The last few days have really removed all doubt about it, we are definitely in fall, heading towards winter. Add to that the fact that I have had one of those colds that clouds the mind and makes concentration difficult. And for some reason the last few days my neurotic alter ego has been going over the various muscle aches and other pains and concluding that I must have a terminal illness. Unable to really concentrate on work, I nevertheless scour the internet for clues to mysterious discomfort and find a cornucopia of esoteric maladies. You should never, ever look up symptoms on the internet, you are bound to convince yourself of rare, incurable, life-threatening sickness. My sensible self tells me that these are just temporary body states, (or signs of the aging process) and nothing to worry about, but something nags at me anyway, something I can’t put my finger on. I repeat to myself my mantra of impermanence and remind myself that we will all go sooner or later, and I find calm in that (somewhat). I am reminded of an almanac that I read as a young man, and how morbidly fascinated I was by the collection of epitaphs I found within. My favorite was from the tombstone that read “I told you I was sick”. It somehow wonderfully encapsulated Jewish comedy, neurosis and guilt-tripping of various relatives all in one. When I think of it today, it brings a smile to my face and reminds me of my grandmother, who had an acerbic wit and was prone to such sentiment. I miss her sometimes, and think of her often.