Yesterday’s post marked number 3200 since I began this blog in August 2012. Almost eight years. A few years ago, I explored some of my earlier blogs in an effort to tally the number of posts I had written at the time. After I counted those posts, I wrote that “Musings from Myopia, my earliest blog, and the one I deep-sixed in a fit of writer’s existential rage, survived 1262 posts. It Matters Deeply, which apparently didn’t, lasted 82 posts.” There have been others, but the number of posts they contained is insignificant. I’ll round up and say I’ve written at least 4550 posts. Just 450 to go before I reach 5000. What will I do then (assuming I have not succumbed to the coronavirus or some other fatal affliction)? Probably the same thing I’m doing now. I’ll mark the occasion with a yawn.
“I’ve never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with great pleasure.” Clarence Darrow is said to have uttered those words, though a quick online search did not satisfy me that the words really were his. No matter. I appreciate and relate to them nonetheless. I can imagine much joy at reading the obituaries of select people I’ve never met. I realize, of course, that harboring such thoughts is contrary to everything I’ve been taught; such an attitude is anathema to the morality to which I subscribe. How is it, then, that I can believe in the worth and dignity of every human being, yet simultaneously acknowledge that I might get an attitude lift by reading an obituary? Hard to say. I suppose, deep down, I do not consider those whose obituaries might lift my spirits to belong to the category “human being.” That may well be it. All human beings share the qualities of empathy and compassion. Hominids that do not possess those traits are not human. It’s the only explanation I can come up with to justify my hypocrisy.
I looked at my Twitter account (to which I very rarely post) this morning and found some interesting (to me) things I shared in years gone by:
- The sharp pain of personal loss cannot be shared, except in the abstract. All we can do is to try to weather the pain. And remember.
- Worshipping the gods of angry weather…and sacrificing a bottle of wine to them.
- Evaluating Fresca and vodka as an alternative to psychotropic drugs for the treatment of career-related depression.
- This is the time of day, just before I leave for work, that I feel like having a mourning martini.
- I’m stunned, saddened by Gwen Ifill’s death. She was the face of professionalism and decency in journalism. My sincere condolences to all. (That was my most recent Tweet, November 14, 2016.)
I have yet to appreciate the appeal of Twitter. Though I find Facebook more appealing than Twitter, neither compare to personal blogs, in my opinion.
One year ago today, this blog provided me with the opportunity to complain bitterly about a searing pain in my esophagus, courtesy of my 60 sessions of radiation therapy. That pain is, thankfully, gone. At the time, it was deeply upsetting, but it permitted me to engage in dark humor. This blog seems to have become my personal journal. I think I’ve said that before. About seven thousand times. Time to go toast an English muffin and top it with a delightfully hot and spicy homemade (by my wife) marinara sauce.