Writing Practice, May 21 2015
The things you want cost more now. The things you don’t even think about cost more now. There isn’t anything, from widget to stern (though who buys sterns?) that isn’t more now than it used to be. The air is more expensive. The air is canned. What isn’t bottled, will be. What is a simple pleasure today will be rarified upper class luxury in a generation. That fishing trip your dad took you on fifteen years ago costs fifteen thousand dollars now, and won’t even be a thing you can do fifteen years from now. That lake will be drained. Another lake will go in. Then a condo. Then another lake. Then a bunch of graves. Then a lake. That area might be just thirty lakes. It depends a lot on zoning.
But the thing is, these things go away and you only miss them because they were yours, or at least yours for the moment you stood there in that space. They might not have been good. But you don’t think about that. You only think about you, and your memory, and whatever lake as fake as pro wrestling you might take your kid (who hates you, and lakes, and will grow up to be the exact type of lawyer that gets rid of these things, rezoning them as Republican parking lots).
Don’t look into the future. Don’t look under the rug. Don’t open the door. Don’t ask about my real name.