Over the Atlantic 4.1.99: Flying and Going...Where?

The final pages of this journal, but I have no finality in me—i.e., no summative wisdom or insight. Over the Atlantic now, en route to Atlanta, having slept little in the night, because unable to sleep on the plane.

Writing: I keep returning to it, but not doing it. It’s not just lack of time and the disorder of my life; it’s also (primarily?) the quandary of what to write about. That quandary concerns both subject matter in general and genre. I know I’m not a poet, though I admire poets above all other writers, and would dearly love to be one. I seem to have had (very) small success as a theological writer. I feel I have a novel somewhere in me, perhaps, though have little idea of a focus for it.

Meanwhile, I’m less and less interested in keeping a journal, or in analyzing myself or my life. I feel . . . weak . . . as I’ve never felt before, weak and on my way to old age, without much of anything to show for my life.

Dreams of salvation dance through my brain. I’ve lived in this seemingly nowhere space for a long time, now—too long. What can make life better, I wonder?