Rudyard Kipling and Maggots

So I've been thinking a lot about maggots lately. Mostly because I've been encountering them a lot (kitchen garbage, inside the compartment in the trunk of my car) and they are food for thought, pardon the expression. I heard that the medical community is bringing maggots back into medicine, because the magic of maggots is that they will only eat the dead flesh, making them excellent friends in the fight against gangrene and other similar infections.

I've also been thinking about Getting Older recently, or more accurately, Growing Up. I turned 29 this week and had a great party and was at my friend Andy's 29th last night at which someone asked me what words of advice on being 29 I had to dole out to Andy, having a three-day jump on the experience. Is 29 one of the big ones? I know 30 is a big one, but knowing me, I'll spend so much time thinking about turning 30 that when it actually happens it won't feel like a big deal. The best description I have for 29 so far is that you have an ongoing T-minus 365 days countdown going to finish up all your 20s bullshit. Because there are a number of things that you can't do in your 30s. Pigtails. Throwing up from drinking. Accidentally making out with people. And then there's a whole litany of things that you can't do north of 30 that I never have done nor do I plan to regret not doing. Cocaine. Sex with unnamed strangers. Tube tops.

But I've also found myself thinking about things along pretty different lines these days and by these days I mean the past few weeks. It's a combination of being finally done with school (in the sense that for the first time this summer I'm not spending five days a week on campus) and having had a series of unfortunate events occur in a short period of time. In fact, so many shitty things have been happening, that it has brought me into this strange zone where I feel really zen about it and at the same time am totally ready for whatever is coming down the pipe. Like I'm doing my best karate beckon to the fates. Like when Paul Simon sings about the Boxer leaving, but the Fighter still remains? I'm the Fighter.

I've also internalized some Kipling and build my days around filling each unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run.

Pile all this on a birthday and 29 is a windsprint. It's eating the dead flesh. It helps me meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two imposters just the same.