(After Ferlinghetti Turned 100)

I used to know things.

Not in a boastful way, but with the certitude of youth. The kind that leans into unpopular truths just to test the echo. I was, perhaps, popular for being unpopular—a familiar arrangement for the young. And maybe I carried that longer than most. Into middle age, certainly.

But now? Well, hell—I’m long past middle age. I just didn’t notice until recently.

I read an interview with Lawrence Ferlinghetti, conducted when he turned 100. The reporter, fishing for some final wisdom from the old Beat, was met with this:

“There’s a serious error that gets passed around—something about the older you get, the wiser you are. Well, it’s just not true. When you grow older, you grow stupider.”

There’s a truth tucked inside that quip—beyond just mental decline. Knowing things takes passion. Passion burns energy. These days, I conserve energy for the important things. And knowing what’s expected—socially, morally, politically—takes a lot of energy.

It takes energy to say the right things.

It takes even more to oppose them.

I’m no longer a firebrand. Not even a burning ember.

Take capital punishment. I once knew it was barbaric. Then I knew it was just—deterrent, revenge, equilibrium. Now? I don’t know anything.

What about torture? Easy: it doesn’t work. People will say anything under pressure. I’m against torture.

And yet…

I believe in the fear of torture. I believe that the idea of impalement might coax the truth out faster than gentle suggestion. I know, I know—I’ve gone medieval. But I’m too tired to defend the nuance.

So I’m glad no one asks my opinion anymore.

Because the truth is—I don’t know what I think. Not until just before I speak.

And sometimes, not even then.