It’s Friday after Thanksgiving. I am alone. By choice, of course, for my depressive self is going into Hermit mode as Fall appears in full costume and, although I live in the coastal redwoods – a paradise in any terms – still, it can be dark, as it is today – rainy, hardly any Sun, and susceptable me is much in need of the Light to find my balance and avoid falling in thrall to the Dark ... which ever, even in the best of times, lurks ... awaiting.
Forsaking the wisdom of friends who might rush to my side if I were truly in need, and turning to my only available legal resort, I open the wine by mid-afternoon, knowing its gentle mindfulness, while providing no lasting relief, will give at least a bit of time in which I may somehow find my way through the intricate maze which ever calls for my demise. Unable to seek refuge in other, more meditative rituals, I settle for the numbing relief of ordinary televised material, finding at last a marathon of mindless dramas of which I ask only that it keep me from desperate measures that may be more drastic than will suffer recovery.
I wander. I find it incomprehensible that we are given these dramas as worthy of acceptance: a con man is elevated to a position of authority. And yet, I suddenly realize, in my admittedly muddled state, this is what our culture has become: let us hail and acknowledge that which is appearance over substance -- let us tolerate, even elevate, the mediocrity – let us uphold that which is silly over that which is thoughtful. I’m tired. I rant and wish to be asleep, though a part of me is so desirous of knowing if you will respond .. that I will stay awake yet awhile... Ah Ho.