Friday, September 17, 2010

Möbius Phobias

I am to be drafted back into military service, specifically the National Guard, at age 70. It is altogether quite depressing, but there doesn't appear to be anything I can do about it.

Except for passive resistance in the form of my usual torpor. Specifically, I am to report at a certain time Saturday, yet I proceed in believing (or acting along the lines of the belief) that I so not have to report until Sunday.

The span will be two weeks, during which we will have to climb a mountain on foot. I am sure I can accomplish this feat, bit I wonder about the other old ones.

I strangely have my old duffel bag and military gear from forty years ago, and I proceed finally to gather it all. A certain grizzled old vet in a uniform of uncertain vintage insists in flossing my teeth. Despite my protests he stands right up in my face and proceeds with the operation, as if I'm a toddler.

What's past is prologue, they say, about carousels.

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