Saturday, March 26 – sitting at home alone tonight with freezing drizzle in the forecast, feeling sorry for myself and wishing someone would put some wood on the fire (I’m not that helpless. I’ll do it in a minute, but I’m sayin’…
Maybe it’s the 10,000 gone in Japan. Or the passing of two women who were pillars of our world. Too soon gone, Elizabeth and Geraldine, but that would have always been so. Earlier today a couple of volunteer firemen went by with lights and sirens wailing, and then tonight an ambulance, and the experience, coupled with a cold rainy day and me fighting off an attack of the dread Gombu (or something) It has left me wishing I lived closer to town, or had taken better care of my relationships. or…. Is that pathetic, or what. I mean, good grief, here I am 67 years old, in my somewhat belated prime and doing what I love, and I’m pouting because I’m home alone. I must be having an attack of the mugwumps.
The term comes originally from the political movement attributed to Gerald W. Mugwumps, who led his fellow republicans in a revolt against their party’s candidate and voted, en masse, for Democrat Grover Cleveland. It was later resurrected in the sixties as the name of a group of Chicago-area musicians who were derivative of the Beatles, Hollies, Monkees and Mamas & Papas, all at once. It comes down to me as a condition characterized by being distracted from your authentic self into some other place where you cycle through once was and could have been into why isn’t it how it was and what am I willing to give up to have it be that way.
And then the room gets cold and no one has built up the fire and I suddenly come to my senses and simultaneously into the present tense. I build the fire, say goodbye again to Elizabeth and Geraldine, and vow to be, every time I get the chance, as much me as they were their glorious, monumental selves. All fates bless them. They embodied the best of us.
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