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| Donna |
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!
Tom
