For a short while, we expected we would go to Bentonville to hear Barrack Obama speak on December 1 at Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. Tickets for members (which we are) were to be available, free, to members as of 10:00 a.m. yesterday. Mi novia attempted to get two tickets for us. Unfortunately, on her first try—literally seconds after the tickets were to be available—she was disconnected from the system. Already, though, she was number 3000+ in line to receive tickets. When she immediately reconnected, she was number 7000+ in line. In either case, it was apparent we would not get the tickets. We were quite serious in our attempt. I was willing to postpone my PET-scan and the subsequent follow-up appointment with the oncologist. I reasoned that I could avoid spending much time in close proximity to people with potentially infectious diseases (though I had not decided quite how to accomplish that feat). We had decided to drive up the day before the event and remains for two overnights in a hotel. Barack Obama’s popularity was the undoing of our plans. I envy the people who will get to attend President Obama’s talk. Despite my occasional misgivings about some of his actions, I admire the man. I will always be at least marginally suspicious, though, of anyone who runs for and ultimately achieves election as the President of the United States. I forgot, in my formative years, to develop presidential ambitions; they still elude me.
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Power is both real and imagined. Strength resides not in the muscles, but in the mind. Responsibilities always accompany real power; the artificial stuff is accountable to no one. Similarly, fiction owes no debt to truth, and reality is not obliged to support the manipulative lies of dishonesty and falsehood.
The word “disease” sometimes seems accusatory, as if the person whose condition warrants the word’s use is knowingly responsible for allowing the affliction to emerge.
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I am cold and tired, that latter due to too few hours of sleep last night. I cannot pin responsibility for my insomnia on anything. I slept when I slept; I was wide awake when sleep eluded me. There was no balance between the two, just a random experience, like thin copper strands twisted around one another in a struggle to build strength from inherent weakness.
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I wonder how I would cope, if I were put in prison? Not well, I suspect. My reaction to incarceration might be to reject all fear and replace it with enough rage to cleanse the the place; all the way down to bare steel and studs. I would rather not be in a position to verify my response.
