A few years ago I wrote a little essay about growing old and I used light bulbs as a tool to demonstrate the tacit, subtle, almost unnoticed fear that I have of it. Today, I was shopping with Nameless for light bulbs and I experienced it all over again. His patience grew thin as my irritation grew thick and all I wanted to do was replace some bulbs in my bedroom that had burnt out.
He tried to help by asking intelligent, leading questions in an attempt to narrow down the possibilities, such as, "Were you looking for decoration, or to light the room?" (The bulbs in question are for track lighting.) "Are you trying to read by them, or spotlight artwork?" Truly, though, I had gotten into my car with a bulb in my hand and run to the hardware store thinking that I would walk in, find replacement bulbs, buy them, take them home and install them. Things like Purpose, Aesthetics, Design... these things hadn't even entered my consciousness. I was just replacing bulbs that had burnt out. Little did I know that I was racing toward a minefield.
So, let's revisit this essay, this previous blog entry, shall we? It is as valid now as it was when I wrote it and I'm that much closer.