I can’t really blame the meds, this time. There’s a lot going on. As I’ve stated in earlier missives, reasons for omission seem to be overwhelming my desire to capture what’s going on for posterity. In addition, I’ve been reading Samuel Clemens, it’s like going to see Steve White play; you’re not gonna pick up a guitar for a few days afterward. Because the Internet is forever, or seemingly so. Blogging for me has assumed a certain liability - akin to the perils of having “unprotected” sex – the potential implications being enough to inhibit those of us with the proper fears and sensibilities installed. What if my potential employer reads that I think that Healthcare management in this country is insane? It’s a pretty radical concept. There - I’ve said it - no turning back, now.
To my tortured mind, it’s always been the argument between “You’re not talented enough” vs. “You’re not disciplined enough.” There is probably more written about being a writer than any other subject, it only stands to reason. Writing about Writing is the next best thing to, well, Writing. “Being A Successful Writer” – the statement itself contains 4 words that are wildly open to interpretation, individually. I recently read an article that pointed out that having a world-changing “thing” was not enough; it was the implementation and, er, exploitation of that idea that really made the difference. Thank you, Adolph, now PUT YOUR ARM DOWN - I’m not going to tell you again. Exploitation is such an ugly word. Sausage tastes really good, though – you just don’t want to know how it’s made. I know that they use high-pressure water hoses in the manufacturing of SPAM . . .
I’ve been reading more random blogs these past few days. Google Reader has a “recommended” button that somehow aggregates blogs based upon one’s saved blogs/recent activity/shoe size/bank account statement/last physical/?? (I’m sure Google knows what I’ll be doing tomorrow, at least upon the intertubes). People I don’t know. Families with Down Syndrome and Cancer in their lives. I don’t know why, but Cake Wrecks keeps coming up – it’s hilarious. And, of course, tsunami pictures. Blogs from Americans and Japanese who are there and say that it’s not so bad, where they are. News about purported and potential radiation plumes, and the page that proves that my home is 48 miles from the San Onofre Nuclear Plant, just inside that magic 50-mile circle.
Our lives, individually and collectively, are being recorded ‘seismographically’. The extremes often become defining moments, although (usually) they are the anomalies in an otherwise bumpy but boring pass under the pen. So often, the gritting goal-attainment gets ignored. The Japanese are being described in glowing terms at the moment, based upon their suffering and stoicism. I’m not begrudging this – just noting it. One Japanese official has already made a bonehead statement that this was their Gods’ (purposefully plural, thank you) punishment, then retracted it. It’s nice to be reminded that we don’t hold the exclusive rights on ignoramousness. God gets blamed for a lot; it makes the senseless so much more sensible. I suppose. Our species has such a way of saying the dumbest things at just the wrong times. Of course, I have to put this blog into that category by definition. See how I can talk myself out of this?
I found it so very unsettling to sit here comfortably in my chair while I watched the sea engulf Sendai and the north coast of Japan. Long shots displayed the passionless, inevitable rolling wall of water. Closing in, to watch a thousand tragedies unfold, methodically, without regard, without any reason other than the principles of Newtonian physics. Sensible, yet senseless. To share, at least, a sense of powerlessness with the camera operators, helicopter pilots; those who could only witness what was transpiring below them. It was not so long ago that the world would only learn of these things by eyewitness account, often weeks later – dramatized and/or sanitized by layers of editorial effort. I had a God’s-eye view (if I might be so impetuous to imply) of this as it was happening. Having been made in God’s image, I can understand that I’d be unable to sleep if I were He, having to constantly see that sort of thing. And then get blamed for it.
Emma. She’s becoming more articulate in her own inarticulate way. That I’m having trouble coping with my soon to be 12-year old daughter is as “normal” as it’s supposed to be. The problem is that the problem is me. She’s learning how to get along with other people, not just the three of us, and they don’t treat her as abruptly as I tend to. I haven’t grown out of the “terrible twos” mentality – you know, ask , ask, ask, ask more firmly, ask even more firmly, threaten, threaten, then move you where I asked you to go ten minutes ago. Not so easy when the ‘askee’ is about 100 lbs., a girl, who now has the vocal abilities of Maria Callas with a megaphone and the physical presence to collapse onto the floor in the most dramatic and embarrassing way. I need to respect her more, and not just because it’s inevitable that I’m not going to get my way all of the time, anymore. It helps very little to rationalize these things when I’m tired and grumpy myself (that would be between the hours of noon – nine p.m.). To put it into whatever context this rambling has produced, I love her dearly. I need to invest more faith in her. So we’ll probably be even later than usual to whatever event you’re hosting, if you invite us. Yeah, both of you.
We’re starting another no-fly-zone. We’re wasting our money on war while those who need caring for are getting less. Ideology and idiocracy overwhelm Faith like paper covers rock. “The Money” is going somewhere. The Golden State is drowning, and our earthquake hasn’t happened yet. We will not be lauded for our orderly society when it does. It helps very little to rationalize these things when I’m tired and grumpy – oh wait, it’s only 10:30 in the morning. Time to check the news.
