Dreamt about seeing a copy of The New Yorker. The cover had the following illustration: A middle-aged man looks ahead at the remainder of his life and sees weight gain, decreased physical function, sickness, dependence on others, death. But along the way are all these other things, like flying cars, robot prostitutes, robot delivery of cheesecake, vacations in tropical climes, and a lot of wonderful things, but he completely ignores these things, and his vision of the future is entirely negative.
Nothing complicated about that. But it was a great drawing. Too bad I can’t draw.
I guess I am like that man who looks at the future and sees sickness and dependence on others. It seems simply realistic; it doesn’t depress me. I just know it’s there. I also know the flying cars etc. are there. And they don’t excite me. If the New Yorker accepted a story of mine — if I could even write a story good enough that I would even think of submitting it to the New Yorker — that would be exciting.
The New Yorker is more exciting than the future.