A friend of mine once said when you're retired, somehow going to the post office can take all day. I would reframe his sentiment: When you're retired, somehow getting around to the good stuff can take longer than a month.
I had intended to view a foreign film at MoMA ... some arty classic that inspired Ingmar Bergman or Stanley Kubrick. I had intended to nestle into one of those dim and timeless under-the-museum theaters the entire day, perhaps. Such is the joy of a wizened old dilettante such as myself.
I had intended to spend a morning hunting rare books in the stacks at Argosy on East 59th.
I had intended to donate two hyena muffs to the Morbid Anatomy Museum.
I had intended to get my flea on. I have my sights set on a passel of limoge, some Omamori and Engimono. I wish to line up my treasures in glass cases by color.
I wanted to teach the young to dance with unrepentant joy.
So much I failed to accomplish in my #NaBloPoMo month. So much I leave for the future.