. Spinning .

I probably shouldn’t even be starting this yet, but had to get some thoughts down that have been circulating within for a while and are slowly coming together from different directions to create some interesting possibilities.

I believe that on a more personal level, society is entering, or well on its way into, a new Age that may or may not be a product of technology or any other recognized shaping by progress of our culture. 

It’s still fragmented in my mind, but it seems that with the encompassing view of all societies as our brothers, we have become more uncaring towards those closest to us or worthy of our recognition.  Just some blips that may be pieces to the puzzle I’m seeing:

The supportive fight for justice and freedom is accorded to select groups only; those that have been brought to the attention of the media by influential forces or by focused activist groups. The conflicts that arise, such as in Iraq, as to whether the people themselves should be allowed freedom or the former oppressive dictatorship allowed the freedom from world intervention, become moot points.

The lack of willingness to congratulate, make mention of, or encourage acts of those individuals that are either singular in their immeasurable importance or intelligence, or are within our own sphere of influence, in regard instead for the masses who may feel inferior because of it.

On the flip side of that, claiming that the drawn stick-figure of a man is just as good as what Michaelangelo painted; that there is no bad art, bad poetry, poor writing.  Unless someone has acquired some degree of fame to allow knocking him off that pedestal of self-achievement, he cannot be criticized.

The unwillingness to give a dollar to the beggar on the street in exchange for a smug satisfaction that protesting against the wealthy has proven their compassion and unselfish nature.

People are almost never fired outright for doing a poor job, but may be maneuvered onto a list awaiting the next downsizing.  Yet, one can be easily fired for alleged sexual harassment, blogging about your workplace, whistle-blowing, and subtly pushed into early retirement at the age of 55 to avoid paying your medical and retirement costs.

The phenomena of weblogs has been much-studied, and it may be an indication more of the individual need for validation that he is not getting from those closest to him.  For example, commenting is strongest from relative strangers who share a common interest and have established a long-distance friendship that is more supportive than those in one’s own circle of reality.  Maybe we have lost that ability to accept and reinforce friendships without prejudice to differences of interests or styles.  Why the need to reach out so far into the internet web in this most evolved age of mobility?

The acceptance of a particular minority group as special, instead of giving equal value to all.  How about short people, overly tall people, redheads, etc., etc., etc.

Unwillingness to acknowledge that some people can mean more to you than the masses.  This seems somehow to be a copout when it is easy to give lip service to beliefs, and yet actions do not align with this generousity of spirit on the daily face-to-face level. 

Insistence that we all be nice to each other, which in fact, we don’t do when we see each other face to face on a more intimate level.  I’ve never seen such rudeness and failure to be thoughtful to the guy next to you while espousing a global or select caring for mankind.

I hope I’m wrong, and maybe some more thinking on it will turn me around.  With the study of Western Civilization, I’m beginning to learn how the elite–and in this case, I am not referring to specifically the wealthiest of society–can raise or bring down a civilization.  There just appears to be some false values creeping under the guise of the importance of the individual, that negates his very individualism. Idealism is forever going to be clouded by reality. Liberal thought has run amok to the point that vicious hatred is shown towards those who disagree, when the idea was to insure that everyone be free to think their own way. I can visualize a faceless society that is nondescript, photoshopped, and frustrated by restraint of joy as well as anger, good as well as bad, and various levels of intellect.

And then too, even if I am seeing something here, as Pangloss claims in Candide, perhaps "it’s all for the best."

Need to get some work done in the shop today, and for that I depend upon Willie, Waylon and Emmylou to set the mood.  I haven’t had them playing in here in months–they distract me from writing; but upon occasion Willie or Waylon may put a thought in my head that leaves pictures unframed and words poured onto the hard drive.

Also have the idea for a seventies story, and will need to put on my Time/Life collection to get the "freedom feeling" of that era.  Lyrics have been running around in my mind for several days now:  "Come on people now, smile on each other, everybody get together, gotta love one another right now."  There’s a dark story here.  (Yeah, really!)

But for now, the sun’s shining, my cardinal friends are chirping for breakfast, the snow is melting, and there’s a newly-laid beach of sand on 200 ft. of road frontage that used to be our front lawn. 

And, there are stories to tell…

There is a learned strength within our family, one that may be hard to understand for those without.  A teardrop doesn’t count unless it has fallen, if practiced will can keep it balanced on fragile lashes till it dries.  There is a need sometimes to hide the true emotion; I’ve never liked raw honesty untempered by compassion.  If hurting hurts someone else instead, even in a sympathetic escalation of events, the chain is broken by sheer will of shears of steel. 

But if the tear cannot be held back, or hidden within an unrelated moment, it is also understood that it is then free to fall, to be dried by love as strong as that which tried to hold it in.

Going back to yesterday, another odd twist.  I’m on the phone with Nancy, and I hear the garage door open; Jim was supposed to go straight to Goshen, not come home first.  Knocking on the door, then it opens and my neighbor hollering in to see if I’m alive or lying dead on the kitchen floor.  I told her I was fine, but felt the need to lie because she’d gone through such trouble to check up on me.  Usually, because she is alone now, she calls me every morning to let me know that she is alive because she doesn’t want to be found three days after passing.  Especially in the summer.  I lied and told her I was on the phone with my sister; it seemed to make it more worth her time and trouble because it’s hard for her to walk.  My sister, in fact, is on a train to Washington D.C. 

We go to Gus’ and eat corned beef and cabbage and drink wine.  I laugh, smile, and beam because sunshine cannot cry.  Tears are averted on all sides.

Home again, Jim kisses me good night and tells me not to fall asleep on the couch.  "I won’t-good-night-I-love-you," I reply.  I wake up to see a 3-D animation of the mechanics of the penis on tv.  Despite my age and relative maturity, I watch, fascinated. 

But I have serious writing to do that needs my full concentration, so I shut the tv off before the program moves on to the talking cross-sectioned avocado.

Today did not start well; started early, but not well. 

El esposo woke me up, I made his lunch, sent him off, sat down at the computer, worked for about half an hour and then noticed the time:  4:49 a.m.  Yes, an hour earlier than normal for some strange reason, but this was after I hadn’t gotten to sleep until midnight.  Gee, I sure hope when he got to work the building was unlocked.

Then, instead of going back to bed for a bit, I felt bright-eyed and bushy-tailed so I started doing some stuff.  Felt the need to close my eyes arount 9:30 (a half-hour before my shop opens) and was awakened by the phone at 11:00. 

Groggy, disoriented, I decided to call in sick to work (my boss is a peach!) and called a friend to see if we’d bring supper over to him tonight.  He’s pretty down lately, so I said I’d make him some corned beef & cabbage pressure-cooked in beer.  Since we love cb&c, we have it often during the year but don’t always have it on St. Patrick’s Day (have been known to have it on Halloween, however).  Before I ran out to the grocery, my sister called, re-upset about my niece who had managed to get a brain infection (she had a tumor removed last June) and has to undergo surgery again tomorrow to have an abcess drained.  So I had to talk my sister down in a soothing tone which wasn’t hard because I was nodding off anyway.  We’re worried, yes; but like so much in life, we’ve learned to look at the good side.  The infection was discovered very early by a routine MRI and things could have been much worse if it had progressed to the point where she was even noticing any effect.  She’s in good health, and things should be fine.

Then I ran out to the grocery and to the computer sale on campus.  Was the fortieth person in line, got right in when they opened, and every freakin’ system was gone by the time I made it to the back of the room.  Didn’t feel like rumaging through parts for a motherboard or anything else, so that trip was a waste.

So here I am, hiding in the house behind closed blinds pretending I’m sick.  In the meantime, I’m about to throw the corned beef in the pot and fire ‘er up.  Also must not close my eyes for fear of falling asleep.  Then I need to pack up dinner, meet my husband over at Gus’ house, and be the sunshine of their lives.

Two things in life can get me throwing things at walls.  The first, I’ve mentioned before, is the Chinese Descending Computer Chair.  The other is the snowplows going by at fifty mph spraying all the sand they laid down for twelve hours off the road and 12-feet onto the front yard.  Either of these events may push me over the fence I’m balancing across as I walk through life, and drive me deep into irretrievable madness. 

And today, I came (this) close.  After snowblowing the driveway and shoveling a path to my shop, I heard the plow coming.  My trick is to grab my jacket, the shovel, and run outside quick and look like I’m in the middle of it.  They usually lift their plow and go by before dropping it back down.  Three times I ran out, twice it was a jet low-riding into Bradley Airport.  Yes, I waved the shovel at the sky just to make a point. 

The third time, I wasted precious seconds telling myself it was another jet.  By the time I opened the door, the plow was upon me, unable to shift gears.  I got plastered by slush and sand.

I have been meekened by this experience, yes; but I suspect I’m that much closer to the edge.  It also looks like my goal of someday being known as the crazy old lady on Punch Brook Road is more than a dream.