It's like, I was stuck in a music video, George Harrison's What Is Life, as I started the weekend on a somewhat dubious note, at an event for No Lives Matter, a thing about an ancient sea monster that took an interest in public policy making. We all thought the ancient horror would be granted a profitable position at the Heritage Foundation, but seemed not in the interim, he actually wanted public office.
I pulled, in memory, a personally traumatic event, also, in the course of Free Association at a head shrinker appointment, and boy howdy did I need some of the air let out of my cranium.
I had knitted, granny-style, like a energetic little nerd, some words in a game show, a game show clue, correlated it to an acquaintance at the fringe of my circle, and immediately I felt anger.
It was two weeks of anger.
Going forward, I had to make a decision.
Lest I, in the future, would face a loss of composure at the scantest combination of words.
Of these things, we have a "door man" kind of duty in our minds, as if our mind was a night club, and we can parse these minutia, pick and choose the things we let in our minds, and that, after the handicap of being limited in our view of reality by only being susceptible to what we perceive. I mean, anything can happen, but if we don't see, or don't hear it, you know, out of sight of mind, an existential handicap of our perception of reality, that so rarely do we approach any matter in life with an adequate set of information.
But the thing yesterday, armed guards and the state representative actually had a Battle Buddy and all, and then, mere hours later, the news broke about Ron Oneal, that Lyndon Baines Gibb as he is in our circle, that Ron Oneal. He had been terminally ill, under the radar, we hadn't heard, and then he went toes-up, head-first into the churning grist.