I’m penurious of time. Since it can’t be kept, how to spend it wisely? From every instant, how to rate my return?

This inclination borders on obsession. I revile activities that seem to waste my dwindling treasure. A good time, as a friend says, is not my idea of a good time. I’m satisfied if I’ve “made the most” of today, cranky if not. I resent chores – and any innutritious obligations – as thefts of chance. I procrastinate, not because I’m dilatory or dithering, but because I’ve got better things to do.

How to measure my ROI (return on investment)? To each their own calibration. I’m happiest when I’ve exercised my mind to exhaustion. Brainpower is out of our control, a given, but how hard I work that brain, cram and lash it, is (or seems to be) up to me. Of my brain, I’m a brutal overseer, a Simon Legree, drubbing it past mercy, driving it beyond its strength. Of my body I’m a slack superintendent, letting it flab (yeh, flab). I mean to exert discipline but in truth I can’t be bothered: another cookie? – why not! My brain I drill and rub down like a boxer for a bout. Reading and writing I find comparably calisthenic; likewise travel to scenes unseen. Sometimes society ignites me, but too often not. Time with Jane and kids and grandkids – and Henry, Henry reminds me – is always generative. Also, time with composers (via concert or earphone) or visual artists (in palaces or galleries).

My mania is not ambition in the ordinary sense: I foresee no “there there,” no terminus ad quem. Let me climb as high as I can, is all I ask. Writing’s my way of understanding, I write my best, but it’s a byproduct, not my aim. I yearn to know – more than I know now – know better where we are and when and who and maybe, with luck, a sliver of why. Everything I pour into brain teaches me, jostling the other contents to make room. My mind is always changing. (Minds that don’t are dead.) I’m never sure. (Who knows for sure has quit asking.)

My obsession may make me seem reclusive, snobbish, antisocial. I’m not – I just can’t think in a roar. If we’re spending time together, trust me, I want to, I do (almost) nothing to be nice. That’s the windfall of retirement: I don’t have to suck up, sidle, sell. I don’t crave anything from anybody except love – and that I have to earn.

Is this mania odd? I guess. Plenty of pals urge me relax. Problem is, I don’t find relaxing relaxing. Soaking in (carcinogenic) sunbeams on a beach is my idea of hell. Ever tried to read (seriously) on a beach – or write? A swim and a run (when I used to run) are grand, then towel off, shower, shut the door, and shush.

What am I after, I wonder? How will I know when I’m done?

I have no idea. I am the way I was made. My avidity is my nature. It intensifies as my available hours dwindle. This has always been my purpose – since college – but now, for a brief glorious interval, I can pursue it full-time, unsaddled by vanity or need. How happy am I? Never happier – though a good deal stressed.

“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!” exhorted Thoreau. “Live the life you've imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler.”

My dream is to know. God keep me going till I can no longer go.