Yesterday I wrote the first blog entry after an absence of a week. This evening I've had difficulty thinking of a subject, but I didn't want to begin another streak of blank days. So, I'll just blindly proceed, primarily to regain the discipline of writing daily.
I owe Dr. C. a "Thank You" for mentioning this blog in his. He and Felix have been having an interesting back and forth discussing information, and I interjected a bit. Dr. C was nice enough to use and extend it.
I went to a local nine hole golf course to play this morning. It was sunny and a bit cool, but not bad at all. About the time I got to the sixth hole, clouds rolled in, a strong breeze began, and it got cold. The interesting thing was that the last three holes were my best. I hit the ball solidly, putted decently, and scored better that I had the first six. I can't explain it, but I'll take it.
During the week of absence I attempted to determine why I wasn't writing, in fact why I was doing a lot of nothing; not quilting, cleaning the study, reading, writing, cooking - none of the activities I normally enjoy. I wasn't able to arrive at any kind of answer to any of these, but I sure did discover more questions. I did play golf three times. Is that significant?
One thing I did accomplish wasn't successful. I learned that there are two buses going to DC from Chapel Hill this weekend to participate in a large anti-way rally. I tried to get tickets. I've never participated in any kind of protest rally before, but this seemed important enough that I wanted to go. The buses were full, and they only way I could have gone was as part of a car pool. Since I didn't want to drive, and am not comfortable riding with folk I don't know, I decided to stay home. So my first rally was aborted.
I'm sixty-seven, almost sixty-eight. My health is OK, not great but OK. I have some problems, but they seem to be under control most of the time. When I went to the book store that was coordinating the buses to DC, we got into a short side conversation. I found myself saying that if I were twenty or thirty years younger I would be joining a militia to fight against the administration.
I wonder where that came from. I'm not that militant, or at least I've never been before. But it sort of blurted itself out. It returned to my mind later when I read a few numbers Dr. C cited.
They say babies are being ventilated with a plastic tube in their noses and dying for want of an oxygen mask, while other babies are dying because of the lack of a phial of vitamin K or sterile needles, all costing about 95p. Hospitals have little hope of stopping fatal infections spreading from baby to baby because of the lack of surgical gloves, which cost about 3.5p a pair. (emphasis added) Yes, that's 3.5 pence, or 7 cents!
In the meantime, we are spending $2,000,000,000 a week killing Iraqis. The total cost of the Iraq "War" if over a Trillion dollars. Yes, that's $1,000,000,000,000. This would buy over 10,000,000,000,000 pairs of gloves. Ten trillion pair of gloves.
Amazing that. And the sad part is that enough supposedly sane people think that warped sense of priorities is logical, necessary, and even righteous that it continues. Is it going to take a rising up of militia that use similarly insane methods to change the world?
I do not want to be the kind of person who would join a militia. I refuse to let myself deteriorate to that level. That is precisely why it is so frightening to hear myself say the unthinkable, especially without thinking about it. And if our nation disintegrates to the level that a militia is required to retain our freedom, I don't even want to think about what I would do.
Vince Lombardi used to have a slogan that he used in his football training camps. "Fatigue makes cowards of us all." Today, I would amend it to include age. I'm incapable of doing the activities I used to denigrate but now want to participate in. All that I can do now is write blogs and letters, send small contributions to some but not all causes, and grouse about the way things are. I've allowed myself to become a curmudgeon. I'd like to think an amiable curmudgeon, but sometimes I'm aware that's not accurate. Once in a while I go further and become an Irritable SOB.
It's time for this curmudgeon to go to bed and snuggle.