Seven Months of Empty Gestation...
Every time I decide to add a chapter to this crazy online record, it seems I forget how to access it. First of all, since Google made the purchase, I have not been able to figure out how to reset the login name. Currently, it consists of an email address I no longer use. After jumping through 4 or 5 'help' pages, I usually just either give up or, in this case, magically recall the correct login and password. It is fortunate, I suppose, that I change little over time, and that my ideas for passwords do not vary much from when I got my first ATM card (which was, I believe, the first time I was called upon to select a password).
Now, why have I chosen to write this evening. Honestly, I'm not sure. I have been in the middle of a spot lately where I have not wanted to do anything 'common' to me; more specifically, to write, to play music, or to perform. Part of me figures this is just the nature of life's ebb and flow, but another part wonders if it is the slack gene that, though recessed deeply in there, somehow manages to dominate every once in awhile. I may never know. In the meantime, the least I can do is make a comment here and there on the process.
Today is Memorial Day. Up until a couple of years ago, this was the day I would call my mothers' father and connect with him a little bit, maybe even thank him for his efforts. You see, he was a WWII veteran, and an injured, lost, recovered and honorably discharged one. Honestly, he was for many years my only link to the ideas of patriotism, the idea that this is a great country, worth fighting for. I grew up in a spoiled, judgemental generation. Granted, it was handed to us that way, and thus was not completely our fault. It had to come from somewhere. And that somewhere grew out of the security of the baby boomer generation, the very generation my grandfather bled to secure, and that many others died before dealing a hand in. Ironic, right? Anyway, I understand the torch has been passed, as has my grandfather, and so I will educate myself on the dealings of my country and invest myself, though perhaps stingily at first, in the process of shaping the way in which it is run. Oddly enough, this past election was the first of my life in which I voted for one of the primary candidates. I don't cite it as an example of one's vote counting, mind you, but I do recognize the need for personal responsibility in the democratic process. Whether I agree or not with the 'system' that we have instituted here, I live a fairly blessed and comfortable life, where I have to work for everything I get, but then get to enjoy everything I have worked for. I am not naive enough to believe that elsewhere, in time or in place, that this is at all the case. I am nearly ready to collapse upon a firm bed with clean sheets, beneath the roof of a home I am in the process of owning, and no matter what happens outside the front door of this place, I know that it could be a lot worse. The fact that I know and respect that is my greatest Memorial Day contribution. Good night, and good luck.
Now, why have I chosen to write this evening. Honestly, I'm not sure. I have been in the middle of a spot lately where I have not wanted to do anything 'common' to me; more specifically, to write, to play music, or to perform. Part of me figures this is just the nature of life's ebb and flow, but another part wonders if it is the slack gene that, though recessed deeply in there, somehow manages to dominate every once in awhile. I may never know. In the meantime, the least I can do is make a comment here and there on the process.
Today is Memorial Day. Up until a couple of years ago, this was the day I would call my mothers' father and connect with him a little bit, maybe even thank him for his efforts. You see, he was a WWII veteran, and an injured, lost, recovered and honorably discharged one. Honestly, he was for many years my only link to the ideas of patriotism, the idea that this is a great country, worth fighting for. I grew up in a spoiled, judgemental generation. Granted, it was handed to us that way, and thus was not completely our fault. It had to come from somewhere. And that somewhere grew out of the security of the baby boomer generation, the very generation my grandfather bled to secure, and that many others died before dealing a hand in. Ironic, right? Anyway, I understand the torch has been passed, as has my grandfather, and so I will educate myself on the dealings of my country and invest myself, though perhaps stingily at first, in the process of shaping the way in which it is run. Oddly enough, this past election was the first of my life in which I voted for one of the primary candidates. I don't cite it as an example of one's vote counting, mind you, but I do recognize the need for personal responsibility in the democratic process. Whether I agree or not with the 'system' that we have instituted here, I live a fairly blessed and comfortable life, where I have to work for everything I get, but then get to enjoy everything I have worked for. I am not naive enough to believe that elsewhere, in time or in place, that this is at all the case. I am nearly ready to collapse upon a firm bed with clean sheets, beneath the roof of a home I am in the process of owning, and no matter what happens outside the front door of this place, I know that it could be a lot worse. The fact that I know and respect that is my greatest Memorial Day contribution. Good night, and good luck.
posted by Master of None at 11:03 PM
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