There's the sense of time closing in, the awareness that one has probably lived more than half of one's adult life.   There's the feeling that there's so much more one would want to do, to accomplish.....and so much less time left in which to accomplish it.   I find myself measuring myself against my peers.....both those who are friends and family, and those who simply share my age.  

 I don't know if I come up wanting.   In some respects, no doubt, I do.   I've got projects I've never finished, books I'd still like to write.   I haven't served on a lot of committees or public service organizations.   But I'm not really sure that these are necessarily the things that matter.   Perhaps the fact that I've got good friends, I've been as generous as possible to good causes, and I've moved through this world doing a minimum of harm matters more.

The angst is there, and I suspect it will continue at least until I actually turn sixty.....and perhaps well beyond.   But I do know one thing.    Turning sixty will still beat the hell out of the alternative.

 dtf

Why is it that people get so concerned over one lost whale in the Thames, but don't seem to give quite as much thought to all the other whales out there that are threatened by a multitude of human-generated threats to their existence?
 

 Then on the last run down the mountain with my wife, who wanted to head home, things came to a crashing halt.....literally.    As I slowed to pull up next to Marilyn, who had stopped immediately behind a "go slow" sign, a guy came out of nowhere from above me and sure enough, we collided head on.   I never saw him until he was right there in front of me.

 The good news is that nothing was broken, no blood spilled (though it took every ounce of control I had remaining to keep me from trying to smash his head in with my now detached ski), and in theory no harm done.   Yet nearly a week later I still ache in numerous places, my shoulder continues to provide intense pain, and I keep thinking of how close I came to serious injury.

 The guy who hit me was clearly in the wrong.....skiing too fast, not quite in control, and completely oblivious to the people skiing downhill from him.   Adding to his stupidity is a trait that I've noticed among others who hail from the part of the world he came from (no, I'm not going to say where).  They seem to want to ski in packs, right on top of one another and constantly experiencing near-miss collisions.   For these folks, they seem to assume that everyone skis that way and everyone should watch out for them.   This guy spoke no English (or acted like he didn't) and didn't understand the meaning of the big yellow sign next to me that said "Go Slow."   It isn't unreasonable to assume that he also did not comprehend the warnings and explanations of ski ettiquette, one of the most important of which is that the downhill skier ALWAYS has right of way.  

They were great.    Not as "pedal to the metal" as in the old days, and little of the extended improvisatory jams they were once known for.   Perhaps a little slower than back then....but then aren't we all?    Yet they made up for it with the maturity and talent that has grown greater over the years.  Ginger Baker is now in his late 60s yet he is still a powerful, creative drummer.   And to play a ten minute drum solo (one that actually had more rhythmic and melodic quality than most drummers achieve in a lifetime) after having already played for nearly 90 minutes was nothing short of amazing.   Jack Bruce, recovered from serious illness, was in great form, his voice powerful and his playing solid.    And Clapton, well, it's been many years since Clapton really had to stretch out on his guitar but when it's just him and a solid, driving rhythm section, there's no way to avoid it.   His playing was strong, lyrical, and better than anything I've heard him do in nearly two decades.

Yes, it was worth the wait of forty years, and no, this wasn't just some dinosaurs in purple spandex leotards trying to make one-more go-round on the sentimental circuit.  The music still holds up, their playing and interaction was intense, and there was nothing tired or lame about it.

As I approach the ripe old age of sixty (not there yet but it looms ever closer on the horizon...) the old Pink Floyd song time resonates more and more in my mind.   There's never enough time.   Last night I found myself in a kind of mental exhaustion, uninterested in doing much of anything including staring mindlessly at the television.   It was a strange kind of mental state, too tired to actually do anything constructive, yet also agitated and too antsy to just sit there.    And always the sense that the sand is running through the glass much too quickly....... 

 Surreal?   You bet.......