Introduction

What did William  Blake, Pablo Neruda, Aldous Huxley,  Richard Wagner, Louis Armstrong and Lightnin’ Sam Hopkins have in common? 

Names of the illustrious who share the same commonality also include John Taverner, Louis Leakey, Marshall McLuhan, David Bowie and even Queen Elizabeth the First…  Untold millions of ordinary folks could be added to the list. Their commonality is of all human beings who died at the age of sixty-nine.

While life expectancy has increased for a small segment of humanity, sixty-nine years is certainly beyond the average allotment. Considering the foregoing list of the famous–– sixty-nine years is certainly enough time for a person to make a mark on the world, if that be his/her destiny…  

For lesser mortals, dying at this age can even be recorded as by natural causes–– or what used to be called “dying of old age.”   Indeed, a sixty-nine-year allotment can be considered as having included time borrowed from the numberless masses of the less lucky…

This realization has never been far from my thoughts since turning sixty-nine a few months ago.  At sixteen, I could never have imagined making it this far in reasonable soundness. Yet even as a cosmic lottery winner, I am wary of  attracting the  attention of the jealous gods. Maybe by keeping my head down, I can escape their attention for a few more years…

In the meantime,  I cannot ignore the flickering of dark wings on the periphery. For decades, I have tried to keep some record of these glimpses as a sobering reminder of the need for carpe diem. 

I have chosen to post these reflections on the approach of oblivion (‘end-spec’) before reaching the milestone of seventy.  With this old obsession out of the way, the hope is that I can move on to less morbid, possibly more entertaining, material.  

Finally, I have wondered recently about the monks who, in both spirit and in practice of memento mori, sleep in their coffins. In reaching three score and ten, are they allowed pillows? 

-FWT (lefthook51)

January 2021

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