The one thing I used to hate on Sesame Street---along with the itchin'-to-squirm kids on the show, I suspect---was when the earnest folk singer guest would have kids gathered around, knowing they're to be still and serious, but not knowing what the fuck for. Later I wondered whether the problem was a gap in my own development toward gravitas. I've had some challenges there, in taking things seriously, as in sincerity, though it's not the sincerity that's the problem with the kids asked to be still & serious around the folk singer. It's the imposition of an artificial sanctimony. I'm not sorry I haven't embraced that form of seriousness.
I assert that there's basically no getting at the meaning of, or recalling the experience of, what this weekend (and the however-many weeks we've had leading up to it) is commemorating. I mean because of all the other crap associated with and piled on. And I mean cuz we seem to want, culturally, to insist on what it meant to things like The Idea Of America and generic martyred Heroes and stock base and often ignoble instincts, rather than what it meant to people in New York City. Yes, and "loved ones" wherever, too--- but criminey. Platitudes from politicians affecting concern for loved ones, or, hell, from regular people doing the same thing, in a way that feels more like wanting to own a part of a dramatic experience than any heartfelt anything--- I just don't find myself thinking very highly of humanity at times like this, and I don't mean the examples of humanity who were (actual) terrorists. So many of us get holier-than-thou in our non-murderous ways. These things are kin---- this thing we enact in "response" to "the events of" that day, and the thing that we are "responding" to.
I'm sure there's some fucked-up knee-jerk cynic and well-trained mistruster of masses of homo sapiens inside me, steering me, there. But I don't entirely mistrust my gut here, nonetheless. Even though it makes me feel so very alienated from so many of my fellows.
I guess I did get a little physical rest sitting here typing. And I still have over half an hour to put shoes on and get to the library. And then to the store. Thoughts arise of the provisions of each other's Carlos and I used, and some pesky concern over aspects of that that persist. It's not that important. I see me making it more important than it is, and partly in case he's doing the same. But here's me not going into detail so's to avoid digging that hole deeper.
Ooh, I know which icon I'll use now for this post.
Lula's tired from the dog swim. Finally got to the pool for one of the dog swim times, with Lorrel (who was game, though she doesn't really like dogs, or getting messy). We'd been to Bell's Diner before that; had interesting convo. Lu liked the wading pool more than the real swimming pool. Even that was only after extensive sniffing around. Many of the dogs seemed more interested in other dogs than in swimming. Mine was zonked enough, home afterwards, that I managed to cut a mat out of the hair by her ear I'd been hoping to get to sometime, but I pushed my luck and clipped a couple of her nails, and got one too short. Poor thing was licking at it and wouldn't let me help her stop the bleeding. But then I gave her a frozen Kong of Wonderful Dog Vittles and she was quite happy to nurse herself to sleep with that.
When I get back from my errands, unfortunately, she'll no longer want to nap, or to let me do so. That beast puts me through some paces, alright.
Big football game in town today. Night game, lala, Notre Dame. Speaking of alienated. Time was I woulda been into getting into college football, at K-State, back in my home town, but I (all too happily) let the strongly expressed Zeitgeist of my partner reign on that parade. Yeah, bad pun. Gonna watch the Lions in good company tomorrow, however. May have to endure some tenth-anniversary militant sanctimony on the TV there, but at least it'll be in the presence of people I like. And snacks. And snarks, I imagine, if I wish to out with a few.
Mostly I wish we could be sad about what we're sad about, and mad about what we're mad about, and grieve, and accept the presence of these parts of the experience (of life), without having to turn it into something else so much of the time. Or perhaps I should say I hope for that for us. For me. And concentrate on aiming to practice it myself.