I had thought of writing, actually, and that later on I’d be a novelist.
My previous post was the 400th piece for this blog. 400 is one of those numbers like 3, 9 or 13 or 500 that seems to be meaningful to some people. Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, Forbes’ 400, the HTTP 400 error, 400 Days, Red Bull 400. But 400 is just a number, no different than 399 or 401. I remember people in Maine who played the lottery and who talked about numbers as good or bad, as if they were talking about their children or their cats or their dogs or even their cars; perhaps they meant good and bad with regard to a number’s frequency of occurrence in the drawings, but it was all occult to me.
And people attach importance to milestone birthdays – the 13th, 15th, 16th, 18th, 21st, 30th, etc. None of these really mattered to me, except perhaps for my 18th as I lived near the New York state line and was able to drink liquor at 18; more importantly I was able to buy alcoholic products for my friends as I didn’t really like the taste of alcohol. Other milestone years were far more important: the year my longevity exceeded my father’s, then my mother’s.
But 70 somehow seemed different. The horizon suddenly shifted, mortality had a different meaning. I measure time in a different way, think about events and visits as possibly being the last time that I make that journey, see this person, experience that taste, see a moonrise or sunrise.
But wherever I go, whenever I go, I probably won’t escape BBC period dramas. It seems like they’ve been promising the end of Downton Abbey for years, but all that’s happened is that a multitude of shows have been developed about the end of Downton Abbey.