being able to reach the top of a door jamb without jumping,
about riding a bike across town, about driving, and about various and sundry other things.
Now I have all the things I imagined would make me mature,
but I still feel, sometimes, as if I'm gripping that huge, fat, oversize pencil, trying to make those giant letter "A" markings. Those big letter "A" marks looked, with hindsight, like prefab Colorado frame chalets, except that in Colorado they don't get the lines as crooked.
I think that the main casualty of my thirties was the sense that someplace, somewhere, an intelligentsia had it all figured out just right. From the time I accepted that I am a second-rate mind, I've always thought that the first-rate minds must have some secrt moxie I lack. That's not quite the same as saying God is in His Heaven, but it's pretty close to saying all's right with the world.
Now I no longer feel that there's some group of insiders that have it all down pat. The people who keep telling us that they are those insiders prove wanting in almost every way. I looked for Diogenes, and all I found was flashlight manufactureres. That means the things I write, and everyone writes, with those giant yellow pencils, is about as good as the lettering gets. That's cool, and scary, and an awesome responsibilty.