Is the future rushing towards me, or I toward it?

I push the gear lever up into third and as I let the clutch pedal slap back up, I stab at the accelerator with my other foot. The car obeys, squats down, and I am pushed back into my seat.

I sight down between the front fenders of the Porsche, which stick out and forward like horns from a steer, I draw a bead down between them at the yellow dotted line and watch the car eat them all up. I look up slightly at the quickly-approaching corner and remind myself to shift down in time before I firmly steer the car to the left and then back to the right, the ass of the thing sliding in a comforting and controlled manner, I look back up between the protruding fenders and am reminded

of A Time long ago when we used to have horses, I remember riding a horse and when it would run I would hunker down and sight the trail between her ears, and this is the same thing now. How long ago was that? Thirty years? How could that time go by so fast? The next thirty will go by even faster and it frightens me. If I even have thirty years left. One of us will not, one of the three of us has to go young, or relatively young. These are the odds. One in three? If there were any fairness in the world, it would be me to go early, to make that sacrifice so the other two can stay with their children and homes. I think this, and I realize as I type it that there is little in the way of fairness in the world, so I will probably outlive you all. But what if I do not?

This is something else I have considered quite often in the last few years, what if I were to go soon? Crushed, diseased, accidented, tired? I could easily fumble about here in the cold with my machines and scribblings right up to the very end, every day thinking that in a month or two everything will be different somehow, and waiting and scraping by and months become years and nothing is different except your children are older and so I know I must be as well. I Think about the times I actually took a deep breath and did something about it, those two times, two?
Three? Two? I had garage sales and finished what I absolutely had to, and tried to pay off the other obligations I may have had, and I sold everything and fit what was left into the one car I kept and I drove away and started new, and it WAS good. Great. Maybe the best times in my adult life. I can do that again. I can still hike and walk and sleep outside or sleep in my car, and if I write while I do it all and think of stories, it would all be worth it still. I know what does NOT make me happy, and this is looming obligation and debt and big bills to pay every month and being cold and wet.

If I were to just tell certain people: "Sorry. I am sorry. I can not do it. Life must go on." and gave their things back to them? They would maybe be angry for a short time, they have been now probably for a long time, what else is new, what else is different? I give those things back, I sell the rest, this is Spiritual Bankruptcy, I keep what fits in my car, or a truck, and I head out finally, finally finally finally on the adventure I have been craving for the last ten years. I can make money anytime I want in a matter of days. I just need to RESIST buying broken cars, getting paid for work before it is done, or living for some tomorrow I have constructed in my mind and instead live in the right now that makes that tomorrow possible.

In short, I sell everything, finish what I can or must, or what is LIFE THREATENING, give the rest back, save as much money as possible as quickly as possible, and then go out and do what will make me happy, what will actually make those few people close to me happy, do something that they can admire, do something extraordinary and positive and have happy reports to send home. Warm. Tan. As unburdened as I can ever be. It would all start right now, right this very instant, I would go out there and pick up tools and parts and get busy.

And you know what? I will.

I can still do it, and it will not matter that I have to do it alone. I am used to it, and am strong enough, and I am the one that makes it happen. Those who had a seat saved for them will find out that they do not any longer, and those who were afraid or confused would not have been able to dabble in this type of affair anyway. Their chit is lifted and placed in a different column. It is just as easy as lifting the needle on a record player and placing it in a different place. Something new is experienced, but it is still in the same format.