Today is a different day, from yesterday I mean, but it works however you want it mean. Chronologically, the way we keep time, even if we live in the bush and count time with green ants on a stick … wait … sorry my imaginary monkey says red ant’s, the green ones measure Apocalypse’s and STD’s … today is different from all other days. Chronologically. Pragmatically I’m guessing this one is pretty similar to other days in form and function.
I’d like to think of days in terms of art and uniqueness, but, as best as I can reckon, most are merely functional and same old same old. The best days of my life, I mean among the ones that have already occurred, were not a function of the day so much as the events, and even there the highly personal events that occurred in my life. Things like the day we walked on the moon were cool (though “We” only included me peripherally, if I had actually gotten to walk on the moon it’d rank up there pretty high on my best day list) but we didn’t do that because it was Walk-On-The-Moon-Day.
In general I don’t like August. It’s too fucking hot. Anchorage, the farthest north I’ve been (Ok, I was halfway to Fairbanks once, but the weather was the same as anchorage and I spent a lot more time in anchorage) is fucking hot in August. Compared to October through May, August is really really hot in Anchorage. One of the best days of my life, so far, was in August, but, again, it was not on Haredawg-Has-A-Son-Day. We celebrate it as that now, we being immediate family and his friends, and, I suppose, every stranger who has friended him on Facebook that gets a notification that it’s Haredawg-Has-A-Son day, but nobody celebrated that before he was born, and likely once he has sprung this vale of tears, the celebration will be more somber and we will be fewer, god willing not including a Haredawg.
One of the few things that scares the shit of me, in an irrational kind of way (rationally I’m pretty scared when someone shoots at me, but up until then neither person, weapon nor ammo scares me) is outliving my children. I can’t imagine coping. That’s not a rhetorical phrase. I have a pretty broad and mature imagination. Um, mature as in aged not as in doesn’t imagine fart jokes and then imagines laughing at them. Mature broad, wait, that’s mature comma broad imagination, and I can’t possible imagine me coping with outliving my children. Not not coping well, I can’t imagine coping at all. I’ve born witness to a lot of horrible shit, shit most people don’t ever have to think about, and yet I can’t imagine anything worse than outliving your kids. Huh, I guess I mean worse for the innocent; not outliving your kids because you killed them on purpose is much worse, and yet, those folks are blessed with a moral recidivism. I think I just made that phrase up, but it works. I mean it’s kinder than lack of morals, a real sociopath is much rarer than child killer. I mean recidivism in the criminal justice sense. Their morality spends a few years on the outs, fucks up, and does a stretch in the joint.
I realize I write more about my daughter than my son. It’s not that I love him less, not at all, it’s that his ship is always on a very even keel. The movie The Perfect Storm would have never made it out of the can if it were called The Ok Drizzle. I’ve probably said it before, so I’ll be brief, why the fuck were those guys heroes with a plaque? They spent an extra few days out even though they knew a storm was coming, because they were broke ass fishermen and needed more fish. We call that greed where I come from. Earth in case anyone had a question.
Yes, I love my son, and I’m not calling him a drizzle, just saying he is rarely stormy. He’s also rarely unhappy. It’s a good thing.
Ok, I had nothing when I started, I have less now.
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