Screw Dr. Laura and All In Her Cynical Band

Such adjectives may serve to describe our children's character, just as antonyms of such adjectives do, for even as adults our children continue to challenge us in assessment, condition, decisions, and circumstances we couldn't foresee when they were young. I think that's the truth many parents don't consider until time reveals it - it's facile to maintain that "you never stop being a parent", but it's even more facile to criticize those that claim their children's beauty merely refers to their physical appearance. Their decency, compassion, and goodness, and lack of such qualities, help characterize them, for they are also people in progress, as we all are.

The Times They Are A-Changin'

The End of the Beginning

There aren't, on every subject, two equal and opposing viewpoints. On some subjects, it isn't just a difference of opinion or politics, of belief or law. There are moral absolutes, though it's difficult to argue two rights make a wrong or that good can result from bad.

Those who can have not stopped the decimation of Palestine from the willful and immoral acts of Israel, and so Palestine will fall, but not cease to exist. When this happens, those who can but willfully and investedly did not stop the atrocities against Palestine must destroy Israel, if only to show the nations and movements of the world the falsehood that iniquity is not equal, and that those who can, will, when it's convenient, and so Israel will fall, and similar alliances will cease to exist. 

Israel is committing eventual suicide while committing genocide. Those who can will assist them if only to keep from being destroyed themselves. And so those who can will stand, though their souls, their leadership, their respectability will cease to exist. 

There are moral absolutes, but in a world where people are constantly attempting to demonstrate that wrongs being right and defend the asinine notion that good can be produced from bad, then I say those that can go all in. If our flags flying over vanquished, decimated lands where children once laughed, culture once thrived, and their murderers were once enabled and even encouraged to succeed, let's get on with it.

Be at peace, Palestine. I'm sorry we failed you. 

Pray for mercy, Israel. The friendship is ending. 

God Bless America, and Those Who Can.

On A Framed Evening

I can't stop looking at this print. 

Its subject is irrelevant, its medium immaterial, the image uninspiring, the colors a melange of hues unspectacular and moods reflecting nothing in particular. I've seen this print nearly every other night and day of the last twelve years of my intinerant career, the not-inexplicable possibility of this far from uncommon artwork having been present on one of the walls of the multiple rooms throughout the three usual motels at which we're temporarily housed between traincalls.

And once again, over this desk in tonight's room in the most upscale of the three fleatraps, the print is present, as am I.

I'm disappointed in myself these days, my somewhat regularly reliable thoughts unexpectedly rootless or with weakened foundation now, my emotions zigzagging from one strong conviction to another uncertain meandering idea like a listless leaf prematurely dislodged from its branch, gently whisked by a meager breeze to be unfairly and roughly thrust by a contrary gust of crosswind. 

There's so much irresolution, so much chaos, undesired but rationalized capitulation, not enough resolution, the rare solemn yet confident stillness, the desired and reassuring recapitulation of too many issues both grave and wonderful, both mundane and rhetorical, and revolutionary and exciting.

Fuck the Jews. Fuck the Russians. To hell with the bigots and the reprehensible, damn my obvious hypocrisy and my repressed anger. 

Bring back the goodness and the magnaminity I always believed I possessed throughout my younger years; revive the charity and happy generosity I used to believe I practiced well, among loved ones, toward strangers, to myself but only at the end and after I felt I may have done all I could for whatever measurement of time experienced at the time. 

Return to me the brother I never fully cast out though he cast me out, return to me myself from the brotherhood to which I learned I gave much more than from which I ever received, and all by my own doing. 

Return to me my children for whom I've lived and labored my whole life even before I knew parenthood, for my independent, individual actions and decisions, though haphazard or educated, led directly to them and their existence, and reject any possibility of the success of their failures, losses, broken dreams, unfulfilled souls, for they should reap the benefits of proper investment of muscle and blood and learn from the errant paths they'll traverse while in search of such rapture. May all our children thrive and prosper.

And then there's my beautiful love, my beloved lady, about whom I'lll write numerous chapters in so many books on the shelves in the library of my heart, and compose lyrics and verses so ornate and in tribute that no music will ever sufficiently accompany them. But tonight the descended Muse whispers to me She's calling it a night and I should rest before the coming day's traincall.

I don't know. I don't know. Even though I think I know too much, or at least think I think too much about it all. Jesus, my head, my eyes - 

as I lean back in my chair at this same desk and almost reluctantly look upon the same print I've seen almost every other night in similar motel rooms these many past years, the same unremarkable, nondescript image of a nowhere place I'll never see but know so very well, 

like my soul, my mind, my rest of my life.

February 4, 2024

I'm not exactly sure what to write this morning, but nevertheless I felt inspired to open this little portable Bluetooth keyboard and pair it to my phone, on which I'm employing the Google Notes app to scribe this forementioned unknown item.

To fill out the mise-en-scène, I'm currently listening to an online playlist of songs I compiled one evening a while back at the old house in which we used to live, while sitting and enjoying another brilliant and insightful conversation with my beloved wife by electric candlelight at our patio table. The subtle light captured the very style with which I've mentally recorded irreplaceable memories like this one my entire life; the longing voice of Rod Stewart imploring eternal love from his unseen paramour reminding me of the soft blowing of the summer breeze casually tousling my love's hair as she smiled alternately at her emptying glass of wine and my devoted, undoubtedly goofy face, something I said having made her laugh a little. Whether it was my well-timed comedic delivery or the smooth inebriating effect of the grape juice will never matter to me, not when it comes to recalling such an image-laden memory as this.

While I can fortunately claim that there have been many such moments describable with many such settings in atmosphere, accompanying soundtrack, vintage libations, and the players themselves, I can also confess that there haven't nearly been enough such moments, and I've no one to blame but myself. Soon I'll return home to my smiling lady - too often do these seperating 300 miles feel like 3000 and the numerous hours become irretrievable lost days - and we'll listen to more music, listen to each other laugh flirtatiously and boisterously, smile at our glasses refilled, smile at each other, by whatever available light illuminates that moment, feeling whatever available fresh air the night affords us, and another irreplaceable memory will hopefully be recorded and lovingly archived in this old traveler's mind.

I'm grateful for this little Bluetooth keyboard today. This entry has turned into a written sample of what is actually my eternal wish for this life. She's who makes them come true.

Maybe I'll write more about her every tomorrow.