I don’t feel much like writing.
Christmas is creeping up.
I have much to be thankful for.
But it’s still sad.
That’s the best way to put it.
Years ticking by. And family we have lost.
Time we have lost.
But I try to focus on the positive right now.
Things could be much worse.
I am lucky. I’m lucky for the family I have.
Yes, this Saturday Night Live episode was the last of 1975 (their inaugural year).
They wouldn’t be back on until 1976 (the year I was born).
I want to say that this is not a very good episode.
That’s probably true, but I don’t want to seem like a scrooge.
I suppose it is wistful…
Candice Bergen is back on the show.
Ah, lovely Nordic Candice. The tyranny of beauty (as I heard someone say recently)…
It’s wistful because life has passed me by in many ways.
I was out making things happen, but I couldn’t make everything happen.
We dwell on our mistakes.
But what is really sad is being ignored.
Reaching out for help and getting no response whatsoever.
I myself haven’t been perfect.
A friend in Hong Kong. I owed him a letter. And we lost touch.
Life gets in the way.
But I’m still waiting at the altar. I poured my heart out the best I could. No response.
And another. (As Martha Reeves sings “Silver Bells”)…I was nice, right?
Not too pushy. Meek, even.
Ok, maybe it got lost in the mail. Try again. No.
And then finally another.
An honest message. Self-deprecating. Easy to get out of.
A handful of people that really don’t seem to care whether I live or die.
And who do I have?
Almost no one.
Humbled unto death. Staring at the dry dirt.
Martha Reeves is good. Great, even.
The Stylistics know what I’m talking about. Wonderful, soulful singing.
But we’re not having any fun.
Not like Candice and Gilda and Jane and Laraine.
Not like Garrett with his wonderful voice.
Not like Chevy and Dan and John.
The cute choreography.
I miss that.
Not a lot of humor in this episode.
We need humor.
We need hope.
What does tomorrow bring?
Baby steps to normalcy.
I was in the coal mine for a year.
On the space station.
There wasn’t a blowout.
I came home safely.
I was at home all along.
But not with my thoughts.
No time to think when you’re climbing through ditches.
You might be a little too old to learn Welsh or Basque without an accent.
When you start to doubt your reason for being, you might be beaten.
One more year.
And then what?
A crappy job that you hate?
But there is an answer.
You can find love in the newspaper.
Something that tells you you’re on the right track.
Right now I’m not thinking too much about me.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
Right now is about love.
No more selfish.
No more head in the clouds while others pay the price.
I tried to be the best artist I could.
And now this is my art.
This is all I have left.
Not exactly Cahiers du Cinéma, but it’s the best I can do.
I pray it’s not meaningless.
That I’m learning.
That I won’t always be a loser.
I work hard.