choked," I say. He says nothing and I notice he is sleeping. I update this journal, work some crosswords on line and, slowly, my back and knees begin to ache. This is better than last time. Last time I played I hurt before I could get home. I swallow a couple of Advil and consider having another drink. But I just have some water.

JUST TYPING
It all seems.
Futile.
Can I make a difference.
In my own life, even?