Brief State of the Dawg in Normal entries

Hard not to feel anxious about lost time. I used to be able to make that anxiety work for me, take the energy and do double time. For decades I switched careers around; a career is just a pedigree word for job. Something you do for money so you can do other things. Not denigrating the notion, just that I relied more on a few simple skills than I did on the job itself. Now I lose time, brain cells, cartilage and other things I can’t spare. The old fear that they will never come back remains. It’s a reasonable fear, but I have, historically recovered.

I can’t seem to write or even speech with any artistry. I can’t remember the last time I had 14 straight days without some physical ailment, or 7 straight days thinking above the clouds. Historically if I amped that feeling up a bit I could write some elegant dark. It seems to be high pitched whining these days.

I’m writing this for my own purposes, not to garner sympathy. I’m a shitty proseboxer anyhow, so, if I wanted sympathy I’d have to tend to old relationships here. This is a true statement, the above paragraphs are a summery of true statements. That’s the point at which the lines between sympathy and pity blur. That would be bad; real bad.

There is a memorial coming up at the end of the week for my father. It’s a joint memorial, a years worth of people who donated their bodies to the teaching hospital. Looking at it from one point of view it’s kind of insulting. The point of view that concerns me, however, I don’t know if I have the strength to do it. Neither does my mom. I might be able, probably would be able, to send my mom with my older sister. I don’t know how guilty I would feel about not going myself.

I really don’t like funerals, I’m not sure about memorial services. I picture it as being run like a graduation; someone gives a long speech and then a list of names is read off, though the dead don’t stand in line in goofy uniforms to collect certificates.

I don’t know. Perhaps I still can’t write.