I just spend almost a hundred dollars on cue cards. I’m hoping that they will be worth more than ten times that price some day.
Time, it seems is going by more quickly than I would like. It feels like my birthday was just yesterday when in fact it was almost three weeks ago. Minutes turn into hours that turn into days, weeks, months and years. It’s all flying by so quickly.
I’ve spend time journaling.
I’ve created art.
This newsletter is a cumulative thing. It’s something that I plan on continuing. It’s become a practice, an ephemeral practice. Currently, I’m interested in things that are both concrete and ephemeral.
With this in mind, I’ve recently started a wood stacking project. I’ve also ordered eleven thousand cue cards. That seems like an odd number. And? As of the time of this newsletters publication, I have eleven thousand, three hundred and seven days until my eightieth birthday.
Although eighty might seem like an arbitrary date, I’m using it as one to shoot for. There are many people who live past eighty and bring a lot to the world. I’m hoping to be one. Hell, I’m hoping to live till I’m eighty.
Once I’m eighty, I don’t plan on working anymore.
I spent the first thirty years of my career retired. The next thirty will be spent working.
Each of these cards is a day I have left. Once they arrive, I’ll send you a picture of what my time looks like between being now and being eighty.
Each day, I’m going to write something that’s a birthday gift for my eighty year old self. I know what I’m getting when I turn eighty. It’s going to be a great big stack of cards. No ide what they’ll contain.
Now, eleven thousand, three hundred and five days may seem like a lot.
It is. And?
I’ve used seventeen thousand nine hundred and fifteen so far.
There are more behind me than ahead of me.
So now? I have over eleven thousand little pieces of paper.
They will contain something about the next thirty plus years of my life.
How many cards do you imagine you have left?
How many have you used?
How many did you leave blank?
What would it be like to read them back to yourself after thirty years?