We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
Time's winged chariot does hurry along. As life goes on, it hurries faster, frighteningly so.
I know only one way to slow down that acceleration: do new things, take on new challenges, visit new places, have new experiences, find some fresh successes and failures, make new friends, . While routine and structure are generally useful and comforting for people, new challenges and adventures, large or small, which entail some special stimulations and anxieties.
Yes, anxieties. New stresses are good. Seek God, learn Mandarin, lift heavier weights, remodel the house, take a Great Courses course on something about which you are totally ignorant and uninterested to open your mind, find a new mate (not for me - we make new together), climb a mountain, or try some good therapy and reawaken or unleash parts of your inner true self which have been smoldering in the dark for years.
All such things have the effect of adding punctuation marks, or even fresh chapters, to the humdrum prose of life.
While it's not just about a manipulative seduction, Andrew Marvell (1621-1678) was spot on with the time thing.
To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day. Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.