Things I thought about today: my father, my grandmother, sinners, Daredevil, and the secular word for evil. That was all one chain of thought.
Other things that came up: the TV show You, primarily about cliches of struggling writers in New York (nothing has ever made me want to identify as a struggling writer in New York less than watching You), vegan restaurants in Brooklyn, the cost of apple butter, and aging.
I told my father, “You might live another 40 years.” He did not seem enthused. He told me the same thing that he said back when he must have been my age now, that he did not want to live without his mind.
I remembered that his father died in his sixties, and I remembered the Midrash that Rashi quotes, that when Yitzchak approached the age at which his mother died, he could no longer ignore his mortality. “Behold now, I have grown old,” he said. He was 123.
After we hung up, I wrote in my journal: if I had more money, I would highlight my hair.