I admit to being something of a news junkie. For example, when I waltz into the bathroom to take a quick pee, I also take a quick listen to NPR. Just in case something new and horrible is unfurling in Ukraine. And generally something is. Yet “truth is the first casualty of war” being something of a cliché, what is really happening is impossible to know. Because, for one thing, it is impossible to report. No report can come in fast enough. As for perspective, that arrives like a torrent. Everyone is full of ideas about this horrible war, what will happen, when it will “end” etc. But mostly the war news is unsettling. As well it should be. A missile strike can ruin your whole day. 

One of the strange realities of aging is the sense of being left behind. I have purchased, for reasons that have since become unclear, an Apple Watch. Well, not that unclear. The thing monitors your heart. Not to mention your sleep. And being concerned about both, what the hell, what’s electronics? Thing is, this Apple Watch is also supposed to have nifty control features that enable a disabled person to flip the wrist this way, turn it that, and voilà, something happens. Like you answer your phone. Which is actually your watch. Although your phone is elsewhere and your watch is on your wrist. Just like Dick Tracy, whose watch I’m vaguely recalling from my 1950s youth.

Yes, there he was in the colored panes of the Los Angeles Times Sunday comics. He held his wrist up to a chiseled chin and spoke directly into the thing. And you can do precisely the same with the Apple Watch to even greater effect. But you do have to be prepared. So the other day when I was in the greenhouse, the windowed agricultural chamber I refer to as the conservatory, damned if something didn’t start ringing. And in my flailing quadriplegic effort to make it stop, I pressed against the side of the thing and, mother of holy fuck, there was a voice. We had a conversation, the voice and I, none of which I can recall. All of which was unintended and unexpected. But there you have it. Progress.

An extra two days in Vietnam. This just in from Cunard. Imagine my surprise. Note that I have been to and from the UK, made brief trips to Italy and France, but I’ve never been to Asia, Australasia, India and numerous other ports of call. But this is slated to change next year. Jane and I have the idea that we are going to board the Queen Mary 2 in Singapore and, you know, cruise. Place to place, in search of touristic adventure. My general reaction is skepticism. I can’t believe that the next COVID-19 variant isn’t currently undergoing secret training and maneuvers in microscopic Virus Boot Camps everywhere. All just awaiting invasion instructions. But I could be wrong.

Meanwhile, the thought of travel anywhere fills me with excitement. And Vietnam?

Well I didn’t design the ocean liner’s itinerary. Normally, I don’t have to. It’s a marvelous way to go slowly between two real destinations. Once the ship did stop in Halifax to pick up Canadian passengers, so we got a flavor. Go to bed at night and wake up surrounded by Nova Scotians. The stops in Vietnam? I feel that should this Asian cruise come to pass, I must really prepare. To view remnants of the American War, for example. And in general, to get as close to a country that in my youth was nothing more than a bomb target. Penance? Maybe that’s not possible, but something has to be done to acknowledge the 3 million people my people converted into the past tense. I’m not sure what. Preparation. Learning, reflection, presence. 

Almost 5:30 PM. Time for the evening news. Bombing, troops and tanks figuring largely in whatever story is prominent. And this is what it is to be old. To know that we have been here before. Oy.