Elephants Dreaming

I am posting this in part because a very close friend has said that not only does she feel mixed emotions about a recent momentous event, but also that she is afraid to voice that lack of enthusiasm for fear of being called unpatriotic. While there is no doubt a contingent of people ready to lash out at anyone who does not make a show of gleeful support, I am by no means convinced this is a majority opinion. I have been pleased, inasmuch as one can be under the circumstances, to see a number of people put forth the intelligent and reasoned, if mild, protest over celebrating in the streets over the death of anyone, even an enemy.

Let me say first that I do agree.
That said, crowds chanting in the streets over the death of a famous political figure they consider to be an enemy is not a calloused product of a new unthoughtful, violent time. This is a phenomenon that dates back perhaps as long as there has been human civilization. Gossiping about an enemy and then cheering their death is a tradition that knows no specific era, race, gender, culture, or religion. This is a cycle that has been a part of human instinct from the early ages, and we are no less or more guilty of it than they are. By 'they', I mean those other people who are not 'us', and herein lies the source of this reaction. The stark classifications of 'us' against 'them' is a game that may be at the root of it all.

It is the mark of an intelligent culture, and one many of us should be grateful to live in, that we can freely voice dissatisfaction with this tradition and begin to embrace the idea that humanity should be a whole. It is patriotism to recognize and be proud of the better points of the country in which you live, and perhaps even more so it is patriotism to be aware of its shortcomings and work together to improve them. I am not a native to this land, but I am proud to know that I may write this without fear of governmental retribution. I may not be sorry that a man is dead, but I do feel sorrow that his death had to be the answer to a problem. I will not celebrate that. I will celebrate that I may openly voice this point of view.

I suppose this is more or less to say that I'm still here.

Every year I absolutely dread March. Before it's even here I grow depressed, anticipating St. Patrick's, the anniversary of my brother's death, and the guilt of being depressed for Bridgielove's birthday.
I've actually been quite off since November, due to a family issue.

I'd like to just be bloody well done with it all and get on with life.

On my daily walk, a story erupted in my brain and had to be hammered out. Bridgielove says it seems there should be more, but I truly can't think what. This is the story as it dropped into mind, and I rather like the hanging ending, myself. There is just such a house in our neighbourhood...
Grandfather MacNamara

I do worry about myself sometimes. Certainly in my drinking days I was of a more than melancholy turn of mind, but these days I am quite sober, and fairly content, yet this is the sort of story my mind comes up with. I'm not certain what it says about me, if anything. On the other hand, who can say from whence the stories come, and since I rarely get any comments, I couldn't say where they go, either. I only hope as a wordsmith I'm up to the task of playing the conduit in between...

Firstly I want to send a hug and sympathies to DBear. I would have said so on your latest post, but despite a 'leave comment' tab being available, it would not actually give me a reply window to type in.

'Tis the bloody, bloody month of March, and I'm thinking I'd best immerse myself in writing for a healthy distraction. Bridgielove's birthday is the one bright and glorious thing about this month. I am immensely and eternally grateful for her coming into the world.

On a mixed note, but in the writing vein, I thought I might post some odds and ends that will never make it as anything complete. I end up with these fragments around that get dismissed for one reason or another. These bits were written on the way to a memorial service this past January, a situation which I hope explains the tone.

( Lines written en route )

I suppose I'd best turn my attention now to writing new material, whatever Ii can through the sneezing. Bloody March.

( RP Meme from Rey )

I suspect it would not feel so late, had I not already wasted several hours in trying to sleep.

Quite possibly the only thing more ridiculous than how long this journal has languished is the fact that I'm writing in it now to avoid... writing.
I've had a writing bug as of late, that is, the urge to write, which is an unproductive nagging sensation when nothing specific inspires a story. I listen to Rey complain of the backlog of art ideas that she can never hope to complete in a lifetime, and sigh. I write when the ideas form, or not at all. My brain sits dry for months or even years. Then, too, there are ideas that seem valid enough in themselves yet still I find myself unable to quite push out the words. There is a piece of fan fiction sitting about from last summer, and it is set in the full sweltering heat of summer. That quality plays an important role in the story. At the very least I'd like to have it finished when that time of year rolls around again, but after weeks of being repeatedly buried in snow, I find it simply too difficult to focus on. The awareness of my present surroundings creeps in and I sit staring at the plot cards I've written with my hands tucked under my arms to keep my fingers from freezing. What I needed, I thought, was a story more in keeping with the feel of the present. I've laboured and prodded and hammered an idea into shape, not as complex nor as fully formed as the other, but an idea all the same. I've worked out the scene on which the story opens, and yet I still can't seem to summon up those first few words.
I want to write, and yet I sit here eying the clock like an anxious school child, waiting for the inevitable choir practice this evening to save me from staring fruitlessly at a blank page.
It does not help matters that Bridgielove has put an entirely new word-processing program on the computer, which is a muddled menu of meaningless images rather than the familiar word commands. Bloody hells. Now I feel old and grouchy as well as unproductive.

Went to bed around midnight, slept for a bit, and now I'm up again typing this at five of the morning. I tossed and turned for half an hour or more first, which was likely unhelpful. I do hope this isn't marking the start of a pattern.

( Insomnia notes )

While I'm remembering this journal still exists, I wanted to give thanks for the birthday wishes! I got a few very nice books, with likely a few more to come because the financial situation makes the timing awkward. I'm feeling somewhat annoyed at myself that I still haven't gotten beyond the first chapter of my Shadow fan fiction, but I'm suffering apathy and lethargy these days, between the general chaos of our current lives. I'm still quite active in RP, however, and I thank Myra's player for introducing me to Zatoichi. It fulfills my intellectual interest in character and foreign culture, as well as my little-voiced interest in a bit of good old-fashioned violence.
I welcome the cooler temperatures and the changing colours of the leaves, while chiding myself for not working on the various projects that I mean to. Life goes on...

I meant to post something, to commemorate the day. This morning over breakfast I even found myself writing what felt, at the moment, some very important ponderings in memoriam. Looking back at them this evening I found myself uncertain over the quality of my own writing, even the validity of my thoughts. Clearly there is some lesson here on the folly of deliberating too long over what is meaningful enough, what might be sufficient to honour the day.

I thought of it, however, long and hard, and in the end perhaps that is what is most important.