Things I miss

Old, infirm, and considerably disfigured, it's evident that some things are hopelessly lost in life's rear view mirror. I'll never twirl and take a girl tightly in my arms again while we dance, which I did brilliantly in bars and supper clubs, my partner and I applauded by other guests. I miss dancing. Some days I find it difficult to walk without using a cane.

I miss sexual prowess, svengali-like magnetism, and almost infinite endurance at age 32. It was all downhill after a brief season of masculine magic. Seems unfair that peak enjoyment only persists a year or so, took a very long time to achieve and sagged so abruptly. Later in life, sex became mechanical and complicated, then a dry echo of manhood, lost forever.

I miss driving a powerful car, confidently and effortlessly. Over a year ago I sold the Dodge, partly because I could no longer afford it, but also because I no longer trusted myself behind the wheel at highway speed or in competitive city traffic. My favorite car was Clare's white Monte Carlo, flying over curvy river roads, age 28. Second favorite was a thundering Volvo roadster, driving on the wrong side of the road in Australia, age 31.

I miss directing pro crews and talented cast. Ten years was too little. I miss multitrack mixing and cutting visual poetry, behind the beat, around the beat, a gasp of surprise. I miss Mizars and Redheads, C-stands and spun diffusion, the smell of hot black barndoors on a 2K fresnel, the thrill of sharply dimensional three-point light in a tight close-up.

Soon I will miss writing.

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