I am forty-eight. People older consider me young and people younger consider me old. But I see around me people ten years my senior, twenty years, thirty years, affected by age. And I see the same effects in myself, physically and mentally.
I have never been entirely together in terms of gathering my ideas in the moment. I don’t see that improving. I am not about to become the wit with the repartee at this point in my life. And I will slide – I hope ever so slowly – into chaos and confusion. My skill has always been writing. Words are ideas. Each word is a world, as the saying goes. They come out of me and sit there before me on the paper or the screen – single words, fragments of sentences, parts of paragraphs – and they wait for me to take the needle of my mind, the string of my thoughts, to thread them together and pull them tight.
And I come to understand this as I form my thoughts laboriously in words. Intellect and reason are not creativity. Creativity is a transformational energy, linked to chaos and creation. As I grow, ever so slowly, into mental and physical decay I will see it as transformation. The creative side of me will transform me, as it has been doing, into something else. Constant transformation. In the face of decay and death there is constant rebirth as there has been all my life. A child, a world weary soul, an actor, a director, an editor, a musician, an artist. And through it all, let us hope, there will always be words.