He never has indicated anywhere near full acceptance of my right to play God with my own life, but now he has launched an unprovoked attack on me to protest my deliberate unprovoked attack about an unprovoked attack on someone I admire. It was a sham and a gull. Sound familiar?
I've corresponded with this guy as the occasion arose on a fairly frequent basis over the last five years, and complimented him frequently for displaying an admirable writing style that I'm a little envious of. When I read his post this morning, in which he prophesied some bad things were gonna happen to me one of these days when I'm in the condition my supposed victim supposedly is (who knows, it is the internet we using), I was oddly unsurprised. He seems to have been leading up to something like this for weeks.
I moved around through my morning ritual thinking about how I was gonna respond to these conventionally mundane charges, when I thought about the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do_Not_Go_Gentle_into_that_Good_Night
and his encouragement to scream against the dying of the light. That's how I might approach this "victim" because of my silly conviction that I've sort of made myself an expert on human shame without actually calling myself a sham(e)man by posting hand-written announcements at the laundromat bulletin boards.
In my strange, small-minded world I thought the incident responsible for this guy's unprovoked attack on my unprovoked attack of this dying man was just up my alley. I responded like it was my cup of tea by screaming at the dying of the light. My nemesis chided me for being impolite to a helpless person. I suspect he might have offered him a soft pillow of politeness and soothing new-age affirmations to help him die with dignity.
I may take steps to assure myself this correspondent won't take the same approach with me should he outlive me. Yet, I guess I should give consideration of the adage "Different strokes for different folks.", because a soft pillow of politeness might be just the ticket if I-am-is were dying of shame.
Damn! Coldest morning of the year. It mo' better than further North. Still, the low twenties (@ - 5.555 C) for this neighbor is serious, water pipe busting weather. From the low twenties it only gets lethal to more and more forms of life and seam-splitting moisture-laden, inanimate objects.
Someone asked me recently if I experienced more problems with the arthritis when it gets sure 'nuff cold? It doesn't seem to make my joints hurt as much as it makes my fingers stiff, and maybe that is a source of discomfort, but the diagnosis for me was "mild arthritis", so more degradation may introduce new sensations. God, I hope so. I'm getting bored with the health issue, and that forces me to be cautious about becoming boring myself.
"Bored people are boring." AU
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I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
