One of the luxuries of accumulated age for me
is how little I have come to care
what others think of me
of what I own
wear
do
or not do.

Not to be confused with not caring what others think.

I care a lot about what others think.
Truth like a stool needs at least three disparate points
to balance.
I read the words of those like me,
but more importantly I seek the truths of those very different from me.
I read books from all the sections of the library
and I read from title page to index to acknowledgements;
I read all sections of the newspapers
Excepts the sports, only reading that in baseball season.
I read graffiti in the bathroom and CD liner notes.

I compulsively care what others think
and how they say it.

I listen to conversations I am part of,
I listen conversations I am not part of, just proximal.
I listen to NPR news, All Things Considered and sometimes
I listen to Howard Stern.

I love to know what you think,
what you believe,
what your eyes see when they look at this world,
what you smell,
taste,
touch,
feel.

But I don’t care if you think my listening to the Carpenters is cheesy,
or my dancing to Fergie is not acting my age.
And I will tattoo “Nomad” on my arm.
I will read Emerson mark my place with a dog-eared “Adventures of Green Arrow.”
I will eschew the brilliance of “Into the Wild ”
and make you watch a marathon of PowerPuff Girls.

I will laugh too loud sometimes
And eat strange spicy foriegn foods
And drink too much rum
And then flirt with men
So young they will humor me
and flirt back and talk about me when I leave.

And I will care about what they say when I am there
And maybe read the books they mentioned
Or maybe buy a brand new CD
because I care very much what everyone thinks
Just not what they think about me.

CC.