It always starts like this. I'm watching something on video,I can't concentrate on what I'm looking at, because I'm worlds away in thought about some stunning epiphany I'm having, so I set about to actually write an "essay" detailing my gifted ramblings, and fire up the computer, only to open an image or webpage authoring software, and then spend hours composing "graphics" instead of writing down my stellar observances for the benefit of others.
That was the first paragraph. I made it. I'm writing. And, then, and here's the kicker. I've forgotten the point.
Which, as I always like to point out, is the point.
Something has to be said which connects the dots, puts everything into perspective, and unites the warring "tribes" of humanity. If this doesn't happen, then we're doomed. I see this clearly, and I have this now beautiful website, which, if ever visted, and investigated, would offer the visitor some knowledge and talent, and might, with the help of these "essays" share in the ultimate truth of humanity and join me in discouraging the apathy and hopelessness we see every minute of every day, even if it's only in the newspaper or on television.
I'm astounded when I think of how my own life now seems notoriously wasted, and even when I do in these rare enough instances these days type a few random paragraphs into the word processer, those words never seem to be the ones which were in my thoughts, and they merely serve no purpose really, rather than as a plea to sanity, if not humanity's, then surely my own.
I have called the section for which I'm feverishly penning this missive "The Next 30 Years." The title is that of a country song by Tim McGraw.The essay shall detail my sense of dread at becoming so disconnected by the same society I once saw fit to shun that now I am, as was onetime predicted, in mortal fear of becoming a big screen DVD renting hermit, content to watch video, and let my mind wander in wonderful ways, but being doomed, as I am now, to not being able to astound my page with these astounding feats of meaning which seem so meaningless.
"The Next 30 Years" is a song about a guy who turned 30, and I last year I attended the 30th "Class Reunion" of my highschool class. The big news for me, of course this year, is turning fifty years old. 50 is an astounding age to be able to get to, and I of course am thinking about my father's death at 54. and if I feel my life still feels relevant, if in fact it ever did. Have I accomplished my goals? Have I touched that one human soul? Did I matter? In my present state I feel as if, like Capra's "Jimmy Stewart" I would be able to see the world as if I hadn't existed, it would probably be a better place.
But one of my most often heard criticisms is that I "put myself down". My poor mother used to accuse me of having delusions of grandeur. Then she called me a genius, so as to confuse me.
Well, now I have written a few thousand words and will end for now.

In the next thirty years, so the song goes, I shall probably have to straighten up and start eating right. I will move a little slower, hopefully won't need a replacement hip replacement at least in the somewhat near future, and will most probably feel pain, as if I haven't been feeling pain for most of the first fifty years.
The year is slipping slowly, as the pages, such as this one, which shall chart the course of direction over the next thirty years, as slowly appear, with first a few sentences, then updates, and meanings, and finally, a cohesive whole, a diagram of existence, a tome to trumpet the coming perfection, and to put my thoughts in place.
As I finally come to grips with the words which shall hopefully teach, enlighten, and elucidate, I watch the world seemingly fall apart. I view destruction, threats, reprisals, bankruptcies, moral decay, lies, covert bullshit, and grieve for the state of mankind that he has let himself come to this. After the "Events of Sept. 11", when I wrote my poem, and created my composite, I thought perhaps this would be a beginning to the ultimate form my website would take. I ventured forth into the cyberspace, and I preached peace love and understanding, and nobody would listen. I was belittled and berated in message board after message board for questioning the blind rampant patiotism which replaced the nation's shock and horror. I still question, and it looks like the War On Terrorism is being waged on whomever the antichrist Bush sees fit to wage it upon. America the Beautiful might soon get an uncurable black eye.
I worry, but then I sit back and stop thinking, and get back to watching the video. My existence, such as it is, now encompasses the "media room", my twentyfirst century audio video home movie theater. I watch the movie, in the dark, enjoying the art and the story, the literature and the philosophy.
Existence is fleeting, it might seem.
And perhaps we collectively will see the end of this one.
As I ponder the next thirty years, I take stock of what I want to accomplish for the rest of humanity. I hope humanity reads, and learns, as I think I have, that he is failing the test he has been given. I hope to share my thoughts with you these next thirty years.


I want to take it easy and slow down, but the more I want to ponder and think, the more I think and ponder that I'm wasting time doing that, instead of "acting". Acting on what, I don't know? Impulses? Fear of Aging? PMS ?.Male Menopause? I keep thinking I won't finish. I won't be able to make the difference I always thought I would. I've got to make a concerted effort in the next thirty years to establish the guidelines, draw out the floor plan, and get on with life. Oh, that things would have been easier.

And I'm lucky. Incredibly lucky. My operations so far have all been successes. I made a pact with myself, and, to tell the truth, with Pat, because I was living with her, loved her, and wanted to please her, to "straighten myself up by the time I hit forty, and I accomplished that goal. That I know have thousands of dollars in credit card debt because I cleaned it up and was able to be sold credit too easily doesn't matter. What matters is that I did what I told myself I would do.

For the next thirty years, I should make more of these pacts. One of them is to write more. The more I age, the more I think I know, and the less I seem to want to say. That is nothing but procrastination. If I wish to write, I shall write.

The state of the world is deplorable. Perhaps I will be able to talk to someone about this. If only myself. And I should listen.


Another year passes, and promises made seem to get broken, but other promises show up in their stead. As I age, I tend to visit my doctor more often, in hopes to insure that my health doesn't fail as my parents did, causing me to be a little more careful than I used to in life. In the latter part of 2003, my doctor surprised me with the news that I had cholesterol levels which dictated a change in diet, and the change forces me to give up foods which I really enjoy. So barring an incredible turnaround in health, it seems the next thirty years will mean I can't enjoy eating fine meals as much as I used to, becuase now almost all dairy (cheese is a favorite, as are biscuits and gravy in the mornings) red meat, and egg yolks (there go my omelettes). Instead of denying the condition, as I probably would have just a few years ago, I am following the diet, have established an exercise regimen, and feel healthier, at least. Now to cut down on the alcoholic beverages again, in order to lose weight in the all important beer belly, and perhaps I will not have to worry about biting the bullet at 54 as dad did, and I can, in fact, live at least another thirty years.

Michael F. Nyiri
poet, philosopher, fool


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