I Ask Myself
A slow day, this Saturday, the day before the day before my vacation is over. Oh! Oh! An Italian opera, a tragedy, a restatement of the fact that nothing lasts (forever). "Oh! Oh!". Or is this a common attitude to find on a Thanksgiving weekend, the sky overcast, the sun nowhere around, the mind on empty, the brain on stun?
I'm listening to This American Life on NPR and they've just finished the chicken opera segment. "Oh! Oh!" A woman who's put together the hand puppet opera Chicken Little, scored with lyrics in Italian. It puts this urge to write a journal in perspective when I contemplate a world that nurtures pullet sopranos. An entire program on fowl for Thanksgiving, a tradition of some kind for the program. OK. I can certainly relate to a heroine named Pulcina. On a Saturday. Then again, in accordance with their fowlish theme, there is Chickenman, a superhero born in the 70's, corny, but most excellent. A fowl Saturday. Cluck! How to get this brain of mine in gear, sitting here, idling, listening to this most excellent program? Do I detect a light? An idea? Apparently not.
Yesterday an excellent lunch with MSM in Jack London Square, a walk down the dock browsing along a line of artisan tables. A puzzle shop was running a going out of business sale. Not a good sign. An end of trouble or a sign of trouble unabated? After lunch and two glasses of the house red it didn't seem to matter. MSM's company went out of business recently - adios, have a nice Thanksgiving! - and she's been interviewing with success, although it's never a calming experience. She goes by the rule if a situation doesn't strike her right, if she doesn't get a good hit from the people she's interviewing with, she'll turn them down no matter, turning down an offer for that reason last week. A sensible attitude. "How much time do we have left in this life to be spending it with idiots?" A question I ask myself.