I can be a good blogger. By that I mean, I can be good at keeping up at blogging. When I travel, for instance, I write a lot.
When I sit and watch TV and knit, there's not so much to write about. There is too much drama and angst and not enough that is entertaining and educational or even insightful that I want to write about.
Mostly I have been well. Nick is a million miles away. I think he has been pretty well too. We both miss each other. We both feel bored without each other to ignore in person. No, I don't mean that in a bad way. Ignore is probably too negative sounding. What I mean is this; when we are sitting in the same room, each engrossed in whatever we are doing, separately, we are still occupying space in close proximity to one another. We are not intentionally ignoring each other. We may not seem to be actively engaged in any activity together. But the thing is, we are.
It's like when we are both asleep in bed and one of us gets up. There is not a conscious awareness of being in bed alone, but there is a sensed feeling of the other partner not being there. The empty space. That's what's here now. The space I am used to sharing is now, temporarily, empty.
In the past we wrote letters and mailed them when we were apart. Every day we wrote. We put numbers on the envelopes in case the letters were delivered out of the order in which they were written. There was sometime tangible to put a stamp on and put into the mailbox. And something tangible arrived in the mailbox.
Now we have quicker communication. I was going to say "instant gratification" but that would not be correct. We could "chat" maybe, but we don't really want to. Email and occasional phone calls keep us tethered.
My sister's 15 year old dog, Oscar died this week. He "crossed the rainbow bridge". It is terribly sad, but inevitable. There's nothing new about pondering time and aging.
Dylan Thomas said it best:
Do not go gentle into that good night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. -
And on that note, I am off to bed and sleep
Do not go gentle into that good night
