Weary Again

My favorite pocket knife—one I carry with me most of the time—is a stockman style folding knife. It has three blades: a clip point blade, sheep’s foot blade, and spey blade. Periodically, I teach myself about the types of blades comprising my favorite pocket knives, but my memory of the technical aspects of knives rarely lasts long. It can be embarrassing to feel an affinity for such cutting instruments, while being unable to remember the terminology that applies to them. I suspect I would be more likely to remember what to call the blades if I used all of them regularly. But despite using the clip point blade far more often than either of the other two (I easily could get by with a lone clip point bladed knife), I do not even remember what to call that blade, without reminders of one kind or another. A moment ago I mentioned embarrassment; one of the sources I consulted this morning for information about knives is a website, artofmanliness.com. I have a broad and shallow appreciation of knives; pocket knives in particular. Like so many of my interests, I am not passionate about pocket knives—or any knives, for that matter. I wish I could nurture an abiding interest in some things—knives, for example—to the extent that I would naturally develop a deep knowledge and true expertise about them. The fact that I have not done so, though, suggests my wish is superficial.


Finally, after roughly two hours in bed, I arose at midnight and took a couple of acetaminophen. I have been taking too many of those pills, I think, though I have scrupulously avoided exceeding the frequency or dosage recommended by the manufacturer. Here it is, almost 8:30, and I am thinking of having another two pills; the headache continues to plague me, though the pain is far from severe. It is more of a background discomfort, a mild ache that would seem to have been far worse if it suddenly disappeared. I wonder how I could feel if I suddenly became pain-free? I am so used to ALWAYS having some pain, somewhere—head, joints, gut, etc., etc. If all the minor background pain were to suddenly leave me, I suspect I would feel very good, as if I had become giddily high. Perpetual pain. That is an aspect of geezerhood I find especially irritating.


The cat’s yowling woke me, late. Since then, I have been quite slow to get started. I am still trying to summon enough energy to have breakfast. One espresso, hours ago, is enough for this morning. I think I could go back to sleep if I tried. Maybe even if I did not try. I am weary again.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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