My IC convinced me to return to watching Schitt’s Creek last night. She has seen the entire series multiple times; I have only seen season 1. But, last night, we watched part of season 2. I feel confident that, one of these days, I will become as much a fan as she is. But it hasn’t happened yet. I expect it any minute, though!
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The forecast for Friday, July 30, calls for the temperature to reach 102°F during the day, dropping to 79°F. Both those extremes should be considered crimes against humankind and wanton attacks on the natural order. Something must be done. We can’t live like that. Maybe a trip to the beach, or into a convenience store freezer, is in order.
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Okay, I recognize that this may sound sexist or misogynistic, but I hope it won’t and that it isn’t. So, here goes: When women (and men) dress themselves to appeal to their “target” demographic, are they effectively flaunting themselves and suggesting they are interested in sex? Imagine, for example, a woman—wearing a low-cut dress, short skirt, sparkling necklaces and bracelets, and smelling of alluring perfume—walks into a well-known meet-market bar. What is she after? Is she using her appearance and aroma as “bait?” And, what of the guy who goes into the same bar, wearing a tailored leather jacket, expensive woven shirt (thin enough material to reveal his six-pack abs), high-end wool slacks, and $500 boots? Is he, too, trolling for a little action?
No, some might suggest, both of them are only presenting themselves in an appealing light in the hope of attracting attention. Naw, I don’t think so! The end game, for both of them, is excitement. They’re throwing themselves in front of their “target market,” only to discover at some point that, in that environment, victims eat victims eat victims eat victims. They tell themselves otherwise and accept nods of agreement from others who refuse to entertain the idea that we were all engaged, in our younger days, as gigolos or paid escorts. Except in my case my bait did not work. I went home and sulked, alone. Poor, abandoned, destitute me. I should have filed for emotional reparations, made necessary by the Sexual Revolution. And I missed it.
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Today’s time-swallowing events include a visit with an investment advisor at her office, a visit by a pest control guy to my house (the spiders, scorpions, and other such creatures are becoming intrusive), and a foray into a local school to hear Broadway musical themes, played by the Hot Springs Concert Band. I should not complain about my time being swallowed. It’s my fault; I let it get away from me without even a weak effort to stop it. Some days, I’d like to switch obligations with someone else; someone with an exciting, richly rewarding life. But who?
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So, shall we return to the time when we wore masks whenever we might encounter groups of people? I had not been doing it, but I think I shall return to the “old days” of protecting oneself and others against dimwits who consider COVID-19 a political hoax. I remain amazed and appalled that these people can lace their own shoes.
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Yesterday, following church service (consisting of a film about how rural America might cope, politically, with climate change), I facilitated the post-service discussion. I suggested that, if people simply focus on desired outcomes versus the process of getting there, our disagreements might be much more readily resolved. A woman in the audience made known that she disagreed, vehemently. She made a strong case (making mine wither into dust on the floor), after which the real discussion began. I was able to stay out of it, for the most part. Which is as it should be.
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Listening requires hearing between the bands of soft, smooth noise that deliver words to our ears. Listening, without understanding (unless accompanied by investigative explorations of the barely-audible static above and below and to each side of the thoughts words prompt or deliver) is simply hearing. It’s those investigations that can yield either the zenith of pleasure or the most excruciating pain. You have to be willing to laugh and cry and feel, louder and deeper than the sea, if you want to be a listener. The potential for pleasure makes listening for an impossible-to-reject siren’s song one’s purpose in the presence of noise.
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Protests against mandatory vaccinations against COVID-19, by French healthcare workers, have given me reason to become yet more confused. Their position is that the vaccines may not have been given adequate time in trials, among other easily defensible arguments. But one argument that exists only as an insistent chant on a sign got me thinking. Translated, it says “My body, my choice.”
Immediately, my argument commences: “No, not your choice, not when your idiotic decision puts other lives at risk!” I then begin to think about the arguments for and against a woman’s right to control her body, i.e., get an abortion. My argument has to include insistence that the fetus is not a person or is not being injured (in legal terms) by the action. But there, hidden in plain view, is the core of the argument: when life begins. By then, I’m still angry at the French healthcare workers, whose decisions have the potential of harming or killing thousands. Not true, I say, of the mother who aborts a fetus. And the problem’s scope becomes even more visible as we hear a response: “What you call a ‘fetus’ we call a living baby.” Some problems arise from such deep-seated and utterly opposite beliefs that we have almost no chance of resolving them.
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Once again today, I woke up much earlier than planned or expected. I was out of bed around 4, or maybe it was 4:30. At any rate, it was quite early. My energy level is not dependable, but this morning I felt fairly energetic for a while. I could have emptied the dishwasher and gotten more “minor” tasks done, except I did not want to wake anyone. So I sat, reading and writing and mulling over matters of life. Some of the matters of life are too difficult to address with mulling or writing; and reading can amplify them. Some days, I truly wish short-span, fully-recoverable, self-induced amnesia were available on demand
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I may not have told you, lately, that I love you. Well, I do. Yes, you. You know you’re the one, don’t you? Well, yes. And of course there are others. All of you, though, are magnificent in so many ways. You make others’ lives livable, enjoyable, fulfilling! Consequently, you’re over-the-moon-happy with every aspect of life that’s eligible to love. And you’re tolerant of those other elements of life on earth that feel like one is sleeping on a rocky matt without even a sheet. You take what comes and deal with it, no matter how difficult. I admire that about humanity. At least when that trait is visible.
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Enough of this for the day. I hope I begin writing more substance in the near-term. Enough of “me.” More of “someone else” is in order.
