Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man – Episode Three

Since learning when I was well into my seventies that the author, James Joyce who wrote Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man died on the very day I was born, has put my portraiture and writing efforts into the context of Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man. Be that as it may, the oldness of this man is now visible to the naked eye — even mine — and I don’t really like it a lot even if I prefer it to being eighteen again.

A while back I began writing the occasional post under the heading ‘Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man, Episode X’. These posts center around Kay and my breakfast conversations in which we help each other recover the name or word we are looking for. In the last episode I bemoaned my lack of inspiration in artistic and literary endeavors and ultimately drifted off into the lala land of “I’d like to start writing again,” … “but I can’t think of anything I want to write.” I think Kay has difficulty understanding an urge to do something if that something is totally unknown, but then she has not been an active participant in my research into dark matter or neutrinos.

Well… in a subsequent session with Dr. Finney I happened to mention an appalling incident to which I was witness that had occurred at Longacres Racetrack nearly fifty years ago. And although he has denied it since, he did suggest I write about that incident, flattering my abilities to write in the process, and since flattery is the best way to get me to do anything, I did proceed to describe the incident, but as these things go — at least with me, the description turned into a novel.

A few people have read or are supposedly reading one of several manuscript versions, but seem hesitant to criticize, which is what it needs. I have submitted the draft to a publisher which will most likely lead to a shelving of the project. But… I did get off my duff; you gotta give the old man credit for that.