It Doesn’t Stick

It’s too early to know whether today will be just another repeat of 24 sequential hours or something more—or less. We jam so much into little packets of time, expecting minutes to burst, full-blown, into years; but expectations can be sidetracked by seconds that scurry to complete minutes, not lifetimes.  Dreams are like that, too. They cover us with wishes and hopes, only to morph into nightmares in which wishes have wings and hopes crash into the rocks beneath murderous rapids. Vivid visions turn dim and cloudy in the face of sandstorms.


The highlight of the day yesterday for me was the Woody Guthrie Center. It was the most sobering, depressing experience, too. Hope, so strong and pure and powerful, crashed to the rocks. Wishes for a better, more inclusive, and loving future flew away as the energy of youth morphed into the capitalist greed that still, today, informs our most potent desires.


Lunch with a colleague from long-ago brought into sharp focus the reality of loss and aging and dismissive acts of artificial appreciation. The “old days” were fine, but they are gone and forgotten by everyone but those who lived them. Those days no longer matter, just like those who lived them. Everything and everyone is replaceable. We’re either too late or too early. And too simple or too abstract to be understood.


We throw money at the wall, hoping it will stick in the form of excitement and precious memories. It doesn’t stick.


It is 7 a.m., time to begin digging into the rubble of time to see what’s there.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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