Most mornings I go to a café for coffee and a bagel, more often than not sitting alone reading the Times. But sometimes I run into a painter friend, and we talk briefly but intensely about politics or with greater frequency about the state of our health and our being. I know I think too often about my health—blood pressure rate, heart functioning, and my capacity to walk. But at moments I also feel too passive, almost inert—watching time flow by with my turning into more of a dulled observer rather than participant in the whole process of existing.
I spent my life being active—teaching and writing, meeting friends, going to films, plays, galleries and museums, traveling to Europe, and unconsciously acting as a flaneur by walking and watching the daily drama and dance of street life. Aging and the pandemic years have cut into most of the activities I once engaged in, and since my walking is impaired, I especially do much less flaneuring these days. But, at times, I reflect on the nature of life from a seat at a café table or from the vantage point of a park bench.
So when I look out at the NYU students in the café writing on their computers or just chatting, I envy the years they have ahead and the goals and aspirations they still may realize. I am satisfied that I have done as much as I can in terms of career, but I always wished that I would hit a richer, more metaphorical, and profound note as writer. That hasn’t happened, for one can’t simply will talent and imagination that doesn’t exist. But though I have moments of feeling moribund, I think I have some energy left to go on. So, I try to observe more sharply and write with greater clarity about the nature of the city and what’s left of my own life. I hope I have a few more writing years left and I can hold off that feeling of inertness a little longer.
