Good Morning Christa…
How can this be? Donna has lived happily forever in her small, eccentric address near the shores of the Pacific. I can’t imagine there is anything comparable available for her, anywhere. How does she feel about grits, white lightening moonshine and the passionate rants of southern secessionists? No, I don’t see a walk among Spanish moss and beneath magnolia a likely option for her, either. She needs an attic room sturdy enough to hold her boxes of rocks, clocks and assorted bargain store treasures.
I want to soon see 12 Years a Slave. I suspect my reaction to it will be much like how I felt about Schindler’s List – it’s the most wonderful movie I hope to never see again. I rarely go to the theater, though. Like Blue is the Warmest Color, this will probably be a movie I can wait to purchase when it is released on DVD.
You are, indeed, your neighbor’s keeper. You take your Christianity seriously while I simply buy the book. It gives me a good feeling while I read Christ’s teachings. Too bad I can’t seem to schedule the time to turn his words into actions. Is it possible I can find my way into Heaven with a grade of Satisfactory Intent?
I hear you. You have the same reservations I have about political writing. I want to approach issues with a broad brush and resist falling into the trap of dogmatism or of nitpicking to death the workings of government minutia. I don’t want this to be about personalities but I certainly appreciate the bigger than life characters that are attracted to the bright beacon of power. They are an absolute feast, and as a group they are generously seasoned with every possibility of human strength and foible. They are all emperors without clothes, preening and pontificating, espousing sometimes equal parts wisdom and nonsense, and everyone, all the while, naked as jaybirds before the microphones and cameras.
Of course, I don’t expect to always meet my goals. Goals are like the bull’s eye on a target. Any number of reasons can have me land wide of the mark. It can be as simple as drinking over-cooked coffee or not feeling loved by my dog. Even words intended as a measure of reasoned thought are tirelessly inflected with the soft tramp of yearning for something more.
Winter cold has arrived. Yesterday was the first morning with ice on the windshield. If you’re an insect that has somehow survived this night you are certain to be finally serious about writing your last will and testament. The curtain has dropped with a sudden, sharp thud on one more season of sunshine and frolic. Most of us here have by now unpacked our heavy coats, gloves and thick stocking caps. A few of the wealthier neighbors among us have undoubtedly booked passage destined for a lovely new spring south of the equator. I’m thinking two weeks in Fiji will make for a splendid port of call. Bon voyage, everyone. Bon voyage!